That's right, I fess up. I'm just as big of an ass as any greedy politician, overpaid athlete or self-involved movie star that might previously have been featured here. I just don't get the press.

And you wanna know why I'm an ass?

The reason is simple: I let all of the bullshit in the world get to me. (And truth be told, it's fucking killing me one day at a time. It truly is.)

I let the bullshit get to me, and then I pass the stress it causes me on to others. I hate the neighbors. I hate their dogs. I hate their kids running around on my lawn. I hate. A lot. I walk around most of the time with a grim expression on my face, prop myself up with alcohol and porn, and basically just avoid as much direct contact as is practically possible with this horrible human race.

But in my defense, the bullshit is almost impossible to ignore sometimes. For example...

I was actually having a half-way decent week through the first couple of days, in spite of the fact that a rare bout of stomach flu floored me last Saturday with a left to the gut, then kept me down all day Sunday with an elbow to the solar plexus. I worked a little on Monday, and by Tuesday was again on solid food, my first meal back being one of the fabulous 'Lite Lunches' over at Del Mar - three thick slabs of meatloaf (including a chewy end piece), a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, canned green beans AND chicken noodle soup for a starter.

What makes that 'Lite'?, you ask. They only put gravy on the potatoes!

Anyway, I figured I hadn't eaten anything but yogurt and soup for two days, so why not have some mystery meat? It's probably just beef anyway. Maybe with a little rodent tossed in for texture.

Well, I couldn't quite manage to eat the whole plateful, my stomach having shrunk from not eating much the previous two days. I courageously put away all the meat, though, but I admit to being even more miserable than usual all night until it finally moved on through my system. As much trouble as it was, it made for a tremendously satisfying bowel movement the following morning. But I digress...

The next day, the big story on the news was how record-setting prices for rice have caused unrest and rioting in some of the poorer areas of the world, where a typical household might spend as much as 80% of their income on food alone. Speculation is that a continuing rise in the cost of food will quickly lead to millions more deaths from starvation in these areas.

The story went on to say that the higher prices are due not only to higher diesel prices, but also to increases in the staple's value on the commodities market, where speculators have bid up the price for futures, setting record highs for the grain more than a dozen times in April alone.

Despite the retail cost nearly doubling here in America, rice is still flying off the shelves. Some retailers have responded by placing limits on the number of bags consumers can purchase at a time (I heard three twenty-pound bags at Wal-Mart, which is a lot of fucking rice, by the way), and they're still selling out faster than they can stock the stuff because here in America we've decided to hoard it.

The report then showed video of the basement of a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco where the owners were storing what must have been hundreds of fifty-pound bags stacked along one wall, two deep, floor to ceiling.

In Africa they're rioting and starving. We lucky Americans are hoarding.

The very last thing the coldly beautiful brunette anchorwoman said was “Analysts say there is no shortage of rice.”

What? How can that fucking be?! How?!! How in the fuck can there be no shortage if the market is reacting like this? This isn't just a simple case of supply and demand, either, not unless you want to say that the people with all the money are 'demanding' all the 'supply'!

You mean to tell me that there's enough rice for some fucking Chop Suey joint in America to stockpile a year's worth, yet there's not enough to provide food for the hungriest people in the world?!! How on God's green earth can that possibly fucking be?!

The answer? Of course! The world runs on bullshit. Commodities futures?... bullshit. Supply and demand?... bullshit. This money-grubbing, all-for-profit, goddamn capitalist economy?... BULLSHIT!

So this week, becoming suddenly aware that poor people were starving somewhere because they couldn't afford rice while my stomach was tamped nicely over-full of ground cow meat here in America... well, the bullshit really got to me. Again.

If you people want to change all this, you better get OFF your fucking ASSES and go out and VOTE for BARACK OBAMA!!! HEY, all you people in INDIANA! And YOU, over there in NORTH CAROLINA!! WAKE THE FUCK UP AND GO VOTE FOR BARACK OBAMA!!

You know I got cheated out of my opportunity to vote for him in that fucked-up Michigan Primary, so please, do me a solid.

I want to be able to vote for him in November.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy three more bags of rice.

Misty's from Chicago. She likes it hard. From the rear. BBJ and CIM available. Compensation negotiable. No blocked calls. Sounds like my kind of girl.

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Nineteen: Remember the Alamo? Me Neither

It had been a grim and lonely drive to San Antonio, the wind whistling through the car from the broken passenger's side window, the spatters of Felina's blood on the seat and dashboard a constant reminder of her death. My rage and hunger for vengeance barely in check as I drove.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I hadn't even bothered to get a room. Once I'd arrived in San Antonio I'd come straight to the bar where my notes told me the original target would be hanging out. The M.O. on all of these gang creeps was the same: They spent half the day sleeping, rolled out of bed around noon, cut up the dope, made a few phone calls then sat around in their favorite dive waiting for the day's action to start.

I'd made the trip from Dallas in record time, had arrived at Elena's just as Happy Hour was getting under way. The tiny, ramshackle cement-block building was located on the service drive for the Loop in a not-particularly-upscale part of town. Across the street and under the freeway entrance ramp was an empty lot covered in knee-high, straw-colored grass. Broken bottles littered the cracked sidewalk.

The structure itself was a faded pink, the relentless glare of the Texas sunshine causing the paint to chip and peel in places near the corners. There was just a single car in the dirt parking lot, and a home-made plywood sign with alternating green and red letters that spelled ELENA'S was nailed next to the entrance. Strings of Christmas lights hung from the eaves all around the place and a pair of rusted fifty-five-gallon BBQ barrels sat at the end of the parking lot. I could smell the charcoal as I walked inside.

I sat in the middle of the bar and ordered a Tecate. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar and scarcely recognized the expressionless face that stared back at me with cold eyes. The burly bartender thumped the bottle on the bar causing foam to come out of the top. I put it to my lips and sipped.

“You must be Elena,” I said. He just looked at me, twitched his thick black mustache, peeled a five off the top of my stack of cash, then went back to his business. There were four people in the room besides me, three men and a woman, all Mexicans. None of them looked like the original target, but all of them could have been from the Gonzalez gang as far as I could tell. It didn't much matter to me who they were. I was planning on killing them all.

After two beers I ordered a Margarita, and was surprised at how delicately the bartender put the drink together, carefully placing the wedge of lime on the perfectly-salted rim before sliding it in front of me. I had just taken my first sip when the target walked through the door.

He was with a couple of cronies and they were laughing about something when they saw me sitting by myself and stopped. I put my thumb over the end of the straw in my drink to create vacuum, picked up an inch of the frosty green concoction, tilted my head towards him and slid the straw into my mouth releasing the fluid onto my tongue.

“Buenos tardes, amigos,” I said with a nod. They walked up to me, looked down without saying anything. The target, who according to my notes was named Manny Alvarez, sat down heavily to my left. One of his buddies sat on my right.

“Choo gotta lot of cojones coming in here, amigo” said Alvarez. “After what choo done.”

“So you do recognize me. I'm flattered. I didn't really have time to fix my hair this morning.”

Alvarez looked around at the people sitting behind me. I could see in the mirror that they all had expressions of surprise on their faces before cracking up laughing all at once. Alvarez patted me on the back. “Choo alright, my fren'” he said. “I gonna hate to keel you.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. I put my thumb over the straw in my glass again, created vacuum and pulled out another sip of Margarita. “I wish I could say the same.”

Instead of sipping the liquid from the straw, this time I made a swift motion with it, thumb still tight over the end, swung it in a sharp arc directly towards Alvarez's left eye. The edge of the plastic cylinder struck the inside of his nose, glanced off and I felt it slide deep into his eye socket, heard a sick squishing pop as it punctured his eyeball. Then I heard Alvarez scream.

By the time the others could react, I'd pulled the 9mm out of my shoe and begun emptying the clip methodically around the room, elbowing his buddy off the stool next to me as I fired. I put a round into the chest of the biggest guy behind me, then another into the girl. By then the others were starting to draw weapons of their own and I had to be more careful in the shot selection.

I heard a bullet whiz past my ear and shatter the mirror behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the bartender dive behind the bar to avoid getting hit. I squeezed a couple of rounds into the shooter and he fell sideways onto the floor clutching his throat. I was off the stool by then and moving across the room, swung the barrel around firing at Alvarez and his buddies.

By the time I snapped on an empty chamber, everyone in the room was lying on the floor, either dead or dying, and my ears were ringing like Notre Dame Cathedral at noon on Easter. I walked over and picked up one of the dead Mexican's pistols, turned back to the bar. “Hey, Elena! You want some of this?”

I saw the bartender's hand reach up from behind the bar, saw him wave surrender, then heard him squeak “Non, non, senor!”

I was just about to put a bullet through his palm when I heard the sound of hands clapping to my left. I looked over and saw a single figure standing just inside the entrance, rhythmically applauding.

“Bravo, Sherman. Well done.”

It was my Boss.



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
Read Chapter Seventeen
Read Chapter Eighteen

Marty Sherman:

I can't believe he's gone again.

M. Alan Pennywhistle:

I only saw him once when he was back this time.

Marty Sherman:

The guy that shot him claimed to be the 'Brother of God' and that Dirk was 'an imposter'. The world is full of crazy people. He's undergoing psychic evaluation to see if he can stand trial. I hope they put the bastard away forever.

Basil LaGargle (Regional Sales Manager, Borders Books):

Yes, there were death threats. We had stepped up security at all the book signings. I don't know what else could have been done short of canceling his appearances.

Marty Sherman:

Dirk was brave. Even though his life was threatened on a daily basis, he insisted on signing the books for his fans.

Zelda Dirkson (mother):

Imagine outliving your son... twice. It's horrible.

Lisa Dirkson-Dean (ex-wife):

I don't believe any of this bullshit.

The following poem is thought to be the last one written by Prof. Dirk Beat during his second life...

One Last Stroll Down The Hallway

Bare feet on worn & soiled carpet
A strip of midnight blue, tight pattern of ochre diamonds
Dancing through the center, pointing ever forward
Vomit stains, piss stains, sweat & blood
Numbered doors to the left & right
The corridor stretches to infinity as the numbers rise
From behind each closed door the sounds of life
Laughter, crying, moans of pain
Human voices in every language
Mixed with the screeching of birds
Howling wolves, frightened horses
Animal sounds of fucking & fighting

At the end of the corridor, a window...
Veiled, trimmed in the same midnight blue
As that stained carpet

I don't know about you
But I have a bucket of ice under my arm
Am searching for my room, number 13,666

The window glows a faint promise
I stumble forward, tiring of this stroll
Passing room after room

The ice is for the beer
I will never drink

-Prof. Dirk Beat

My Dear Lyzako,

The past twenty-four hours have been hell on earth for me. The stomach flu struck with a demon's vengeance early Sunday morning, squeezing my insides from the middle and roughly massaging my internal organs before forcing a torrent of liquid feces from large and small intestine alike. It also cruelly opted to empty my stomach of an ill-advised midnight snack of peanut butter and crackers.

At first I thought I'd be spared the pain and indignity of vomiting, but by my third trip to the bathroom inside twenty minutes I was driving the porcelain bus with gusto, simultaneously greasing my already-soiled underwear as I quickly lost what little control I had left over my bowels.

To add injury to insult, I somehow managed to throw out my trick left knee when I dropped down to vomit and afterwards had to hop on one leg back to bed, unable to put any weight on the joint without a severe and stabbing pain.

The rest of the night and all the following day drew itself down to a painfully drab routine consisting of: Sleep - ten minutes. Hop - one minute. Crap - five minutes. Hop - One minute. Repeat. By the time Sunday was over I was weak, dehydrated, fresh out of clean underwear and had worn the sole out of my right sock.

Since then all I've been able to swallow is yogurt and soup. I've taken on as much water as I can drink, tried to avoid work (as always!) and slept as much as possible, falling out around five this afternoon for my second three-hour nap of the day. Thankfully, several rounds of ice packs have made the knee marginally useful again.

I've been told that this twenty-four-hour bug has been going around, and few of my friends seemed surprised that I would have contracted it so late in the flu season. It seems abnormal to me, though; after all, it's practically summertime.

And since I've been in pain longer than a day, I'd like to know how long this so called 'twenty-four-hour' thing actually lasts, anyway. Forty-eight hours? (Almost a certainty at this point.) Seventy-two? (I sure as shit hope not.)

All I can do is hunker down and sweat it out, I guess. Tonight I managed to eat a fairly large portion of my own vegetable minestrone, thawed from last winter's Sunday cooking. Tomorrow I look forward to solid food again, maybe something fried.

And an Obama win in Pennsylvania!

Cheers and Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman

PS: Since these flu bugs always seem to attack in the middle of the night (can somebody explain why that is?), I've decided to adopt a new rule: No peanut butter after lunch. Ever. No matter how drunk or hungry I am. Just in fucking case. Trust me on that one, brother.

Because of the way this never-ending Presidential campaign has been covered by the press, I'd put every single political reporter and news anchor in America on the target this week if I could. Charlie Gibson just happens to get the nod because he was lucky enough to moderate the high-profile Democratic 'Debate' from Philadelphia a couple of nights ago.

And he has a turkey neck.

Amazingly, Gibson managed to get almost as much face time for himself as the two candidates got, even putting in the last word as he shamelessly joked with the studio audience afterward asking them for a round of applause for ABC News during the program's sign-off.

Applause? For ABC News? Are you shitting me?

Applause for Charlie Gibson? What for? For badgering and interrupting Barack Obama on several occasions while the Illinois Senator attempted to sincerely answer the question he'd just been asked? Or maybe for continuing to focus (along with his sidekick for the night - that talentless, smarmy hobbit, George Stephanopoulos) on the trivial issues of Obama's recent verbal miscues instead of running a true debate between the candidates?

It appeared to me as though Gibson and Stephanopoulos went out of their way to make Senator Obama look as uncomfortable as possible just one week prior to the Pennsylvania primary that will more than likely make or break Hillary's chance for the nomination. It was almost as if Bill Clinton himself had written the fucking questions and promised a pair of high-end escorts for the two of them afterwards.

God forbid Hillary and Barack should spend their debate time putting forth ideas on how they plan to fix the economy, end the war in Iraq and provide health care for every American citizen. Dull shit like that doesn't sell advertising. Sound bites do.

I suppose it's what America wants, though. After all, we're a lazy bunch of fuckers. It's ten times as easy to to be spoon-fed reasons why Hillary or Obama either one should not be President than it is for us to sit down and take into consideration how the candidates differ on specific points, then make an informed decision about who we think should be.

The entire event was closer to being a debate between Obama and Charlie Gibson than it was between the two candidates. And every single analysis of it that I saw when it was over chalked it up as a victory for Hillary.

And why in hell is the average, bitter, gun-toting, bible-thumping citizen of the United States so goddamned hung up about whether or not Senator Obama is in love with the fucking American flag? George W. Bush proudly wears his flag pin every single day while smiling right into the camera and continuing to rape that same average, bitter, gun-toting, bible-thumping wage-earner all the while making the richest five percent of the population (his supporters) even richer.

For Christ's sake, the devil himself could cover his tail, hooves and horns with the Stars and Stripes if he were so fashionably inclined. Does that mean he'd make a good President?

I'm fucking sick of the whole idea of patriotism. You know why? Because it's an antiquated concept that by definition logically leads to separatism, racism and blind loyalty to country, right or wrong. Don't you think the fucking Nazis thought they were being 'patriotic' when they rolled over Europe and Africa in the name of the 'Fatherland'?

Just remember folks, this 'Fatherland' of America was here long before us white folks arrived and took it from the people who actually lived here, slaughtering the majority of them in the process.

I know, I know. It's not funny, but it's true.

This week's Craig's List girl Shawntae, works out of the L.A. area as a private dancer and escort. Also known as the 'Head Nurse', Shawntae has a 'blow and go' special for only $50, and promises you won't find a better deal anywhere... from California to the New York Island... from sea to shining sea. God fucking bless America.

Dear Lyzako,

Greetings from the road!

Once again I find myself involved in another 'project' that has taken me far from the comfort and familiarity of home. Another day, another dollar, another shotgun blast through the fabric of my soul, as those bitter, gun-toting folks in Pennsylvania say. While I am unable to disclose the exact nature of my 'work', I can divulge that as I type this I am a mere stone's toss from the Mexico border, sitting in yet another drab hotel room, waiting for it all to be over and keeping my fingers crossed that I will survive.

All in all, I'd rather be painting.

It's colder here than I expected. Being in sunny southern California so near the equator in late spring I thought I'd be tank-topping and flip-flopping all over the place, but a chill in the air has required a light jacket and long pants much of the time. While not unpleasant, it's very similar to Motor City weather this time of year.

I can't complain, though. The Tecate and tequila are cheap here and the brown-skinned girls plentiful. I've fallen in love four times in three days, one girl hypnotizing me with her ass as she walked through the mall yesterday. I fell for that one without even seeing her face!

I had just finished my lunch of food-court Chicken Teriyaki, and was killing some time window-shopping when I spied her strutting along in front of me, that gorgeous tight ass attached to long, shapely legs, the whole shebang adorned in curve-hugging, gray pin-striped Capri pants, her slender and tanned bare ankles showing, her tiny feet in black pumps clicking across the tiles as her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back.

Since we were both headed in the same direction, I decided to follow her for a bit as she yakked away on her cell phone. I was absolutely mesmerized by her movements, her cat-like stealth and poise as she walked, perfectly placing those high-heel-clad feet one in front of the other as though she were a walking work of art, a statue of my ideal woman come to life, a too-short-but-gorgeous contestant on 'America's Next Top Model' for Christ's sake.

Unfortunately, I lost her when my cell phone rang and the 'job' required my immediate attention.

Tonight I'm easing the pain of that loss by swilling more Tecate, shredded wedges of lime cut with an extremely dull plastic knife squeezed into the cans. This Ramada has no room service and since the nearby dinner options include only Burger King, Denny's and convenience store pizza, I'm making do with a bag of pistachios and some chips and salsa leftover from yesterday's supper of fish tacos, rice and beans (which, by the way was the worst Mexican food I've ever eaten, including Taco Bell).

Hmm... It feels as though I'm rambling. I guess that I have no real message to convey this time out, no wisdom to impart (other than the fact that you can't always get a good fish taco even if you're less than twenty miles from Tijuana), no foolish confessions or humorous observations to make. I will say that when this new 'work' began to involve travel, the trips at first seemed like minor adventures to me. Now they just feel like work.

I can't wait to get home.

Very Truly Yours,
Marty Sherman

PS: Since I was actually in your time zone for the first time in six months, I attempted an after-nine o'clock call on my cell phone to you, even left you a rambling voice mail. I didn't realize until just a moment ago when I was thumbing through the channels that tonight is 'Hell's Kitchen' night. Understanding that you're a fan of the show (and that vulgar Scottish prick Chef Ramsay), I whole-heartedly forgive you for not picking up. Just so you know, though, if you happen to call back and I don't answer, I'll more than likely be in Hell's Toilet.

Another crazy week, eh? Between record-breaking oil prices and those fools running the government, is it any wonder that NASCAR drivers shoot junk? Is it really any wonder that I seek refuge in my basement with my precious porn? Beating the heck out of Lil Marty sure beats the heck out of being in the real world these days.

As promised, a couple of quick reviews of some recent items purchased from the 'Mature' section of Ebay...

First off, Angel Kelly stars in 'Black Voodoo', an integrated sex romp from 1987. The fact that the mailman delivered this gem on my birthday last week may have something to do with the fact that I loved it, but I'm sure it will stand up to a second viewing (as will Lil Marty, if you know what I mean).

Angel plays a white-turbaned fortune teller in this one (I think they called it 'Black Voodoo' because 'Black Palm Reader' didn't sound all that sexy), and it also stars first-timer Marisa Betancourt, who steals the show as the oversexed, leggy chick with a commitment problem (and a delicious overbite) who seeks out Angel's advice. She and Angel fondle and fuck a bunch of folks before winding up in bed together (of course!).

There are some great scenes at a small town carnival, where Marisa and her new guy ride the ferris wheel as a bunch of kids run by in the foreground. The use of real carnies (along with using an actual camera with film in it) gives this one a touch of authenticity. The story's enough to keep you interested between fuck scenes. Recommended.

Next up is 'Open House', which stars another of my favorites, Nina DePonca. I think this one's from 1989, but it's hard to tell because the fool who sold it to me just sent the tape, not even a generic cardboard sleeve for it. 'Whaaat?' you ask. 'No original box art, Marty?' What can I say? I'm slipping.

Anyway, besides Nina you'll see a few regulars from the era, including veteran porn star Sharon Mitchell, who's not as easy on the eyes as some of the other girls, but sure knows how to coax Mr. Load out of his hiding place, if you catch my drift.

The acting is awful, the script a waste of time and paper, and the direction (which often cuts back and forth between two sex scenes) is lackluster at best. At one point, sweet young Nina (this had to be one of her first movies) can be seen in close-up, the cue card held right in front of her face off camera as she painfully delivers each line. The goddamn card is so close it practically casts a shadow on the poor girl. You can see her eyes rolling back and forth as she mechanically and phonetically sounds out the individual words. Thank god she knows how to fuck.

It's funny because I recognized the house they used for location in this one from it having been used in a couple dozen other tapes I've seen. It must have been owned by one of the porn directors or something. I experienced severe deja vu when Nina got drilled on that open staircase, the steps covered in brown shag carpeting that at the time probably had enough different DNA samples in it to keep Matlock up to his neck in surprise witnesses for the next twenty years.

In the final scene, Nina gets it on in the bathroom, pushed into the corner against the grungy tile and dirty grout, eventually finishing the guy off with her patented 'two-fisted twister', this time delicately performed with chipped crimson nail polish, no fake tips, French or otherwise. I can only recommend this one if, like me, you're a fan of Nina's, but be forewarned: she doesn't show until the movie's half over. She's in every scene after that, though, and it's definitely worth the wait.

Hey, I know this is running long, but what else do you have to do, Mr. Fucking Important? Where you gotta be all of a sudden? Wall Street? It's raining here. I worked hard all goddamn week. It's Saturday morning and I'm gonna write. Who really gives a shit anyway? Did any of you spineless cretins out there have the guts to delete this blog when I gave you the chance? No. No, you didn't, so now you can just live with that decision or go to the next fucking blog.

What you should do is spend a little time with the links over there on the right. The ones that I've lovingly slaved over for months and months, carefully hand-selecting each as a prime source of Internet entertainment. Just for Y-O-U. Go ahead! Go click on something! Go on! Get outta here! Good riddance, ya bums!

Now, for the PIECE DE RESISTANCE! This third item is a brand-spanking new DVD that I also purchased on Ebay's 'Mature' page. I thought I got a good deal on the movie itself, which I gladly shelled out nine bucks for, but the shipping costs took the total over fifteen. Once I'd put it in the machine, though, and that mechanism whirred a preview onto the screen, I realized it had been money well spent.

Desiree West was one of the more famous porn stars from the seventies, and the first major black adult actress, appearing in dozens of films including 'Spirit of Seventy-Sex', the classic 'The Joy of Letting Go' and Alex de Rezny's 'Femmes de Sade' and 'The Pleasure Seekers'.

Sometimes credited as 'Patricia Lee', West had a screen presence and gift for performing that doesn't exist in today's porn industry. The camera loved her and the guys ate her up. She returned the favor, of course, expertly, repeatedly and with mucho gusto.

'Double D Soul Sister' is a current release of Desiree's best scenes compiled by Alpha Blue Archives, and it held me spellbound for... well, I didn't last long that first time, but it held me spellbound this morning for, um... well, I guess spellbound isn't exactly the right word. Shit, it's hard to stay spellbound when Lil Marty's standing at attention.

Simply put, Desiree West is the most mouth-wateringly beautiful woman who ever walked on the planet (sorry Pam), and watching this compilation actually proved to me once and for all that everything really was better in the seventies, including the porn.

You technology freaks shouldn't expect high def from this one, though, even if it is a DVD. The sometimes grainy footage has been salvaged from abused and rapidly deteriorating grindhouse projection reels, and it lends itself to the vintage feel of the clips themselves.

Desiree does it in every possible position, with men, with women... with men AND women... just oral... simple masturbation... black on black... oreo sandwich... double blumpkin... Nah, I'm just kidding with that last one. She's a sweet girl.

And the production value on all the clips here is incredible, even compared just to 'Black Voodoo' and 'Open House', which were made a mere decade later. In the seventies they used cameras and natural lighting a lot. The directors really thought they were making movies, and some of them made some fine ones, movies that stand up in terms of artistic merit as much as anything Scorcese ever directed. Except for 'King of Comedy' maybe. That one was fucking great.

Back then the directors weren't so enamored with having to constantly show the penetration, either. Not like they are now, anyway, even if it means we have to stare up the guy's hairy asshole while his testicles bounce and he humps away. They thought it was much more artful and erotic to sometimes simply just show the girl's face or her heaving breasts as she writhed in the throes of passion. And they were right.

Desiree could writhe with the best of them, by the way. And she really knew how to strip. Slow and easy, with a warm smile aimed right at me...ahem.

Nowadays when you rent an adult DVD all you get is a sequence of sadistic sex scenes that seem to last forever, the spotlights causing pale skin to glow, each scene ending with the obligatory, ubiquitous and not-always-welcome 'facial'. To top it off, the whole mess is usually shot from a camera attached to the horse-dicked dude's head.


Why, half the perverts in the movies today can't even get their nut like a real man. They actually have to pull out of some absolutely gorgeous babe (I've seen this!) and jack it themselves until I'm getting cramps just watching before they can shoot. 'Hell, I was in the room by myself and I've managed three times already, you homo!'

So run out and get this one. You won't be sorry. The extras also feature actual vintage trailers from some of Desiree's best films from back in the day! Enjoy!

I said 'Enjoy!' Hey, anybody out there? No?

Oh, well...

I was hungover the day the crates arrived, the delivery guy dumping them in the driveway after securing my illegible chicken scratch on the shipping receipt. I put on my robe and made a pot of coffee, then stumbled out into the daylight to check out the goods. It was a little after noon.

The boxes were heavy, so I grabbed my handcart and rolled them through the side door and down the steps to the basement. My blood was pumping pretty hard by then, the exertion helping to kill the hangover a little. I took a break and drank some coffee.

It probably would have been easier to open them outdoors then drag the girls inside, but I didn't want my neighbors to see what I was doing. Most of them already thought I was strange, and watching me carry a couple of faceless female love dolls into the house wouldn't do much to improve my reputation as an eccentric.

After fifteen minutes of pry bar work I had the first crate open. Right away I noticed that it was wearing a wig. I thought I had skipped the expensive hair piece in favor of buying my own here at the Korean Beauty Supply up on Eight Mile. I checked the shipper and the confirming order form. What I had was the standard wig, which was included. Apparently custom wigs were what really added to the cost. It didn't look bad, so I figured it was one less thing I had to do.

My aborted attempt to build a time machine a while back had left me with a box filled with small motors and gears that I was planning to adapt to the dolls in order to make them move more realistically in bed. They didn't need to do much, maybe just wave their asses a little.

I pulled the Jessica doll out of the crate, put her on the couch face down and stripped her clothes off looking for some kind of access door to her insides. By the time I had her naked, I realized I was sporting some major wood. My hands were trembling as I reached down and grabbed her ass. It felt good. Real good. And except for being a tad cold, it felt real. Really real. Five minutes later I was collapsed on top of her in a full sweat, my pants around my ankles, my rapidly sagging wood still inside of her.

Shit, maybe I don't even need faces on these bitches, I thought. But, no... I'd get tired of doggy-style at some point for sure, and that hole on her faceless head wasn't much of a turn-on. Nope, I couldn't take the lazy way out. They'd need the faces.

I had already ordered some silicone rubber online from a company called Polytech. They use the stuff in movies for special effects dummies. All I had to do was sculpt life-size likenesses of the girls' faces, make molds, fill them, attach the faces to the dolls, then paint and touch up. The tricky part was going to be getting the lips to fit over the hole for the mouth.

I wasn't sure how I was going to make the teeth, either. I wondered if I could carve them out of wood, then paint them white. No, too much of a risk for slivers. Maybe I could get a mail order pair of dentures over the Internet.

Suddenly I felt terribly overwhelmed. There was so much work to do I didn't know where to begin.

I checked the clock; it was a little after two. I poured myself a drink, pulled the Beyonce doll out of her crate, ripped her clothes off and gave it to her high and hard standing up.

I sure as hell wasn't tired of doggy-style yet.




Next time: Maybe I'd never get tired of doggy-style...

As much as I like my jazz, soul and blues, I can't help but go back to my roots once in a while. As a kid growing up we listened to a lot of country because that's what the folks on both sides of the family listened to. Sure, there was some Elvis, some Englebert Humperdinck, a smidgen of Mills Brothers and lots of Ink Spots, but most of the house parties at Uncle Bob's featured hillbilly music, and one of my favorites from way back then was Hank Snow, 'The Singing Ranger'.

And even though Hank was born in Nova Scotia (that's in Canada, friends), he was an honorary hillbilly from the beginning, becoming a member of the Grand Ole Opry and recording some of the best country music of the fifties and sixties.

In 1950, the same year he debuted at the Opry, Hank scored his first and biggest hit 'I'm Movin' On', which thrashed the other country singles of the time and stood proudly atop the country charts for a record 21 weeks!

But the song that everybody remembers Hank for is 'I've Been Everywhere', a rambling auctioneer-style account of all the towns that the singer/hitchhiker has traveled through. Adapted from an Australian song written by Geoff Mack, it first made the charts here in 1962 with a North Americanized version by Lucky Starr. Hank's cover shot to the top of the country charts and the tongue twister has been recorded by dozens of country artists since then, including a version by Johnny Cash which has recently been used in commercial spots for Choice Hotels.

As great as the 'Man In Black' was, though, his take doesn't hold a candle to Hank's definitive version.

Today's LP 'The One And Only Hank Snow' is also from 1962, and don't let the fact that it's on RCA's budget Camden label fool you. A VG condition mono copy like mine still fetches five bucks or more (I stole this one for a dollar a month ago), and in mint condition would sell upwards of $20.

The tunes here are all vintage Hank, performed when the old 'Singing Ranger' was at the height of his popularity and musical powers. Classic hillbilly instrumentation, too, with pedal steel, fiddle and geetar all backing Hank's quivering alto. 'The Wreck of the Old 97'... 'Hobo Bill's Last Ride'... 'Married by the Bible, Divorced by the Law'... 'Spanish Fire Ball'... 'The Drunkard's Son'... shoot, there's even a sweet guitar instrumental version of the classical tune 'Carnival of Venice'.

I have two favorites here, though: 'Unfaithful' and 'Old Doc Brown', the latter being a rhyming, spoken tearjerker set to church organ about a charitable doctor who died penniless.

'Unfaithful' is one of those classic country waltzes that combines the best of hillbilly fiddling with brilliant guitar picking and Hank's distinctive crooning, recounting the tale of a wicked lover who sleeps around on her hapless partner, who can't help being hopelessly in love with her, even though she's a slut. Give it a spin, you'll love it!

Hank went on to record over a hundred LPs during his long career, selling millions and topping the charts again and again right up into his sixties (he scored a country number one with 'Hello Love' in 1974 at the ripe old age of sixty-one) before eventually dying at home in Tennessee at the age of 85.

A member of the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Songwriters Hall of Fame and the Nova Scotia Music Hall of Fame (Who knew? I'm guessing they started it just for Hank!), Hank also performed for the troops in Vietnam and Korea.

Trivia: Hank was instrumental in launching Elvis' career, using the young Elvis as an opening act in 1954 before introducing him to the infamous Colonel Tom Parker. Snow and Parker co-managed the young rock-n-roller until Parker muscled Hank out and took over.

And that, my friends, is musical history.

Dear Lyzako,

I spent the first half of the first day of my fifty-first year in bed, sleeping off the celebratory drinking of the night before. The rest of my Sunday was spent yawning, eating leftover cake and napping, until finally I dozed in the glow of the waning April sun, curled up in the fetal position on the couch with warm, hazy sunshine bouncing off the hardwood floor and my twenty-five-year-old stereo tuned to Canadian radio - some jazz program playing twenty-five-year-old music.

From there to bed at nine and a night of fitful sleep.

This morning I'm right as rain, ready for the work week and the next fifty goddamned years.

I'm told that turning fifty is a life marker that calls for a thorough self-examination, a checklist of accomplishments and goals met against which we are to measure our failures and shortcomings. It's a time that often produces a 'mid-life crisis' in males, causing them to rush out and buy expensive toys like sports cars and fishing boats, or get hair transplants so they can fish for younger women. A few of us even get a little eye lift to help shave off some years.

I care nothing for cars whatsoever, haven't touched a fishing rod since I was fifteen, and even if I did enjoy the feel of rack-and-pinion steering and a tight gearbox, at this point in my life I could no more afford a new Porsche than I could afford a trip to the moon. As to the plastic surgery... I have always been fearful of doctors and don't trust them to do the simplest things, which happens to include adding hair to my growing bald spot and slicing skin from my face to reduce the effects of aging.

Since those options aren't available to me, I'm wondering what form my 'mid-life crisis' will take, if any? Simple depression, perhaps, with a deepening sense of failure as the years continue to roll by and I remain unable to take over the world as I'd planned to do when I was younger? That happens to everyone, right?

I'm just hoping that I can avoid the whole episode altogether, simply transition between 'early' life and 'mid'- life as though a mere day has passed, thereby avoiding that spectacular backwards glance to the past.

I have to say that my birthday soiree didn't exactly get me started on the right foot. I opted to fix dinner for a handful of my closer friends rather than go out as they'd originally planned. Jerk chicken on the grill, cilantro-lime rice and fried plantain were on the menu, along with a twelve-pack of Red Stripe and a fridge full of Blue as backup. I also made some fresh tomato salsa and a bowl of guacamole.

It got close to sixty here on Saturday, the warmest day of the year so far, but the sun sank quickly and the air temperatures added an hour to the cooking of the chicken, during which time I imbibed liberally and ate very little. I had primed the drinking pump early in the afternoon at BW3 with two tall Blue after a quick trip to Western Market to pick up a red onion and extra jerk sauce.

Once I was back home, I fried up the plantains, fired up the grill and started searing chicken flesh, all the while swilling Red Stripe. The chicken took a lot longer than anticipated - wasn't ready until nearly nine pm in fact, so I filled in the time prior to dinner by dragging out an old scrapbook and a couple of yearbooks from high school to entertain my guests and turn their minds away from their hungry, grumbling bellies. We continued to drink.

I must confess that I hadn't looked at the books myself in years, and was surprised at how many laughs the photos of me produced around the table. 'Look how skinny you were back then!' 'Ha ha! And look at those pants!' 'Where'd you get that tie?' 'She really wore that dress? Is she Amish?'

'Hey, I lost my virginity to that girl!' I protested. 'She was a cheerleader! See this one... there she is in her cheerleader uniform!'

After the books had been put away and I'd fed the crew, I made a trip to the basement in search of a Tom Jones LP as they laughed and conversed at the kitchen table. Unfortunately, I never made it past the futon, where I lay down with the intention of only taking a quick nap after being suddenly overcome with fatigue and drunkenness. I didn't wake up until they were gone.

They'd washed the dishes, put the food away, and I vaguely remember hearing goodbyes unless I dreamed them.

Hm, what's the point I was going for? Oh yeah, the yearbooks. They were still on the table when I woke up yesterday and I couldn't resist thumbing through them myself. I looked at the pictures of young faces, not just my own, but those of many of my classmates, most of whom I will never see again. I tried to imagine them as they are today, knowing how my mug has changed from the skinny, pimply teen with bangs to what I am now. I remembered seeing one friend at my twenty-fifth reunion a while back and not even recognizing her because she was absolutely obese.

Then I remembered an old yearbook I'd picked up at a flea market last year, from a Grand Rapids area high school, the graduating class of 1927. It, like the two that I have, showed teen-aged students in a variety of athletic and academic endeavors, along with posed shots of each student of each class from freshman to senior.

Unlike mine, however, someone had made careful notes in blue pen in the Grand Rapids High yearbook. Next to the photos of each senior, that book's owner had written the whereabouts of the person depicted in the photograph some forty-odd years later (I'm guessing the information was garnered from a class reunion of their own). In the case of a classmate who had died, the word 'deceased' was written below the photo in an elegant cursive hand, sometimes including the date of death.

There seemed to be more photos labeled 'deceased' than there were ones with addresses.

Since my yearbooks are going to turn into that one in just a couple of decades (I can easily imagine one classmate, Donna M. making very careful notes in hers at some point in the future, neatly penning 'dead' next to my photo with a sad tear in her eye), can you really blame me for wanting to look backwards instead of forwards?

Can you?

Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman

PS: Yours truly was also voted 'Most Likely To Succeed'!

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Eighteen: Nip? Tuck? Bang!

I sat in the wounded HHR for an hour before I picked up my cell phone.

Eyes closed, I daydreamed idly about being in my little brick bungalow back in Detroit, maybe napping in the basement. It seemed as though it had been a lifetime of hotel rooms and beatings since I was home last.

During that hour I also kept wondering how I could have allowed myself to get into such a fucked up situation as this in the first place, allowed myself to become an unwilling murderer in the name of vengeance and the Almighty Dollar. How in the world could goddamned Lady Luck finally drop someone right into my lap who I could stand to be with and who could stand to be with me, only to force me to watch her die right in front of my eyes? Felina. She'd died because I had stubbornly refused to give up my plan of revenge on the Gonzalez gang and head home right after this whole Dallas thing went down.

She died because I had allowed her to come with me to San Antonio.

It was my fault she was dead, and it was eating away at me.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Hello, Lee Masters speaking.”

“Hey, Lee...Amelie,” I said. “It's Marty.”

“Marty?”

“Say, I'm sorry to bother you at work, but Felina asked me to call,” I said. “She's not feeling well and wondered if you could come home and take a look at her then maybe call your doctor and see if you can get her in to see him. Maybe get him to call her in some antibiotics or something.”

“Felina's sick?” Lee's tone of voice displayed genuine concern.

“Yeah, she woke up feeling bad this morning,” I went on. “She's been in and out of the bathroom.”

“Let me talk to her,” said Lee.

“She just fell back to sleep, Lee. I think it's better if she just rested. We were planning on getting out of here tomorrow morning. I hate to impose even more, but can you just come home and see her?”

“I have a ten-thirty appointment,” he said. “Let me see if I can move that and I'll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks a lot, Lee.”

After I hung up my cell phone, I looked out the window across the parking lot towards the building where Lee Masters worked. I didn't know where his car was parked, but I figured I couldn't miss Lee once he'd come out of the building. He cut a dashing figure.

About ten minutes later, Lee strolled out through the revolving door wearing a beige linen suit and dark blue sunglasses. He headed for the east side of the parking lot, glowing in the full morning sun. I grabbed Hector's 9mm and angled towards him as he walked, ducking between the cars to avoid being seen. By the time Lee had unlocked the doors with his remote, I was squatting in front of the car parked on the passenger side next to Lee's black Audi.

As Lee slid behind the wheel, I opened the passenger door and hopped in next to him, shoved the pistol under his chin.

“What the...?!” Lee sputtered.

“Just shut the fuck up and listen to me, Lee. Or I swear on my mother's soul I'll blow your brains all over the roof of this sweet ride of yours.” He looked at me, sized me up. I could tell he was wondering if he could take me. “I know what you're thinking, Lee, and I'd strongly suggest you don't do it. I've had one fucked up day already and it's not even noon yet. I just don't see how it could possibly get any worse by shooting your pathetic ass.”

Lee's muscles seemed to relax a little. “Where's Felina?” he asked.

“Fair question,” I said. “First, though, I want you to put your hands very slowly on the wheel. Ten o'clock and two o'clock. Nice and slow.” Lee looked at me and complied. “Felina's dead.”

“You son of a bitch!” he yelled and started to turn towards me. I smashed him in the nose with the butt of the gun. Lee squealed and grabbed at his face as the blood began to rush from a gash across the bridge.

“I didn't do it, Lee. You did.”

“What?”

“Listen, you can save the routine. I figured out you must have contacted the Gonzalez people somehow and offered us up on a fucking silver platter. We were on our way to San Antonio this morning and they caught up to us before we'd gone a block. They pulled right up next to us at the light and shot Felina before I could get to my shotgun and kill them.” Lee looked shocked, but I could tell he believed me.

“They knew we were staying at your place, Lee. And I know you knew they knew. Because you told them.”

That's when he broke down and told me the whole story...

Once he'd found out why we were in trouble, he'd put two and two together, then put the word out on the street that he knew where we were. Word got to the Gonzalez gang of course, and they got back to him. He said they promised him that they just wanted me and that they weren't after Felina. “They offered me a lot of money,” he blubbered. “More than I've seen in a long time.” According to Lee the real estate game hadn't been going well since the subprime mortgage lending scandal and he was hard pressed to make the extra money he needed for a sex-change operation.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said.

“No, it's true! I swear! I've been seeing a psychiatrist and he's approved it and everything.”

“Lee, whatever shrink told you that you'd make a passable woman should have his license revoked.”

Lee's hands were back on the wheel as he looked at me red-eyed, tears streaming down his cheeks. I dropped the gun from under his chin and pointed it towards his crotch.

“Now I have a question, Lee,” I said. “And I'm going to again suggest rather strongly that you tell me the truth. I can smell lies.” He looked at me. I pressed the barrel of the 9mm into his bladder.

“Did it ever occur to you that what you decided to do by turning me in could also easily jeopardize Felina's health? Maybe even get her killed? In other words, did you really trust these murdering criminals to their word, or did you figure the money was more important... now listen to me very carefully... more important than the possibility that Felina might get hurt?”

“It was a lot of money!” Lee blubbered. My conscience eased for a second. It felt like a weight had been lifted from me and I was free to mete out the Lord's punishment.

“Well, Lee, that's not really a very good answer.” I looked at him. “But I thank you for your honesty. I think I can save a lot of that money for you, though.” I pressed the pistol harder and pointed it down at his cock.

“No! No! Please, No!”

I pulled the trigger.

Lee screamed.

Excerpt from an interview with the recently resurrected Prof. Dirk Beat...

Marty Sherman: So how was your first week back on earth?

Prof. Dirk Beat: It was fan-damn-tastic! I wrote more last week just autographing books than I had the last two years I was alive. The first time, I mean. You don't mind if I help myself to another drink do you?

MS: No, go right ahead.

PDB: And by the way, thanks again for letting me crash here. I've been so busy I haven't even had a chance to look for a place.

MS: Not a problem. Have you been surprised at all by the people you meet?

PDB: I love the people! For the first time in my lives I love people! It must have something to do with having seen what Heaven is like. Nobody annoys me anymore!

MS: Not even your ex-wife?

PDB: Hmm...You make a good point, but nah... She can't help it if she's a bitch. And I wish her all the luck in the world finding some rotten bastard that will put up with all of her bullshit. Sincerely I do. Honest.

MS: How about those book sales?

PDB: Can you believe they've sold out another printing, man? A lot of people at the signings told me they watched me on Conan last Tuesday and I was so funny they had to come get the book. I told them 'Hey, don't expect the book to be funny. It's poetry, man!'

MS: Before I forget, I'm sorry about all the money trouble. You know, not being able to get any because you're legally dead and the book rights are all in my name.

PDB: Don't sweat it. It's not your fault I'm dead. I have to take full credit for that one.

MS: Anything on the schedule, appearance-wise?

PDB: There's a few things cooking. I just got a new agent and she's really going to be keeping me busy. But in the meantime, I've scheduled a little Happy Hour meeting as of... oh... right now... with a couple of my favorite girls over at Hot Tamales. Care to join me?

MS: I have some stuff to wrap up but I can meet you over there in an hour or two.

PDB: My man! Hey, I'll need you to lay some dough on me before I go, though. I'm broke again.

MS: Will two-hundred work?

PDB: Better make it five. Mystery really likes her Moet.


Titled: beltiT

The wind predicts love!
The sun awake & laughing now
The earth a bowling ball of blood & mud
Skitters down the alley of the gods
Avoiding the gutter & last-second hooking
Right into that sweet sweet pocket...Wham!

STRIKE!

Fifty years later that same ball of mud wobbles a bit
As the wind howls & the sun scorches the sand
It reels from gutter to gutter before lightly
Striking the head pin a glancing blow & dying
Dead as a flattened skunk in the middle of the road

The new wind predicts the end!

The new wind predicts a new beginning!

The new wind blows a Yardbird song
It blows a Coltrane sonnet
A whispered Miles prayer

This wind blows a Monk sermon
It blows a symphony d'Ellington
A heartbroken Billie Holiday sigh

Before finally blowing a Satchmo belly laugh

Then again it predicts love!
The sun awake & laughing once more
The earth a bowling ball of blood & mud
Skitters down the alley of the gods
Avoiding the gutter & last-second hooking
Right into that sweet sweet pocket...Wham!

STRIKE!

-Prof. Dirk Beat

There are good movies and there are bad movies. We can all agree on that, and you'd think the definitions would automatically exclude one that had all the earmarks of a bad one from also being placed in the good category, but in the case of 'Paradise', you would be wrong, sir. Dead wrong. Don't misunderstand me. This stinker is no 'Gone With The Wind' by any means (or 'Gidget Goes To Rome' for that matter), but it is a movie with some good qualities, most notably the frequently shown naked body of a very young Miss Phoebe Cates.

'Paradise' separates itself from 'Gone With The Wind' in a number of key areas. Acting, directing and believability of the plot immediately leap to mind, as does the soundtrack, which plays like a ninety-minute Silly Symphony. I expected Porky to pop up at the end and go: “Th-thuh-thuh-th-th-thuh-that's All, Folks!” Instead, we get to hear Phoebe sing the sappy title song over the closing credits. You know what? Her singing was about on par with her acting.

I imagined her singing topless. It helped.

Just to show you how bad the rest of the cast is, Phoebe's the shining star here. Even Doc, the masturbating chimp comes off like Olivier compared to Willie Aames, the former child star of the TV series 'Eight Is Enough', who hams it up at every opportunity as Cates' costar and half-naked love interest.

Set in the middle east during the Victorian era, the plot involves two teens coming of age after a series of unfortunate events throws them together and on the run in the desert, fleeing an evil slave-trader who has already killed Cates' guardians and Aames' parents in a bloody attempt to grab Phoebe for his own personal harem.

Aames' manages to get past the horror and shock of witnessing the murders of both Mom and Dad surprisingly quickly by spying on a naked showering Cates, who's body glistens like a flesh-and-blood bomb pop ready to be licked.

Just as they're about to die, the pair stumbles across a completely uninhabited oasis on the ocean's edge (their 'paradise') where they decide to set up shop, and before you know it, the handy Aames has built them an entire compound out of palm fronds and branches a la 'Gilligan's Island'.

It is here that they meet their new best buddy, a devilish and clever chimp upon whom they bestow the moniker of 'Doc', in honor of Phoebe's recently-slaughtered guardian. They also get threatened by the bad guys, swim naked, and once they've figured out how the parts fit together, hump like bunnies until Cates gets knocked up.

'Paradise' came out in 1982, the same year that Phoebe famously showed her perfect perky boobs in the cult classic 'Fast Times At Ridgemont High', and just in time for Aames' career to sink like a cannon ball in quicksand after his 'Eight Is Enough' days. Aames' performance here even earned him a Worst Actor Nomination at that year's Golden Raspberry Awards.

By the way, Phoebe Cates is now forty-five and still looks fantastic.

I've read reviews that claim 'Paradise' is one of the worst movies ever made. Trust me on this one, folks, I've seen most of the worst movies ever made, and this one doesn't even come close. You can't ignore the nudity factor, the graphic violence and the 'R' rating that makes 'Paradise' a flawed but entertaining piece of film.

It kind of felt like I was watching a dirty Disney movie, whatever that is.

Speaking of dirty movies, I have a couple of vintage VHS tapes on the way that I snagged off the little known 'mature' section of Ebay... 'Black Voodoo' starring Angel Kelly and a rare, out-of-print copy of 'Open House' from 1989, featuring Nina DePonca. I can't wait! I'll fill you in on both of them as soon as they arrive.

Um, you better make that an hour after they arrive. Don't worry, I'll fast forward through the slow parts.