Ahh, the 'Divine One'...You'll never hear a smoother singing voice than that of 'Sassy' Sarah Vaughan. Whether swinging to a jazz combo or crooning show tunes with a full orchestra as on today's LP, her unmistakable voice was like dark chocolate (the creamy European kind, not that waxy stuff they make in Pennsylvania), rich and comforting.

Born in 1924, Sarah, like so many of her peers, started singing in church, the Mount Zion Church in Newark, to be exact, where she doubled as the church organist. Those keyboard skills worked to her advantage later when she was hired by Earl Hines, who'd gotten wind of her winning an Amateur Night at the Apollo when she was a mere eighteen years old. Hines hired her to play second piano and sing the occasional song with regular vocalist Billy Eckstine, but her singing went over so well that she became a feature, and her piano playing duties were left to somebody else. It was in Hines' band that she first met Bird and Diz. Dig?

Sarah developed a lifelong professional relationship with Eckstine, moving to his band in 1944 and recording a number of duet albums with him in the years that followed. Although she never considered herself a jazz singer, 'Sassy' consistently won reader's polls in Esquire and Downbeat in the Forties and Fifties, while recording pop hits that sold to a wider audience, like “Misty” (one of my faves), “Whatever Lola Wants” and “Broken Hearted Melody”. By the late Fifties she was in a perfect position to record whatever she wanted, signing a contract with Mercury, where she put out several albums of pop tunes much like today's featured LP, along with recording classic jazz sessions featuring backing instrumentals by the likes of trumpet legend Clifford Brown and flutist Herbie Mann, all released on Mercury's sister jazz label EmArcy.

Sarah's career suffered from ups and downs, some of them financial, some personal. Not particularly lucky in love, she allowed lovers and husbands (three over the years) to run her business affairs and nearly always got burned. But she stayed the course and kept singing, her star rising through the Sixties and on into the Seventies. She sang for Presidents Johnson and Ford, won Grammys and got her own damn star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame. She continued to record up until the Eighties, including a brief but notable appearance on Quincy Jones' 'Back On The Block' LP from 1989.

A lifelong smoker and drinker (and rumored pothead), Vaughan died in 1990 of lung cancer at age 65.

From 1957, “Great Songs From Hit Shows” is a double album with a gatefold cover and features more show tunes than you can shake a stick at, from Gershwin to Jerome Kern to Irving Berlin. Liner notes by jazz author and historian Leonard Feather and some nice studio snapshots of Sassy complete the package. Hal Mooney conducts an orchestra of elite Hollywood musicians.

When I bought this record some fifteen years ago it had been pressed up against another record in a stack, the lettering from the back of the other record transferring to the cover of this LP and marring the photo of Sarah in a less than desirable way. It was only two bucks. I took it home and tried several liquids to remove the mirrored lettering, beginning with water and working my way up to pure gum spirits of ever-loving turpentine, which did the trick without marring the heavily laminated, slick cardboard cover! It's worth thirty bucks in this VG condition!

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF MARTY SHERMAN
"Make Mine To Go...Please!"

She was tall and manly, her skin dark brown, her hands large with short natural nails and free of rings. Her hair was a careless mop of fuzzy curls and she wore dark sunglasses, spoke in a soft monotone and so slowly she could barely be understood. She had come into the restaurant and stood directly in front of the small counter, faced the stack of paper menus and bowls of soy sauce and hot mustard packets that cluttered the end of the counter top and made sitting on that stool difficult.

“You eat for here or iz ah carryout?” asked the Chinese girl at the counter.

“Hmm,” said the woman, “I'm... not... sure...” She picked up a menu and started looking at it, noticed the Chinese owner sitting behind the pile of menus on the counter for the first time. The owner was working away at some unseen task, her hands low under the counter, the motions of her shoulders indicating that she might be folding napkins around silverware, wrapping the bundles with strips of self-adhesive paper. “Hi,” she said to the owner.

“Hellohhh,” said the owner in a happy sing-song voice, as though she recognized the woman.

“I think... I'll sit... down here,” said the woman as she moved to the stool nearest the register, menu still in hand. She looked around the room with a slow rotation of her head, spied a man eating his lunch. “What's he have?” she asked the Chinese girl. “That.. looks... good.”

“Zat ah Szechuan Chee-ken,” said the girl.

“What's in that?” asked the woman.

“Iz ah chee-ken steer fry,” said the girl, “wiz ah care-rot, celerly and ah peppah.”

“Hmm,” said the woman, “That... looks... good. I'll try that.”

“How spicy?” asked the girl.

“What does it come?” asked the woman. “Mild... medium... hot?”

“Ah, mee-dee-um,” said the girl.

“Okay,” said the woman, “medium.”

“Wot soup?” asked the girl.

“Soup?”

“It ah come wiz soup. Wot soup?” she repeated.

“What kind of soup do you have?” asked the woman.

“We have ah egga drop, ah hot and sower, and ah won ton,” said the girl.

“Won ton, what's that?”

“Iz ah noo-der” said the girl, “wiz ah pohrk inside.”

“Hmm,” said the woman, “I really... don't want any... soup. Does that come with fried rice?”

“It ah come wiz fry rice or steam rice,” said the girl.

“Can I get shrimp fried rice?”

“No,” said the girl firmly. “It ah come wiz prain fry rice. No shreemp.”

“I can't get shrimp fried rice?” asked the woman.

“You want ah ohdah of shreemp fry rice?”

“Yes.”

“So ah wot rice you want wiz ah cheek-en?” asked the girl.

“I want shrimp fried rice,” said the woman.

“So you not ah need rice wiz ah cheek-en?” said the girl. “So one ohdah of Szechuan Cheek-en, one ohdah of shreemp fry rice?”

“I can't get the shrimp fried rice with the chicken?” asked the woman again, just then understanding the menu choices. “Scratch this one then,” she said indicating the chicken, the word 'scratch' confusing the poor girl even more. “Just bring me the shrimp fried rice. That's really my thing.”

“So, ah you not want cheek-en?” said the girl, also just beginning to understand. “Just ah shreemp fry rice?”

“Yes, cancel the chicken,” said the woman. “Just... bring me... the rice.”

“Shreemp fry rice iz ah shree-ninety-eight,” said the girl.

“We pay before we eat?” asked the woman. The girl just stared at her.

“Iz a shree-ninety-eight,” repeated the girl.

“I don't look like I'd pay you?” asked the woman. “We pay before we eat?”

“Iz ah carry out?” asked the girl.

“No,” said the woman. “I'm going to eat here.”

“Oh, sohree,” said the girl. “I ah thought it ah to go ohdah. Which ah taber you want to sit?”

“I guess right there,” said the woman. Another plate of food passed on it's way to a table. “Mmm, what's that?” asked the woman.

“Iz ah Shreemp Lo Mein,” said the girl, displaying a remarkable level of patience.

“That... looks... good...too,” said the woman.

Dead Dog Used To Bark And Wake Me Up

ZZZZZZ...ZZZZZZZ...ZZZ...ZZ....z....?

WOOF!...WOOF!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

WOOF!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

WOOF!

WOOF!

WOOF!...WOOFWOOFWOOF!!!

WOOFWOOFWOOFWOOF!!!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

WOOF!...WOOF!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

woof!...woofwoofwoof!

WOOF!...WOOF!! SMASH!...YIPE!

SMASH!...SMASH!...SMASH!

SMASH!!!!!

smash!...smash!

smash!smash!

ZZZ...zzzzzz...zzzzz...zzzzz....

ZZZZ...ZZZZZ...ZZZZ...ZZZZZ...

-Ye Olde Blowharde

I Miss

I miss the sound of a typewriter
Manual or electric
Clacking, clicking, clacking, DING!

I miss winding the alarm clock at night
That bedside reminder of time
Set in motion by a spring.

I miss turning the knob on the television
Changing channels by hand
Instead of that remote control thing.

I miss Blatz, Schlitz, Old Milwaukee
Altes, Hamm’s and PBR
But mostly I miss ZING!

-Ye Olde Blowharde

Dear Lyzako,

One funny incident from yesterday that illustrates my aging mind in all its soggy glory...

Time was I used to understand how to multi-task, oftentimes juggling at the same time two and even three small chores in various states of completion, returning to each when attention was required as though my brain had a built-in alarm clock that operated without winding. Now I'm lucky to manage a single duty at a time without fucking it up. Yesterday I decided it was time to put some dishes to soak in order to make the washing easier, so I squeezed a shot of liquid soap over all and turned the tap on gently to fill the right side of my kitchen sink with hot water. While the sink was filling, I turned to reheat a cup of coffee in the microwave, removed it after a minute-twenty and some insistent beeps, then carefully transported it into my office to work on the computer. Some ten minutes later, when hunger stirred in me a need for a banana or some yogurt, I returned to the kitchen only to hear a mysterious whispering hiss, which I mistook for a failing motor or module in one of the many electrical and mechanical devices in the room. After a quick check of fridge and toaster, I saw nothing that could be producing the sound. I finally listened carefully, however, and pinpointed the source of the noise - the water, which I had absently left running, was cascading in a whisper from the now full right side of the sink over to the left side and rushing down the drain, steam rising from it all, but none of it reaching the floor or counter top (thankfully!).

I chose not to get upset with myself, to actually forgive myself for this minor lapse in memory, because with the forgetfulness I've noticed a slightly greater measure of peace. I no longer cling to things like wallet and keys, anally placing them where they can be found in an instant, and it seems to free my mind to think of other things, more important things. I have to admit, though, that upon waking there sometimes is a brief moment of panic: Where are my keys?! What did I do with my wallet?! They're in your pockets, fool! I know, but where are my pants?!!

Oh, by the way...the solution for stretching two days worth of clean underwear and socks into a week's worth of use? Powder, my friend. Lots of powder!

Warmest Regards,
Marty Sherman

SAN JUAN SNAP(PER) SHOTS

It was my third day in Puerto Rico and I was sitting on a park bench under a palm tree near the ocean. Behind me over my left shoulder was a bronze statue of some local Nineteenth Century dignitary, while directly in front of me was a busy intersection filled with cars and pedestrian traffic. It was lunchtime and people were everywhere, with scores of incredibly beautiful women strutting by singly and in pairs confidently displaying their shapely legs, ample rumps and heavy breasts. I was far enough away from the intersection that I could surreptitiously snap some candid shots with my digital, zooming in on a spot and waiting for one of the brown-skinned lovelies to pass... focusing... wait... wait... ah, there she is. Click. I had never seen so many beautiful women in one spot in my entire life as I had when I was there. And they all seemed to be happy and friendly, smiling easily whenever they caught me looking.

Joe was inside one of the souvenir shops buying trinkets to take home as I sat on my little park bench taking pictures like a dirty old man. It was in the eighties, but not as humid as it had been the two previous days when we'd been working at the Borders bookstore at the Plaza Las Americas, an enormous three-story maze of a mall with a Sears, a Macy's and a J.C. Penney, along with all the familiar fast food any mainlander could want, from KFC to Burger King. Yum! It was so hot in the store where we toiled that the air conditioning couldn't keep up, especially on the second floor, and I had nearly worked myself to exhaustion climbing eight-foot step ladders and striding across the tops of bookshelves as we installed the display material to complete the store's remodel.

On several occasions as we worked inside the bookstore Joe and I had nearly knocked heads, craning our necks to check out the women and forgetting entirely what we were just doing. We called it getting 'distracted'. Whenever we spaced out on the job, we said, “Sorry, I got distracted,” which brought chuckles all around. Distraction was very easy to come by there. “Even the ugly fat ones are good looking,” I said to Joe once.

“When we get back to the room I may need some alone time, if you know what I mean,” said Joe after one particularly gorgeous young thing walked by displaying bare legs, cleavage and a toothy smile. Joe shuddered and shook his head.

The work went well, though, despite a glitch or two, and we finished on time to good reviews. After two long days of labor, we now had all of four hours to enjoy the local scenery before catching our flight back to Detroit.

So we found ourselves in Old San Juan, a tourist area on the coast that was a mere ten-minute cab ride from the Best Western where we had been staying in Condado. The sky was blue and the ocean breeze was working wonders on my stress level, which had continued to drop with each passing day on the island. It was my first trip to Puerto Rico, and I'd gone three days without having to drive or use a computer. When added to the exotic island locale, the hot women and the laid back atmosphere in general, it was just the right combination to make me feel sane again.

Old San Juan was a world apart from the neighborhood where our hotel was located. That area had been all brown and concrete gray, a cityscape of geometric structures and freeways choked with heavy traffic. In Old San Juan I found the narrow brick streets that I expected to see everywhere, the pastel buildings and the European feel, along with ocean views as far as the eye could see. It was a little windy on our last day, and there was some chop on the water. We encountered bus loads of tourists taking vacation photos at various observation points as we walked the streets nearest the ocean. I had already made up my mind that I would return on vacation myself at some point, and I fantasized about staying here, on the beach instead of inland, where I could enjoy the sea air.

We made our way through town, up and down steep hills, turning blindly down streets without knowing what to expect. Along the way, we saw glimpses of poverty and want... a small dog eating garbage from a box in an alley, a tired-looking man carrying fishing gear, looking as though he had to catch his dinner in order to eat, hand-made signs advertising food and souvenirs. I found it odd that more than one of the souvenir shops were run by Chinese, one of them with a variety of Bruce Lee posters for sale. There were tropical flowers everywhere we looked, hanging from baskets, planted in beds and spraying through bushes in the many park areas. We strolled past an elementary school where the kids were on their lunch break, happily eating fruit as they sat on the steps behind the building, one young girl in a uniformed skirt sitting with her legs spread wide and a big smile on her face, her panties unashamedly on view for all to see.

We stopped for lunch and had skirt steak sandwiches, an appetizer of melted cheese and chorizo with delicately fried slices of plantain instead of the corn chips that usually accompany similar fare in Mexican restaurants. The plantain chips were very good, neither salty nor greasy, but often broke easily when dredging up a glob of the cheese mixture. We washed it all down with a couple of Medalla Lights, the local brew. After lunch it was time to head back to the hotel, pick up our bags and make the trip to the airport.

Speaking Spanish isn't strictly necessary in San Juan, as nearly everybody speaks some English and quite a few of the locals are fluent. I had some French in college, but only limited exposure to Espanol, so it was easy for me to lapse into 'Oui' instead of 'Si', when we first arrived, but by day three I was a bit more confident, tossing off 'Buonas diaz!' with the best of them, and believing that I understood just a little more of what they were saying on the local news broadcasts each time I watched.

On our last trip up to the room we were stuck on the elevator with a crew of elderly cleaning women, the one nearest the buttons barely five feet tall, dressed in her turquoise and white maid's uniform. Since we were staying on the fifth floor, and I was feeling like a true tourist by then, I happily announced 'Cinco' when she looked at me to see where we were going.

She slowly reached down and pushed '2'.

Oooh, Jessica Alba Was On Conan O'Brien Last Night

Legs forever and perfect ass
Breasts designed by a loving God
Sweet, flawless honey skin
Eyes the color of chocolate
Your smile falls on me like a gift
Bestows my loins with power

I'm touched, touch myself

An atheist converted
To onanism

-Ye Olde Blowharde

In Defense Of Paris Hilton

Did any of you Paris haters actually see that video her boyfriend made of her? Well, I did and I can tell you this: She may not be a saint, but she didn't exactly come off as a whore, either. Yes, you heard me. Paris Hilton is no whore. Is she a rich, prissy, spoiled little brat living one hell of a cushy life of arrested adolescence? Certainly. Maybe that's why everybody and his fucking grandmother gives a shit about what happens to her. We envy her. I know I do.

And I believe that she got a pretty raw deal on this jail sentence in the first place, too. Why, I personally know somebody who just did forty-five days in county lockup and it was his third DUI in five years. I think he might even have had a probation violation or two along the way himself.

It has been argued by many in the media that somebody as rich as Paris is should have a driver and a limo at all times whenever she's out on the town partying. Obviously those folks have never felt the wind in their hair at eighty while rolling down the Pacific Coast Highway behind the wheel of a luxury convertible in the moonlight. Being buzzed enhances that feeling. Trust me.

Back to the video, though. When it comes to the actual sex acts involved, there was nothing particularly shocking about what she and this scumbag boyfriend of hers did. Yours truly (along with almost everybody else in the free world, by the way) has been in the same exact position(s) at some point. Only difference between that Rick guy and me is... Number One: I didn't have a camera rolling, Number Two: My partner wasn't Paris Hilton (I'm really more of a brunette kind of guy - but I wouldn't kick Paris out of bed for eating crackers, either, if you know what I mean.), and Number Three: I'm not packing as much heat as that lucky bastard is.

That being said, I'm sure a lot of you, both male and female, are in the very same boat, either pitching or catching as the case may be. I'd venture to guess that there's hundreds of video tapes that are far sicker than hers hidden in shoe boxes in the backs of closets all over America. And one of those closets just might be in your Mom's house. So no stone throwing, people.

It's also been reported that her folks made a generous donation to that Sheriff's campaign chest, which prompted the preferential treatment on his part. Okay, that happens to sicken me too, but that's just the way this fucking country works. George W. and his Dick have been raping our economy and lining their pockets with special interest dough for almost eight years. That's two fucking terms! And many of you fools out there who hate Paris Hilton voted those bastards in a second time! Wake up!

So, to sum up... Paris Hilton is not, I repeat, not a whore. That Sheriff is just another good ol' boy working his way up the political ladder. And I am not, I repeat, not a Republican.

In fact, next presidential election I'm going to write in Nicole Richie. No shit.

I Think, Therefore I Am...Insane

One final clear thought comes to me now:
What little wisdom there is that comes with age
Is severely tempered by senility.

My brain is a moldy wheel of cheese,
Nibbled away by rats.

My mind a cold, dark cavern,
Inhabited by bats.

-Ye Olde Blowharde

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF MARTY SHERMAN
"It Must Be Happy Hour Somewhere"

When I went into The Bar after work yesterday I sat between a couple of guys that were already there drinking away the afternoon. I was able to maintain an empty seat between myself and each of them, ordered a pint of Newcastle from the bartender and settled in to watch the Tigers play the Angels, the sun streaming through the place and also shining brightly on the TV screen as they played an afternoon game in LA. The guy on my left was a regular, who I've seen nearly every time I've ever been in there regardless of the day. The other guy was taller and unfamiliar to me. They were having a light hearted discussion on the relative ease with which they and their buddies were able to buy alcohol when they were underage, the tall guy claiming that he could buy in New York when he was only fifteen because of his height and long hair. Both of them had prematurely bald friends who could purchase with ease. I stayed out of the conversation, but when the regular left, the tall guy started talking to me directly, didn't seem to take the hint that I didn't really feel like talking. After a few sentences I realized that he was much further along the drunk trail than I was at the time, me barely being into my second pint. I mostly nodded absently at his comments and watched the Tigers, but he just kept blabbing on and on, forcing some responses.

“I godda go to class at six,” he told me. “I work all day and I godda go to school at night.”

“I don't know how you do it,” I said. I didn't want to know what he was studying.

“I'm studying legal,” he said. “I'm gonna be a paralegal. I like it. It's a lecture tonight.”

“Good luck with that, man,” I said. “I always had a hard time with lectures anyway. If I'd drunk beer just before class I probably would have gone to sleep.”

“I had an Irish coffee for my first one,” he gently slurred. “Maybe that'll kick in later.”

He ordered another pint of black and tan. I ordered another Newcastle. Since my favorite bartender was working the day shift, my plan was just to sneak in as many as I could before six then hit the road. She looked amazing, her hair braided in pigtails that hung down around her face on either side and pointed directly at her boobs. As she walked around, her flesh became liquid and the breast flesh took on a life of its own.

“Yep, I godda crappy job that I work for fifty hours a week then I go to school for sixteen more,” said the guy. I looked at him finally, took a good look at his hazy brown drunken eyes, saw a rough face with a nose that looked to have been broken a couple of times and vertical scars on his upper lip, chipped and broken brown teeth that corresponded with the scars as though he'd suffered a beating or two at some point in the past. His crappy job probably didn't include health insurance, and I was guessing that if it did, it definitely didn't cover dental. His hands were rough and the nails had a line of grime under them. He needed a shave. “Not that I can't support myself,” he went on. “But I work with a bunch of kids and nobody wants to do anything. If anything breaks I have to fix it. Sometimes I have to call the maintenance guy if it's something I can't fix. He's a crusty old bastard.” He was wearing a red shirt that had a car wash logo embroidered over the heart. When I first came in I guessed that if might just be an old shirt that he'd picked up second hand, or something from a former job, but it was becoming clear that it was his work uniform.

“So you work around here?” I asked.

“Car wash up on Woodward between Thirteen and Fourteen,” he said. “Today in the same half hour I had two Red Wings come in. Two.” He held up two fingers, the backwards peace sign. “Stevie Yzerman and Larry Murphy. I said to Stevie, 'There's no need for you to pay Mr. Yzerman', and Stevie says to me, 'Please, it's not neshessary...here give this to the workers', and he handed me a ten. Hey, I'm a worker, knowhatImean? Ha ha.”

“No shit,” I said.

“Yeah, that Yzerman's a nice guy,” he said.

“I would have thought those guys all lived in Grosse Pointe or something,” I said.

“Nope, Birmingham, West Bloomfield,” he said. “I had Scotty Bowman come in once and he was driving this big Mercedes and didn't even know how to put it in neutral. I tried to help him but he said something to me, and I'm like 'hey, you're a good coash but I'm not one of your players. Knowhatimean?'” The flood gates had opened and this guy wouldn't shut up. The bartender came by and asked him if he wanted another beer. “I think I've made a decizhun...I'm gonna blow off class.”

“I'm not going to let you do that,” she said. “You have to go.” I think she was just as tired of him as I was.

“Are you American Indian?” he asked her.

“Nope, I just didn't know what to do with my hair today. Actually it's a mess, but everybody likes it. I've been getting compliments all day.”

“You definitely have that Pocahontas thing going on,” I told her.

“Is that your nashurl color?” asked the guy.

“My hair is dark chocolate brown,” she said proudly, as though she'd practiced thinking about what color her hair was, came up with a perfect description for it. “I dye it black.”

“So is it about the color of mine?” asked the guy. “Becuzh I'm part Sishilian and I just wonnerd if it was the color of mine. Are you Italian?”

“Irish and German. I get my dark hair and olive skin from the Irish side. They were from the Black Hills and there was some gypsy mixed in there.”

“Gypsy,” I said, “I knew it. I can see the gypsy in you.”

“I'm Irish, too,” said the drunk guy. “McConnaughey, Like Matthew McConaughey but with two 'n's. My dad shez Matthew's 'n' challenged, knowhatImean? Ha ha ha. When I was in shcool, nobody could pronounsh it.”

“Your families were probably rival clans,” I said. “I'll bet you two are actually sworn enemies.”

By that time I'd drained my second pint. It was five-thirty. “You guys want another one?”

“I'll have one more,” I said.

McConnaughey twirled his glass around with a loose wrist. “I'll go to class, I'll jush be late.”

She brought two more, then went back over to the other end of the bar. I watched her with lustful fascination as she worked and moved, couldn't take my eyes off her as she stood down on the end talking to her girls and laughing, serving drinks more frequently as the bar began to fill up a little. Just above the waitress station was a skylight panel that allowed the late afternoon sun's rays to stream in and light the bartender's face up with a golden glow. The same shaft of light threw sparkles through the stacked glasses and bounced hot highlights off the stainless steel wash basin and fixtures, outlined the waitresses that stood there momentarily to pick up their orders with a warm sunny aura. It was a beautiful sight, and it took me a while to figure out where the sunshine was coming from. I realized that McConnaughey was mumbling something.

“...knowhatImean?” he said.

“Sorry, man, I got distracted by the gypsy girl.”

“Hey, itsh unnerstannable,” he said. “I get dishtracted by her, too."

“So what did you shtudy in shcool?” McConnaughey slurred. I had forgotten he was even there.

“Oh, uh, art,” I told him. “I have a completely useless degree in painting from a hundred years ago.”

“Cuzh I like art,” he said. “I shtudied graphic dezhign. I godda Ashoshiatsh in graphic dezhign. I'd really like to draw cartoonsh. I have people that I knew in grade shcool come into work and tell me, 'hey, I shtill got that cartoon you drew in shcool'. I'm fladdered but it doezhn't pay anything, knowhatImean? Ha ha.”

“Yeah, it's hard to get paid for it,” I agreed. “I've been doing a cartoon for a record collecting magazine for ten years. I've been lucky. It doesn't pay a lot, but not bad for that kind of thing.”

“You colleck recordsh?” McConnaughey said. “Me, too.”

“Yeah, I must have five thousand or so,” I told him.

“Me, too. I shtarted buying tapesh, too. I'm alsho a muzhishun. I've got so much shit... a P.A. shyshtem, boxesh of tapesh, and I only have a three bedroom houshe. My roommate laughsh at me when I tryan fin' shumpthin. Like a dumbash I jush threw all the tapesh in a boxsh. I was tryinna fin' an Adrian Belew tape becuzh we were lishening to Zhappa and I wannid him to hear Adrian Belew. I play guitahr, too, so I wannid him to hear Adrian Belew, knowhatImean?”

“He's the guy with the guitar that had a flexible neck, right?”

“That wazh jusht a prohp,” McConnaghey informed me.

“Right,” I said, “but that's the guy, right?”

“King Crimshun and he played with Zhappa. I shaw him with Zhappa in nineteen-sheventy-five. It was great... everybody wazh like, how old is thish, but I shtood right there nexsht to the shtage, knowhatImean? Ha!” McConnaughey was starting to get pretty drunk, his sentences becoming unintelligible. He went to the can and came back. “So where you shay you live?” he asked me.

“I live in Oak Park, Ten Mile and Flynn area,” I told him.

“Yeahbut what shtreet?”

“Saratoga.”

“Oh, Sharatohguh. Thash down by Greenfiel', izhn't it?”

“No,” I said, “by Coolidge.”

“But between Greenfiel' an' Cooligzh, right?”

“East of Coolidge. East of Flynn.” I told him.

“Cuzh I ush't to work for a trash pick up company that had a contrack with Oak Park,” McConnaughey said. “I probly picked up your trash wunsh. It'sh all mob owned, you know, trash companiezh, car washesh, money launderersh. All run by the mob.”

“I use to work for a pinball arcade in college that was owned by Bally's,” I told him. “Same thing.”

“Trash companiezh, car washesh, pinball arcadzh...”

The bartender came by. It was ten before six. “You gentlemen mind cashing out with me. I'm going to be leaving.”

“Gentlemen?” I said with a grin.

“You'll be happy to know that I use the term very loosely,” she said.

“You'll be happy to know that I appreciate that you use the term very loosely,” I said with a smile.

We each paid up, McConnaughey and I, and the new girl came on at six. I was done, but when she asked McConnaughey if he wanted anything, he twirled his empty glass and said, “I'm thinking of a black and tahn.”

“Does that mean you want one?” she asked.

McConnaughey nodded.

“Well, I have to roll. I've got shit to do,” I said to him. “Good talking to you.”

McConnaughey stuck out his grimy hand. “I'm Shteve,” he said. “Good talkin' to you, too.”

“Marty,” I said.

“Nysh to meet you, Mardy.”

After a quick piss I was out in the afternoon sun, digging the warm weather that's crept in between the cold rainy days this spring. I stopped and had one more at another bar, dug the sunshine there as the Tigers dropped the game to the Angels in the bottom of the 10th. The sunshine was still working its magic on me as I finished up my beef vegetable soup, drank a few more cans of Blue while I listened to the 'Death Proof' soundtrack some more. That Joe Tex song just blows me away...

I've been pushed around. I've been lost and found. I've been given 'til sundown to get out of town.

I've been taken outside and I've been brutalized, and I've had to always be the one to smile and apologize.

But I ain't never in my life before seen so many love affairs go wrong as I do today.

I want you to STOP and find out what's wrong, get it right, or just leave love alone.

Because the love you save today maybe will-l-l-l be your own...

I listened to it three times in a row, sang along, got low with Joe and held that final note all three times.

The soup finished up around nine o'clock, spiced with lots of cracked pepper, a palm full of oregano and some chopped fresh cilantro at the end. It was superb.

My cell phone rang just after I left The Bar and was walking to my truck parked a block away. It was seven-thirty. It was Robert. I decided to answer it. “You know it's well past my usual quitting time,” I told him without so much as a 'hello'.

“I know, Mart,” said Robert. “I'm just checkin' on you. Everything go okay today?”

“Just fine,” I told him. “I had to buddy up to the mechanic over there and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, you know. He's not a bad guy, though. I did my best to do some P.R.”

“Alright,” said Robert.

“Hey, since I got you on the phone, I need a favor.”

“What's that?”

“I need you to bail me out of jail. Ha ha ha.”

Robert laughed. “No problem, brother. Where at?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

Robert laughed some more. “Take it easy out there, brother.”

“I will,” I said. I was sitting in the truck by then. “I'm heading home.”

“Well, I just was calling to check on you,” Robert said again. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Later,” I said.

“See you then,” said Robert.

Three Beers On An Empty Stomach

The first was brought to me by an Ogre
Hideous in appearance and slow moving
His face changing, boiling with skin eruptions
It tasted of vomit, churned up a horrible stench
Burned my hands as I cupped them around it

But I drank it down

The second was set before me with agitation
Served by a frightening, ugly witch
Whose teeth were filed to sharp points
Her voice like razor wire slashing my soul
This one, too, had a rotting, foul odor
But it burned less as I brought it to my lips

And I drank it down

The third replaced the second with less fuss
A large, grinning, hairy Ape the server
Whose clumsy movements nearly spilled it
Causing me to change my grim expression
Laughing off the spreading stink
Shrugging off the irritation, I grinned

And drank it down

The ones that followed were served by Angels
Golden haired with soft, white wings
Just like in the story books, the bible
Their voices propped me up like a song
The drinks now a Heavenly mixture
Of liquid happiness and warmth

I drank each one that came

It all made sense now, I thought
The logic of the world’s demise
My minor role in bringing it down
All the flaws, the cracks, the fissures
In that noble facade were widening

I ordered one more for the road
And drank that one down

-Ye Olde Blowharde

10:12 a.m.

“Did you see Rihanna on '106 And Park' yesterday?” asked the girl DJ on 'JLB. It was shift change, time for patter with the guy doing afternoon drive. “See that skull cap she wore?”

“Yeah,” said the afternoon DJ, “she needed somethin' to cover that big haid of hers.”

“She do have a big haid, don't she?” said the girl. “She ugly!”

“You think she's ugly?” asked the guy with a touch of incredulity, a touch of lust. “Rihanna? She ain't ugly.”

“With that big haid? She ugly in my book,” said the girl DJ as though she were the authority on the ideal feminine beauty. “Ha ha ha...”


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I woke up late on Friday, slept in. I had a job scheduled for Saturday, so I decided to take it easy, also being hungover and tired from a long workday in the ninety-degree heat the day before. There was nothing pressing on the agenda for the day so I lay on the futon where I'd spent the night in the cool basement and fired up the television. It was almost eight-thirty. When I flipped through all eight broadcast channels I caught commercials on five of them, 'The Today Show' going to local news and Matt Lauer telling us that there will be a live performance by Rihanna in the upcoming half hour. “Stay tuned...”

I did. I languished on the futon, dropped my morning load - a double flusher, then lay back down in front of the TV. I decided against coffee so that I could continue to doze if I felt like it. Besides, I didn't really feel like sitting upright yet. I flipped through the channels for another twenty minutes. Fanchon Stinger was doing exercises on the local Fox News morning broadcast. She was wearing a pink blouse and black sweat pants, reclining atop an exercise ball and 'working her abs' while a muscular male trainer spotted her and pointed to the part of her body she was working at any given time. “I can really feel that,” said Fanchon. I became mildly aroused.

Finally it was time for Rihanna to take center stage in Rockefeller Center. Matt and fill-in co-host Ann Curry were outside in the street, the stage at their backs. “Isn't she an amazing girl?” said Ann. “So beautiful and talented.” Matt agreed. The crowd roared when they saw Rihanna, then raised their hands in the air when Matt said that she would be performing her new hit song that was number one on three separate charts, “'Umbrella'...Here she is...Rihanna!”

She looked incredible. Tall, with gorgeous long legs, a slender neck and luscious throat; her eyes a light gray and her lips deliciously full. She wore a puffy black dress that displayed her legs and plump cleavage nicely, sexy black stilettos with pointed toes and a series of straps and buckles up the front. Black nail polish and jet black hair with generous bangs completed the look. I wondered idly if her toenails were also painted black. Her forehead did seem a little on the large side. Probably the reason her hairdresser decided on the bangs. The camera panned across the predominantly feminine crowd and by the time she got to the chorus of the song, everybody was singing along, from little girls sitting on their mom's shoulders to the moms themselves...

“Now that it's raining more than ever... Know that we'll still have each other...You can stand under my umbrella... You can stand under my umbrella... (Ella ella eh eh eh)... Under my umbrella... (Ella ella eh eh eh)...Under my umbrella... (Ella ella eh eh eh)... Under my umbrella...(Ella ella eh eh eh eh eh eh)...”

After the song was over, Matt practically crapped himself while talking to her, gushed over her talent and beauty at such a young age, only nineteen. Sweet. I was more than mildly aroused by then, my hand dropping to my lap. I got harder listening to her answer Matt's questions in her sexy Bahamian accent. “The new album, 'Good Girl Gone Bad', is that what this new look is all about?” he asked.

“Well, it's just the way Ah'm feelin' now, you know,” said Rihanna. “Ah'm very comfortable with myself right now.”

I found myself massaging with a regular rhythm. When they went to commercial I killed the sound, closed my eyes and lay back. I imagined Rihanna outside, on a private beach, reclining on a towel, sunning herself topless, face down, white sand everywhere and a cool ocean breeze. Maybe she was even napping. I approach her in my fantasy, begin to softly rub her shoulders and she doesn't pull away, just hums a low moan to let me know that it feels good. “Mmm, dat's nice,” she whispers. I continue to massage her, a deep tissue massage from her back down to her rump, then over her thighs and calves, maintaining continuous contact with her warm, soft flesh as I relax her fully. Even her slender arms get my attention as I rub out all the kinks.

After the massage, I lean over her and drop a gentle kiss on her shoulder, drag my lips from there to the nape of her neck, then down her spine. My tongue slips out and I tease her with it, move up, alternately kissing and licking until I've covered nearly every square inch of her back, made a mental map of her moles. She gives out tiny shivers at times, moans softly as I continue to work. I massage her rump while continuing to press my lips on her body, move my mouth over her glorious ass cheeks, drag my nose down the center of it, take in her scent, which is beginning to grow with her excitement. She rolls over in my fantasy, looks at me with sleepy eyes and I move my mouth to hers, kiss her deeply, our tongues intertwined. Then I kiss her cheeks, her overly-large forehead, nibble her ears before moving down and devouring her throat, feasting on her young breasts, which heave beneath me as her indrawn breath begins to deepen. I lick around her torso, kiss and tongue her navel. Rihanna moans and leans back, arches her ass off the ground so that I can gently remove her bikini bottom.

She's perfectly coiffed down below, a thin landing strip of soft hair. I dive in and drive her to orgasm within minutes, then again and again, as she moans and pants. “Ooooh, yesss! Right dere, mohn,” she says. “Dat's right, mmmm...”

I'm playing with myself in the fantasy, too, and along about that time reality catches up and I pop for real. When I come to, I open my eyes and see that 'The Today Show' is in the final hour. Rihanna is gone and Al Roker is apologizing for some dumb thing he said in the previous segment. His mouth is moving in a very surrealistic way, his dimpled, flabby cheeks jumping as his teeth flash and his pink tongue dances, always smiling that same stupid smile. Just then I remember that the ugly bastard's married to that luscious bit of dark chocolate, Deborah Roberts. 'Hmm, I wonder what she sees in him?' I thought to myself. Whatever it is, maybe Rihanna could see the same thing in me...or...

I close my eyes again and get ready for round two...fantasy penetration...mmm... Deborah Roberts is on her knees in front of me, slowly unbuckling my belt as she licks her lips and looks me right in the eye.

“What about Al?” I ask her.

“What that pig doesn't know won't hurt him,” she says to me as she unzips my fly...

8:29 a.m.

I sat at a side booth in the smoke-free diner reading my book and waiting for my breakfast. I was working on the last twenty pages of 'Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer'. Budd was dead and learning the ropes in Heaven. The over-medium eggs, corned beef hash and wheat toast were taking their time to arrive due to my request of 'extra crispy on the hash'. Sunshine was abundant and it streamed through the slats in the blinds throwing wide lines of warm light across the Formica table top in front of me. Budd had mastered his angel wings and had just met up with his beloved Priscilla in the afterlife when my food arrived.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bathroom sink had been draining slowly for months. During the course of an easy shave or my normal perfunctory brushing of the teeth it would fill with water and slowly drain away. Now it had stopped draining almost entirely, leaving the basin three-quarters full of dirty gray water after only a minute's use. Water that would remain for over a half-hour, leaving a slimy film of toothpaste, whiskers and phlegm behind as the level sank. Reluctantly, I decided it was time to do something.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I set the book aside. The ghostly waitress put the plate before me and apologized for how long they took in the kitchen to prepare it. She seemed to be in pain, frowned at me with sad, pale eyes.

“Sorry about the wait,” she said. “But the hash is well-done, like you ordered.” She acted as though she expect a backhand slap.

“Not a problem,” I said with a smile. “It looks great.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I think I'm good,” I said.

After generously peppering the hash and the eggs separately, I sliced the welded pair of eggs in two with my fork, careful not to break the yolks, then pulled each of them onto the heap of nicely browned hash before chopping them down and releasing the golden goo inside. I spun the jelly caddy around, found a tub of orange marmalade and peeled back the foil top. The toast was cut into four triangles and stacked on one side of the plate. I knifed half the tub of marmalade onto the top piece and spread it around.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a short-handled plunger, the kind with the shallow orange rubber cup, and I kept it under the sink. I ran some warm water into the basin and positioned the plunger directly over the drain. Once the sink was half full, I started pumping. I used short swift motions, working up a good suction, then lifted higher to pull up the clog. With a swoosh and a gurgle out came several bits of black jelly, some of the chunks so large that they didn't go back down the drain. They seemed to be made up of solidified soap scum mixed with beard hair and sludge. There was a strong aroma of sewage. I reached in with my hand and pulled out the largest of the chunks, dropped it into the toilet with a wet plop.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I hadn't eaten since dinner the day before, fueling myself only with coffee all Sunday morning as I sat reading on the living room couch. It was nearly noon and I was starving. I fell upon the breakfast like a lion on a freshly-killed antelope, chomping at the toast and forking bits of egg and hash in my mouth as my cheeks bulged to accommodate the food. After a few bites my mustache was sticky with the marmalade and I wiped it clean with a paper napkin. My ice water had been served in a large red plastic glass with a white Coca Cola logo on the side. When I tipped it towards my lips, elbow on the table top, the ice broke loose in a single chunk and slapped me in the nose, water rushing to my open mouth and around the sides of the glass in dribbles. After a few deep quaffs I got back to the food.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I had to choke back a gag reflex as more plunging produced even larger, hairier chunks of jelly-like debris from the trap. I scooped up each in turn from the sink and deposited it in the toilet. More plunging, more slimy, black jellyclog.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There was an overall din of conversation in the room, but nothing so loud that I could make out individual words. Except for one of the waitresses, who's pasted on smile and false cheer always made me feel ill.

“More coffee?” she asked in a loud voice as she worked her way around her tables. “A little more coffee here? Care for some more coffee? Would you like some more coffee?”

Her wretched voice became a swift bongo beat on my brain. Somebody told her to have a good day when they were leaving.

“Thanks, hon. You, too,” she said. “Have a WONderful day!” Always too many words.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Finally the water seemed to be draining swiftly from the sink, producing swirls and gurgles as the last of a full sink disappeared. The water in the toilet was fouled with the disgusting jellyhair chunks and my fingernails were black underneath from handling them. I pushed the handle on the toilet and flushed away the mess, dropped my shorts to the floor and jumped in the shower.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A second tub of marmalade for the last two triangles of toast, more water and a scrape of the plate to get up all the yolk and I was done with my meal. Nary a scrap of food was left, and for the moment my hunger was satisfied. My sad waitress brought the check and the overly-zealous one kept dancing back and forth and talking in a loud, crazed voice, laughing a high witch's cackle at things that weren't particularly funny, calling everyone 'Hon'. Just as I was about to rise to leave, she scurried by, a pair of coffee pots in hand, one decaf, one regular. She stopped, turned on her heel and reversed her direction for one step, stopped, then spun around again before scurrying back along her original path, as though her mind was firing rapidly between opposing tasks.

I really wanted to relax for a few more minutes, finish my book and find out what Heaven was really like according to Patchen, but her high-pitched screech and nervous hurrying prevented me from concentrating on the reading, so I left.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The warm water felt good on my skin as I showered. I twisted back and forth, moved to face the wall so that it could work its magic on both my shoulders, as well as the muscles between spine and shoulder blade that so often cramp and cause me pain. I closed my eyes and imagined myself in Heaven, learning to use my wings as Budd had, meeting at long last with a harem of former loves and imagined lovers...

When I opened my eyes I looked down and I was ankle deep in soapy water. Fuck. The tub was ready for plunging, too.

Dear Lyzako,

You know, I was able to get 'almost okay' just fine, hmmm...maybe I should call it 'just fine'?...hmmm...

Anyway, I don't know what Louis was talking about. Now all I have to do is publicize it in my last three Goldmine cartoons. I'm planning on colorizing the next one and posting it with alternate text from the Goldmine Five Star. I also want to post some journal entries, some of the letters to Lyzako, and misc. writing that I can illustrate. Picks and pans, likes and dislikes, rants and raves, etc., anything I feel like doing with no pressure.

Of course, you're in for whatever it is you want to do. I like the idea of journal entries, and I don't know if you want to introduce the lady bomb thing here since that is pretty much it's own entity. There's room for a short story with illustrations. Maybe even post Del one shots. Whatever you feel like doing. I'm going to try and approach it as something that I do 'as time allows' and not create any deadline pressure for myself and just plain see what happens. Probably nothing will, but you never know. At least it gives me an outlet to do some freebie cartooning, and a place where I can share some of my demented thoughts without editorial constraint.

And what about a diary account of your cross country move? Just fodder for thought.

Oddly enough, I'm moderately excited about getting it going.

As Always, Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman