Quentin R. Bufogle's Blog, page 3
December 7, 2023
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; Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he'd 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 -- 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 praise upon him 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 rejects; 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 were 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 by 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 rememeber 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 want 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' ta the manager 'bout 'im alla time?"
"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"The ol' 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 appreaciatin' the beauty a 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 showin' '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 Donald Trump. 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 dinner ... why not!?
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! ... 🎅🎄🎁☃️
Jim hated working holidays; Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he'd 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 -- 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 praise upon him 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 rejects; 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 were 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 by 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 rememeber 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 want 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' ta the manager 'bout 'im alla time?"
"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."
"The ol' 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 appreaciatin' the beauty a 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 showin' '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 Donald Trump. 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 dinner ... why not!?
HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! ... 🎅🎄🎁☃️
July 15, 2023
CONFESSIONS OF A LAS VEGAS CHEF
I’M IN HELL. It’s an hour into dinner service and the shit is really hitting the fan.
“Two more surf ‘n’ turf – six all day!” Willie, the broiler cook, barks at me.
With more than half a dozen steaks sizzling away on the grill, Willie is the only other cook on the line as slammed as I am.
Almost instinctively, my left hand snatches a couple foil pie pans from the shelving above my stove. Moving quickly, I fill each about halfway with water from my station’s utility sink. Without looking, I reach into the upper compartment of my highboy and grab two lobster tails from a hotel pan of three dozen I prepped earlier today. I hit the tails with a brush of clarified butter and a toss of salt and pepper I keep pre-mixed in a stainless steel sixth pan on my station. Into the oven they go.
Mis en place! Although the phrase literally translates to “everything in its place,” “misenplace” actually refers to the painstaking set up and prep work which must be performed daily by each cook for each station in anticipation of the onslaught of battle – of the living hell that is dinner service.
From coarsely chopped parsley for garnish, to splitting three dozen lobster tails, removing the meat and placing it artfully atop each shell (remember: presentation – presentation!); to preparing the saffron cream sauce for the ever-popular seafood linguine I push out of my station (a dish that really flies on the weekends), to the twenty pounds of potatoes I must boil and hand mash with copious amounts of butter, heated cream and sauteed garlic. Not to mention the trays of escargot appetizers, hand-cut fries tossed with truffle oil, twice-baked potatoes, pre-blanched risotto and all the other various components of the dishes and sides I’m responsible for on my station. More than two and a half hours of back breaking work that must be done each day before the first diner even walks through the door.
I hear the clatter of the printer as it spits out more tickets. It’s a sound I’ve come to hate. Truly horrible. At times, I even hear it in my sleep.
“Two salmon, one sole!” I call to the tall, dour looking Columbian dude working the fish station.
He shoots me a pissy look – as if I’m the one ordering the friggin’ fish. In addition to being blessed with the busiest station on the line (in the entire goddamn hotel), I’m also saddled with being this guy’s personal “wheelman” – calling off orders for him which for some unbeknownst reason materialize from my printer.
The printer spits another ticket at me. A four top: two crab leg and escargot appetizers followed by four entrees: two Serrano ham wrapped chicken breasts, vegetable risotto and a seafood linguine. All the entrees must hit the window at the exact same time. I need to get the chicken working right away – even before I fire the appetizers.
I pull two airline chicken breasts (legs still attached) from the bottom of my highboy (raw chicken is always stored on the bottom shelf). I quickly hit them with some seasoning, wrap them in the Serrano ham I sliced earlier, and place them both in a single sauté pan. There’s almost no room in my small oven. Fortunately, four of the lobster tails I’ve fired for Willie’s surf ‘n’ turfs are ready to go. I yank the pie pans they’re sitting in out of the oven with a pair of tongs and set them on the shelving above my stove where Willie can grab them.
“Lobster tails, up!”
Once the chicken is working, I hastily wash and dry my hands to avoid cross contamination, turning my attention to the appetizers. Grabbing a dozen crab legs from a 600 pan inside my highboy, I arrange them six each in two separate pie pans before popping them into a tall, multi-tiered steamer just to the left of the deep fryer on my station.
The escargot is easy. I’ve already prepped a dozen orders prior to service: gently sautéing the snails in garlic, shallots and oil before placing them in the little cup-like holders of the cast iron serving plates -- then covering each in a blanket of herb butter. All I need do now is heat them over a low flame using the burners on my stove until the herb butter is melted.
It's Saturday night and the dining room of Steakhouse 46 located inside the Fabulous Flamingo Las Vegas is packed. Former Heavyweight Champ, Mike Tyson, is posing for a picture with some of the front of the house staff. Mike is a local and drops in from time to time for dinner, as do a number of other celebs both major and minor. More tickets. I call off the entrees for the fish cook, then check to see what I’ve got. Just as I feared. Whole main lobster. SHIT!!! Grabbing a hotel 200 pan from the stack beneath my prep table and a wooden tool used to pull live lobsters from the tank, I bolt for the exit door located at the back of my station. Hanging a sharp U-turn, I reenter the restaurant through the rear door of the dining room.
The live lobster Tank is located up front in the restaurant’s waiting area next to the reservation desk. Moving as quickly as I can without drawing any undue attention or clotheslining a slow-moving server, I make a beeline for the lobster tank.
Tactfully shooing away the crowd of diners – both children and adults alike – from the massive hundred-gallon tank, I zero in on a nice two pounder that appears to be dozing off in the corner. As soon as the wooden tool breaks surface, the lobsters scatter. The critters ain’t dumb. They know a trip to the steamer’s in store for one of them.
The tool I’m using is nothing more than a long, narrow wooden handle with a broader, shorter piece of wood forming a ninety-degree angle at the base. Similar to the wooden “rozell” used to spread crepes, it’s not exactly state-of-the-art for snaring a fleeing lobster.
Proceeding stealthily, I’m able to catch the snoozing lobster off guard, trapping it in the corner. Just as I attempt to pull the critter from the tank, “John Gotti” comes barreling to the rescue.
John is the group’s “alpha lobster” – a massive four and a half pounder who’s somehow managed to evade capture and has now grown to a size and weight beyond most diner’s pocketbooks. As I grapple with the smaller lobster – now in full fight or flight mode – John attempts to intervene. Though he wears rubber claw bands, the “Capo di Tutti Capi” flings himself bodily against the wooden tool in a wild frenzy – hoping to thwart my attempt on his imperiled fellow crustacean.
Both the children and their parents seem amused by the spectacle. Laughing gleefully as if it’s all a show – part of the fine dining experience. I silently curse the brute, vowing to return on my next day off; plunk down the requisite three bills to purchase, and personally shove his little, overgrown lobster ass into the steamer …
From a work in progress ...✍️ #food #finedining #steakhouse #lasvegas #flamingohotel #hautecuisines #culinaryarts #culinary #restaurant #chef #chefdepartie #linecook #linecooklife #misenplace #miketyson
“Two more surf ‘n’ turf – six all day!” Willie, the broiler cook, barks at me.
With more than half a dozen steaks sizzling away on the grill, Willie is the only other cook on the line as slammed as I am.
Almost instinctively, my left hand snatches a couple foil pie pans from the shelving above my stove. Moving quickly, I fill each about halfway with water from my station’s utility sink. Without looking, I reach into the upper compartment of my highboy and grab two lobster tails from a hotel pan of three dozen I prepped earlier today. I hit the tails with a brush of clarified butter and a toss of salt and pepper I keep pre-mixed in a stainless steel sixth pan on my station. Into the oven they go.
Mis en place! Although the phrase literally translates to “everything in its place,” “misenplace” actually refers to the painstaking set up and prep work which must be performed daily by each cook for each station in anticipation of the onslaught of battle – of the living hell that is dinner service.
From coarsely chopped parsley for garnish, to splitting three dozen lobster tails, removing the meat and placing it artfully atop each shell (remember: presentation – presentation!); to preparing the saffron cream sauce for the ever-popular seafood linguine I push out of my station (a dish that really flies on the weekends), to the twenty pounds of potatoes I must boil and hand mash with copious amounts of butter, heated cream and sauteed garlic. Not to mention the trays of escargot appetizers, hand-cut fries tossed with truffle oil, twice-baked potatoes, pre-blanched risotto and all the other various components of the dishes and sides I’m responsible for on my station. More than two and a half hours of back breaking work that must be done each day before the first diner even walks through the door.
I hear the clatter of the printer as it spits out more tickets. It’s a sound I’ve come to hate. Truly horrible. At times, I even hear it in my sleep.
“Two salmon, one sole!” I call to the tall, dour looking Columbian dude working the fish station.
He shoots me a pissy look – as if I’m the one ordering the friggin’ fish. In addition to being blessed with the busiest station on the line (in the entire goddamn hotel), I’m also saddled with being this guy’s personal “wheelman” – calling off orders for him which for some unbeknownst reason materialize from my printer.
The printer spits another ticket at me. A four top: two crab leg and escargot appetizers followed by four entrees: two Serrano ham wrapped chicken breasts, vegetable risotto and a seafood linguine. All the entrees must hit the window at the exact same time. I need to get the chicken working right away – even before I fire the appetizers.
I pull two airline chicken breasts (legs still attached) from the bottom of my highboy (raw chicken is always stored on the bottom shelf). I quickly hit them with some seasoning, wrap them in the Serrano ham I sliced earlier, and place them both in a single sauté pan. There’s almost no room in my small oven. Fortunately, four of the lobster tails I’ve fired for Willie’s surf ‘n’ turfs are ready to go. I yank the pie pans they’re sitting in out of the oven with a pair of tongs and set them on the shelving above my stove where Willie can grab them.
“Lobster tails, up!”
Once the chicken is working, I hastily wash and dry my hands to avoid cross contamination, turning my attention to the appetizers. Grabbing a dozen crab legs from a 600 pan inside my highboy, I arrange them six each in two separate pie pans before popping them into a tall, multi-tiered steamer just to the left of the deep fryer on my station.
The escargot is easy. I’ve already prepped a dozen orders prior to service: gently sautéing the snails in garlic, shallots and oil before placing them in the little cup-like holders of the cast iron serving plates -- then covering each in a blanket of herb butter. All I need do now is heat them over a low flame using the burners on my stove until the herb butter is melted.
It's Saturday night and the dining room of Steakhouse 46 located inside the Fabulous Flamingo Las Vegas is packed. Former Heavyweight Champ, Mike Tyson, is posing for a picture with some of the front of the house staff. Mike is a local and drops in from time to time for dinner, as do a number of other celebs both major and minor. More tickets. I call off the entrees for the fish cook, then check to see what I’ve got. Just as I feared. Whole main lobster. SHIT!!! Grabbing a hotel 200 pan from the stack beneath my prep table and a wooden tool used to pull live lobsters from the tank, I bolt for the exit door located at the back of my station. Hanging a sharp U-turn, I reenter the restaurant through the rear door of the dining room.
The live lobster Tank is located up front in the restaurant’s waiting area next to the reservation desk. Moving as quickly as I can without drawing any undue attention or clotheslining a slow-moving server, I make a beeline for the lobster tank.
Tactfully shooing away the crowd of diners – both children and adults alike – from the massive hundred-gallon tank, I zero in on a nice two pounder that appears to be dozing off in the corner. As soon as the wooden tool breaks surface, the lobsters scatter. The critters ain’t dumb. They know a trip to the steamer’s in store for one of them.
The tool I’m using is nothing more than a long, narrow wooden handle with a broader, shorter piece of wood forming a ninety-degree angle at the base. Similar to the wooden “rozell” used to spread crepes, it’s not exactly state-of-the-art for snaring a fleeing lobster.
Proceeding stealthily, I’m able to catch the snoozing lobster off guard, trapping it in the corner. Just as I attempt to pull the critter from the tank, “John Gotti” comes barreling to the rescue.
John is the group’s “alpha lobster” – a massive four and a half pounder who’s somehow managed to evade capture and has now grown to a size and weight beyond most diner’s pocketbooks. As I grapple with the smaller lobster – now in full fight or flight mode – John attempts to intervene. Though he wears rubber claw bands, the “Capo di Tutti Capi” flings himself bodily against the wooden tool in a wild frenzy – hoping to thwart my attempt on his imperiled fellow crustacean.
Both the children and their parents seem amused by the spectacle. Laughing gleefully as if it’s all a show – part of the fine dining experience. I silently curse the brute, vowing to return on my next day off; plunk down the requisite three bills to purchase, and personally shove his little, overgrown lobster ass into the steamer …
From a work in progress ...✍️ #food #finedining #steakhouse #lasvegas #flamingohotel #hautecuisines #culinaryarts #culinary #restaurant #chef #chefdepartie #linecook #linecooklife #misenplace #miketyson
June 2, 2023
May 30, 2023
SOMETHING FOR DAD!
Father's Day is almost upon us. Time to remember dear ol' Dad! ...
Remember when you finally scored a hookup with that hot, German exchange student (rumored to have had a brief career in double penetration porn), and dear ol' Dad introduced himself by asking her to pull his finger -- only to blame the ensuing sonic boom on you? ...
Or how about that time he volunteered as guest Scout Master and got your entire troop lost in the Alpine New Jersey wilderness where you were forced to drink your own urine until help arrived a week and a half later? ...
Or all those "special" father & son moments when he lent comfort and support by calling you a "loser" and a "dickhead" for coming in second at the track meet or striking out with bases loaded in the finals of the Little League Championship? Yeah!!! ... Remember???
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but hot or cold, you can serve Dad his well-earned dose of hemlock in a new CUP-O-NERD travel mug! Just one of the many great gifts Jamaica AVE. has in stock that'll teach your old man that while it may be divine to forgive, forgetting is simply out of the question! ... 🤬
https://www.redbubble.com/i/mug/CUP-O...
Remember when you finally scored a hookup with that hot, German exchange student (rumored to have had a brief career in double penetration porn), and dear ol' Dad introduced himself by asking her to pull his finger -- only to blame the ensuing sonic boom on you? ...
Or how about that time he volunteered as guest Scout Master and got your entire troop lost in the Alpine New Jersey wilderness where you were forced to drink your own urine until help arrived a week and a half later? ...
Or all those "special" father & son moments when he lent comfort and support by calling you a "loser" and a "dickhead" for coming in second at the track meet or striking out with bases loaded in the finals of the Little League Championship? Yeah!!! ... Remember???
They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but hot or cold, you can serve Dad his well-earned dose of hemlock in a new CUP-O-NERD travel mug! Just one of the many great gifts Jamaica AVE. has in stock that'll teach your old man that while it may be divine to forgive, forgetting is simply out of the question! ... 🤬
https://www.redbubble.com/i/mug/CUP-O...
April 13, 2023
AN END TO GUN VIOLENCE **FREE KINDLE**
FERNGLOW'S FINAL EQUATION is a short story I published in Literary Heist 3 years ago about a physics professor who uses simple mathematics to solve the scourge of gun violence.
At the time, the editor of LH told me he thought everyone needed to read my story. I'm giving this away as a FREE Kindle for as long as the folks at Amazon will allow ...
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C2465TZY?...
At the time, the editor of LH told me he thought everyone needed to read my story. I'm giving this away as a FREE Kindle for as long as the folks at Amazon will allow ...
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C2465TZY?...
March 29, 2023
"KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS" NOW ON AUDIBLE
From the back cover ...
A GRITTY, UTTERLY UNREPENTANT MEMOIR OF GROWING UP ON THE MEAN STREETS OF NEW YORK CITY DURING THE LATE '70s.
THE GIRLS, THE DRUGS, THE FIGHTS, AND THE SHEER KICKS ...
Check out a FREE sample ...
https://www.audible.com/pd/King-of-th...
A GRITTY, UTTERLY UNREPENTANT MEMOIR OF GROWING UP ON THE MEAN STREETS OF NEW YORK CITY DURING THE LATE '70s.
THE GIRLS, THE DRUGS, THE FIGHTS, AND THE SHEER KICKS ...
Check out a FREE sample ...
https://www.audible.com/pd/King-of-th...
January 17, 2023
YOU CAN RUN, BUT YOU CAN'T HIDE
Let me start by saying no one deserves to be shot in the back while running away from a cop -- or suffocated or beaten half to death while in restraints. But for fuck's sake, if a cop pulls you over, comply with their instructions.
Don't argue, don't resist if you're being cuffed, and don't try to flee the scene. I don't care how much attitude the cop's giving you or whether you have a bench warrant for unpaid parking tickets or a bale of ganja in the trunk ... comply!
Unless you're Mario Andretti or Steve McQueen in "Bullet," you don't stand a fart's chance in a windstorm of outrunning the cops in a high-speed chase.
At best, you're gonna wind-up compounding the charges you're already facing. At worst, you're gonna wind-up dead.
Just once, I'd like to hear an activist or a community leader stand up and say this after yet another traffic stop that results in a death or something dangerously close to it.
I'm no cheerleader for the police. I have my own personal stories about run-ins with bad cops. But fleeing the scene or getting into a physical altercation with a cop is only gonna end one way. We've all seen it happen too many times already. Please, knock it the fuck off! ...
Don't argue, don't resist if you're being cuffed, and don't try to flee the scene. I don't care how much attitude the cop's giving you or whether you have a bench warrant for unpaid parking tickets or a bale of ganja in the trunk ... comply!
Unless you're Mario Andretti or Steve McQueen in "Bullet," you don't stand a fart's chance in a windstorm of outrunning the cops in a high-speed chase.
At best, you're gonna wind-up compounding the charges you're already facing. At worst, you're gonna wind-up dead.
Just once, I'd like to hear an activist or a community leader stand up and say this after yet another traffic stop that results in a death or something dangerously close to it.
I'm no cheerleader for the police. I have my own personal stories about run-ins with bad cops. But fleeing the scene or getting into a physical altercation with a cop is only gonna end one way. We've all seen it happen too many times already. Please, knock it the fuck off! ...
June 30, 2022
HORROR, MYSTERY, SUSPENSE! FREE KINDLE!
WHAT BECAME OF THE STUNNING MUSE WHO INSPIRED ONE OF THE GREATEST MASTERPIECES OF 20TH CENTURY MODERN ART? SOME MYSTERIES ARE BETTER LEFT UNSOLVED ...
Have your eyes ever locked on a woman from across the room? I don’t mean in the normal way a young man’s eye is drawn to a pretty face. I’m talking about an event. One of such force, such magnitude, that it can only be expressed as a series of arcane symbols on the blackboard of a theoretical physicist.
There she is, pulling you toward her like the gravitational force of the sun; collapsing time and space so that the distance between you is suddenly nil and you see her as if in slow motion. Every detail. The curve of her hip; the arc of her eyebrow; the smile that would melt a glacier.
It had happened before. Once or twice. But never, never like that. The afternoon I’d walked into a little café on the Champs-Elysees and saw her leaning over the counter; whispering something into the young barista’s ear. That smile -- the one which still haunts me to this day.
At first I assumed she and the chap behind the counter were lovers arranging a tryst. I imagined the sight of her slowly undressing for him in the early afternoon light of a studio furnished only with a voluminous brass bed. That perfectly sculpted body offered up like a work of art solely for the delight of one. Its perfection achingly apparent even through the unflattering peasant’s dress she wore.
I was seized by a fit a jealousy; heart frozen in my chest. To think that such beauty existed; beauty so cruelly exquisite -- and it belonged to another. Then a bit of minutiae drew my attention. The barista handed her a small dish containing some sugar cubes. I watched her walk away; the roll of her hips teasing beneath the cloth of that poorly tailored dress.
Oddly enough, she took a seat at a table next to a rather repugnant looking chap. A troll of a man so unpleasant to the eye and garishly attired, that it brought to mind the image of an organ grinder’s monkey. She gazed at him lovingly as he scooped up the sugar cubes with curiously stained fingers and dropped them into a bowl of café au lait. My God! She was attainable! ...
From "MUSE" ... Download your FREE Kindle while offer lasts ...
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B5FCHVBY/...
Have your eyes ever locked on a woman from across the room? I don’t mean in the normal way a young man’s eye is drawn to a pretty face. I’m talking about an event. One of such force, such magnitude, that it can only be expressed as a series of arcane symbols on the blackboard of a theoretical physicist.
There she is, pulling you toward her like the gravitational force of the sun; collapsing time and space so that the distance between you is suddenly nil and you see her as if in slow motion. Every detail. The curve of her hip; the arc of her eyebrow; the smile that would melt a glacier.
It had happened before. Once or twice. But never, never like that. The afternoon I’d walked into a little café on the Champs-Elysees and saw her leaning over the counter; whispering something into the young barista’s ear. That smile -- the one which still haunts me to this day.
At first I assumed she and the chap behind the counter were lovers arranging a tryst. I imagined the sight of her slowly undressing for him in the early afternoon light of a studio furnished only with a voluminous brass bed. That perfectly sculpted body offered up like a work of art solely for the delight of one. Its perfection achingly apparent even through the unflattering peasant’s dress she wore.
I was seized by a fit a jealousy; heart frozen in my chest. To think that such beauty existed; beauty so cruelly exquisite -- and it belonged to another. Then a bit of minutiae drew my attention. The barista handed her a small dish containing some sugar cubes. I watched her walk away; the roll of her hips teasing beneath the cloth of that poorly tailored dress.
Oddly enough, she took a seat at a table next to a rather repugnant looking chap. A troll of a man so unpleasant to the eye and garishly attired, that it brought to mind the image of an organ grinder’s monkey. She gazed at him lovingly as he scooped up the sugar cubes with curiously stained fingers and dropped them into a bowl of café au lait. My God! She was attainable! ...
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June 28, 2022
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"A FUSION OF SCI-FI, ALLEGORY AND SLY SATIRE, 'THE CONCUBINE OF MARS' IS A WILD, HYPERSONIC SHUTTLE TO A MARTIAN RESORT WHERE EXTRAMARITAL SEX IS STILL LEGAL ... PROVIDED YOUR PARTNER IS AN ANDROID. IF YOU'RE A FAN OF WESTWORLD, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU! ..."
From the Inside Flap:
I HAVE TO ADMIT; THE FIRST TIME I MADE LOVE TO AN ANDROID, I COULDN'T TELL THE DIFFERENCE ...
Heidi enters wearing a white satin robe barely covering her essentials. Hair braided in pigtails like a Bavarian schoolgirl, she allows the robe to slip from her pale shoulders. I'm impressed. If not for the fact that she's android, Heidi could accurately be described as a "real blonde."
Her eyes -- a cold, Nordic blue -- lock on me. I know those eyes. I've looked into them before ... but where? I'm beginning to recede into a warm, pleasant fog ... Extending her hand by way of invitation, Layla smiles. Taking her outstretched hand, I join them on the bed ...
(From "The Concubine of Mars")
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April 29, 2022
R.I.P. NEAL ADAMS
Genuinely saddened to hear that one of Comicdom's greatest artists has passed. I met Neal Adams at his Manhattan studio back in the early '80s. I was hoping to break into comics as a penciller myself, and he graciously agreed to have a look at my portfolio.
No sooner had things gotten underway than I found myself -- a 22-year-old nobody -- embroiled in a heated argument with the master over the importance of proper anatomy in comic book illustration.
When I pointed out that one of his protégés -- a hot young comic book artist named Frank Miller -- drew figures as if he'd learned human anatomy by studying old medical textbook photos of the Elephant Man, Adams bristled ...
"We're not here to discuss Frank Miller's lack of anatomy." He said dismissively. The master had spoken.
He then informed me that in his professional opinion, I was still 3 years away from drawing mainstream comics.
"Why don't you break into the business as a letterer?" He said, looking over my work, "You're actually a really good letterer."
Not exactly what I'd hoped to hear ...
"What about National Lampoon?" I asked, knowing full well that Adam's work had graced the pages of the humor magazine a decade before, "Ya think I might have a shot there?"
Adams looked at me as if I'd just inquired as to whether I might engage in mutual oral copulation with his rather attractive secretary right there on top of his drafting table ...
"NATIONAL LAMPOON!" He bellowed, "I know guys who'd give their right arm to have their work in the Lampoon!"
SPOILER ALERT: Not 6 months later, my work was in the Lampoon. I was gonna send Adams a copy just to bust his chops, but at the last minute thought better of it. Even the great ones get it wrong sometimes.
Our meeting concluded, I packed up my portfolio and Adams gave me a warm, fatherly clap on the shoulder, urging me to come back and see him again (presumably, after I'd studied some anatomy). I think he actually dug the fact that a young upstart had the moxy to stand up to the acknowledged master.
Love him or hate him, he was truly one of the all-time greats. R.I.P.
No sooner had things gotten underway than I found myself -- a 22-year-old nobody -- embroiled in a heated argument with the master over the importance of proper anatomy in comic book illustration.
When I pointed out that one of his protégés -- a hot young comic book artist named Frank Miller -- drew figures as if he'd learned human anatomy by studying old medical textbook photos of the Elephant Man, Adams bristled ...
"We're not here to discuss Frank Miller's lack of anatomy." He said dismissively. The master had spoken.
He then informed me that in his professional opinion, I was still 3 years away from drawing mainstream comics.
"Why don't you break into the business as a letterer?" He said, looking over my work, "You're actually a really good letterer."
Not exactly what I'd hoped to hear ...
"What about National Lampoon?" I asked, knowing full well that Adam's work had graced the pages of the humor magazine a decade before, "Ya think I might have a shot there?"
Adams looked at me as if I'd just inquired as to whether I might engage in mutual oral copulation with his rather attractive secretary right there on top of his drafting table ...
"NATIONAL LAMPOON!" He bellowed, "I know guys who'd give their right arm to have their work in the Lampoon!"
SPOILER ALERT: Not 6 months later, my work was in the Lampoon. I was gonna send Adams a copy just to bust his chops, but at the last minute thought better of it. Even the great ones get it wrong sometimes.
Our meeting concluded, I packed up my portfolio and Adams gave me a warm, fatherly clap on the shoulder, urging me to come back and see him again (presumably, after I'd studied some anatomy). I think he actually dug the fact that a young upstart had the moxy to stand up to the acknowledged master.
Love him or hate him, he was truly one of the all-time greats. R.I.P.
