ONE LOWLY LEG MAN'S APPRECIATION OF 'GRINDHOUSE'

Now that the Tarantino/Rodriguez double feature is officially playing around the country in what's left of the so-called 'grindhouse' circuit, I'd like to throw my two cents towards a critical assessment of what is essentially Q.T.'s latest brainchild. Take it easy, this won't hurt a bit.

First off, my opinion has never changed in the matter. I believe both films to be brilliant, historically significant reminders of our past, while at the same time making wry comments on current pop culture and the future of film in general. I sat through the double feature twice: the very first matinée on the day it opened here in Detroit (one day after my birthday, by the way...thanks, Quentin!), and again a week later. On second viewing I picked up subtle things like time-line shifts and the relationships between the two films, their settings and characters, etc. More importantly, having seen it once I was able to time my between-features piss so that I missed not very much of anything. The first time through, of course, Q.T. knowingly stepped on my full bladder at the beginning of 'Death Proof' with one of the girls running to pee and clutching her crotch inside the first five minutes of the movie. There's nothing worse than trying to forget about needing to piss than having some fucker remind you that your bladder's full. Ha ha, Quentin! You fucking got me! Along with half the audience, I presume.

He did get me, folks, he really did. So for the purpose of this review I will concentrate on Quentin's contribution to the mix, the second feature 'Death Proof', which I found to be far superior both in content and structure to 'Planet Terror'. Don't get me wrong: I think 'Terror' was more than competently crafted by Rodriguez. And the fact that he contributed music and reportedly screwed the gorgeous female lead only serves to add to my admiration of him as a director. But they threw a lot of money at his film, and if it hadn't been for the talented group of actors involved, this could easily have been nothing more than a clusterfuck of computer generated effects. In my opinion, it wasn't really a whole lot more than that, although the somewhat predictable story was a little better than your average zombie fare.

No, I far and away preferred Q.T.'s approach to 'Death Proof'... car chase scenes filmed the old fashioned way with cameras mounted inside and outside the vehicles, stunts performed by actual people risking life and limb and not by slick animated bodies that do whatever the computer tells them to do. Of course one of the critical scenes - the big crash, made minor use of special effects, but for the most part Quentin just shot this fucking thing, 'nuff said. I read reviews that derided the dialogue as corny and forced, but I found the conversations between the women to be lively and interesting, although obviously written by a man. Here's the deal, though, guys: when we're not around, women actually do talk a lot like we do. Get used to it. And the girls, especially the second set that included Rosario Dawson, Tracie Thomas (I fell in love!), Zoe Bell (an actual stunt woman brilliantly cast by Q.T.) and Mary Elizabeth Winstead, made me believe every word Quentin wrote.

The structure of the film, which divides the story into two halves was another creative device that I thought worked extremely well and had the gears in my aging brain grinding hard to try and put things together. The first half depicted a night of horror imposed on a group of innocents by a maniacal killer; during the second half said killer faces his day of retribution in the harsh spotlight of the noonday sun. And you want to talk about death? The dead bodies and exploding zombies in 'Planet Terror' were too numerous to count, including a small child (Rodriguez's own son in a cameo) shot in the head. But I didn't experience the actual pain of loss, the real cruelty of death until the big head-on collision in 'Death Proof'...how the Grim Reaper can come anytime, no matter how old you are or how much fun you're having. He can even strike right in the middle of your favorite song while your delicious brown leg is hanging out the car window and the Texas wind is blowing in your hair. I felt that crash like a punch in the gut. And nothing came close to putting that feeling on me in 'Planet Terror'.

There was no laughing after people died in Q.T.'s movie, and I think that's a major distinction.

I have to give an enthusiastic nod to Quentin's selection of music to make up the soundtrack, too, along with the fact that much of it was interwoven with the first part of the story and a 45 jukebox inside a bar in Austin. Brilliant! Maybe it's just because I remember those old jukeboxes and have always wanted one. Maybe it's because a lot of the songs included were forgotten favorites of mine. I don't really know. All I can say is, I bought both soundtracks and listen to the one from 'Death Proof' on a regular basis while the 'Planet Terror' CD was relegated to the stack after just a couple spins. That Joe Tex song gets to me every time I hear it, and Q.T. lovingly allowed it to play out during a silent scene where Sydney Poitier's (I fell in love again! I'm so fickle!) character tries to text message her man to disappointing results. It was a poignant and beautiful juxtaposition of technologies that left me breathless. The incidental music was appropriated from other film scores by two of my favorite film composers, Pino Donaggio and Ennio Morricone, and the title track was a tune Jack Nitzsche wrote in the sixties that was later used in an actual vintage grindhouse flick called 'Village Of The Giants'. By recycling these tunes, Q.T. cleverly keeps these brilliant composers' music alive in the collective contemporary pop psyche, even if the casual film-goer doesn't even know who they are. Kind of like subliminal advertising. Slick.

The casting was generally well done, and Quentin has a knack for mixing little-known actors with ones that have a rich history, aging stars that contribute some sort of grizzled soul to their characters. In the latter regard, Kurt Russell was a stroke of genius portraying the bad guy, Stunt Man Mike. He was able to embody everyday charming evil, which is what makes people such scary things in the first place. Kudos, Kurt.

Oh, and don't turn away when you think this one's over, folks. Kurt doesn't get his freeze-frame comeuppance until after the screen goes black the first time. And again, no laughs from the audience, just a lot of cringing. And applause.

The ancillary materials they came up with to promote both movies, including one sheet posters and lobby cards, are nicely documented in a beautifully designed book that also features interviews with the directors and lots of behind-the-scenes photos. It's called 'Grindhouse' (of course) and is available from Weinstein Books at your local book dealer or on line. It's a bargain at $29.95. I highly recommend it, only after you've seen the flicks.

At one time the rumor was each movie would be released separately to theaters after the supposedly 'missing reels' were restored, but I'm betting we see the DVD releases before that happens. And I, for one, will be standing in line for my copy of 'Death Proof'. I can't wait to see the lap dance scene.

Countdown To Truth, Man

Somewhere another heart stops beating
Another bullet tears through flesh and bone
Another car runs another red light
Another knife slashes deep, releasing blood
Another drunk falls off his barstool

Somewhere another junky drools, nods while
Another purse is snatched
Another home is burglarized
Another child is molested, raped
Another shady business deal is done

Somewhere, too, another baby is born
Dropped unsuspecting into the evil world
Another victim or a killer loosed upon us
Another gaping hungry mouth
Another source of sorrow

Somewhere another poem is written
Another futile attempt to reveal the truth
Another slap-happy idiot falls in love again
Another sunrise, another sunset
Another day passes into night

Truth? There is no truth
Just another lie
That sounds true

-Prof. Dirk Beat

SHERMAN ON THE JOB

I know I'm gonna get some shit for this, but Oklahoma City is a pit. And that's coming from somebody who lives in Detroit.

I was in town to do a quick 'job', (more on that later), flew in on Sunday, flew back out on Tuesday, Southwest Airlines into Will Rogers World Airport, putting an easy eight grand plus expenses in my pocket for three days' worth of my time. Sounds good in theory, right? Wrong. First off, it should be called Will Rogers Third World Airport. After landing in the middle of a cornfield, I picked up my rental car and headed east towards the Ramada on 66th Street. Traffic was sparse and I made good time as I drove over the crumbling highway. I was at the desk of the run-down hotel by 9:45 pm local time.

“Can I buy beer in Oklahoma on Sunday?” I asked the clerk at the desk - a pretty girl, blond hair, gray eyes, alabaster skin with a series of thin scars crossing her face, as though she were in a car wreck or her boyfriend had cut her up for cheating on him. I kept thinking of that whore in 'Unforgiven'.

“You can,” she said with a smile, but it's 3.2 beer and you have to go to the convenience store across the street.” She pointed towards the lobby door. “There's a sports bar right behind us, though.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “It'll be right across from your room. You can't miss it.”

“Walking distance?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said.

“How's the food there?” I asked.

“It's good,” she said without much conviction. “It is a sports bar, though.”

“That sounds fine,” I said. “I need to get something to eat anyway.”

I found my room, number 113. The place was a dump and if it hadn't said 'Ramada' on the sign out front, it looked to me like the kind of place I'd be able to get some crack from the guy who paid by the week and lived upstairs. Sure enough, there was Zeke's, the sports bar with its green neon sign blazing against the night sky right across the way from my door, which opened out onto the southern side of the hotel's parking lot. I could hear traffic zooming by on the I-35 just a stone's toss away. It was hot and muggy, still in the upper eighties nearly an hour after dark. I dragged my bags inside, set the air conditioner on 'HIGH', plugged in my laptop and checked my email to confirm my target. After switching on the TV for safety noise, I headed for the bar and the promise of ice cold beer.

Zeke's parking lot was nearly empty. It was Sunday night after all, but I expected a few more cars. With the hotel so close, I guessed some of the drinkers must be hoofing it. At the door I saw a sign that read: “DRESS CODE STRICTLY ENFORCED! MEN: SHIRTS WITH SLEEVES MUST BE WORN, NO TANK TOPS, WIFE BEATERS, ETC...” I stopped right there and realized I was wearing a sleeveless tee. I looked into the bar and it didn't look like anything special, was very dark and most of the half-dozen or so drinkers were men, a couple of them tattooed Mexicans, all of whom were wearing tee shirts. I thought about either going in and forcing somebody to tell me I had to leave or going back to my room and changing shirts. But I was too tired from my bitch of a flight to do either...from Detroit to Chicago Midway, change planes wait two hours... through St. Louis then to Oklahoma, all the flights with full cabins and so many screaming brats it felt like I was working in a fucking day care center.

I decided that 3.2 beer and fast food would have to do. It would be good to have a clear head until I'd finished the work anyway. I walked back to the rental car and drove it over to the 7-11, picked up a six-pack of 16 oz. Milwaukee's Best for $3.99 figuring that even if it was only 3.2% alcohol I'd still get a four-beer buzz if I drank it fast, then crossed the street for a Chicken Cordon Blah at Arby's.

I fell asleep to a Star Trek rerun a few hours later, the one where Kirk kisses Uhura while they're dressed in Roman togas.

The next morning I showered, made coffee in the room and checked the traffic report. No accidents. I grabbed my gear and went to the lobby for a banana and some more coffee. It was still hot out and the forecast was calling for midday thunderstorms. The air felt like I was walking through a scummy pond up to my neck in dirty water.

The storms blew through quickly just after noon, cut power twice for a few minutes each time as the sky turned black as midnight, the wind picked up hard and thunderclaps boomed while lightning struck hot white forks into the ground. It didn't really affect my day though. The target went down easy and early. That left the afternoon with nothing to do. I called my contact and punched out on the 'job', then drove back to the hotel where I treated myself to an hour-long nap. I dreamed that I was Captain of the Enterprise and that Uhura and I were doing a little more than kissing, if you know what I mean.

When I woke up I was horny and only vaguely hungry. There was one can of the 3.2 beer left from the night before so I popped the top and watched 'No Reservations' on the travel channel. A little after six I headed out to explore the neighborhood, find some real beer and get some food, not necessarily in that order. I stopped at the first liquor store I found, picked up a six pack of warm Tecate and a pint of Cabo Wabo. Once outside, I opened the tequila, took a quick hit, then stowed everything in the trunk.

As I drove along Shields Blvd. between 66th and 59th I saw nothing that looked particularly promising and some places that looked downright scary, even in daylight. There were neighborhoods with houses that looked like they were barely standing and I kept wondering how they even made it through the winds of earlier in the day. Broken down cars were everywhere... in parking lots, at roadside and on blocks in driveways. The pavement on all the roads was beat to shit, crumbling and heaving up chunks of asphalt. I came across a slow freight train crossing 59th, made a quick right onto a sidestreet to turn around. The dirt road was wet, with dark shallow puddles in places and there were diamond-shaped fluorescent orange traffic signs set up temporarily that read: FRESH OIL. I wasn't even sure what that meant, but I tried to avoid the puddles when I made a U-turn just in case it was something besides water. I didn't need any hassle when it was time to turn the car in.

There were pumping jacks pulling oil out of the dusty ground nearly everywhere I drove, standing singly and in pairs or groups, some situated right next to houses and near the road. Many of the businesses along the way sported amateurishly painted signs fabricated from whatever piece of shit wood that the proprietor had laying around, some of the signs barely readable, quite a few for restaurants, mostly Mexican ones.

As I drove back up 59th I saw a shapely brunette walking with difficulty on high heels through grass near the ditch that ran parallel to the road. There were no sidewalks in that part of town. I took in the view from behind as she stumbled along, carefully picking her way as she looked down, tight mini skirt, big ass and bare brown legs, handbag hanging from her hooked elbow. I figured she was a hooker, slowed and rolled down the window. “Hey, you need a ride?” I asked.

“Chure, baby,” she said, smiling as she approached the car. I hit the switch and unlocked the door.

Once she was inside I realized that if I had seen her coming instead of going I might have made a different decision, but what the fuck? Forty dollars later I wasn't horny anymore.

“You hungry?” I asked her. Turns out her name was Maria.

“Chure I'm 'ohngry,” said Maria.

We drove through Taco Mayo, got some chicken burritos with rice and beans, parked the car in a lot next to a boarded up business and ate. Maria ate faster than I did, burped a couple times. I got the tequila from the trunk and we took turns hitting it until there was only a shot left.

“It's all yours,” I said, handing her the bottle. She stuck it in her purse.

“Gracias, baby,” said Maria. “J'ou can drop me 'ere,” she said, and got out of the car. As I was driving away, Maria was already walking in the other direction, her big ass bouncing to the beat of the music on the radio.

On the way back to the hotel I realized that all I had was warm beer to drink, so I stopped at a shabby party store and picked up a tall boy to drink while the Tecates were on ice. “Dolluh fohty nine,” said the Chinese guy at the counter. I paid him in pocket change, counting out nine pennies. As I was leaving a young guy came in, obviously drunk and badly in need of a shave and a shower.

“Can...canneye trade thish back...fhor shum muhney h'and then...?” he was saying to the Chinese guy, holding up a brown bag with what looked to be an unopened can of beer in it. I could hear the Chinese guy saying 'No' as the door swung closed behind me.

“Hey, bro'” I turned to look and there was a twenty-something black kid approaching me as I put the beer in the trunk. “Can you spare fitty cent?”

“No, man,” I said. “Sorry.”

Back in my room I drank the tall boy and watched all the 'No Reservations' I could take while the Tecate chilled. They were running some sort of marathon of past episodes, and Anthony Bourdain, charming prick that he is, is best when taken in small doses. Most people are I guess, even me. I finished off the six-pack as Conan came on and then passed out.

The path back to the airport the next morning was the same one I came in on. The same crumbling roads... more pumping jacks... a detour for construction and I was finally in the air...through Kansas City this time...again to Midway, change planes...the flight was late due to strong headwinds...then to Metro...again with the screaming brats...all the while burping up the sausage and biscuits and gravy that I'd eaten for breakfast at the hotel. By the time we had landed my nerves were shot.

I hit the ground drinking. After picking up my truck at the EZ Park, I drove straight to a strip club just up Middlebelt and had one, then called Louis, who was too fucking busy to join me.

“Okay, then you bastard,” I said to him. “I guess I'll just have to drink alone.”

And I did. Except for all the topless, brown-skinned girls, of course.

God, it's good to be home.

Pity The Fearless Leader

Chest thumping He shouts, “I do not threaten, I promise.”
The entire world is forced to listen to His blustery noise
His posturing and awkward gestures frozen for all time
In photographs and on film, in oil paint and in bronze

His narrow point of view and misguided opinions are law
“God speaks to Me,” He proclaims, “Tells Me that I am right.”
His God does not tolerate intolerance, His God is an angry one
That speaks to Him in puzzles, reveals truth by way of mystery

“It is not the Government's job to care for the sick, the poor,” He says
“Unless they are part of the Government!” This, to standing applause
In defiance of logic, without regard to His obvious lack of wisdom
They stand to show their support, beat their ignorant hands together

Unflagging faith in His God frees Him from the burden of doubt
That constant voice in the back of the mind that makes a lesser man
Struggle with difficult decisions, forever ponder right versus wrong
No, He forges ahead, secure in the knowledge that His God forgives

In the morning they help Him dress, don His royal robes, His crown
He lingers long at the mirror, sees His God in Himself and smiles
A pair of hands carefully knots His purple tie in a Full Windsor
A simple feat which He cannot accomplish without the help of others

In a room outside His chambers, aides are planning His strategy,
Writing His speeches, formulating His programs, counting His riches
Of it all, He understands His riches best, its currency emblazoned with:
“In God We Trust” it speaks to Him in a special way, a wink, a nod

To a man, His aides agree with Him, support His faith in His God
While silently worshiping their own, holding onto selfish hopes
That some day one of them will get their turn on His throne
They are the first to stand when He speaks, the first to applaud

For dinner He dines on babies' hearts, sauteed in butter with onions
His chalice filled with a mixture of wine and blood wrung from the babies
A second course of roasted baby limbs with rosemary, new potatoes
Blood wine to wash it down, He toasts, “Compliments to the chef!”

At night He goes to bed, sleeps on a high feathered mattress beneath
A quilt of smooth baby skin, squares of brown, yellow, red and beige
Every race present, lovingly stitched together by His Mother's hands
He sees His God in His dreams, sleeps soundly, snores, wets the linen

The next morning He rises, stretches and yawns away the sleep
“God spoke to Me last night,” He tells his aides as they bathe Him
Hums a tune as they towel Him dry, shave His face and comb His hair
Crown upon His head, He smiles and says, “I'm hungry. What's for breakfast?”

-Ye Olde Blowharde

10:05 am

I've been up an hour and barely feel like it's Saturday. The sun is out bright in a cloudless blue sky and temps are moderating from the extreme heat and humidity we had earlier in the week, the sticky stuff that makes the inside of my truck smell like an old tennis shoe.

I took the day off almost entirely yesterday, made a trip to Home Depot for a sturdier bag for traveling with my tools, then drove to a park in R.O. after lunch to read in the shade. I got flat on the ground and actually tumbled off to bits of nap while the clouds swept by overhead and the cooling northern wind passed over my body and rustled the leaves in the trees above me. After about an hour of lying there napping I finished my Strawberry Crush and went over to the only park bench I could see to read a chapter or two. Just then, some kids across the street and behind me started playing in the backyard pool, splashing, screaming and driving their dog insane, forcing loud, maniacal barking from the animal until I had to bookmark and leave. Fucking kids. Fucking dogs. I needed a drink.

Two at The Bar for Happy Hour, the bartender bending and smiling, back on form, walking in time to the music. She waltzed from one side of the bar to the other, sashaying her beautiful hips to “Stuck In The Middle”.

“You're walking right in time to the music,” I said. She smiled.

“I used to work at a club downtown,” she told me, one delectably fleshy elbow resting delicately on the bar in front of me, “The Something-Or-Other. It was an urban club.” She paused to put air quotes around 'urban', indicating that 'urban' really meant 'black'. “I was the only white person who worked there and they all told me the same thing.”

“Where's that at?” I asked. “It sounds familiar.”

“On the corner of Larned and Beaubian. Anyway, I've been dancing since I was little and I just do it without realizing it. I'm so used to dancing.”

“What, like jazz dance?” I asked, playing dumb and trying to keep her talking about herself.

“Jazz...tap...modern...Hawaiian...” she said. I was imagining her naked torso and her generous hips in a grass skirt, bare feet...sand...surf...a tropical drink served in a coconut...aahhh...

“Well it shows,” I said. “I could tell you were a dancer just by watching you tend bar. You're a natural.” She laughed. “Did you ever see 'Reservoir Dogs'?” I asked her.

“A long time ago,” she said. “I don't remember it.” Her forehead wrinkled. She was thinking.

“Well, there's this one scene where they're playing this same song,” I told her, “and the guy's torturing a cop. He's got the cop tied to a chair and he throws gasoline on him and he slashes his face and cuts his ear off.”

“Oooh,” she said, cringing, “That's awful.”

“It was,” I agreed, “but the point is, whenever I hear this song I always think of that. The guy in the movie, the bad guy, he's dancing around to the song having a good time and he just reaches down and cuts the cop's ear off and laughs at him.” She cringed some more, shivered. “Anyway, now you've given me a much nicer image to think about when I hear the song, and I thank you.”

From there I drove to Louis's house. I had agreed to go watch them play their final softball game down at a park in southwest Detroit near Mexican Town, mostly because the weather was so nice, but also because I was feeling vaguely sociable after my brief time at The Bar and didn't want to go home. I spent two and a half hours with a near full bladder and temps dropping into the mid-fifties watching a bunch of stiff, aging adults chase the ball around, an epic comedy of errant throws and dropped flies. There were a few dominant players, one tall black kid who could hit the ball so far that he was on second base by the time it struck the ground yards behind the outfielder. For the most part, though, it was painful to watch.

There was a parade of locals through the park as well, playing soccer, thoughtlessly walking toddlers around and onto the field. One twelve-year-old Mexican kid was there annoying everybody by asking if he could play. He had a canvas bag with him that looked like it had a bat or two, balls and his glove inside. He came up to me during the third inning and softly asked if he could use my cell phone to call his parents, his voice a meek squeak-whisper. I was afraid if I handed it to him he would run.

“I don't have a phone,” I lied. I'm sure he saw me check the time earlier, but I figured a lie was less cruel than just telling him a flat 'No' and 'Get away from me', which is really what I wanted to say. He found somebody else who had a phone and they let him call. Two innings later a red compact car picked him up and he was gone.

There was a tipsy-drunk older black guy who came up as though he knew everybody, probably comes to all the games. He put his stuff over by the bench then went to the party store for beer. They bought him a tall can for running the errand, I guess. I didn't ask the details. He seemed friendly enough, though I know drunks can be unpredictable, so I kept a good distance. I suddenly realized that I no longer felt sociable. At all. When the black guy said something about having to take a piss, a girl sitting on the bleachers right behind him, a girlfriend of one of the players, told him that she had just gone to the church across the street and that the basement was open. He put his beer down and walked in that direction. When he came back minutes later he was going on and on in a drunken slur, shaking his head... “They woon't lhet me in,” he said. “It'sh nho whonder why they call us 'n---ers'. I be damn. Huh-uh. Cain't uze the bafroom in here. Now you's white and they let you.”

“Maybe I snuck in and they didn't see me,” offered the poor girl. He just shook his head.

“Make me a-SHAMED to be a black man sometime, yez suh,” he said. “Had to gho off behin' the dhumpshter.” He muttered some more under his breath for a while, swore some, shook his head some more and drank from the tall golden can of beer until he settled down. He eventually produced a paperback book and began reading it intently, bowing his head down to see the pages, his eyes only six inches or so from the book. He had very thick glasses, and I'm assuming his prescription was probably not up to date. It probably didn't help to be in the shade with the sun dropping quickly.

Along about the middle of the game another guy pulled up in a mini van, banged it up and over the curb, parking it half on the grass right in front of a 'NO PARKING' sign. The van had bright yellow sides and a white roof and was crunched pretty badly in spots on the front, the grill punched out in places and a couple running lights smashed, the front fender crinkled. This guy was Mexican, wore a dirty white tee shirt and dirty jeans, looked as though he'd been rolling around in the street all day. He was wearing a baseball cap and had a short pony tail poking out in back. He walked straight to the chain link back stop, folded his arms, smoked a cigarette and watched the pitiful proceedings without saying a word. He then moved to the bleachers where he watched with what appeared to be keen interest for another inning or so, still without talking. As quickly as he had arrived he left, the loud muffler of the mini van signaling it had started and a double bang of the tires as they dropped off the curb before he puttered away.

I was beginning to itch, digging a hole in my cheek with the only fingernail I hadn't chewed off.

The last two innings saw the arrival of a short, fat girl who's age I couldn't guess. She looked to be anywhere from thirteen to eighteen, was bloated and pregnant. Either that or she'd swallowed a bowling ball, her gut round and out. A few minutes after she showed up, a couple of thin blond-haired girls came over, her children, aged four to five years old, one on a little pink bike and both carrying plastic bags. She yelled at them in a hoarse voice to “Hurry up! Come on!” There was a bent and battered guardrail that ran the length of the park to prevent cars from driving onto the grass, and the girls were so small they had difficulty getting over it. The oldest one banged her bike on it more than once before making the other side and the youngest eventually figured out that it was easier to just crawl under. When they got to Mom they opened the bags and all three began happily eating their dinner of chips and cola.

I made a long stroll across the parking lot to find a place to piss. I targeted a tall pine near the church, did my business and strolled back. The sun was nearly down by then and the final out of the game was made as I crossed the street. I sat down on the guardrail behind the bench and watched the last of the sun disappear as it shined a pink glow on the western face of the RenCen. The park was covered in shadows, the light really beginning to dim and the air had cooled dramatically. I shivered in my shorts and tee shirt. Louis held a beer high as though to offer me one. I walked up to the fence and declined. “I'm freezing,” I said. “Can you give me the keys so I can sit in the car?” Louis thumbed the unlock button and the car's lights flashed.

“Hey, it works from here,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, and walked over to get out of the cool wind. It was nearly dark by the time everybody left, and my phone said it was 9:20.

Fun? Not really. I saw every sad and ugly form of humanity imaginable and the Mom and her kids nearly broke my heart. My sociable nature was stifled by pushy strangers and I had endured two hours with a shivering full bladder before it got dark enough for me to feel comfortable pissing in public.

We got dinner at Senior Lopez just up the street on Michigan Avenue, Louis kicking some jagged glass from a broken bottle to one side of the doorway on the sidewalk as we entered. The food was good. I had the beef taco dinner and washed it down with a couple of Tecate served with a bowl of limes and a salted glass. There were two guys sitting at a table across from us, one guy talking loudly on his phone for ten minutes, the half conversation enough to make me hate people even more. On the way out the other guy was arguing over the tab with the sweet and very cute waitress. More hate.

Home by eleven, in bed by eleven-fifteen, I read until my eyes wouldn't stay open. I managed to avoid more drinking even though all I could think of was the sad and ugly people I'd been forced to encounter during my day of leisure... the loud kids and their barking dog, the drunk, the Mexican, the Mom and her girls, and finally the two fucking annoying idiots at the restaurant. Luckily I was so fatigued by the entire experience, so overstimulated by it, that I couldn't force a single beer down my throat and certainly couldn't face the television.

No...sleep was what I needed. A good eight hours of it, no nightmares.

Thankfully, last night God spared both me and my liver.

12:48 a.m.

Ghod, I'm druhnk. My fahrts schmell like shitz.

Oopsh!

ALMOST OKAY COMPLAINT DEPT.

On a recent trip to L.A. I went into a 7-ll for beer. While grabbing a tall Tecate I noticed a bizarre can just to the left of it which turned out to be a new product by Budweiser that combines Clamato and Bud with a hint of salt and lime. 'La Combinacion Perfecta' is how the label described it and apparently it's popular in the Latin American community. It's even available in a light version, although I can't figure out why you would bother. When was the last time you saw a Mexican drinking light beer?

Now, I'm a big fan of tomato juice (even without the vodka it works wonders on a hangover) and clams (raw, cooked or bearded) are one of my favorite bivalve mollusks. Lime is good (the absolute best Jello flavor) and who doesn't like salt? But I don't think I'd like it all mixed in with my beer in a brown paper bag to go, thank-you. How fucking lazy can you get? If you like tomato juice in your beer, sit your ass down and mix it yourself. I'm not sure how clams get involved, but they already make a juice that combines tomato and clam (duh, it's called 'Clamato'...and by the way, do they squeeze the clams?) so use that if you're so inclined. Salt? Okay, salt the fucking beer if you want to. Granddad salted his. A twist of lime is a nice touch that I enjoy myself.

Not to be outdone, Miller has recently begun making its own combo beer called 'Chill' which adds lime and salt in an effort to compete with Corona, an average beer that does well thanks to clever ads and a clear bottle. Somebody I know who has tried the 'Chill' described it as “not really all that offensive”. If that's not damned by faint praise, I don't know what is.

I even noticed a bag of tortilla chips at the supermarket recently that had the salsa flavor built right in. What's next, jars of salsa with the chip flavor added?

Rumor has it that Coors is test marketing a beer that combines their Silver Bullet with urine for all those freaks out there who get off on the taste of piss. 'Golden Bullet' will be sold exclusively in San Francisco and New York and the company looks to expand into other markets as demand for the product increases.



Surreality Television

Okay, I admit it. I don't have cable television. No dish, no nothing, just plain old broadcast TV. The kind you snag out of the air with a set of rabbit ears. So maybe the reality show phenomenon affects me more than it does most people. Sometimes six out of the eight stations I get are showing some kind of so-called reality show, and the other two are PBS and Univision. You want to know what reality really is, folks? A baseball game. The news. That's real. The rest of this shit is just, well...shit.

And now we have not one, but two programs that show fools trying to remember lyrics to popular songs while competing for cash prizes. 'Don't Forget The Lyrics' on FOX and NBC's 'Singing Bee' are both considered huge hits for the summer, scoring big ratings in that lazy young demographic that buys flavored beers and salsa flavored tortilla chips, the 18-49 year olds. As a member of that coveted demographic (albeit I fall at the high end of the age range) I tried to watch one or the other of the shows just once and couldn't make it past the first round. The competitors took turns singing along with a group of average musicians until the music stopped and they had to remember the next line. After four of them failed in a row, I'd heard the first three bars of Blondie's “Heart Of Glass” four times, played and sung badly four times. It was even sadder for me than when Iggy ruined “Lust For Life” by letting ad agencies use it to sell cars and credit cards.

I had to watch some porn in order to wash the whole experience from my psyche. Thank god I've got one of those nifty VCR-DVD combo players. Now that's what I call 'La Combinacion Perfecta'!

10:01 a.m.

As fate would have it, after breakfast two Saturdays ago I lay dying in a park in Ferndale reading Faulkner's 'As I Lay Dying'. The air shimmered low across the baseball field in the hot sun, the grass baked brown by it, by two weeks without measurable rain. I was under a stand of tall oaks, a pair of them growing in close proximity at the base, like conjoined twins with two heads, their broad shoulders the warm summer ground they shared. They bowed gently apart, the twins, their branches twisting in the afternoon breeze, their dense shade surrounding and caressing me. I felt peace for the first time in months.

Suddenly, at one o'clock on that first Saturday of July, I was scalded by the screaming noise of sirens as two nearby fire stations began a rondo of alarms to test the emergency response system. Dogs hidden by privacy fences howled at the wails of the sirens, which moved far and back and far and back as they broadcast spiraling practice warnings that everyone dutifully ignores, a dopplar wave of nerve-bending horror sound that scarred the simple beauty of a summer day.

I was forced to think of possible emergencies, despite the calm and peace that surrounded me... a tornado with winds to rip the roofs from houses, uproot trees, crush people beneath cars and flying debris... an enemy attack, the missile launched from off-shore to drop on the city and kill...

I always figured that if I were an enemy deciding when to attack, an evil genius with his sights on taking over the world, this is the precise day and time I would plan it for. A flash as I lay beneath the tree reading. A blinding blast of light and I'm gone. Everything gone. Smiling folks ignoring the sirens, washing clothes, sleeping, fucking...children playing, skipping rope...all gone.

My finger on the button at five minutes to one, on a beautiful summer afternoon, the first Saturday of July.

The evil genius at work and play.

Dear Lyzako,

As the time approaches for your move to the Left Coast my days have sprouted wings, soaring past, snores to sighs to snores in an endless cycle of restless sleep and meaningless toil. The sudden demand for my services has kept my schedule busy with travel. (More on that at a later date.) I've spent more time in airports in the past month than I have my entire life prior, it seems. Combine that with your exhausting preparations for the move and the time left for collaboration with our good friend Del has dwindled to nearly nothing at all. I miss him.

Last night's productive meeting was just what the doctor ordered for me: a kick in my ass to get things back on track, clean my office and wash those filthy two-week old dishes that are growing mold in my kitchen sink. I even got my evil laptop up and running with Louis' help, sent and fetched an email or two as tests through my primitive 56K dial-up connection. It took three hours to update the virus software. “Marty, you really need to upgrade this to high speed,” said Louis. “I can't believe you can live like this!”

Believe it. I'd live without any connection at all if I could manage it. And no fucking soul-sucking computers.

The coffee is good this morning, strong, even stronger than it was yesterday when I made it from freshly ground beans, five scoops to nine cups of water. There's something about the microwave process that kicks the joe hard again. I can't explain it. I need it this morning after last night's 'meetings'... six of those hard limeades and the last of the Patron during ours... six cans of Blue while Louis fiddled with the computer and I asked stupid questions.

While something or other was downloading or updating (I forget which) Louis asked me for a DVD to put in to make sure the drive was working properly. I enthusiastically ran down to the basement and retrieved my deluxe edition of 'Jackie Brown'. “I was just in L.A.,” I told him, “and when I went through the Spirit terminal on my way to get my bags, I got this electric feeling of deja vu. One wall was covered with bands of different colored tiles, vertical strips. It was like, one a.m. Detroit time and I was out of it, but I just knew I'd seen it somewhere before.” Louis was busy pulling out the disc, half listening. I blathered on: “I'm positive it was the same place Tarantino filmed the opening sequence for this movie and Pam Grier was going down the very same hallway as the camera rolled along on a dolly.”

Louis popped the disc in the drive. “Is the green light blinking?” he asked me.

“Nope,” I said.

“Hmmm. How about now?”

“Nothing.”

“That's no good.”

“Wait it's blinking now,” I said with anticipation.

“How many times did it blink?” asked Louis.

“You're shitting me,” I said. “You mean it matters how many times...”

“Ha hah!” said Louis. He got me.

The movie started, the blue-haloed Miramax logo fading up from black. 'Across 110th Street' came on and Bobby Womack crooned soulfully as Pam slid down the very same corridor that I'd passed through just a few days before, not walking, but pulled along as though she were on a moving walkway, looking positively regal in profile. My queen. “I thought I remembered it like that,” I said. “That was what was so confusing. There's no moving walk there.”

“Could there have been one that they took out?” asked Louis, always trying to find a complicated explanation to things no matter how illogical it seems.

“No way,” I said. “They just put her on a cart and pulled her along at the same time as the camera.”

Long story short, my friend, with some help I tackled the new laptop that had sat unopened on the kitchen floor for two weeks and now have an empty cardboard box for recycling. Progress. I know it's a minute step in the history of Marty Sherman and Mankind, but it's something. Lately I've been near paralyzed with exhaustion, hangovers and fear of failure, a far cry from the thunder-farting, lightning-crapping, chest-thumping Sherman of old. I feel like some of it's coming back.

It seems almost a sure thing now that I'll survive, get by with the help of my friends (thank you). And, oddly enough, I took great comfort in the fact that Pam and I had spent time in the exact same place for the briefest of moments, even if it was nearly a decade apart.

I'd almost forgotten what comfort felt like.

Guess what... even the odd kind still feels good.

Regards,
Marty Sherman

Fanfares and welcomes to
our newest literary contributor,
Professor Dirk Beat...

Passport To Nowhere, Dig?

Your paper shufflers allow me to move
I can't breathe your air, though, man
Your air suffocates me
Your arbitrary rules bend & break me

Bent & broken I travel still
This world never stops moving after all
You know what I'm talking about
The sun doesn't really rise or set, man

This beautiful, ugly ball of rock & water
Runs from the sun, turns constantly away
Turns its back, its other cheek so to speak
Because too much sun hurts, too much sun kills

Feel me: I'm in the dry grass now, down flat
Eyes wide open to the scorching rays
I hear music...jazz...Coltrane with bongos
As the tears stream from my dead eyes

And the rest of me dies laughing
Traveling still against my will
Breathing my own damn air
My own damn air, man

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Hell at LAX

Smother that Shrieking Child, Bitch
Would Humanity be so wronged with one less
Greedy Mouth to feed?
One less Evil Spirit to haunt us?

Compare that to the infinite number
Of bundled nerves pierced through
With silver shards of NOISE GLASS HORROR
Nerves tortured to This Point

The point where Anger cannot be held back
And Killing provides comfort to the Soul

Smother it, I say. Smother it before I DO

Hell at LAX, Part 2

Who's fucking Rude, Fat Child is THAT?
The One banging his toy car on EVERYTHING?
Running in circles? Demanding attention?
Banging his BANG BANG BANGS
On my Brain? Whose?

Is he Yours, DAD? Proud PAPA?

My hand becomes a Pistol, a Colt .45
I take slow, steady aim, thumb COCKED
Just so you Know, DAD
I've decided YOU are Responsible
And I NEVER miss

-Prof. Dirk Beat

If you had told me in the '60s that Gidget would still be hanging around television in 2007 and selling Boniva, I'd have called you a liar. I guess I wouldn't have known what Boniva was, but I'd still think you had a screw loose. And if you'd gone on to tell me she'd still be cute as a bug's ear at age 60 (incredible!), I wouldn't have believed that either. But Neil Diamond didn't exactly write that song about me. I still can't believe I'm blogging.

Yes indeed, Sally Field is alive and well and working as a spokesperson for a drug that battles osteoporosis. She even has a key role in “Brothers & Sisters”, a hit drama on ABC. In the decades since she played Gidget all those years ago, Sally's also collected Oscars, Emmys and Golden Globes for some memorable serious acting roles. More serious than the Flying Nun, you ask? How about Norma Rae... how about Sybil, the schizophrenic? A far cry from her character of Sister Bertrille, the nun who learns to fly with the aid of her over-sized cornette and her under-sized ass, no?

Thanks to the “The Flying Nun” though, Sally was able to cross over into that rarefied air of 'Stardom' that allowed her to record an album even though she can't really sing, joining the lofty company of fellow golden-throated actors Leonard Nimoy, Barbara Eden and Joey Bishop, among others. She even managed to place one of the songs from this LP on Billboard's Hot 100 around the holidays in 1967 - the first year of “Nun's” three-year run. “Felicidad” crested at Number 94 before sinking out of sight after just a few short weeks on the chart. And well it should have. It was a miracle that it landed there at all, and I can't say I'd recommend this album based on an enjoyable listening experience. It's more of a curiosity than anything else, widening my 'Celebrity Vocals' section by another eighth inch. But I won't speak for you, dear reader. Some of you may actually enjoy this LP, so have at it. I couldn't sit through it twice if you were threatening me with a shotgun in my mouth and a pistol up my ass.

If you remember the series at all, you will recall that there was an odd, nearly immoral sexual tension between the sweet, innocent, barely legal Sister Bertrille (remember she's a nun!) and her costar, Alejandro Rey, the much older debonair Argentinian who played Cuban lecher Carlos Ramirez on the show. Episodes are out on DVD. Unfortunately you won't find today's album on CD, but it's probably only a matter of time.

Gidget and Sister Bertrille aside, my fondest memories of Sally were when she played opposite Burt Reynolds in the 1977 action comedy “Smokey and the Bandit”. I was just nineteen and I'll never forget those jeans she wore, the way the wind blew through her hair, her sweet little toes on the dashboard as Burt drove them down the highway...

I paid a buck for this playable but rough copy, and even though there aren't a lot of them floating around, a pristine one still doesn't have a lot of value. I'd be lucky to get five for it on Ebay, and in NM condition a stereo copy like mine goes for just five times that according to my trusty price guides. So it's just one more album that will go for a buck at my estate sale. Unless of course you want to buy the whole lot. They'd probably make you a deal.

ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE OF MARTY SHERMAN
It Happened In March

I pulled into the bowling alley parking lot around seven-fifteen. It was Saturday night, and warm for early March. The town was still pretty quiet, and only a handful of cars were huddled around the long box of a building, most of them parked near the entrance to the lounge, which served up beer to the bowlers and hangovers to the other pitiful souls who were trapped in this god-forsaken place. A back-lit sign with a weathered plastic face announced 'Gypsy Room - Grille & Saloon', the name larger and in a pink script against a black background. On either end of the sign were clumsily rendered pictures of a mug of beer and a crystal ball. I had already driven by the only other joint in town, Bone Island Bar, found it to be brightly lit inside and teeming with young people - too many for my mood. I was hoping the bar at the bowling alley would provide a drinking experience with a smaller crowd and more cave-like conditions.

I swung open the door, made my way down the dark hallway and turned left into the lounge. There was nobody sitting at the bar. “Perfect,” I said out loud. On my way in I passed a dark jukebox on my right and a small elevated stage wrapped with a waist-high horizontal chrome railing to my left. I dropped into the first seat at the bar, nearest to the door and right by the cash register, while I tried to get a feel for the place. There was a pool table in the far corner of the room, an exit to a hallway where the bathrooms were and an entry onto the bowling alley, plus two windows with small counters where bowlers could come to fetch drinks directly from the bar or where waitresses could place orders with one of the bartenders. I could see bowlers milling around outside, two lanes with people rolling balls at the pins, but the sound was muffled nicely so that the noise of their games was barely a whisper. There was a television hanging above the other end of the bar to my left showing the History Channel, of all things, and the sound was turned up loud enough to be annoying. The room was dark except for some bright spotlights above the pool table and near the stage, a few dim bulbs shining weakly down on the bar and on the tables. At a table to my left sat a pair of couples waiting for their lanes and to my right, across the room sat a lone young woman, blond and chubby, but with a cute face, decked out in a brightly-colored floral print outfit with matching top and slacks.

The 'L' shaped bar was made up of a black fomica top, trimmed with pine, painted forest green instead of stained, the paint peeling slightly and worn through in places revealing raw wood. Mounted to the face of the bar and wrapping around it was a chrome rail that matched the one that surrounded the stage. It was held in place by a series of silver fixtures, lion heads with the rail running through their roaring mouths. The stools were made of wood, with padded seats covered in black vinyl.

Two women wearing red shirts and black pants were working away behind the bar making everything look like more of a chore than it should have been. Another woman, apparently the manager, wearing a white shirt and carrying a large loaded key ring, was scurrying back and forth to make sure they had everything they needed for a busy Saturday night - fresh keg on the Miller Light, another bottle of sambuca. None of them were under forty. Waitresses, most of whom were much younger and also wearing the red and black uniform, were bombarding the flustered bartenders with orders, neither of them seeming sure what the other was doing. I sat patiently while they all ignored me.

The bartenders looked like older female versions of Abbott and Costello. The one nearest where I sat had a Dutch boy hair cut, her straw colored hair gone halfway gray. She had a bony, wrinkled face, a flat chest and not a hint of ass inside her black slacks. She reached for bottles with arthritic claws, packed ice into special pitchers with stainless cups built into the bottom to keep the beer cold, screwed caps on the cups with apparent difficulty. Her mouth sagged in a constant frown as she toiled, the corners puckered with tiny folds of skin. Her co-worker was short and fat, had dirty, shoulder-length black hair, a bulbous nose and blotchy skin. She seemed to sweat as she moved around, confused, her cheeks turning pink from the exertion.

“She wants to order one of these,” said the fat one as she held up a laminated menu to the manager. “I don't know how to make one.”

“Is the recipe book back there?” asked the manager, non-plussed.

“We can't find it,” said the tall one.

“It must be in the office. I'll be right back.” The manager walked quickly down the hall past the restrooms. Abbott and Costello continued to ignore me. When the manager returned she handed Costello a thin spiral-bound booklet, then stuck around for a minute to make sure everything was going to run smoothly. Costello grabbed a blender, put on a pair of reading glasses and started making the concoction, their signature 'Special Margarita'.

“What's ...Grand ...Mar...Neer?” said Costello, stumbling over the syllables as she struggled to understand the recipe.

“Grand Marn-Yay,” the manager corrected.

“Grand ...Marn ...Yay ...” repeated Costello, still confused. “What's that?”

Finally, Abbott came over to me. “What can I get you?” she asked with little enthusiasm, as though she'd worked the entire night and was exhausted. It felt to me more like she'd said 'What can I get YOU?', as though I was yet another thorn in her forlorn side.

“Do you have Blue? Labatt Blue?” I asked.

“In a bottle,” said Abbott.

“I'll have that.”

Abbott popped the top off my bottle with an opener, banged it on the bar top without offering me a glass. “That'll be three-ten,” she said. I pulled out a five.

“Can I get a glass of water, too, when you get a chance?” I said.

Costello continued to fidget with the drink she was making, eventually got all the ingredients in and thumbed the switch on the blender. She stood back as it swirled, the motor kicking up a lot of noise, took off her reading glasses and heaved a sigh of relief.

“You look cute with the glasses,” said one of the waitresses.

“I look like a dork,” said Costello.

The two of them went back and forth, tripping over themselves and confusing each other with half finished orders. “She needs a pitcher of Bud Light!” barked Costello to Abbott.

“I just got her one!” Abbott said impatiently.

“But she needs another one!” said Costello, even louder than the first time.

“I thought you were getting that one!” yelled Abbott.

Directly in front of me a young man appeared at the window onto the bowling alley and waited to get noticed. He was wearing a baseball cap and a tank top. One of his arms was gnarled and scarred, as though he'd been in a serious car accident or was a soldier who'd been hit with shrapnel. It was lean and muscular, the wounded arm, hung like a piece of meat from his shoulder, and was much shorter than his other arm. Both of the arms were covered in poorly executed tattoos. The young man stood there patiently as Abbott and Costello methodically ignored him. After a few minutes, he moved to the other window to get in line behind one of the waitresses.

A very young couple, man and woman, both with military hair cuts, came in and sat to my left. They ordered beers and began to smoke. My casual observation categorized them as being on leave from the army, maybe army reservists. Both wore camouflage baseball caps and the woman seemed very butch, even though she appeared to be wearing a wedding band. When she saw the guy standing in line she put her cigarette down and shouted: “There's One Arm!” She got up and ran around to the bowling alley side to hug the guy with the wounded arm while her husband sat there and watched. After a brief catching up conversation, the young woman returned to her seat and continued her beer drinking and smoking. One Arm got his order in and the chaos began to subside a little.

“Pitcher!” yelled a waitress at the window.

“I'm getting it!” said Costello.

“No, I mean you need to turn it off,” said the waitress, pointing.

Costello turned to see that the pitcher, propped under the tap, was overflowing out into the sink. “Oh, shit!” she said.

The young couple left and a middle aged guy with short-cropped gray hair came in, sat where they had been and turned his attention to the television. The chubby girl who was sitting over to my right walked up to the bar, smiled at me and waited for Abbott to look her way before ordering. “I'll have a pitcher of Diet and a glass with ice.” she said sweetly.

“You want ice in the pitcher?” asked Abbott crabbily. “And ice in the glass?”

“Yes, please,” said the chubby girl. Abbott testily stuffed ice into the stainless cup at the bottom of the pitcher, screwed on the cap. The girl took her drink back to the table and I noticed she had been joined by another young girl, a slim mousy thing with straight blond hair and wearing glasses with black plastic frames. I had finished my first beer.

“Want another one?” Abbott asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “Is that jukebox working?”

“Yes,” said Abbott.

I paid, dropped a buck on the bar, scooped up my change and headed over to the jukebox, beer in hand. I expected to find it loaded with young country music, but was pleasantly surprised at the selection, noticing several of my favorites including Al Green and Bob Marley's 'Legend' CD. I fed the thing a couple of wrinkled dollar bills and the red LED told me I had five credits. I pushed the buttons to select 'Waiting In Vain' and the disc dropped. When the music came on it was barely audible, even to me and I was standing directly in front of the speakers, so I walked over to Abbott and asked if she could please turn it up. She toweled her claws dry and walked stiffly around the bar. I followed her to the jukebox where she sat on top of a table right next to it with her back to the wall and reached behind for the volume control knob.

“We have it turned down because it's Karaoke night,” she told me. I saw no evidence that anyone was going to be singing in the room anytime soon. “That loud enough?” The music was still very low.

“I don't think I'll be able to hear it over there,” I said pointing a thumb towards the bar.

“Don't you want to listen to it over here?” Abbott asked.

“No,” I said. “I want to sit where I was sitting.”

Abbott gave up and turned the knob more. The song swelled to fill the room and she hopped off the table and limped back to the bar. “Thanks,” I called after her. I picked a couple of Al Green's greatest hits ...'Tired Of Being Alone', 'Still In Love With You', another by Marley and 'Red House' by Jimi Hendrix. The two girls were sitting just around the corner from the jukebox and the mousy girl stood up and asked me something which I couldn't hear because I was standing right in front of the music.

“What?” I asked her, backing up a little.

“Did you play this song?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good choice,” she said with a smile.

I went back to my seat and was a little disappointed that the music wasn't louder, but it was better than listening to the History Channel. I took a piss and when I came back, the guy at the end of the bar had the television remote in his hand and was flipping through the channels, every other channel being loud enough in volume that it could be heard even above the music. I came very close to asking them to mute the sound on the fucking thing, but he eventually left it on 'Cops' and lowered the volume. Abbott and Costello continued to bump into each other and get frustrated.

“I forgot what goes in a Manhattan!” said Costello.

“I can't remember anything right now,” said Abbott. “The music's too loud.” This last comment obviously directed at me, the new guy, the stranger who'd messed up their routine.

“I think you guys want me to leave,” I said seriously.

“Nooo,” said Abbott. “You stay right there. I was just joking. Can't I joke?” She flashed a practiced frozen smile. It was hideous.

“It didn't sound like a joke,” I said.

“You want another one?” asked Abbott.

“Sure,” I said. “I want to listen to my songs.”

Since she was being such a bitch, I decided to spend a couple more bucks and torture Abbott with more music. I also decided that I'd tipped her enough for the night. I took my two remaining ones over to the jukebox and played five more, four Stevie Ray Vaughn rockers and Prince's 'The Beautiful Ones'. I knew when Prince came on it would be time for me to go. I sipped at the bottle slowly, made it last until the piano intro on my final selection... 'Baby baby baby ...What's it gonna be? ...' Prince crooned as I poured what was left of the beer down, made my way to the head and pissed one last time. When I came out Prince was shouting now ...'What's it gonna be, baby? Do you want him? Or do you want me? Cuz I want you...'

I strolled through and past the jukebox without even a passing look at Abbott and Costello, smiled at the girls and was out into the fresh night air. It was almost nine o'clock and the sky was clear and filled with stars. It felt much cooler, my breath trailing vapors that rode the breeze as I walked to my truck in the parking lot. Yes, it was almost cold compared to the temperature when I went into that place, I thought. The Gypsy Room. The worst fucking bar I'd ever been in my entire life.

“Ha ha, hack!” said Lyzako.

“Whoo, smells like taint!” said Davey, holding his nose with one hand and his belly around the middle with the other.

“I'm telling you guys, men are fucking stupid,” I said. “I bet I could sell the perverts worn women's panties and wear 'em myself. I've seen the ads on craigslist.”

“I need another beer,” said Davey. “I don't know how many there are left, though.” Davey dug through the icy water at the bottom of the cooler for a stray can of Blue Light. I helped him look. It was almost eleven and the driveway was pretty dark, most of our light being supplied by candles. For ambiance. Chicks must've planned this party... candlelight and twelve light beers. Yeeee-hah!

“Nothing like throwing a party and buying a twelve-pack,” Lyzako said.

“Yeah,” I said, “they sure don't know your friends very well. Everybody keeps trying to put me on a diet, but I'm not buyin' it.”

“Ah hah!” said Davey as he scooped out an ice-cold can. “And here's another one, Marty.”

“You da man,” I said to him. “The problem is these new cans look like diet pop cans. It ain't right.”

“Any more in there?” asked Lyzako.

“One more,” said Davey, “and that's it.” He handed the last one to Lyzako.

Lyzako belched. “I'm gonna have another shot. Anybody?” He poured three tall Patrons.

“To your health!” said Davey.

“Here's mud in your eye!” I said.

“Sto lat!” said Lyzako.

It was one of several going away parties being thrown for Lyzako, the lucky bastard. Another send-off to celebrate his move to the West Coast at the end of the month. This was the third party I'd been to in a week and I was beginning to wonder if the fucker was ever going to move. At least the booze and the feedbag were free.

“Seriously, though,” I continued, “I bet I could sell worn women's panties over the Internet and clean up. I could probably even grease a few and charge extra. You've never seen the ads?”

Davey shook his head and took a long drink of beer.

“I've seen 'em,” said Lyzako. “They ship 'em in a zip-lock bag to ensure freshness.”

Davey laughed and foam came out of his nose. “Smells like taint!” he gurgled when he'd recovered.

“How much different could it smell?” I said. “Ass crack sweat must pretty much all smell the same, right? I'd just wear 'em to work. I could probably wear three pairs at a time. That's twenty-five bucks a crack!”

“Hah, hah, crack!” said Lyzako.

“I might even get more for the inner most pair,” I said. “I saw an article somewhere where a girl told how she made money like this and even sold her toenail clippings to guys. No shit.”

“Smells like taint!” said Davey.

“All I really have to do is find a couple of hot photos of young chicks on the web. I wouldn't even have to show their faces, just asses in underwear.”

“And there's always the M.I.L.F. market,” said Lyzako.

“I think it's probably mostly older guys buying young chicks' underwear, but who knows?” I said. “Maybe I could even sell worn bras.”

“Can you imagine?” said Lyzako. “You get into a car wreck on the way home from work and they take you to the emergency room and you're wearing three pairs of panties and two bras!”

“And I've got a tampon shoved up my ass!” I cried. “That's gotta be worth fifty bucks!”

“Smells like taint!” said Davey.

“Hah, hah, ha...hack-kaff!”

Numerology Be Damned

Seven cups of coffee
Sick jitters in my gut
Seven hours of useless toil
I drag my tired butt

Seven beers at Happy Hour
It's Saturday after all
Seven minutes drive to home
Be cool, go slow, don't stall

Seven more, a shot or two
There's nothing on TV
Seven sitcom reruns hence
I take my seventh pee

Seven times I try to call
And never once get through
Seven voice mails left for her
The last two just “Guess who?”

Seven soggy breaded shrimp
Served cold in a carryout box
Seven chunks of moldy cheese
Orange marmalade on my socks

Seven hours of restless sleep
I turn and toss and turn
Seven anxious evil dreams
In Hell I see me burn

Then to Sunday, the seventh day
My single day of ease
Seven more in front of me
My heart, my soul, disease

-Ye Olde Blowharde

7:43 a.m.

I hate dogs. All dogs, even the nice ones. Even Lyzako's little Taxi and Mom's precious fucking Suzy-Q.

I was walking back from Ferndale two nights ago, whistling along in the cool night air, my newly purchased VHS tape of Pam Grier in 'Bucktown' tucked into my breast pocket over my heart. All of a sudden about four blocks from home I hear vicious barking. I figured it was somebody's fucking idiot hound behind a fence, no big deal. Suddenly, out of the shadows races this black, short-haired devil, barking and snarling as he ran straight for me. He wasn't big, but wasn't exactly tiny, either, about two feet tall at the shoulder. He seemed pissed, though. I jumped back at first, startled, but immediately made my mind up that the motherfucker wasn't going to get a bite out of me and started screaming right back at him, howling and growling even louder than he was. After initially backing up, I puffed my chest out. “I'll kill you, you motherfucker!” I growled. “I'll fucking kill you! Aaaaaaagggghh!” The dog backed off but continued to bark. He trotted down the sidewalk ahead of me tossing barks back at me as he retreated and disappeared into the night. I looked around on the ground for a weapon in case the chickenshit was waiting for me up the street, found a sturdy stick about an inch thick lying on the ground. It wasn't exactly a Louisville Slugger, but it would have to do. I picked it up, felt the weight of it and turned it in my hand to get a comfortable grip. Then I moved out of the light from the street lamp into the shadows, ready to bash the fucker's brains in if it came anywhere within striking distance. It didn't. I walked the rest of the way in peace, but my chest was heaving from the excitement, my heart racing to pump blood to my swirling, drunken brain.

Then, first thing this morning and just moments ago, that fucking worthless scrap of flesh bitch cocksucker mini-pug whore next door was woofwoofwoofing at nothing in particular, pushing the classical music out of my head and forcing me to sit here in my own fucking house, in my office where I have to work all day sometimes, with industrial ear muffs to deaden the fucking noise. I hate her. I hate the fucking idiots who bought her, my fucking piece-of-shit neighbors. I hate the people who breed the stupid rat bastard animals. I fucking hate them all.

I'll let you in on something here, folks. People think that dogs are such good companions, but they only like us and give us affection because we feed, shelter and take care of them. Turn them all out onto the street where they have to fend for themselves and they'll rummage for food until that's gone, then run in packs and kill for their supper. Kill and eat the brains and bellies out of babies. They're fucking animals for crying out loud! If they were really hungry they'd just as soon eat you as look at you. Licking is tasting, people!

And they're not as smart as a squirrel, I don't care what anybody says.