It was a tough choice this week, folks. I didn't know whether to go with Hillary's exaggerated memory of being under 'sniper fire' in Bosnia or the latest development in Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick's text message sex scandal. After considerable consideration and half a pot of coffee, I decided on Kwame. I'm sure Hillary will say something stupid again next week.

This past Monday, Wayne County Prosecutor Kym Worthy held a press conference to announce the charges against the Mayor and his former Chief of Staff (and piece on the side), Christine Beatty. Multiple counts of perjury were issued as well as charges of conspiracy, obstruction of justice and misconduct in office. Several of the charges were felonies that, if convicted, carry a fifteen year prison sentence.

The pair was then ordered to turn themselves in to the Wayne County Sheriff's Department by the next day, where they were to be fingerprinted and booked (Mugshots, don't you just love 'em? They're practically an art form in and of themselves!) before being released on personal recognizance.

Of course Kwame answered Worthy with a little press conference of his own, during which he stated that he was confident that when the process had been completed, he would be totally exonerated of any charges of wrongdoing. He informed the press that he would not be answering questions once he'd read his statement, and true to his word he refused to even acknowledge one reporter who shouted as the Mayor exited: "Do you know what exonerated means?"

Kwame also refused to step down from his job running the city of Detroit, and immediately began plans to raise money to help him pay the $750 per hour attorney he hired to get him out of this mess.

Beatty resigned weeks ago when the contents of the text messages were first made public.

But here's where it gets funny again: One of the first things the Kilpatrick team did was tout TV Judge Greg Mathis (a native Detroiter) as an instrumental supporter of the Mayor who they claimed was going to serve as a key administrator of Kwame's newly-established legal defense fund.

Unfortunately, the Mayor's peeps didn't bother to okay that with Mathis himself, who shot back via a press release that not only did he NOT support Kilpatrick, but he strongly believed that the Mayor should RESIGN so that Detroit could get on with the healing process. I guess Kwame figured 'What's one more lie at this point?'

You gotta admire the balls on this guy, though, don't you? I mean, just take a look at his mugshot up there and tell me he's not guilty. Tell me he doesn't have contempt for that fucking camera. Tell me he's not plotting his revenge right at the moment they snapped the photo. Check out those eyes! It looks to me like he's imagining how much fun it would be to strangle Kym Worthy, then have everybody in the room shot!

And how about this one of Beatty? Guilty as the day is long. At least she looks like she has a smidgen of remorse. Why else would she have resigned in the first place if she didn't think they'd both been caught red-handed?

You know, I can't help it, but goddamn I think she's hot, don't you? I wonder what she would look like with a little more makeup on.

Some eye shadow.....Hmmm...Maybe a little lipstick...nice...

How about a little darker hair... Yeah, that's nice...Kinda slutty...

Now if I could only get her to smile, you never see her smi-... YEESH! I guess that's why!

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My Dear Lyzako,

I really should be sleeping.

It's a little after four in the afternoon here and I've spent the past two nights toiling from dusk 'til dawn on a thankless job for marginal pay that will help me cover my bills so I can afford another month of thankless jobs for marginal pay.

When people ask me if I work out, I say: 'Yes, I'm constantly jogging on the treadmill of capitalist consumerism!' No, that's a lie. I don't really say that, but wouldn't it be funny if next time I remembered to? Oh, who am I kidding? I rarely get asked if I work out, either, which doesn't come as a surprise to you, I'm sure. You've seen me.

Anyway, I used to have hobbies that helped me to forget the awful cycle of work and pay. I gardened for a while before raising the white flag against the never-ending March Of The Weeds (led by the mighty Captain Crabgrass, of course). I read, collected things like jazz records and comic books. I even went through a brief period where I assembled and meticulously painted plastic models, the same ones I botched altogether as a child - custom cars, Rat Fink characters, Dracula, Wolfman and the Mummy. Nowadays my hobbies amount to drinking coffee and rubbing the cramps out of my calves.

Today I finished work early enough to fool myself into thinking it was evening instead of morning. It was still pitch dark, a bright disc of waning full moon hanging in the sky to the west. The birds were still asleep. After stumbling into the house around 6:45 AM, I took off my work shoes (which felt as though they'd grown to the soles of my feet), donned slippers, a paint-stained hoodie and my 'Good & Plenty' pajamas, then put on side two of Coltrane's 'Ballads' LP.

As the quartet settled into 'I Wish I Knew', I made a trip to the fridge to retrieve one of the two remaining cans of Blue on the shelf. By the time they'd made it to 'Nancy (With the Laughing Face)', the rising sun was already starting to wash gray light through the place and I was nicely buzzed on half a can, thanks in large part to fatigue and lack of sleep.

When the needle lifted I could hear the first utterances of the birds as they began their day. I pulled off Coltrane, put on side one of 'Kind of Blue' and grabbed the last can of beer from the fridge. After years of collecting and listening to thousands of records (jazz and otherwise), the Miles Davis classic is still one of my favorites. Coltrane was on that session, too, and his natural spirituality bubbles up between the whispers and boasts of Miles' trumpet. 'So What', may be the best tune ever written.

I still had half a beer when side one was over, so I put on side two, sipped at the beer as I sank into the sofa feeling the weight of seventeen hours work and only six hours sleep in two days' time. I never made it until the end, nodding with chin on chest and waking in pain around 8:00 AM before dragging myself into bed amid blue skies and bright sunshine.

I managed almost five hours of restless sleep, interrupted twice by bouts of painful Charley horses in both calves, most of the time spent with a pillow over my eyes to help shade me from the glare of daytime.

Tonight, I have to do it all over again.

Before I fell out, though, I was looking at the liner notes to the record, which was recorded in 1959, just a year after I was born. My copy is an original mono version on the six-eye Columbia label, which in a perfect world might mean it would be worth fifteen or twenty bucks in the shape it's in, but in reality, it probably would have trouble fetching more than five (plus shipping) on Ebay these days, thanks to the advent of the CD and the MP3.

As I held the near-fifty-year-old album cover in my hands and looked at the notes on personnel, my eyes beginning to blur from the strain of two days' work and the foamy goodness of the beer, I couldn't help but notice a funny tag at the bottom which had nothing to do with the recording itself.

And I quote... “This Columbia High Fidelity recording is scientifically designed to play with the highest quality of reproduction on the phonograph of your choice, new or old. If you are the owner of a stereophonic system, this record will play with even more brilliant true-to-life fidelity. In short, you can purchase this record with no fear of it becoming obsolete in the future.”

I had to laugh and wish that the same guarantee against obsolescence came with yours truly when I was born!

I just have one question: What's a phonograph?

Very Truly Yours,
Marty Sherman

The Miracle Of Flesh

Alabaster smoothness, soft
Warm pulse pounding just beneath
Heating lip & fingertip, breast & cheek
Stirring lust & failing reason

Cinnamon & cocoa, amber & honey...
Yielding to gentle caress, catching scars
Tearing & healing, becoming one with
The closest thing there is to a God

Paper thin, wrinkled, dry
Bejeweled with mole & wart
Bruised, slashed, tattooed in woe
Even then it triumphs

The spirit smiles
Knowing full well
That it is no match


Behold! Tonight, An Albert Ryder Moon

She digs a claw into my heart, scares up a fine &
Beautiful jangle of feelings (surprise/happy/sad)
This nature, this night, this

Albert Ryder moon

Partially obscured by a wisp of cloud
She winks and nods nevertheless
Heaves her bountiful breast
Her lemon-ice-half-slice smile
Her sequined shawl the stars
To which we assign
Magical powers
Over Love
& Life

The night air burns delighted lungs
The ground beneath foot & hoof
Hard, a crust of spring denied

I gaze upon Her noble face
Fingers crossed, I take my place
Here alone on this Earth
Wishing instead I could wrap
My arms 'round that glorious

Albert Ryder moon

-Prof. Dirk Beat

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Seventeen: This Pain In My Heart Isn't Gas

The HHR was still running.

I hurried over and opened the driver's side door, pulled Felina out then carried her over to the grass behind the curb. I held out little hope, but figured there was an outside chance that she could be revived and there sure as shit wasn't anything I could do for her, so I might just as well leave her here where the EMTs could find her. The sirens were getting louder.

As I got back into the rental, I saw the beer truck driver coming up into the intersection walking gingerly towards the stalled Escalade that I'd shot up. “Make sure they get this girl some help!” I yelled at him, pointing towards her. I jumped in the car, dropped the trans into reverse and shot backwards up the street. I was hoping to avoid anybody IDing the plate. Traffic was light and there had been no cars approach the intersection from behind during the three or four minutes of time that had elapsed since the first shots rang out.

Once I'd put some distance between me and the scene, I jerked the emergency brake, broke the steering wheel hard to the right and the HHR went into a controlled spin, the tires complaining and tossing up smoke. I dropped it into drive as soon as I'd spun a one-eighty, released the brake, then shot up the street.

After fifteen minutes or so, I figured I had avoided being followed. I'd been zizagging through neighborhoods until I came out in an industrial area somewhere across the freeway. After pulling over, I got out of the car to assess the damage.

I could only find one bullet hole in the driver's side, in the fender just in front of the door. Felina had been driving with the window down and luckily they hadn't shattered it with a shot into the door. The window on the passenger side was gone.

I drove aimlessly for a while, got lost in traffic. The tears streamed down my cheeks, my eyes blurred, the image of poor Felina as she looked at me and drew her dying breath burning into my brain. Suddenly, my eyes began to focus and I noticed an auto parts store in a strip mall up ahead. I swung the car into the parking lot, put the shotgun and our bags in the trunk, locked up and went inside.

“Where's the touch up paint?” I asked the cashier on my way in.

“Aisle twelve,” she said.

I picked up a can of silver and got in line. All I could think about was how those two thugs knew exactly when we were going to be leaving. Even I hadn't made up my mind until late last night. And if they knew we were in the house, why not just kick in the door and shoot us?

“Will this be all?” asked the cashier when it was my turn to pay. She was cute, but looked extremely bored with her job. So bored in fact, that I was damn near invisible to her. She didn't seem to notice the redness of my eyes, the tears still wet on my cheeks, or the swirls of blood on my pants and shoes. Neither did anybody else in the place.

“Um, do you have gum somewhere?” I asked.

She pointed to my right. There was a rack with candy and I picked up a pack of sugarless cinnamon. “This too,” I said.

I popped a stick of the gum in my mouth, paid, then walked back out to the car. My mind was starting to clear from the fog of the adrenaline by then and I was thinking more logically. It had to have been Amelie. That was the only scenario that made any sense. Amelie was the only one who knew where we were and he must have approached the Gonzalez gang figuring to give me up, thereby saving poor Felina from the likes of a felonious monster like myself while picking up a little spending cash in the process. He probably didn't want to be involved after the fact, so whatever deal he'd made kept them out of his house, just patiently waiting outside like cats ready to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

The thought of that tranny bastard coolly passing their car every morning when he left to go to work, passing by it again when he came home at night, then chitchatting with us on into the evening while Felina helped him with his wig and nails, even drinking and laughing with us, all the while knowing that any day I might be dead by the time he got home...well, it began to make my blood boil.

When I got to the car, I took out the chewed gum and stuffed it into the bullet hole, smoothed it over with the tip of my finger as best I could. Once it had dried, I'd give it a quick shot of the paint. Not exactly a perfect repair, but I figured from five to ten feet away, nobody would know the difference. At least it wouldn't obviously look like the car had been shot at. I could get the window fixed if I was lucky enough to make it out of San Antonio.

Amelie kept a little magnetic dispenser filled with his business cards on the front of the fridge, and some time during the course of that last week I'd pulled one out and noticed that his real name was Lee Masters. That card was in my wallet.

It was hard to blame Lee for what he'd done. I was guessing that he probably never dreamed that when it all went down Felina would be dead and I'd be the one walking away. But he would've had to have been stupid not to take into account that he was putting her in harm's way. He surely must have realized at some point that there was a good chance the Gonzalez people would kill us both.

Which is why I decided that before I went on to San Antonio, Lee Masters deserved to die.



Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
Read Chapter Four
Read Chapter Five
Read Chapter Six
Read Chapter Seven
Read Chapter Eight
Read Chapter Nine
Read Chapter Ten
Read Chapter Eleven
Read Chapter Twelve
Read Chapter Thirteen
Read Chapter Fourteen
Read Chapter Fifteen
Read Chapter Sixteen

The following is an excerpt from a recent interview between Marty Sherman and deceased author Prof. Dirk Beat:

Marty Sherman: You look good, man, twenty years younger.

Prof. Dirk Beat: Thanks. One of the cool things about being in Heaven is that our appearance is based on what we looked like at our best. George Burns still looks like he's sixty.

MS: I've been surprised that so few of the poems you've written since you died were about Heaven. Why is that?

PDB: Hey, if I really told everybody how nice it is here, people would be jumping off the Golden Gate and leaping from the Empire State faster than EMS could scrape them off the sidewalk. Hmm... 'Golden Gate'... 'Empire State'... There's gotta be a poem in there somewhere...

MS: Which brings up another point. Isn't suicide considered a mortal sin?

PDB: I'm glad you mentioned that. No, it's a common misconception. Dead is dead.

MS: Interesting. So I suppose you've heard the book has sold well.

PDB: Yeah, and that guy who got stabbed in L.A. died. He's up here already! Hey, before I forget, I've got some good news and some bad news.

MS: What's the good news?

PDB: I'm coming back to life! No shit! God's selected me for a miraculous resurrection that has nothing to do with Judgment Day, just a little proof to everybody that he's still got his 'chops'.

MS: The bad news?

PDB: I'll be back Easter Sunday and since I won't have a place of my own, I was hoping I could bunk with you until I find something.

MS: I guess that'll be okay. If you don't mind my asking, how did God pick you out of all the dead people in the history of the world?

PDB: It was kind of a complicated process, but it has something to do with relevance and name recognition. To tell the truth, I didn't really understand it myself. What it boils down to is this... He picked a bunch of us and we had a Texas Hold 'Em tournament. I was in the finals with Marie Antoinette, Einstein, John Lee Hooker and Leonardo da Vinci.

MS: You beat Einstein and da Vinci at poker?

PDB: Einstein was good at counting cards and figuring the odds, but he couldn't bluff to save his ass. Besides, I got some real friendly deals. What can I say? I'm lucky, I guess.

MS: Is it true about the liquor stores there?

PDB: Yes! It's incredible! You can get anything you want. And you can drink as much as you want and you only get a really mellow maintenance buzz. With no hangover! It's kind of like that stuff they drink on 'Star Trek' in the future.

MS: Synthahol?

PDB: Yeah, that's the stuff. I'm flying right now!

MS: So you'll be here on Sunday?

PDB: Sometime in the afternoon, your time. I was hoping we could have lamb for dinner.

MS: I'll see what I can do.

PDB: Yeah, man. A nice rack of lamb sounds good.


Just Past Noon (Tomorrow & Tomorrow & Tomorrow)

The hangover dreams impossible nightmares of
No drinking while at once shrewdly angling
For the next bar stool, thinking 'I need a drink'

It does, indeed
& indeed
I do

Dream

-Prof. Dirk Beat

During the course of an interview for ABC News yesterday, Vice-President Dick Cheney was told that recent polls indicated the majority of Americans no longer support the war in Iraq. His response was a resounding: “So?”

When pressed further about whether or not he cared what the American people thought, Cheney didn't exactly say that he did. In fact, judging from his response, my observation would be that he doesn't give two shits about what we think, and neither does our great Commander-In-Chief George W. Bush.

How else could the two of them continue to arrogantly defend their right to manufacture false evidence about Saddam's weapons of mass destruction, go to war in the middle of the night with no real declaration, and then continue the widely unpopular and costly debacle five long years after Bush declared “Mission Accomplished” while standing on the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln with a pair of Ben Wa balls shoved up his ass?

Of course, while Cheney was doing his little interview, George W. was stirring the pot at the Pentagon, pontificating about the Iraq invasion and the removal of Saddam being “the right decision”. I've no doubt the bastard believes it, too. Most stupid, narcissistic people think that every decision they make is the right one. I'm sure Bush and Cheney are no different.

Both of them also believe that the troop surge has helped our cause and that no matter how many years it takes, we will eventually be able to fight and win the Iraqis' Civil War for them, sacrificing thousands of young American lives and trillions of taxpayer dollars in the process.

A few questions later in the interview, Cheney followed party lines and voiced support for John McCain's bid for the Presidency, but refused to respond to a direct question about what he thought of Barack Obama's stirring and inspirational speech from Philadelphia earlier this week. Seems he doesn't want to get involved in the question of 'racial relations' in America. Remember what I said, folks? This smug bastard doesn't give two shits about you, me or anybody else - black, white or brown - who isn't in his immediate family or circle of cronies. That's because he's both white and rich!

And then, when asked about Obama's growing support from our troops overseas because he plans to begin immediate withdrawal from Iraq once he's elected, Slick Dick avoided even acknowledging the fact, insisting instead that the troops have “...overwhelmingly supported the mission. Every single one of them is a volunteer.”

Ha! Volunteer?! What else can you do if you can't afford college and can't find a job? Run for Vice-President? What Cheney also failed to mention was that due to the current widespread use of the Stop-Loss policy during this particular war, our so-called 'volunteer' troops can be called on again and again to serve multiple tours of duty long after they've fulfilled their agreed upon terms of service.

“Listen here, fellah, I'm afraid you're going to have to volunteer again, and we won't take 'No' for an answer.”

Sounds a lot like a draft, doesn't it? Believe me, folks, if you vote John McCain into the White House this November, it's going to be just a matter of time. Nobody in their right minds would 'volunteer' for this mess.

President John McCain... Hey, I wouldn't put it past the American public if that happens. I mean, shit, we elected George W. Bush... TWICE. How fucking smart can we be?

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I poured a cup of coffee and pulled out a legal pad. What would my 'perfect woman' be like? I asked myself. Would she be black? Would she be white? What about Japanese?... As the caffeine slowly took effect, I made a list of attributes, hastily printed on the yellow pad in blue ball point chicken scratch.

1. SHE HAD TO BE BEAUTIFUL

2. SHE HAD TO MOVE IN BED, AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT (If she just laid there I might just as well have stayed with my wife.)

3. NO TALKING

After nearly an hour of thinking about it, that's pretty much all I could come up with. I didn't care if my woman cooked (I love to cook myself and am perfectly capable in that department) or cleaned (I haven't so much as swept the floor in nearly a decade). And as long as she wasn't eating or spending my money, I didn't give a crap whether she worked or not. No, all my 'perfect woman' would have to do is sit there, look pretty and keep her yap shut. That was it.

When I got to the Real Doll site, I noticed they had made a list of their own as a sales tool. Hmmm, I thought as I read along, Let's see...'Elastic -flesh can withstand 300% elongation...' That didn't seem like it would be useful unless I decided to toss her on a torture rack, but okay... 'Heat Resistant... over 300 degrees...' I like that. I might want to put a cigarette out on her or something. 'Water Resistant...Stain Resistant...' Good, good. Ah, here we go. 'Durable' and 'Lifelike'...Nice... 'Odorless, Flavorless, Flexible, Pleasurable, Safe...nontoxic...' All very good. 'Convenient, Relaxing...provides stress-free companionship'...Now THAT's what I'm talking about! And lastly, it was 'Affordable -cheaper than most alternatives', it said.

Whatever it cost, I was sure that would be true.

I could barely contain myself when I started shopping. There were a number of body styles, lots of different faces. Shoot I could even get one with changeable mugs so if I got tired of 'Suzy' I could turn her into 'Bambi' in a matter of seconds! All kinds of wigs. Wait a sec...It said that wigs ranged from $500 to $1000! Shit, I thought I could get the whole doll for that!

I did a little math, raced through the site and put together my doll and it all added up to well over three grand and I hadn't even ordered the body yet! Affordable?! Were these guys kidding?! Shit, if I had that kind of dough, I'd move to Thailand and buy a fifteen-year-old!

I went through the options and found that I didn't need any of them. I could get my own freaking wig for a lot less than a grand, and I didn't see any faces that really did that much for me, either. In the appearance department I had something more like Beyonce in mind, or maybe Jessica Alba (when she was barely twenty, of course), and I saw nothing remotely like either of them.

Hmmm... That's it! Suddenly it dawned on me that my ideal woman would actually be more than one woman! I mean, pecan pie is my all time favorite, but I can't imagine going the rest of my life without a slice of key lime or two.

I went back to the basic bodies and put in an order for the one who's boobs and flesh most closely resembled Beyonce's, then I went to check out. Bingo! Just like I thought. I could actually buy two basic bodies for less than a completely decked out one!

I had been planning to do a fair amount of customizing anyway, I might just as well roll up my sleeves, get out the tools and do the damn thing right.

I backtracked to the body types again, picked out one like Jessica's and added it to my cart. Five minutes later I had a confirming email with a ship date of one week and a Paypal bill that I wasn't sure I'd be able to pay.



Next time: Much, much, MUCH easier said than done...

Dear Lyzako,

At the risk of sounding like some soft-headed simpleton, I must tell you that a brisk morning walk coupled with a single day of sobriety has helped me to slather a tablespoonful of optimism on this shit sandwich that has been my life of late. It was cold, to be sure, and I should have worn gloves, but the birds were singing and the sun was popping out between the clouds and all felt right with the world.

I made my way along the boulevard, passed by the city offices, the high school and the library, then looped through the park, encountering only a couple of stragglers slowly making their way to church. Puddles of standing water left by the melting snow were everywhere, a thin layer of ice over all due to last night's plunge below freezing. There was a fair amount of ugly debris along the sidewalk, at the curb and crowded around storm drains, exposed by Friday's sudden thaw. I saw empty booze and beer bottles - whole and in sharp fragments, crushed pop cans, yogurt cups, candy wrappers, lost gloves of all sizes and colors, and a single page torn from a Spiderman coloring book, Spidey scribbled all blue by an enthusiastically free child's hand.

As much as I complained about the winter here this year, with its record snowfall and bitter cold, without it there would be no real sense of spring. Along my walk I breathed in the cool fresh air as though experiencing it for the first time, felt the sun warm me when the clouds allowed it, and even though spring doesn't officially begin until Thursday, I felt it in my heart already.

When you moved to the West Coast last summer I told you that I envied you, but honestly, I think I'd miss the sharp weather changes that the seasons bring here in Michigan. I'm sure there are seasonal differences in the Bay area as well, but nothing can compare to the feeling one gets when the days get longer and we emerge from the frigid darkness of winter. Finally we can reclaim the outdoors for work and play, fire up the grill that first warm day, take in the scent of charcoal and scorched animal flesh that slowly permeates the neighborhood as everyone joins in the ritual.

No doubt the experience is heightened by the severity of the change from one season to the other. The sense of rebirth in springtime seems even more miraculous after a winter that challenges us and keeps us indoors huddled around the fire, and the colorful splendor of autumn (my favorite season of them all) is made twice as glorious when it follows a particularly hot and stifling summer.

On my way back I decided to pick up that page from the coloring book I saw, folded it neatly in quarters and pressed it into my pocket. There was something about it that inspired me. Whether it was the fact that Spidey was a favorite of mine as a comic book-collecting kid (I still have those early issues squirreled away in a closet!) or whether it simply made me feel like a child again - the carefree, outside-the-line scribbles imparting upon me a long-lost sense of freedom, I can't be sure. Maybe it's a little of both.

In any event, it made me feel good, that much I can tell you. So this morning I've decided to believe in the spirit of spring, believe in the possibilities of rebirth and renewal, believe the birds who insistently sang to me as I walked.

“Wake up, you idiot!”, they chirped. “Wake up and live!”

Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman

PS Just to let you know I haven't gone completely rosy and sentimental... I did wake up to the sound of birds this morning, but not songs. No, it was yet another stupid, annoying sparrow noisily scratching around and attempting to nest at the end of the gutter near my bedroom window. When I returned from my walk, I killed it. What's one less wise-ass bird in the world?

I have to admit that when I first picked this LP up way back in the mid-eighties I wasn't particularly impressed by it. First off, This Cat was going through his beatnik hard-bop phase, which kept me from appreciating the rolling funk grooves, the repetitive soft jazz vocals and the electric instrumentation. I was more used to Byrd's acoustic sound from the fifties and sixties, and at the time was spending most of my nights away from the real world watching black and white television, reading and listening to older jazz, immersing myself in the past and pretending I was living in that era. To be honest, I still pretend that I am sometimes, only it's much harder these days, what with cell phones, HDTV, the World Wide Web, those Blue Ray Tooth things and such.

Shoot, even the eighties were better than it is now, ya dig?

Of course I loved the cover, and the fact that it was a wraparound gatefold made the paltry $2.99 I spent on a used copy seem worth it for the cover alone. But I pulled the album out recently and have given it a few spins along with a long-overdue second chance. And you know what? It holds up just fine.

Not really jazz and not really fusion in the same sense as those ground-breaking Miles Davis sessions, the sound here is more semi-funk and R&B, and comes off closer in feel to some lost soundtrack to a Pam Grier film that never got made. When I listen to it now, I can almost see her sashaying down the big city sidewalk in summer heat, wearing skin tight leather pants and sporting a round afro. Hang on a sec... I'm gonna flip it over and listen to side one again...

Recorded in 1973, 'Street Lady' didn't exactly set the world on fire with the critics and it didn't produce much in the hit department, either, although the album did climb the jazz charts in 1974, the same year Byrd broke through with a charting single. 'Walking In Rhythm' was recorded by a group (aptly named The Blackbyrds) that Byrd put together right after 'Street Lady' consisting of himself and a handful of his best students (Byrd has taught music and theory at Rutgers, Howard, Oberlin College and NYU, among others), and it was with this group that he finally achieved mainstream success.

Seen as a bridge between jazz trumpeter Donald Byrd of the sixties and Byrd as leader of the Blackbyrds, 'Street Lady' was a logical transition and an important step in that direction. Solo artist became completely secondary to the group sound. You can hear some Chuck Mangione in Byrd's flugelhorn playing and there's lots of soaring flute (provided here by Roger Glenn) that fits well with the wah-wah guitar and the insistent funky punch of clavinet that helps drive the rhythm. So what if it's just a bunch of lengthy, feel-good groove jams. So what if it's not particularly hook-oriented. Just sit back, turn on the black light, burn some incense and let your neck go loose. You'll be head-bobbing in no time.

Byrd was born in Detroit in 1932, graduating from Cass Tech and moving on to the Air Force (where he played in a military band) before earning degrees from Wayne State and the Manhattan School of Music. On his way up, Byrd played with almost all the heavy hitters of jazz, including Coltrane, Lionel Hampton, Art Blakey and Thelonious Monk, just to name a few.

By the time the sixties rolled around, Byrd was a star at Blue Note, where he recorded a number of LPs in the traditional hard bop vein before making the transition towards funk fusion in the late-sixties (his 1969 LP 'Fancy Free' was the first of his to feature electric piano). Often under-appreciated in terms of virtuosity, Byrd has not only survived the test of time, but carved out a nice little niche for himself in jazz history and continues to be active to this day.

Oh, and if you happen to be a fan of acid jazz, you just might recognize some recycled stuff from 'Street Lady' STILL being played in clubs and on college radio.

I have to tell you that the biggest surprise I got when I pulled this LP out after so long was when I checked to see what it was going for on the almighty Internet. I found a sealed original copy with a corner cut on Ebay for $79.99! And it wasn't unusual to see other sites selling used original copies in the neighborhood of twenty to forty bucks! Ha ha! My copy is stone cold mint, cover AND disc!

I have a second copy that I picked up for 99 cents recently, too. I don't really know why I bought it. It just seemed like too good of a deal to pass up, even if I already did have another one at home. I guess I thought I'd be able to put the cover on display or something, but damn, maybe I can sell it on Ebay for five bucks, huh? Anybody interested? No?

Anybody OUT THERE? ANYBODY?!

I never liked this woman.

And after her comments this week about Obama's gender and skin color being the only reasons as to why he's getting so many votes (not to mention her dogged refusal to retract a single word), it only goes to prove that I was absolutely right. She's a bitch. A bitter, old crone who's jealous of both Hillary and Obama because either one of them has an excellent chance to become the next President.

Geraldine had her shot at the White House in 1984 and blew it, and now her one last hope in what few years of life she has left to even get within sniffing distance of the Oval Office was to ride Hillary's coattails in. But after realizing that what she once thought was a sure thing is now quickly evaporating into yet another unrealized dream, she said something beyond stupid out of bitterness and envy.

I just hope Barack drubs Hillary in Pennsylvania and both she and Geraldine sit their fat, old, dried-up asses down and shut their pie holes the rest of the way.

Sorry, but I lost the name and locale attached to today's Craig's List girl. It's okay, though, because I picked this bootylicious beauty solely because she had the biggest, roundest, brownest ass I could find, and I wanted to just rub Geraldine Ferraro's nose all up and down that crack.

We're up to our noses in asses this week!

I could have easily picked on George W. for continuing to fuck up our economy (Check out those oil prices, folks - $4.30 a gallon for diesel! It's fucking criminal!) and vetoing that bill that would have brought an end to torturing prisoners. The President had a busy week.

Or I could have put Kwame Kilpatrick in the hot seat again for the latest on his text messaging scandals involving a contractor buddy of his getting the inside track on bids for city projects. I could have mentioned the Detroit city clerk who recently came forward claiming that she saw paperwork indicating that exotic dancer Tamara Green (who allegedly worked the infamous party at the Manoogian Mansion) intended to press charges for assault against the mayor's wife just before she was mysteriously offed by a police issue weapon. I could also have mentioned Kwame's state of the city address last night where he accused the press of making all this stuff up and called for an end to the 'lynch mob' atmosphere, once again playing the race card, furthering the racial polarization of city and suburb here in Detroit.

But this shit with New York Governor Spitzer is just way funnier!

How dumb can one person be? Seriously, did he really think that he wouldn't get caught with his pecker in the cookie jar at some point? Take a look at his wife's face during that speech he made. She knew something was up and I think she's relieved that it's over. Now she can divorce his ass and take half before he spends the rest of it on attorney fees and more whores.

Let's face it though. Prostitution should be legal. I repeat: Legalize prostitution. It works almost everywhere else in the world, and does a fine business in Nevada. Why not New York City? They don't call it 'The City That Never Sleeps' for nothing!

Even if it was legal, though, Spitzer would still be in trouble, he just wouldn't be facing federal charges that could put him in the slammer for twenty years. And really, folks, should he be? Just because he had the woman take the train to D.C. instead of going north to Buffalo, just because his illegal tryst involved crossing a goddamn state line - an imaginary and arbitrary line that exists on maps only, now he's facing a twenty-year prison sentence? How on god's green earth can that be? For wanting a little CIM after a BBBJ in DC, no AC/DC, thank you?

Don't get me wrong. I don't feel sorry for the guy. Hey, if he's stupid enough to blow four grand a night (and over eighty grand total!) on hookers then he deserves to be in trouble. But twenty years? Come on! And I particularly don't like the headlines that I've read that 'linked' him to a 'prostitution ring'. It makes it sound like he was the pimp or something. The poor bastard's just another John!

At least it looks like 'Client Number 9' will be resigning long before Kwame does.

You know, Ol' Number 9 could have saved himself a lot of trouble just by using Craig's List. There are some real honeys right there in the nation's capitol...

Krissy works out of D.C. and specializes in entertaining upscale gentlemen, promising a true G.F.E. And get this, Guv, she only charges 350 hugs an hour (hugs are code for dollars, so you'll still need to hit the ATM) and you can get her to spend the night for only two grand! A great deal! Krissy's also an independent who answers her own calls and doesn't work for a service.

Basil LaGargle (Regional Sales Manager, Borders Books):

We haven't had this kind of reaction since that last Harry Potter book came out. And never for a book of poetry. It's a first for us. People were standing in line at midnight.

Marty Sherman:

I heard that several fights broke out and a couple people got stabbed in South Central L.A.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

The stabbings are a tragedy. Just a complete shame.

Marty Sherman:

Actually, Dirk's probably laughing somewhere right now, just thinking that a person got cut over a chance to buy his book. It's a book of poetry, for crying out loud!

Basil LaGargle:

We were completely sold out within an hour, but we've ordered more and expect a second shipment in by next week. Hopefully, we can meet the demand. I've heard that many Catholics were planning on giving the book as Easter gifts.


Longing No Longing

hunger no hunger
lust no lust
love no love
fear no fear

hate as a matter of course


Push...Shove...What's The Diff?

To travel all the roads until the final road is reached
As they wind through forest & field, through town & city
Staggersteer stumblejog through rain & snow & wind & fog
Forward more often than not, left here, right there
Until yes, right there it looms, up ahead
The end of the journey, that final road
Memories fall away as the world becomes
A single dark, scarred brick cul-de-sac
Overflowing trash cans here
A stack of bones there
Rats and roaches
Scurrying through
The shadows

In your haste, you must have missed that
Aging, faded sign back there,
That lemon and rust colored
Diamond, riddled with
Bullet holes,
Letters black
As midnight
That read:

IIINO
OUTLET

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Man, this early daylight savings time change has been rough on me this year. Once the sun goes down, I don't know whether to shit or tip the bartender. I'm not sleepy when the clock tells me it's time for bed, so I wind up staying up way too late watching some dumb-ass movie to kill the time. What exactly is it that we save the daylight for again? So far, all I've done with my spare hour of sunshine is sleep.

Anyway, the dumb-ass movie that I watched last night actually turned out to be fairly entertaining. I picked up my copy of 'Catch The Heat' a while back at the Salvation Army for cheap. All their dollar VHS tapes were half-off, so I grabbed an armful mainly on the box descriptions. This one promised a script by Oscar-winner Sterling Silliphant ('In the Heat of the Night', 'The Poseidon Adventure', 'Towering Inferno') and an appearance by Rod Steiger (Best Actor trophies for 'In The Heat Of The Night' and 'The Pawnbroker') who plays bad guy Jason Hannibal.

But what drew me to the flick even more than those stellar credentials was the cute Asian girl who played the lead, Tiana Alexandra. She was kicking ass kung-fu style and taking target practice with her pistol in the photos on the back, and the synopsis described her as “A one-woman strike force...” I just had to see more.

Well, it turns out that Tiana's real name is Tiana Thi Thanh Nga, and she was married to Silliphant at the time (1987), so therefore the script (no surprise!) was actually written with her in mind. Tiana plays 'Checkers' Goldberg (I kid you not!), a tough, half-Chinese-half-Jewish S.F. vice cop who, along with her partner, is sent to Buenos Aires to catch the evil drug dealer/talent agent Jason Hannibal (Steiger). In spite of laughable dialogue and horrible acting by everyone around her (including Steiger, who, at one point irritably answers his secretary via intercom, THEN pushes the talk button), Alexandra proves to be a fairly good comedic actress.

Of course, it doesn't hurt to see her simulating a blow job almost right out of the gate, then posing sans bra with her perky breasts in a deliciously tight wet tank top, before heading off to South America where her undercover 'disguise' includes high heels and dresses split up both sides to her ass. We're even treated to a nice shot of her cute little piggies picking up a letter opener and killing one bad guy with a single stab to the liver while he has her arms pinned to the ground.

The plot (in case you care) involves Steiger working as a ruthless talent agent who moonlights as a drug dealer, smuggling high-octane heroin into the states via boob jobs on his unsuspecting clients. Checkers, of course, has to tape her tits down while auditioning for a dance troupe so that Steiger will see her as a likely candidate to be one of his 'mules'.

Even though in real life Alexandra claims to be the only female ever personally trained by Bruce Lee, the action seems a bit hard to believe and the fight scenes are more comedic than tense, but she manages to take no prisoners throughout, killing one of Steiger's hired goons (played by pro wrestler Professor Toru Tanaka) by pushing his head into a pointed wooden shelf rack.

As she's being driven by Steiger through the countryside to his 'secret medical clinic' to get her surgery, her partner and local law enforcement are following ridiculously close behind by car and hovering directly overhead in a large helicopter, yet they still manage to catch the entire heavily-armed security force at the gated compound by surprise.

Every bullet fired by the good guys hits its mark and kills instantly while the bad guys waste round after round shooting into the ground. Steiger's character eventually gets his comeuppance and Checkers and partner become boyfriend and girlfriend, finally kissing just before the closing credits run.

Alexandra went on to produce and direct a well-reviewed documentary about her life called 'From Hollywood To Hanoi', which was released in 1993. Silliphant died in 1996 and Steiger managed to live until 2002.

One Final Note:

F.Y.I...For all of you folks out there who've come by the site to look for news on Ama Daetz, here's the scoop: The young lovely with the big dark eyes and dazzling smile is still working the local news weekend shifts at WDIV out of Detroit, apparently squeezed out of her weekday morning slot by Rhonda Walker.

If you have to see the news, I recommend watching Ama. Most of the time I get so caught up in just watching her lips move that I don't even remember what bad stuff she's talking about, and believe me, that's a blessing.

I don't even really want to talk about politics today, and I have no real grudge against Ralph Nader. Hey, if the guy wants to run for President, well...more power to him. I sure as fuck wouldn't want the job. And god knows I wish we had a strong third party here in the U.S. that would offer some sort of intelligent choice to the voters besides the bozos that have been driving this fucking bus for decades.

No, I actually just think Ralph is a little funny looking. Plus the fact that it's Friday already and I haven't posted an ass photo all week. (You'll love this one, too!)

Speaking of Friday, I just found out that we have to set the clock forward this weekend. We still have a ton of snow on the ground here in Michigan and more in the forecast, with those poor folks in northern Ohio taking the brunt of the storm due later today. It seems a little early to start 'saving daylight' to me. I also just found out that the Tigers' home opener is on the 31st of March! Shit, the way this winter has gone, we could still be getting snow by then!

It all seems to be coming so fast these days...

Ooh, my head hurts. I stayed up late last night and watched both the 'Kill Bill' movies, which seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd never watched them back to back. Unfortunately, over the course of the four hours it took me to get through them both, I put away the better part of a twelve-pack, and I'm paying dearly for it today.

A double bill of both 'Kill Bill's, swilling beer 'til I'd had my fill. Dig? Ha hah! I think I'm still kind of drunk to be honest, and the coffee's not helping all that much.

What? Oh, yeah, Ralph Nader...

He is kind of funny looking, am I right?

This week we're featuring the exotic Misty, a tantalizing mix of Creole, Navajo and Mexican who plies her trade from her home town of New Orleans across south Texas to Vegas. Check the Vegas page for her current travel schedule. Misty truly loves her work and promises you an unforgettable sensuous experience, with rates starting at 400 diamonds. Trips to Greece are negotiable. (And from the looks of things, well worth whatever she's asking, in my opinion!)

Marty Sherman:

No matter what God says, I think it's a good book. These poems by Dirk will stand the test of time, I think. The book's due out next Tuesday. Pick up a copy and see for yourself.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

God's a tough sell, alright.

Marty Sherman:

By the way, the Polaroids that Dirk's putting in my scanner are amazing. He has a keen eye for composition, yet he's still able to catch that photo-journalistic feel. Truly, truly amazing. He told me he wants to call the second book 'Snapshots From Heaven'.

Zelda Dirkson:

I can't believe God is black!

A few more previews from Prof. Dirk Beat's soon-to-be-released book 'Poems From The Other Side':

What Choice This?

Happy, Sad, Loving, Mad
Worried, Glad, Good or Bad?
Ultimately accepting one
The same as the other

IS there choice?

To love, when no love
Beats within my heart?
To not hate, when so much
Of the World demands it?

Wild animals live & kill
They eat & fuck & die
Without the burden of conscience
Nor fear of a god's retribution

I am an animal!
Is it wrong to want only
To live & kill & eat & fuck
& die?


A Gentle Dream Of Blindness Gone Awry

See?
No.

The sight of trembling lip?
The scent of scalded flesh?
The sound of smothered screams?

Just blackness.

Then
One last feeble thump
Of a long-ago
Broken
Heart


Now I Lay Me Down To Die

Cloned flesh test tube baby
Scorched circuits nerve path
Hot white pulses sing the spine
A lullaby of sad noise pain

As a swelling cacophony of
Phantom ring tones eats my brain

-Prof. Dirk Beat

It had been a long time. A very long time. A long, long, LONG time since I'd been laid. The old lady left me two years ago and I'd pretty much been avoiding women ever since. You learn to lose trust, know what I mean?

I'd been falling back on the old standby: porn-fueled self-abuse, and it was getting old. Very old. Very, very, VERY old. The few so-called 'dates' I'd been able to hook up weren't in the least bit fun and I'd found something to hate about every one of the women I'd seen, if for no other reason than their standards were low enough to be with my disgusting ass in the first place.

After my last particularly frustrating 'date', I made a beeline for the adult novelty store. I picked up a low-end blow up doll, the box photo showing a cute, busty blond in lingerie and fishnet stockings. “Do you have any black dolls?” I asked the clerk, who was sitting on a stool behind a sheet of plexiglass that was covered in smeary fingerprints. He looked at me, then at the box, then back at me and shook his head, a toothpick dangling from the corner of his mouth. “We outta dem,” he said.

I took Blondie home, put on some music and turned down the lights. As I was blowing her up, I saw a few problems right away, but I hung in there and let nature take its course. I tried to imagine that last woman I'd had dinner with, but it didn't help. Then I went through my usual list of fantasies, starting with Beyonce and ending with an old girlfriend I had who fucked like a rabbit and could give me an orgasm just by looking at me. After a twenty-minute hump, Blondie was flat as a pancake and I was sweating, spent from the effort but finally finished.

I felt stupid, but I slept like a baby.

It was the waking up part the next morning, remembering what I'd done, seeing Blondie flat and wrinkled next to me, her plastic flesh covered in a crust of dried semen that made a light bulb go off over my head. I knew I'd never touch her again. No, Blondie was just too damn artificial. I'd heard about those Real Dolls, though, and I knew that the technology was there for a much more realistic experience. I just didn't want an 'off-the-shelf' version.

As I showered and shaved, the gears in my head began to slowly turn. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I just might be able to make my own custom love doll. I mean, I'm pretty good with my hands, I think, and I have more tools than Norm the Yankee Carpenter. With a little research and some of that silicone they use for special makeup effects in the movies, I figured I could have my Real Doll my own damn way.

I put on a pot of coffee and fired up the Dell. My fingers were trembling as I tapped the words 'real doll' into a Google search...


Next Time: If horny is the mother of all necessities, and necessity truly is the mother of invention, then why the HELL hadn't I thought of this before?