Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 13
April 15, 2011
COME BACK TO BANI WALDI, CHARLIE SHEEN, CHARLIE SHEEN
The phosphorus grenade made an evil hissing sound; belched a plume of noxious yellow gas; then lie inert. Thank heaven for World War Two Russian surplus explosives.
"Another clinker Colonel Qaddafi!" Said Abdul, his trusted bodygaurd, "The coast is clear!"
The Colonel peered out from underneath his custom-made Teflon desk which doubled as a bomb shelter.
"Did you see which one of those dogs threw it?"
"It was your brother-in-law Yusuf."
Qaddafi shimmied out from under the desk, grabbed his bullhorn, and bellowed down into the crowd of rebels amassed beneath the balcony of his palace.
"Yusuf!! . . . You traitorous son of a jackal!!! When I crush this uprising, I will pluck your eyeballs from your skull and boil them in scorpion venom!"
For days now, throngs of rebels had set upon the Colonel's palace: lobbing old shoes, camel turds and the occasional phosphorus grenade as a sign of protest. It was really getting on his nerves. Abdul could see that the rebels' attempt to overthrow his regime was beginning to bum the dictator out. Qaddafi was no longer the despot he once knew and loved: dressing up in flamboyant garb; giving long, rambling incoherent speeches. The whole affair had sapped his spirit. These days he was content to hang around the palace dressed in an old jogging suit made from tanned lions scrotums, and an "IMPEACH REAGAN" baseball cap he'd won from Hillary Clinton in a game of mahjong.
Qaddafi slumped down behind his desk and gave a sigh.
"Forty years of rape, torture, poverty and oppression . . . and this is the thanks I get!"
"Do not despair Great One. You are the most vicious; the most ruthless; the most merciless dictator who ever lived!"
"You're just saying that."
"No Colonel, I speak the truth!"
Qaddafi's smile went unnoticed by his bodyguard. Years of botched plastic surgery had frozen the dictator's countenance into what now resembled a rubber fright mask.
"Cheer up Great One. We will put down these dogs, and once again you will rule with an iron fist."
"I don't know Abdul," Qaddafi said wistfully, "I remember when I used to enjoy being a dictator: causing strife for my people . . . destabilizing the Middle East . . . threatening the existence of Israel . . . acting like a real prick in general. Lately it just seems like too much work."
Just then two strangers stormed into the room. They were dressed in business suits and dragging deployed parachutes behind them.
"HALT!" Abdul snapped, leveling an AK-47 at the intruders, "Who dares trespass here?"
"Allow me to introduce myself," Said one of the intruders, slipping out of his parachute and offering a business card by way of greeting, "My name's Les Moonvest, President and CEO of CBS, and this is my associate, Ms. Jizzgargle, Vice President of Programming . . ."
Indeed, Colonel Qaddafi could see that the other intruder was a woman: a very attractive blonde who -- despite the business suit -- managed to display an ample amount of cleavage. Hot stuff. The Colonel wondered how she would look covered to the eyeballs in a black burka.
"Great One, shall I kill them?"
"Wait! . . . I am intrigued! Let the infidel speak."
"Glad to hear we've piqued your interest Colonel. My associate and I dropped in to make you an offer. The untimely departure of our biggest star, Charlie Sheen, has left a gaping hole in our lineup."
"Oh yes. 'Two and a Half Men.' I love that show!"
"You get 'Two and a Half Men' here in Libya?"
"Of course. It's on every afternoon -- right after, 'Syria's Got Talent.'"
"Please make note of that Ms. Jizzgargle and check with accounting. I think someone owes us a syndication fee . . . in any event, regarding our offer . . . it is our considered opinion that you, Colonel Qaddafi, are the next big thing."
"Me?" Said Qaddafi, thoughtfully stroking his surgically-altered mug, "A TV star?"
"Absolutely! You're a natural! The bad plastic surgery; the outlandish get-ups; the ill-temper . . . If you had tits, you could be on 'The Real Houswives of Beverly Hills.' And let's be honest; you're the only one who's batshit enough to fill Charlie's shoes."
"Oh, I don't know. I've never acted before . . . well, I once played Blanche Dubois in a high school production of, 'A Streetcar Named Desire' . . . besides, I have a revolution to crush."
"Don't sweat the small stuff Colonel. Leave everything to us. We've got the perfect vehicle for you! Ms. Jizzgargle, what have we got for the Colonel?"
"'Leave it to Qaddafi' . . . what happens when a former Middle East dictator and sociopath decides to chuck it all and open a tattoo parlor in Sin City? . . . Hijinx ensue!"
"Whattaya say to that Colonel? It's got everything: Las Vegas; hot chicks getting tattooed; Radical Islam . . . we've even got Joy Behar and Kim Jong-il cast to play your wacky, newlywed neighbors."
Qaddafi gave his mug another thoughtful stroke.
"Ahhh -- c'mon Colonel! Whattaya say? Let's blow this jerkwater berg and head to Sin City!"
"Can I have a cologne named after me . . . like Justin Bieber?"
"Consider it done."
"Can I bring my camel?"
"Absolutely."
Qaddafi grabbed his bullhorn and bellowed down into the crowd.
"Yusuf! . . . You plague-ridden son of a monkey! I have only one word for you . . . WINNING!!!"
"Another clinker Colonel Qaddafi!" Said Abdul, his trusted bodygaurd, "The coast is clear!"
The Colonel peered out from underneath his custom-made Teflon desk which doubled as a bomb shelter.
"Did you see which one of those dogs threw it?"
"It was your brother-in-law Yusuf."
Qaddafi shimmied out from under the desk, grabbed his bullhorn, and bellowed down into the crowd of rebels amassed beneath the balcony of his palace.
"Yusuf!! . . . You traitorous son of a jackal!!! When I crush this uprising, I will pluck your eyeballs from your skull and boil them in scorpion venom!"
For days now, throngs of rebels had set upon the Colonel's palace: lobbing old shoes, camel turds and the occasional phosphorus grenade as a sign of protest. It was really getting on his nerves. Abdul could see that the rebels' attempt to overthrow his regime was beginning to bum the dictator out. Qaddafi was no longer the despot he once knew and loved: dressing up in flamboyant garb; giving long, rambling incoherent speeches. The whole affair had sapped his spirit. These days he was content to hang around the palace dressed in an old jogging suit made from tanned lions scrotums, and an "IMPEACH REAGAN" baseball cap he'd won from Hillary Clinton in a game of mahjong.
Qaddafi slumped down behind his desk and gave a sigh.
"Forty years of rape, torture, poverty and oppression . . . and this is the thanks I get!"
"Do not despair Great One. You are the most vicious; the most ruthless; the most merciless dictator who ever lived!"
"You're just saying that."
"No Colonel, I speak the truth!"
Qaddafi's smile went unnoticed by his bodyguard. Years of botched plastic surgery had frozen the dictator's countenance into what now resembled a rubber fright mask.
"Cheer up Great One. We will put down these dogs, and once again you will rule with an iron fist."
"I don't know Abdul," Qaddafi said wistfully, "I remember when I used to enjoy being a dictator: causing strife for my people . . . destabilizing the Middle East . . . threatening the existence of Israel . . . acting like a real prick in general. Lately it just seems like too much work."
Just then two strangers stormed into the room. They were dressed in business suits and dragging deployed parachutes behind them.
"HALT!" Abdul snapped, leveling an AK-47 at the intruders, "Who dares trespass here?"
"Allow me to introduce myself," Said one of the intruders, slipping out of his parachute and offering a business card by way of greeting, "My name's Les Moonvest, President and CEO of CBS, and this is my associate, Ms. Jizzgargle, Vice President of Programming . . ."
Indeed, Colonel Qaddafi could see that the other intruder was a woman: a very attractive blonde who -- despite the business suit -- managed to display an ample amount of cleavage. Hot stuff. The Colonel wondered how she would look covered to the eyeballs in a black burka.
"Great One, shall I kill them?"
"Wait! . . . I am intrigued! Let the infidel speak."
"Glad to hear we've piqued your interest Colonel. My associate and I dropped in to make you an offer. The untimely departure of our biggest star, Charlie Sheen, has left a gaping hole in our lineup."
"Oh yes. 'Two and a Half Men.' I love that show!"
"You get 'Two and a Half Men' here in Libya?"
"Of course. It's on every afternoon -- right after, 'Syria's Got Talent.'"
"Please make note of that Ms. Jizzgargle and check with accounting. I think someone owes us a syndication fee . . . in any event, regarding our offer . . . it is our considered opinion that you, Colonel Qaddafi, are the next big thing."
"Me?" Said Qaddafi, thoughtfully stroking his surgically-altered mug, "A TV star?"
"Absolutely! You're a natural! The bad plastic surgery; the outlandish get-ups; the ill-temper . . . If you had tits, you could be on 'The Real Houswives of Beverly Hills.' And let's be honest; you're the only one who's batshit enough to fill Charlie's shoes."
"Oh, I don't know. I've never acted before . . . well, I once played Blanche Dubois in a high school production of, 'A Streetcar Named Desire' . . . besides, I have a revolution to crush."
"Don't sweat the small stuff Colonel. Leave everything to us. We've got the perfect vehicle for you! Ms. Jizzgargle, what have we got for the Colonel?"
"'Leave it to Qaddafi' . . . what happens when a former Middle East dictator and sociopath decides to chuck it all and open a tattoo parlor in Sin City? . . . Hijinx ensue!"
"Whattaya say to that Colonel? It's got everything: Las Vegas; hot chicks getting tattooed; Radical Islam . . . we've even got Joy Behar and Kim Jong-il cast to play your wacky, newlywed neighbors."
Qaddafi gave his mug another thoughtful stroke.
"Ahhh -- c'mon Colonel! Whattaya say? Let's blow this jerkwater berg and head to Sin City!"
"Can I have a cologne named after me . . . like Justin Bieber?"
"Consider it done."
"Can I bring my camel?"
"Absolutely."
Qaddafi grabbed his bullhorn and bellowed down into the crowd.
"Yusuf! . . . You plague-ridden son of a monkey! I have only one word for you . . . WINNING!!!"
March 31, 2011
NIPPLES ARE IMPORTANT TO A MAN: 5 RANDOM PASSAGES FROM "HORSE LATITUDES"
2) Chester aimed the telescope at her. He focused in on the left breast. Looked at that one for a while, then switched to the other. Such perfect breasts. And nipples. Nipples were important to a man. Ah, little Becky Muldoon. Bless her heart. All of sixteen and already built like a brick shit house. Since she'd taken to sunbathing topless, air traffic in the area had increased ten thousand percent. Pilots out of Kennedy had rerouted their flight patterns so that they now passed directly over the Muldoon house during takeoffs and landings, and derigibles and hot air baloons routinely buzzed the place. Ah, Becky Muldoon. What a girl . . .
Read the entire piece:
www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2009/apr/...
Read the entire piece:
www.lasvegasweekly.com/news/2009/apr/...
March 2, 2011
THE MAN WHO BUILT LAS VEGAS
My father was the unluckiest man who ever lived. I know that sounds like a bold statement, but it's true. To this day, there are Nazis who claim the only reason why Germany lost the war was because my old man bet on their side. My father never won a bet. Ever. He bet the Russians would win the Space Race, Kennedy would be a two-term president, and the Beatles would cut their hair and become a lounge act. He once lost twenty bucks to my Uncle Irving betting the sun would come up -- the day before a solar eclipse.
A horse player, my old man was even out-handicapped by Fred: the pet rooster of a local bookie who picked winners by leaving droppings on a copy of the Daily Racing Form. The bird was good. Not only was it an ace handicapper, it also picked Ali over Frazier in the "Thrilla in Manila," and Nixon over McGovern in the '72 presidential race. Never one to be outdone, my father began betting with the rooster. Two weeks later, a couple of the neighborhood cats found their way into Fred's pen and sent him to that big chicken coop in the sky -- another victim of the "Bufogle Curse."
My old man lost money on baseball, football, basketball . . . jai-alai, ice curling, women's volleyball . . . and -- in one particularly bizarre instance -- dog racing, when the greyhound he'd bet on copped a squat mere yards before the finish line. All this pales however, to the summer of my twelfth birthday. It was the summer my father booked a family trip to Las Vegas. He'd spent three months holed up in the basement, pouring over books on how to beat the odds at the casinos: crunching numbers; reviewing stats -- and he was ready. The scientists at the jet propulsion lab at NASA had put less thought into the moon landing, than my old man had into breaking the bank in Sin City. As it turned out, my father would've been better off buying a rooster.
No sooner had we touched down in Vegas than things began to go south. My old man had booked us a stay at the Desert Inn -- the hot property of the day. We arrived: my father dressed smartly in a Hawaiian shirt & Bermuda shorts; mom, sister and yours truly in tow, only to be told our reservation had been lost. Using his expert negotiating skills, my old man persuaded management to spring for two rooms at a nearby fleabag motel: complete with unsupervised swimming pool (in which I nearly drowned) and hot & cold running degenerates. Depositing us at the motel with $50 and four free vouchers for the $1 buffet, my father made a beeline for the Desert Inn casino. There he embarked upon the greatest losing streak in the history of Las Vegas. My old man's losing streak was the stuff of legend -- so much so that until they tore down the Desert Inn, there was a brass plaque next to one of the crap tables commemorating the afternoon he threw snake eyes twenty-two times in a row -- a record that still stands to this day.
Five days later my father returned to the motel: pale despite the 112 degree heat; wearing a haunted look and a shirt which read: "I LOST JUNIOR'S COLLEGE TUITION AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT." With exactly $12.63 in his pocket, he paid our cab fare back to the airport, and lost the remaining $5.63 during the plane ride back to New York; playing gin rummy with me, his twelve-year-old son. I still have the IOU.
And so it is with a lump in my throat and a knot in my colon, that I look out on the Las Vegas skyline and realize that it wasn't Ben Siegel, or Meyer Lansky, or Howard Hughes who built this city. It was men like my old man. Men who couldn't pick a Pygmy out of a lineup of Bavarian haus fraus, yet dared to dream; to believe that armed with little more than an unlimited line of credit, and a completely unjustified sense of self-confidence, they too could be winners. Thanks Dad.
A horse player, my old man was even out-handicapped by Fred: the pet rooster of a local bookie who picked winners by leaving droppings on a copy of the Daily Racing Form. The bird was good. Not only was it an ace handicapper, it also picked Ali over Frazier in the "Thrilla in Manila," and Nixon over McGovern in the '72 presidential race. Never one to be outdone, my father began betting with the rooster. Two weeks later, a couple of the neighborhood cats found their way into Fred's pen and sent him to that big chicken coop in the sky -- another victim of the "Bufogle Curse."
My old man lost money on baseball, football, basketball . . . jai-alai, ice curling, women's volleyball . . . and -- in one particularly bizarre instance -- dog racing, when the greyhound he'd bet on copped a squat mere yards before the finish line. All this pales however, to the summer of my twelfth birthday. It was the summer my father booked a family trip to Las Vegas. He'd spent three months holed up in the basement, pouring over books on how to beat the odds at the casinos: crunching numbers; reviewing stats -- and he was ready. The scientists at the jet propulsion lab at NASA had put less thought into the moon landing, than my old man had into breaking the bank in Sin City. As it turned out, my father would've been better off buying a rooster.
No sooner had we touched down in Vegas than things began to go south. My old man had booked us a stay at the Desert Inn -- the hot property of the day. We arrived: my father dressed smartly in a Hawaiian shirt & Bermuda shorts; mom, sister and yours truly in tow, only to be told our reservation had been lost. Using his expert negotiating skills, my old man persuaded management to spring for two rooms at a nearby fleabag motel: complete with unsupervised swimming pool (in which I nearly drowned) and hot & cold running degenerates. Depositing us at the motel with $50 and four free vouchers for the $1 buffet, my father made a beeline for the Desert Inn casino. There he embarked upon the greatest losing streak in the history of Las Vegas. My old man's losing streak was the stuff of legend -- so much so that until they tore down the Desert Inn, there was a brass plaque next to one of the crap tables commemorating the afternoon he threw snake eyes twenty-two times in a row -- a record that still stands to this day.
Five days later my father returned to the motel: pale despite the 112 degree heat; wearing a haunted look and a shirt which read: "I LOST JUNIOR'S COLLEGE TUITION AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT." With exactly $12.63 in his pocket, he paid our cab fare back to the airport, and lost the remaining $5.63 during the plane ride back to New York; playing gin rummy with me, his twelve-year-old son. I still have the IOU.
And so it is with a lump in my throat and a knot in my colon, that I look out on the Las Vegas skyline and realize that it wasn't Ben Siegel, or Meyer Lansky, or Howard Hughes who built this city. It was men like my old man. Men who couldn't pick a Pygmy out of a lineup of Bavarian haus fraus, yet dared to dream; to believe that armed with little more than an unlimited line of credit, and a completely unjustified sense of self-confidence, they too could be winners. Thanks Dad.
February 24, 2011
U.S. SENATORS BRAINWASHED IN AFGHANISTAN!
Rolling Stone magazine reports that a group of U.S. senators, including Al Franken and John McCain, were victims of an attempted "brainwashing" by a special U.S. Army "Psy-Ops" unit during a visit to Afghanistan. An unnamed source informed the magazine that Franken was hypnotized into believing he was a chicken; while several others were forced to perform show tunes from the musical, "Guys and Dolls."
The senators have suffered no permanent effects as a result of the incident -- although Franken is plagued by an uncontrollable urge to sit on his breakfast, and McCain -- still convinced he's Oleg Cassini -- is on a fabric buying excursion in Milan.
The senators have suffered no permanent effects as a result of the incident -- although Franken is plagued by an uncontrollable urge to sit on his breakfast, and McCain -- still convinced he's Oleg Cassini -- is on a fabric buying excursion in Milan.
January 24, 2011
THE ELECTRIC KOOL-AID EASTER EGG TEST
Lysergic acid diethylamide. LSD. Or, as an entire generation of hippies knew it, "acid." The stuff Dr. Timothy Leary pioneered, and Ken Kesey & the Merry Pranksters swallowed by the handful -- roaming the country in a psychedelic school bus christened "Further." The stuff cartoonist R. Crumb swears rewired his brain one fateful day back in the '60s, transforming him into the most notorious, mind-blowing & scathingly sardonic artist ever to emerge from the Underground. The stuff Jim Morrison believed, "Cleansed the doors of perception." Seems each of us Baby Boomers has his or her own personal "acid story." Mine doesn't involve "tripping," but rather an odd lesson ol' Doc Tim's concoction taught me about human nature. It goes something like this . . .
It was a summer in the early '80s. The legendary rock band The Who, winding down their farewell tour, were scheduled to play a gig at Shea Stadium. Queens. My backyard. I'd quit my job as a clerk at The New York Stock Exchange, and along with the help of two friends, and the backing of some crazy old codger who produced those old Tom & Jerry cartoons, was about to launch a new Underground Comic (see my 7/15/10 blog post, "Fast Times at the Massapequa Mall").
I'd been living off the $1,400 I cashed out of my barely year old 401k -- that and the good graces of my parents (both of which were running thin), when my best friend Doug and I hatched a money making scheme that was so fiendishly clever; so diabolical; so thoroughly corrupt & twisted in its conception, the very thought of it still warms my heart. We'd sell acid!!! -- Oh not the real stuff mind you; but phoney "blotter" acid made from tiny squares of construction paper; each decorated with a "blot" of Easter egg dye.
It was brilliant. We'd make about 100 hits of the bogus blotter acid, circulate among the pre-concert crowd in the parking lot at Shea, and at five bucks a pop, be out of there before anyone was the wiser. Best of all, if the cops grabbed us we'd be in the clear. What could they charge us with? . . . Selling Easter egg dye?? Oh the infamy!!! I know it all sounds kinda shitty (and it was), but we were young & needed the scratch. Besides, we'd be performing a public service. Those fools who were gonna cop our little squares of Easter egg dye should know better. Acid led to harder stuff: black light posters of peace signs; following the Grateful Dead. We'd teach 'em a lesson and earn a little cash to boot.
The day of the concert, Doug and I hit the parking lot at Shea early. Three hours before The Who were scheduled to take the stage, the place was already jammed with people -- teens mostly. Bottles & doobies were being passed. It was perfect. Doug and I went to work. Once we sized up a mark (usually a small group of hippie kids) we hit 'em with our rehearsed spiel: This was it. The real deal. Made by some defrocked chemist living in a commune in Woodstock, NY; right from Dr. Leary's personal formula. Shit'll rock your world . . . but only do half a hit!!! -- Don't want anyone endin' up in the psych ward at Bellevue!
We'd figured it all to a T -- except for the time factor. It was taking a bit longer to move the stuff than we'd planned. That's when it happened. Some big, crazy looking dude in a biker mc -- one of our first customers -- caught up with us as we were unloading 10 hits on some stoners in a VW bus who rolled in from Philly.
Much to our shock (and relief), the guy didn't want a piece of our hides for selling him beat shit -- he wanted to buy more! That's right. With a look in his eyes which could only be described as beatific, the biker dude told us that after dropping just half a hit of our "acid," he'd had what could only be described as a mystical experience: trails of colored light; strange, exotic flowers growing out of his old lady's German helmet. And that wasn't all. Some hippie chick (another repeat customer) swore she observed the Hindu god, Krishna, floating above the Miller High Life Sign on the left-field fence. I'd heard of the Placebo Effect, and the power of suggestion, but this was fucking ridiculous! Again and again, our customers returned, describing the incredible, mind-expanding effects of our Easter egg dye -- and wanting more!
It was a lesson I'll never forget. The human mind is an incredible and frightening piece of work. Reality?? Well . . . I'll show ya mine, if you'll show me yours!
It was a summer in the early '80s. The legendary rock band The Who, winding down their farewell tour, were scheduled to play a gig at Shea Stadium. Queens. My backyard. I'd quit my job as a clerk at The New York Stock Exchange, and along with the help of two friends, and the backing of some crazy old codger who produced those old Tom & Jerry cartoons, was about to launch a new Underground Comic (see my 7/15/10 blog post, "Fast Times at the Massapequa Mall").
I'd been living off the $1,400 I cashed out of my barely year old 401k -- that and the good graces of my parents (both of which were running thin), when my best friend Doug and I hatched a money making scheme that was so fiendishly clever; so diabolical; so thoroughly corrupt & twisted in its conception, the very thought of it still warms my heart. We'd sell acid!!! -- Oh not the real stuff mind you; but phoney "blotter" acid made from tiny squares of construction paper; each decorated with a "blot" of Easter egg dye.
It was brilliant. We'd make about 100 hits of the bogus blotter acid, circulate among the pre-concert crowd in the parking lot at Shea, and at five bucks a pop, be out of there before anyone was the wiser. Best of all, if the cops grabbed us we'd be in the clear. What could they charge us with? . . . Selling Easter egg dye?? Oh the infamy!!! I know it all sounds kinda shitty (and it was), but we were young & needed the scratch. Besides, we'd be performing a public service. Those fools who were gonna cop our little squares of Easter egg dye should know better. Acid led to harder stuff: black light posters of peace signs; following the Grateful Dead. We'd teach 'em a lesson and earn a little cash to boot.
The day of the concert, Doug and I hit the parking lot at Shea early. Three hours before The Who were scheduled to take the stage, the place was already jammed with people -- teens mostly. Bottles & doobies were being passed. It was perfect. Doug and I went to work. Once we sized up a mark (usually a small group of hippie kids) we hit 'em with our rehearsed spiel: This was it. The real deal. Made by some defrocked chemist living in a commune in Woodstock, NY; right from Dr. Leary's personal formula. Shit'll rock your world . . . but only do half a hit!!! -- Don't want anyone endin' up in the psych ward at Bellevue!
We'd figured it all to a T -- except for the time factor. It was taking a bit longer to move the stuff than we'd planned. That's when it happened. Some big, crazy looking dude in a biker mc -- one of our first customers -- caught up with us as we were unloading 10 hits on some stoners in a VW bus who rolled in from Philly.
Much to our shock (and relief), the guy didn't want a piece of our hides for selling him beat shit -- he wanted to buy more! That's right. With a look in his eyes which could only be described as beatific, the biker dude told us that after dropping just half a hit of our "acid," he'd had what could only be described as a mystical experience: trails of colored light; strange, exotic flowers growing out of his old lady's German helmet. And that wasn't all. Some hippie chick (another repeat customer) swore she observed the Hindu god, Krishna, floating above the Miller High Life Sign on the left-field fence. I'd heard of the Placebo Effect, and the power of suggestion, but this was fucking ridiculous! Again and again, our customers returned, describing the incredible, mind-expanding effects of our Easter egg dye -- and wanting more!
It was a lesson I'll never forget. The human mind is an incredible and frightening piece of work. Reality?? Well . . . I'll show ya mine, if you'll show me yours!
December 22, 2010
IN PRAISE OF MONOGAMY (YOU HEARD ME RIGHT!)
I've always been a one woman kinda guy. Well . . . not always. In my early thirties, I found myself in the throes of a premature midlife crisis. Feeling my best years were behind me (If only I knew then what I know now -- HA!), I lamented the loss of my youth.
For years I'd been in a committed relationship. While the bloom was most certainly off the rose, it was comfortable and satisfying to find myself with a woman who knew my many peccadilloes, idosyncrasies & character flaws, yet still chose to have sex with me. Yes. I was satisfied. No. More than satisfied. Content! Then I got the itch.
A Wall Street stockbroker, lunchtime found me prowling the streets of Lower Manhattan like a wolf. No matter where I looked, there they were: short & buxom; long & lean. Blonde, brunette & redhead. Irish, Hispanic & Asian . . . WOMEN!!! My God!! The streets of Manhattan were brimming with women; beautiful women -- young; not-so-young; somewhat older; older yet, but still pretty well preserved -- WOMEN!!!
Where had they all come from?? It was as if I'd been walking around wearing a pair of welder's goggles for the past ten years -- oblivious to the beauty which surrounded me. It didn't seem fair. How could any man, finding himself in a garden of such splendor, content himself with a single rose? Choose only one? Rubbish! Mother Nature didn't intend it to be so! What species, other than man, selected only a single mate for life? Well, lobsters. (Ever take a good look at a female lobster?) I'd been suckered. Swallowed an old puritan bill of goods hook, line & sinker. But no more! I'd cast off the yoke of monogamy; belly up to the feast. Absolutely. I'd read Henry Miller.
I lie awake at night grinning. Imagining the new life I was about to embark upon. A life free of constraints & inhibitions; of pure carnality & shameless debauchery -- a combination of the orgy scene from "Caligula," and an old Frank Sinatra flick. Before I knew it, I was juggling four women: my steady, a girl who worked in the HR department at my firm (talk about throwing caution to the wind), a female commodities trader, and a self-employed beautician who did bikini waxes out of her West Village loft. Quite an assortment.
I felt virile. Alive. Like a young Hugh Hefner. Then I discovered something curious -- something I'd forgotten in my ten years of monogamy. My new relationships weren't like my old, "comfortable" one. These new women were a different breed. Take sex for instance -- oh, they were up for the perfunctory grope & makeout sessions -- but as far as doin' the deed? . . . They wanted to take it "slow." No. These women wanted to "do things." Other things. They wanted to go to concerts & Broadway plays; feed the ducks in Central Park; make ceramics.
I hadn't bargained for this. One minute I was rollerblading in Battery Park with one; the next dodging rush hour traffic to get another to a gynecologist appointment; the next heading up state for an apple picking excursion with a third. It was maddening. Not only was I not getting any sex from these women, I was so worn out from the vortex of activity: ceramics; ice skating; glass blowing; fruit picking; line dancing; parasailing -- that I was too exhausted to have sex with the only women who was willing to indulge me in the first place: my steady. How I missed our old routine: we'd hit our favorite restaurant, then the sheets; afterward, each retiring to our own seperate side of the bed (me to watch TV; her to work on a crossword puzzle). It was bliss!
And so you live and learn: a good woman is hard to find. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. The grass isn't always greener on the other side. And making your own pottery & glassware isn't all it's cracked up to be.
For years I'd been in a committed relationship. While the bloom was most certainly off the rose, it was comfortable and satisfying to find myself with a woman who knew my many peccadilloes, idosyncrasies & character flaws, yet still chose to have sex with me. Yes. I was satisfied. No. More than satisfied. Content! Then I got the itch.
A Wall Street stockbroker, lunchtime found me prowling the streets of Lower Manhattan like a wolf. No matter where I looked, there they were: short & buxom; long & lean. Blonde, brunette & redhead. Irish, Hispanic & Asian . . . WOMEN!!! My God!! The streets of Manhattan were brimming with women; beautiful women -- young; not-so-young; somewhat older; older yet, but still pretty well preserved -- WOMEN!!!
Where had they all come from?? It was as if I'd been walking around wearing a pair of welder's goggles for the past ten years -- oblivious to the beauty which surrounded me. It didn't seem fair. How could any man, finding himself in a garden of such splendor, content himself with a single rose? Choose only one? Rubbish! Mother Nature didn't intend it to be so! What species, other than man, selected only a single mate for life? Well, lobsters. (Ever take a good look at a female lobster?) I'd been suckered. Swallowed an old puritan bill of goods hook, line & sinker. But no more! I'd cast off the yoke of monogamy; belly up to the feast. Absolutely. I'd read Henry Miller.
I lie awake at night grinning. Imagining the new life I was about to embark upon. A life free of constraints & inhibitions; of pure carnality & shameless debauchery -- a combination of the orgy scene from "Caligula," and an old Frank Sinatra flick. Before I knew it, I was juggling four women: my steady, a girl who worked in the HR department at my firm (talk about throwing caution to the wind), a female commodities trader, and a self-employed beautician who did bikini waxes out of her West Village loft. Quite an assortment.
I felt virile. Alive. Like a young Hugh Hefner. Then I discovered something curious -- something I'd forgotten in my ten years of monogamy. My new relationships weren't like my old, "comfortable" one. These new women were a different breed. Take sex for instance -- oh, they were up for the perfunctory grope & makeout sessions -- but as far as doin' the deed? . . . They wanted to take it "slow." No. These women wanted to "do things." Other things. They wanted to go to concerts & Broadway plays; feed the ducks in Central Park; make ceramics.
I hadn't bargained for this. One minute I was rollerblading in Battery Park with one; the next dodging rush hour traffic to get another to a gynecologist appointment; the next heading up state for an apple picking excursion with a third. It was maddening. Not only was I not getting any sex from these women, I was so worn out from the vortex of activity: ceramics; ice skating; glass blowing; fruit picking; line dancing; parasailing -- that I was too exhausted to have sex with the only women who was willing to indulge me in the first place: my steady. How I missed our old routine: we'd hit our favorite restaurant, then the sheets; afterward, each retiring to our own seperate side of the bed (me to watch TV; her to work on a crossword puzzle). It was bliss!
And so you live and learn: a good woman is hard to find. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. The grass isn't always greener on the other side. And making your own pottery & glassware isn't all it's cracked up to be.
December 15, 2010
FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND . . . WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
You love 'em; I love 'em: those froth-flinging, goo-dripping creatures of the night. No, I'm not talking about Vegas escorts; but rather those hideous, celluloid terrors: flesh-eating fiends; giant, mutated bivalves; alien Amazons clad in skintight spacesuits & push-up bras -- the "Famous Monsters of Filmland."
Oh, I remember them well: Frankenstein; Dracula; Wolfman; Mummy; Creature from the Black Lagoon . . . The Blob. It was the late '60s, and every Saturday night at 9 pm, you'd find me huddled in front of the tube: mug of Ovaltine in hand; damp spot in my jammies, eagerly awaiting the latest installment of "Chiller Theater." Ah! Those old school monsters! Before Freddy, or Jason, or the current slew of nubile, teenage vampires -- they haunted the deepest, darkest dungeons of our prepubescent psyches.
But where are they now? Some, like Dracula, have risen to even greater heights of glory. Others have fallen by the wayside: victims of early fame, and fast lifestyles. Case in point: the Wolfman. Rocketing to stardom in the early '40s, he was later blackballed after fathering an out of wedlock litter with Lassie; at one point, reduced to working as spokesman for a flea collar manufacturer. Today he's a social activist, heading up the Anti-Fur Division at PETA.
While the big names still remain fixed on the radar, some "second tier" monsters have found it tough adjusting to life after Tinsel Town. "The Blob," who studied with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio, and was romantically linked to several young '50s starlets (Kim Novak & Connie Stevens among them), now owns a curio shop in Arizona, and still remains active in local theater.
Most tragic of all, however, is the story of Nancy Archer, "the 50 Foot Woman." Bereft when a torrid love triangle with Godzilla & the Colossal Man left her emotionally scarred, she quit show business forever. After a failed stint as pole dancer at an Asian gentlemen's club, she committed suicide by swallowing a chain of Rite Aid Pharmacies.
And so there you have it: The "Famous Monsters of Filmland" . . . long may they live on DVD!!!
Oh, I remember them well: Frankenstein; Dracula; Wolfman; Mummy; Creature from the Black Lagoon . . . The Blob. It was the late '60s, and every Saturday night at 9 pm, you'd find me huddled in front of the tube: mug of Ovaltine in hand; damp spot in my jammies, eagerly awaiting the latest installment of "Chiller Theater." Ah! Those old school monsters! Before Freddy, or Jason, or the current slew of nubile, teenage vampires -- they haunted the deepest, darkest dungeons of our prepubescent psyches.
But where are they now? Some, like Dracula, have risen to even greater heights of glory. Others have fallen by the wayside: victims of early fame, and fast lifestyles. Case in point: the Wolfman. Rocketing to stardom in the early '40s, he was later blackballed after fathering an out of wedlock litter with Lassie; at one point, reduced to working as spokesman for a flea collar manufacturer. Today he's a social activist, heading up the Anti-Fur Division at PETA.
While the big names still remain fixed on the radar, some "second tier" monsters have found it tough adjusting to life after Tinsel Town. "The Blob," who studied with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio, and was romantically linked to several young '50s starlets (Kim Novak & Connie Stevens among them), now owns a curio shop in Arizona, and still remains active in local theater.
Most tragic of all, however, is the story of Nancy Archer, "the 50 Foot Woman." Bereft when a torrid love triangle with Godzilla & the Colossal Man left her emotionally scarred, she quit show business forever. After a failed stint as pole dancer at an Asian gentlemen's club, she committed suicide by swallowing a chain of Rite Aid Pharmacies.
And so there you have it: The "Famous Monsters of Filmland" . . . long may they live on DVD!!!
November 11, 2010
A CHRISTMAS CAROL (VEGAS STYLE)
Jim was po'd: as po'd as a dwarf in a crowded elevator car at an all-male nudist colony -- of that there was no doubt. It was Christmas Eve, and Jim (a buffet cook at a Strip hotel) was scheduled to work swing shift Christmas Day.
Jim hated working holidays, but Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.
What a life! Another year gone. Another -- no doubt equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower him with praise for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty, working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and losers; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.
He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.
"Shorty . . . is it really you?"
"Yeah it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"
"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"
"Because we wuz such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."
"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."
"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."
"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- Remember?"
"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited be tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace and Frank Sinatra."
"NO SHIT!!!"
Shorty's ghost guffawed, and rattled his saute pans.
"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! It's only me."
"Now I remember why I couldn't stand you."
"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."
"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya wan't me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"
"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' to the manager 'bout 'im alla time?
"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"The old guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."
"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"
"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreciatin' the beauty of life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly!"
"Maybe you're right Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen, pumpkin pie -- and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showing "A Christmas Carol" all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"
"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Charlie Sheen. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"
"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"
Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!
Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas. Why not???
To all my Goodreads friends, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!!!!!
(And to Mr. Charles Dickens, my sincere apology.)
Jim hated working holidays, but Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.
What a life! Another year gone. Another -- no doubt equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower him with praise for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty, working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and losers; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.
He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.
"Shorty . . . is it really you?"
"Yeah it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"
"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"
"Because we wuz such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."
"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."
"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."
"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- Remember?"
"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited be tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace and Frank Sinatra."
"NO SHIT!!!"
Shorty's ghost guffawed, and rattled his saute pans.
"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! It's only me."
"Now I remember why I couldn't stand you."
"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."
"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya wan't me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"
"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' to the manager 'bout 'im alla time?
"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"The old guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."
"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"
"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreciatin' the beauty of life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly!"
"Maybe you're right Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen, pumpkin pie -- and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showing "A Christmas Carol" all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"
"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Charlie Sheen. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"
"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"
Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!
Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas. Why not???
To all my Goodreads friends, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!!!!!
(And to Mr. Charles Dickens, my sincere apology.)
October 16, 2010
THE RAZOR'S EDGE
They call 'em "Thrill Seekers." Adrenaline junkies who risk life & limb all for the fleeting rush of cheating the Reaper. Oh, you know the type: the newlywed couple who opt for a jet ski honeymoon in pirate infested waters; that idiot at the wildlife drive-thru park who has to get out of his car to have his picture taken WITH the grizzly bear (And later, while having his limbs reattached, wonders what possibly could've gone wrong?); my retired Uncle Phil, who spends summers hang gliding over the Gaza Strip. Nimrods who seemingly have no fear -- and very little common sense to boot.
What drives these people?? As a former New Yorker (born & bred), I've learned that fear is my friend; it's saved my ass numerous times. At the first hint of danger, I get the fuck outa Dodge. (See ya!) Call me chickenshit, but I bruise easily, and my ass is far too precious to risk shooting the rapids, or rocketing down the Matterhorn in a luge. But wait! Perhaps these fools were seeking something more than just a rapid pulse rate; or a tingling sensation in the ol' perineum (look it up). Then it hit me -- like a bolt of electricity from a car battery hooked up to my genitals with a pair of jumper cables (I like a thrill every now and again myself.) . . . the answer lie with none other than the greatest "Thrill Seeker" of 'em all: Uncle Fester.
That's right. You've seen those old "Addams Family" reruns. Fester delighted in pushing the envelope: he slept on a bed of nails honed sharp as the tip of a bayonet; had little Pugsly bore directly into his exposed molar nerve with a dentist's drill -- and rode his motorcycle down the grand staircase clad in a diving helmet. To many, Fester was just some old flake on a 1960s TV sitcom -- but I've come to realize there's more to the man than meets the eye.
Fester was an "ascetic" . . . and he was trying to tell us something. Like the Buddha, he punished his body as a means of spiritual awakening. We all need to heed Fester's example. Our lives have become too damn comfortable. We live in an age when anything from a six course Mexican dinner, to a happy ending, can be gotten at the drive-thru window. Our souls have been lulled to sleep by the ease of modern living. We all need to wake the hell up. Venture outside our comfort zone. Take a fucking chance. And so I am: I'm gonna eat at that new Vietnamese retaurant with the "B" rating; get that Mohawk haircut my stylist recommended. Why not?? Call me a "Thrill Seeker."
What drives these people?? As a former New Yorker (born & bred), I've learned that fear is my friend; it's saved my ass numerous times. At the first hint of danger, I get the fuck outa Dodge. (See ya!) Call me chickenshit, but I bruise easily, and my ass is far too precious to risk shooting the rapids, or rocketing down the Matterhorn in a luge. But wait! Perhaps these fools were seeking something more than just a rapid pulse rate; or a tingling sensation in the ol' perineum (look it up). Then it hit me -- like a bolt of electricity from a car battery hooked up to my genitals with a pair of jumper cables (I like a thrill every now and again myself.) . . . the answer lie with none other than the greatest "Thrill Seeker" of 'em all: Uncle Fester.
That's right. You've seen those old "Addams Family" reruns. Fester delighted in pushing the envelope: he slept on a bed of nails honed sharp as the tip of a bayonet; had little Pugsly bore directly into his exposed molar nerve with a dentist's drill -- and rode his motorcycle down the grand staircase clad in a diving helmet. To many, Fester was just some old flake on a 1960s TV sitcom -- but I've come to realize there's more to the man than meets the eye.
Fester was an "ascetic" . . . and he was trying to tell us something. Like the Buddha, he punished his body as a means of spiritual awakening. We all need to heed Fester's example. Our lives have become too damn comfortable. We live in an age when anything from a six course Mexican dinner, to a happy ending, can be gotten at the drive-thru window. Our souls have been lulled to sleep by the ease of modern living. We all need to wake the hell up. Venture outside our comfort zone. Take a fucking chance. And so I am: I'm gonna eat at that new Vietnamese retaurant with the "B" rating; get that Mohawk haircut my stylist recommended. Why not?? Call me a "Thrill Seeker."
October 13, 2010
GLORY HOLE
Tragedy struck today in the small town of Copiapo, Chile, when it was discovered that all of the 33 men rescued from a collapsed mine -- tho unharmed -- are now unabashedly gay. Suspicions were aroused early last week, when the men, who were trapped for 69 days (LOL), made an urgent request for emergency supplies, including: scented candles, a case of amyl nitrate poppers, and a George Michael CD.
The news rocked the largely Catholic country, prompting one miner's wife to tearfully remark: "Where's that gringo Jerry Falwell when you really need him?"
In a related story, Tea Party Senate hopeful, Christine O'Donnell, announced today she'll be hosting a special "Hell is for Homos" bake sale, to raise awareness for the dangers of unsafe mining conditions, and anal sex.
The news rocked the largely Catholic country, prompting one miner's wife to tearfully remark: "Where's that gringo Jerry Falwell when you really need him?"
In a related story, Tea Party Senate hopeful, Christine O'Donnell, announced today she'll be hosting a special "Hell is for Homos" bake sale, to raise awareness for the dangers of unsafe mining conditions, and anal sex.
