How about that Sharon Stone, eh? Still pretty doable for a fifty-year-old broad, am I right?

Too bad she just can't keep that pretty mouth of hers shut.

Earlier this week I was sitting in my hotel room in Buffalo swilling Yuengling Lager after a fifteen-hour workday when one of those Hollywood news shows came on. You know the ones. 'ET'... 'Inside Edition'...'Access Hollywood'... They all look the same to me, so I'm not sure which one I was watching at the time.

With a straight face and appropriate seriousness, the leggy blond reporter (dressed demurely in a sequined ivory evening gown) related the story of Stone's comments during a recent interview at the Cannes Film Festival wherein the actress speculated that the deadly earthquake which has so far killed nearly 70,000 people in China might actually be karmic retribution for the way the Beijing government has suppressed the poor, peace-loving people of Tibet.

All of Hollywood was shocked, of course, with several so-called celebrities chiming in that they thought Stone's comments were callous and inhumane. Dustin Diamond, famous for his role as 'Screech' on 'Saved by the Bell' reportedly responded by suggesting that Stone's “carpet doesn't really match her drapes” and that as punishment she deserved "the dirtiest fucking sanchez ever".

The brouhaha hubbub eventually led to Stone's Christian Dior ads being pulled from Chinese markets.

My question is: Who gives a shit what Sharon Stone says? This is supposed to be news? Wait a sec... that's two questions.

Believe me, though, if it weren't for the fact that the folks at Dior are worried they will miss out on their fair share of the growing skin creme and perfume demographic that's currently developing in China's new economy, they wouldn't give a shit either.

It seems to me that by making the idiotic comments of one washed-up Hollywood never-was who happens to have a nice bod and a pretty face worldwide news, the press has actually managed to trivialize this earthquake and the thousands of Chinese lives lost, not to mention the whole Chinese-Tibet thing.

After stating that she wasn't happy about China's treatment of Tibet, here's what Stone actually said: “Is that karma? When you're not nice that the bad things happen to you?” Judge for yourself, folks, but it sure sounds to me like another dumb blond was just trying to make sure she understood the definition of 'karma'.

And by the way, I've checked the stills from 'Basic Instinct' vee-eery closely; I'm pretty sure the carpet does match the drapes.

Speaking of karma... as coincidence would have it, that just happens to be the name of this week's Craig's List Girl. A full-time escort and part-time exotic dancer, Karma works out of Manhattan and promises that nothing but 'good things' will happen if you call her. No blocked numbers or emails. Rates starting at 250 cherries.

Dear Lyzako,

A pair of firsts for me this holiday weekend have left me pondering the value of life, the preciousness of the moment and how strange it is that we are forced to depend to such a great degree on the fickle winds of Fortune and the arthritic Hand of Fate.

Sunday saw the sun climb high in a cloudless blue sky with temperatures topping out around seventy, a cool relaxed breeze whispering a reminder that spring wasn't over. No sir, not yet. Still in all, a near-perfect gem of a day, made even more precious by the fact that it had fallen smack dab in the middle of the long Memorial Day weekend.

Early Sunday afternoon, after mowing the lawn for just the second time this season, I began the onerous and much-delayed task of cleaning out the garage - tossing trash from a winter's worth of minor toil and mistakes, then sweeping the pocked and stained cement as free of dirt and debris as possible.

At some point I glanced across the fence and noticed that the back door of the neighboring house was standing open, a notable observation on my part since the house has been vacant for months and currently sits in a state of foreclosure limbo. I kept an eye on the place for a couple of hours to make sure there were no contractors moving about, then, fearing that the structure might be targeted for stripping (copper, aluminum, etc.) I made a quick phone call to the police.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I live next door to a vacant house that's been in foreclosure and I was just working out in my garage and noticed that the back door was open. It's probably nothing, but I was wondering if maybe somebody shouldn't come by to make sure that it's not being stripped or something.”

“Have you seen anybody around the house?”

“No. I walked around the place and I'm pretty sure that nobody's there.”

“What's your address?”

“__510 Montego.”

“And your name?”

“Last name Sherman, first name Martin.”

“And what's the address of the house?”

“I think it's __496, but whatever it is it's just one house to the south side of me.”

“Oh, that's easy enough. We'll send somebody by when we have a car free. In the meantime, if you do see anybody over there, call us back.”

“Thank you.”

The above conversation took place as I sat at my desk in front of the computer. I was on hold for a few minutes prior to the dispatcher picking up, so I'd been idly checking on a couple of items I was bidding for on Ebay, the most historically significant being a lot of six Players magazines, folded and stapled inside one of them a large poster of Pam Grier nude. I had topped the sixth bid with a high-end offer of forty bucks and was currently in the lead at thirty-three even. I checked the time remaining; the auction would be over in less than an hour.

Just outside my office window, the neighbor's stupid little pug began her incessant obnoxious barking. I donned my industrial strength ear muffs and continued to check on the remaining items I had been watching.

In less than five minutes from the point I hung up the phone, I could hear muffled voices shouting to me from the other room, from the direction of the house's side door, which I'd left standing open due to the warm weather. By the time I'd pulled the ear protectors off, I could hear the voices were getting louder, more abrupt.

“Hang on,” I shouted, “I'm coming!”

When I turned the corner into the kitchen, ear muffs in hand, I was shocked to see a stocky, very young-looking cop aiming his pistol at me in a firing stance as he leaned through the kitchen door from the stairwell, his round head topped with a crew cut and sweat running down his forehead.

“Jesus Christ, man!” I cried. “What the fuck?! Jesus Christ!”

“Is this your house?”

“Yes, the house next door is the problem! Jesus Christ, man! Thanks for not shooting me!”

It didn't seem to bother either Starsky or his partner (who was standing right behind him as back up) that those ear muffs I was carrying could have easily been mistaken for a weapon, in which case a nervous Starsky quite probably would have put a slug into my chest from point blank range. I tried to explain to them that the dog was barking, which is why I had the ear muffs on, which is why I didn't hear them, but they just walked next door and into the back yard.

As I stood there watching, they tried the screen door and found it latched. Starsky looked at me. “It's locked,” he said. Hutch shrugged his shoulders.

“But the inside door's open, right?” I asked.

Starsky nodded. “This one's latched, though.” Hutch shrugged again. And they left.

First Number One: I had a loaded gun aimed at me in my own house.

Just before noon on Friday I got a phone call from a friend that I hadn't seen in some time. He was thinking of heading my way and meeting me for lunch and he wondered if I was interested. I was still in my shorts, hadn't showered, but I was looking for a good reason to take the rest of the day off and get my holiday weekend started so I readily agreed.

Joe arrived carrying a red cooler bag which dangled by a strap from his hand. “I brought you something,” he said. “If you want it.” Joe tossed the bag onto the counter next to the stove and unzipped it to reveal a beautiful live lobster weighing in at about a pound-and-a-half. “I just got back from Maine,” he said. “I brought back fifteen of them at $7.99 a pound. What do you think?”

“Do you mean do I want it? Shit yeah,” I said. I'd never cooked a live lobster before. “I've never cooked a live lobster before,” I said. “I'll have to cook it tonight, right?”

“It should be good for another day or so, but I'd cook it tomorrow. Just keep it in the refrigerator.”

We put it in my soup kettle, slid the kettle into the fridge and I drove us downtown for a fresh and simple Mexican lunch at Senor Lopez. Dos cervezas each, the sun shining into the south-facing window, the traffic floating by on Michigan Avenue and that shapely waitress scurrying about issuing her “Ev'ry'ting hokay?s” at three-minute intervals while her skin-tight designer jeans spoke silent volumes in a language every heterosexual man in the world understands.

Saturday, I ate lobster.

First Number Two: I boiled a live lobster, then grilled it over hot coals as I drank beer and the sun sank, before devouring the savory mess as I sat at the kitchen table just five feet from where that thick-necked ape of a cop would nearly shoot me the very next day.

The contrast between the two 'Firsts' is astonishing, I think. Especially noteworthy is the fact that the two events fell less than twenty-four hours apart. It made me think long and hard about the nature of luck, which in turn made me feel completely impotent and helpless when forced to contend with the luck of nature.

Like the lobster, who one minute was more than likely napping in the cool dark confines of his new-found home in my refrigerator before being suddenly thrust to die in a pot of scalding water, I, too, was to be caught between a moment of relative comfort as I sat on a beautiful sunny Sunday in my own home and a sudden moment where death loomed, a trained marksman aiming a pistol at my chest and looking for a reason to squeeze the trigger.

Luckily for me, that overzealous cop didn't flinch. But I figure that even if he had, I still would have been a little lucky this past weekend.

Suppose he had shot me yesterday and I hadn't survived. Well, at least I would have died with lobster remnants in my digestive tract. The first live lobster I'd ever cooked!

Regards and Happy Holiday!
Marty Sherman

P.S. I won those magazines, by the way. I'm off on a work trip this week, but by the time I return on Saturday they should be folded in half and ham-handedly jammed into my mailbox by my friendly neighborhood postal carrier. I'm trembling with anticipation.

GRILLED LOBSTER A LA SHERMAN

Best as a dinner for two, you can always serve this up as one big lobster boil at a party. Rent or buy one of those propane-powered turkey fryers and fill it with water instead!

Two 1 1/2 - 2 lb. live lobsters
Two or more large potatoes
Vegetables for grilling (use any or all of the following: zucchini, squash, asparagus, onion)
Two or more lemons
One-half stick salted butter
Olive oil
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper to taste

-Bring large kettle of water to boil, add 1/3 cup sea salt per gallon (or use sea water)

-Keep live lobsters in refrigerator until just prior to boiling. Snip rubber bands from claws with kitchen shears then drop headfirst into boiling water, using tongs as necessary to move them once they're in the pot. Boil 15 minutes per pound.

-Remove from boiling water to cool. Start coals for grilling.

-While coals are getting ready, microwave potatoes five minutes or until cooked through but still firm, cut in quarters

-Prepare vegetables by cutting zucchini or squash into halves lengthwise. Leave asparagus whole trimming tough skin at base of stem. Marinate all (including potatoes) in olive oil, salt and pepper to taste.

-Using sharp chef's knife, cut lobsters in half lengthwise along the line down the back of the shell, crack claws, brush with butter, drizzle with lemon juice, add salt and pepper to taste.

-When coals are hot, move all to one side and grill the vegetables evenly. Move vegetables to cooler side of the grill when done, then place lobster halves over hot coals shell-side down, basting with melted butter. Grill ten minutes.

-Baste lobsters a final time with butter then turn flesh side down. Grill for five to ten minutes until shell is bright red.

-Serve immediately with lemon wedges and ice cold beer.

A messy repast, I recommend that you and your significant other forgo the bib option altogether. Simply put down a plastic tarp, strip down naked and let the glorious juice fall where it may!

I went for a walk this morning.

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and the dogs were barking. Big fuckers, too, with deep voices that trotted behind privacy fences and followed me down the sidewalk.

I gave up counting the houses I passed that were for sale after the number reached forty. Not because I ran out of fingers, toes and moles, either, but because it began to depress me. On some blocks nearly every other house had a real estate sign drilled into the front lawn and who knows how many more are just sitting there in a state of foreclosure with no sign, like the one right next door to me.

It really hampered my ability to enjoy the fresh spring air.

I just hope those fuckers in the mortgage business who made money hand-over-fist over the past decade writing ridiculous loans in order to get poor saps into houses they couldn't otherwise afford because of an artificially inflated real estate market are in the same situation.

No, check that. I hope they're dead.

* * * * * * * * * * *

My normal Friday hangover this morning was multiplied tenfold by the fact that I sat for three hours watching the Pistons beat the Celtics last night in a cramped bar filled with cigarette smoke. The foul air took my breath at times in spite of the fact that the manager opened windows in the front of the place to let in some breathable oxygen. It clogged my sinuses, robbed me of appetite and left me with a crushing headache when I woke up.

When in the fuck is Michigan going to get on board with this public smoking ban? Political pundits say the casino and restaurant lobby is too powerful (which means they have enough money to buy key votes from greedy local politicians). Some worry (mostly the owners of bars, restaurants and casinos) that it could inflict even more damage on an already decimated local economy.

Currently a bill that bans smoking from bars and restaurants (although not casinos) has passed the House, but there's still some opposition (from greedy politicians taking money from the owners of bars, restaurants and casinos, of course) and it could die in the Senate.

Ironically, as I passed a gas station on my morning walk, my head still throbbing from pressure created by the smoke-swollen tissue inside, I noticed a sign in the window that read: NEW LOWER PRICES ON CIGARETTES. Regular was $4.09. Compared to that, a five dollar pack of smokes doesn't seem all that expensive.

Not unless it's fucking KILLING you.

One asshole sitting at the bar last night lit fag after fag and basically just held them up next to his head while he drank, the insidiously poisonous plumes seeking out tender pink lung tissue. Like mine.

I hope he's dead this morning, too.

* * * * * * * * * * *

On a related topic... The whole reason for me having to go to a public place to watch the game last night was the fact that I refuse to pay for cable (or any other television service) and the games are no longer available on broadcast television after the first round of the playoffs.

I guess we're lucky here in Detroit to see as many Pistons games for free as we do, because as I understand it, many NBA markets are pay-only airings. But if you're a Redwings fan, it's another story. Unless you can get the Windsor CBC affiliate on Channel 9, all regular-season games (except for a handful of late-season broadcasts on NBC) are pay-only broadcasts either on the FOX Sports Network or VS and you must subscribe to something in order to watch them. Even then, not all local cable packages carry VS, which has become the home of national NHL broadcasts.

If I'm not mistaken, many of these sports arenas today are built with the aid of either direct or indirect local public funding, often in the form of long-term tax abatements. Shouldn't that same local public be able to see the games with no more technology than fucking rabbit ears?

I'm telling you, when they figure out how to charge us for air, they will. I'll bet somebody's already working on that.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Speaking of local television, there's a hot topic of gossip in these parts that I want to share with you...

I look at the Tracksy numbers every day and I see what you people come to the site to check out (and yes, I know it's not Misc. Rants and Raves).

When Almost Okay pops up on Google, the number one search is for... TA DAAAAH! You guessed it. Porn. You know, something like 'nina deponca + shaved'. I think we're in the top ten on that one.

But number two on the list of your perversion-driven search engine inquiries is folks wanting to know whether or not our two local news anchor babes Rhonda Walker and Fanchon Stinger are getting divorced. I have the answer, but you have to keep this one under your collective hats.

Promise? Okay, here goes...

A local media insider told me that not only are they BOTH getting divorces, but they are in fact LUSTY LIPSTICK LESBIANS who plan on leaving their current jobs to partner in their own news website, co-anchoring taped daily world news broadcasts completely in the NUDE while they KISS each other's LUSCIOUS LIPS, LICK each other's FLAWLESS BROWN SKIN and nibble each other's PERFECT, ERECT NIPPLES!

And they're gonna get Ama Daetz to do the weather!

A month went by. The silicone rubber had arrived within three days of my opening the crates, but I hadn't even touched the stuff. The box was still sitting on the kitchen table. In the sink and along the counter were piled three weeks' worth of dirty dishes, stacks of mail, empty cereal boxes, beer cans and water bottles.

For thirty days I'd done little else but take turns plugging Jessica and Beyonce from behind. I'm a lazy cuss by nature and I figured as long as I was happy with the status quo, why bother with the faces? Every time I sat down and took a close look at the holes in their heads, thought about what I'd have to do to actually bring the faces to life - the sculpting, the molding, the finish painting... well, I just got overwhelmed.

So I did nothing.

Except buy more K-Y, of course. They were starting to look at me funny at the CVS, so I went across the street to Rite Aid and bought a case of their generic. I figured once that was gone, I could go across the other street to Walgreen's and get another case. By the time that was gone, I could go back to CVS, where they would have stopped wondering what the fuck I was doing with all of the lube in the first place.

Beyonce was my favorite. Even though the vagina holes were exactly the same, her ass was a little thicker than Jessica's and I liked smacking it while I humped away. One day, while I was banging away on Beyonce I happened to look across the bed and see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors, see the sweat pouring off me, see poor Beyonce's blank face and that ugly mouth hole. Immediately I went soft.

I pushed Beyonce aside, tried to rid my mind of the image of her face, then pulled Jessica out of the closet. I propped her up with a pillow under her stomach, pulled up her dress, massaged her rubber ass cheeks as I softly cooed her name. “Jessica, baby...” But nothing happened. For the first time in a month of six to eight sessions a day, I couldn't get it up.

I guess I finally was tired of doggy style. I decided right then and there that I wanted the whole package, and since Beyonce's ass felt so good, I was going to start with her, make a whole woman of her. I was ready for some missionary, maybe a little oral.

And for that, my friends, I'd need some lips.

Fueled by coffee and lust, I worked nonstop for three days, gathering reference material before diving in with the modeling clay. I had clay under my fingernails, in my ears and up my nose by the time I had a reasonable facsimile of Beyonce's face finished. It was about time I put my education to use, I thought. Before that moment I'd always figured that the clay modeling course I took as a freshman in Junior College to fulfill a humanities requirement was a complete waste of time.

After making the mold, I read the instructions on how to mix the silicone. It seemed easy... Equal parts of 'A' and 'B', then a spoonful of activator. No problem.

My hands trembled with anticipation as I poured the liquid into the top of the mold and waited for it to set up. The waiting wasn't easy. While Beyonce's face was hardening, I pulled both dolls out and gave them a good cleaning, soaped them up nice and wet, carefully washed the skin with a cloth, cleaned out the vaginas.

As my fingers moved in and out of Jessica's opening, I realized I was getting aroused. I hadn't had any of the good stuff in nearly a week and now here I was hard as a hammer with another hour to wait before Beyonce's face would be set up.

I went over to the mirrored closet doors, lifted them from their tracks and lugged them out to the trash, then rushed back inside, threw Jessica across the bed and mounted her from behind, the soap still slick in her screw hole. I fucked her like I'd just got out of prison, hard and fast and rough.

She didn't complain.

I looked at the clock on the nightstand. There were still fifty-five more minutes before the silicone would be set up, so I picked up Beyonce, stacked her on top of Jessica, spread her legs open and dug in again.

Even though I'd just rung the bell with Jessica, I was stiff again within seconds. I slapped Beyonce's ass as I thrust away, and with the sight of my sweat dripping onto her rump, wetting those gorgeous cheeks and streaming down to puddles on the mattress, I exploded in no time.

I stood up, caught my breath and looked at the clock. I still had fifty-two minutes to kill.




Next time: So that's why they call it 'head'!

My Dear Lyzako,

Summer is taking its sweet time arriving here in southeast lower Michigan. Just this morning I was forced to fire up the furnace so that I'd have comfortable showering conditions, the indoor temperature just fifty-eight degrees upon my waking. Our overnight low was in the forties.

It seems to me we're long overdue for a hot and muggy day, but as slow as Mother Nature has been in providing one this year, I've been even more snail-like in making the transition myself. I feel as though I'm still solidly stuck in those Winter doldrums, the gray sky depression, the three-layer clothing blues.

Yesterday, despite forecasts of clouds and rain, we had extremely pleasant weather. Sunday turned out to be a glowing day with abundant sunshine and deep blue sky, shaving cream piles of clouds hurtling by overhead only occasionally blocking Ol' Sol's smiling warmth. It was still uncharacteristically cool, though, with a high that barely notched sixty.

Just a week prior to Memorial Day, when the grilling season officially begins, I decided to take advantage of what may have been the last cool Sunday until Autumn to make a big pot of chicken mushroom noodle soup and some spaghetti. Cooking always bolsters my spirit and yesterday's time preparing the upcoming week's meals was no exception.

As the sun fell to a height just above the trees its rays slanted into the front of the house, lit the living room floor and walls with golden rectangles of warmth and tossed a bright, lemon-yellow hello on the south wall of the kitchen, the light tempered only slightly by half-drawn slatted blinds.

I put on the new Erykah Badu CD and commenced to cook, pretending I was appearing on one of those Food Network television shows, going so far as to narrate aloud my method as I worked. It felt silly at times, the narrating, but it lightened my mood. Alone in the kitchen my chuckles increased as the beer flowed. At times I even imitated Julia Child's thick gurgle. As goofy as it felt, it helped with my timing, the soup finishing just as the pasta sauce (my own version of puttanesca) did, the spaghetti cooked perfectly al dente.

In the waning sunshine I chopped, diced and sliced, even swept the black-and-white checkered linoleum free of the larger food crumbs and debris between stirs of the sauce. The dishes that had been collecting in the sink all week and smelling more like vomit each day were washed and I had an overall good feeling about life in general by the time night fell.

Unfortunately, due to frequent tasting and constant (though moderate) beer drinking throughout the course of the afternoon, I had little appetite once the food was finished, managing to eat only a half-plate of the pasta prior to punching out for the day at nine.

I freezer-bagged two quarts of the soup and enough of the sauce for an easy meal or two some time down the road, boxed the rest up and put it in the fridge. For lunch today I had some of the soup, my own recipe, the button mushrooms adding an earthy touch to what otherwise would just be your standard chicken noodle.

The sunshine continues today and I feel as though I may have turned a dark corner, finally emerging into daylight from a too-long night of dreamless sleep. It's about time I woke up, too. About time I shook my mane and roared again.

But first I think I'll take a nap.

Regards,
Iron Chef Sherman

SHERMAN'S EASY PASTA ALLA PUTTANESCA (WHORE'S STYLE) CON VONGOLE

One large can tomatoes - diced, whole or crushed
One-half cup olive oil
One can chopped clams
Two tins flat anchovies in oil
One-half cup flat Italian parsley, chopped, divided
Four large cloves garlic, minced
Crushed red pepper to taste
One tbsp. dried oregano
One tbsp. dried basil
One-half cup ripe olives, pitted and rough chopped
One pound pasta of choice
Two tbsp. capers (optional)
One or more whores (optional)

For sauce:

-Add olive oil, the packing oil from the anchovies and garlic to cold skillet. Turn heat on high.

-Wait until the garlic scent blossoms then add tomatoes. If fresh plum tomatoes are used instead of canned, quarter each and remove seeds, then dice.

-Add olives, capers, oregano, basil, half the parsley and a heavy pinch of crushed red pepper.

-Partially cover pan and turn heat down to medium.

-Cook for a half hour, stirring often.

-Drain clam juice into pasta water and add clams to sauce. Add anchovies, another pinch of red pepper and the balance of the parsley.

-Finish with a long drizzle of olive oil.

For pasta:

-Add clam juice to four quarts boiling water. Add a tlbsp. of salt, pasta. Return to boil.

-Follow package directions for cooking time, setting timer thirty seconds short of time on box. For example: If directions indicate 5-7 minutes cooking time, set kitchen timer for 4:30, then check for doneness.

-Drain and toss with as much sauce as needed to coat.

-Serve with freshly-grated Parmesan or Romano cheese.

Note: The capers really add something, but if you can't find them easily or don't want to spend the extra money, simply leave them out. I do it all the time, and if you're serving this to kids, they'll just pick the little green buggers out anyway. You might even want to experiment with using half and half green and ripe olives. Whatever you do, though, use good olives with the pits still in them (of course removed prior to putting in the sauce, stupid), NOT the canned California variety.

If using fresh clams, allow five minutes cooking time at the end for them to open, discarding any that remain shut.

If you want to get fancy, you can have the whore(s) undress and eat it right off bare boobs, stomach or ass, but you'll probably have to pay her/them extra.

Up until today I had no idea who to target as this week's ass of note. I had a sneaking feeling, though, that if I waited long enough good old George W. would open his stupid mouth and it turns out I was right.

Early today during a speech before Israel's legislative body on the occasion of celebrating 60 years of the Jewish state's independence, Bush used the opportunity to take aim at probable Democratic presidential candidate Barack Obama. Instead of just saying something like: 'You Jews are nice' or 'We Americans like you Jews' or 'Congratulations on sixty years', Bush decided to attack Senator Obama's statement that he would welcome open discussions with America's enemy states, including Iran, who also happens to be a sworn enemy of Israel.

Of course, the very idea of the United States buddying up to the Iranians scares the bejeezus out of the Jews, who live just a nuke lob away from Iran. Our fearless leader also compared Iranian President Ahmadinejad to Hitler and likened the current developing situation in the Middle East to the early stages of World War II, which also didn't help in the 'scaring the bejeezus out of the Jews' department.

From what I understand, there's a sort of unwritten code of ethics (which surprised me because I thought ethical behavior was the first thing you needed to discard in order to become a politician these days) that involves not using a neutral platform on foreign soil to promote a partisan agenda.

While Bush's speech writers were careful not to actually use Obama's name, the intent was clear as to whom he was referring. The statements brought mixed reactions from the Democrats back here at home, Obama obviously taking issue with Bush's characterization that as President he would be willing to 'talk with the terrorists'. Most Democrats thought the statements outrageous, Nancy Pelosi going so far as to call Bush's words 'beneath the dignity' of his office.

McCain chimed in on the Republican side by criticizing Obama's inexperience and calling the Illinois Senator 'naive' in his approach to foreign policy.

First off, I don't see how Bush (or McCain either, for that matter) has got a lot of room to criticize anybody on foreign policy. Hasn't it been this administration's miserably failed foreign agenda that has put us in the position of having to continue to be involved in a bloody, expensive and unwinnable war in Iraq?

A dumb-ass, Bush truly is.

And it's not surprising to me that he would play dirty to get another Republican in the White House, even if it is John McCain (who doesn't seem to have all that much on the ball himself, in my opinion). After all, George W. has lied repeatedly over the past eight years in order to further the evil Republican agenda. Should we expect the stupid, lying, evil bastard to stop now?

Oh well, at least they're not talking about Hillary anymore.

By the way, if you want to restore some dignity to the office of the presidency here in the United States, you'd better vote for Barack Obama.

Our Craig's List Girl this week is from Oklahoma City, where the 3.2 beer flows like water on Sundays and Delilah runs her $40 car date special from noon to midnight. BYOB - NO BBBJ – NO CIM!

SEVERAL DEATHS IN
THE FAMILY
Chapter Twenty: The Boss, The Bartender & Me

Boss and I walked over to the end of the bar and sat down, careful not to trip over the two dead Mexicans on the floor.

“What'll you have, Sherman?” said Boss. “I'm buying.”

“Beer and tequila.”

“Hey, Jose! Give my man a cerveza and a shot, and I'll have... Hmmm... Do you know how to make a Long Island?” The bartender nodded. “I'll have a Long Island then. And why don't you put the 'CLOSED' sign in the window until we can clean this mess up, okay?” The bartender nodded again.

“They don't like to be called 'Jose', just so you know,” I said.

“Listen, Sherman, the dude's name happens to be Jose.”

“Oh.”

Jose brought the drinks over and I dumped the shot back, took a long pull of the beer. I noticed that my hands weren't shaking in the least, which surprised me. I guess I was getting used to killing people. Boss stirred his drink, took a sip, then winked at me.

“Tasty. That Jose sure knows his drinks.” I nodded and shrugged, took another swig of the beer.

“So let's cut with the bullshit,” I said. “Why don't you just tell me what's going on.”

“Well... It's a little hard to explain, actually,” said Boss. “I guess I have to admit you were right at the beginning. I knew they were planning on killing you.” I looked at him again. “Hey, it was just business. Nothing personal, you know. I was pulling for you all the way. That much is true.”

“How'd you know I'd be here today?”

“Actually, I've been in San Antonio since right after you left those two dead drug dealers in that house a week ago. This was the last place left on your original itinerary - even if you were doing everything out of order. You'd done some damage in every other city on the list, so I figured you'd show up here sooner or later once you'd been to Dallas. What took you so long?”

“They beat the shit out of me and I needed some recovery time.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that's good news. Until I got the call this morning, I thought you might have crawled off somewhere and died. Ha ha ha.”

Boss took another sip of his Long Island, looked around at the filthy room, squinting in the dim light. “Now this is what I call a dump,” he said. A pause, then: “Here's the deal, Sherman. When this contract came in, the boys upstairs figured it was too good to pass up. Some of those guys had never really trusted you no matter how much I defended you. I guess they figured that now that Gonzalez wanted you dead and was willing to pay to set you up, they could give you your pink slip so to speak, and make a little dough on the deal besides. It just landed in their lap.”

“Eighty grand?”

“Exactly.”

“Seems to me I should be worth more like two-fifty.”

“That's funny, Sherman! Anyway... Say, do you need another beer?”

“I think I'll have another one of Jose's delicious Margaritas.”

Boss snapped his fingers. “Hook the man up over here, eh Jose? Uno Margarita por favor.”

“So you were saying...”

“Oh, yeah. Well, the longer this dance went on, the more admiration those same guys upstairs developed for you.”

“No shit.”

“Truly no shit. By the time I was getting ready to come down here, they'd decided that maybe you were a little too resourceful to just kick to the curb.”

“But you let those guys come in here and try to kill me.” I hooked a thumb at the raw meat decorating the floor.

“Hey, we still had a contract, you know? I did try to talk the fools out of it, but they just wouldn't listen.”

“This is pretty hard to believe.”

“Think about it, my man. You go out and take on this entire gang of bad boy Mexicans and come out the last man standing. Who wouldn't want you on their payroll? I'll be damned if it didn't play out like some goddamned Clint Eastwood movie or something. Ha ha! Sherman, I knew you had it in you.”

“It's funny, but Gonzalez actually offered me a job, too.”

“You don't say.”

“Yeah, back in Dallas. I turned him down.” My mind wandered to the image of that blood-soaked room, the two lifeless corpses, the lump of nose flesh in my mouth, the taste of blood on my tongue. I shivered, took a sip of my Margarita. “So what now? I mean after we get rid of these bodies?”

“Oh, the bodies are already taken care of. We've got a couple of cleaners headed over and they should be here any time. As to your future... What do you think about a promotion?”

“Promotion to what?”

“They're looking for someone to head a West Coast office out of L.A., believe it or not. And they were so impressed with you - at least they will be once I tell them how you've finished it up here in San Antonio, that they decided to offer you the position.”

“Hmm...What about the eighty grand?”

“That's pocket change compared to what you'll be making! But I told them you'd want it so it's been sitting in a brand new account under your name since Monday. In fact, I think I have the card...” He pulled out a brown, calf-skin billfold, reached inside and handed me a debit card. “There it is. So what do you say? They're kind of expecting a call so we can set up a meeting. You know, talk to you a little about the new job and all. They know I came into this dive, but they don't know yet whether you'll be walking out.” Boss pulled out his cell phone and held it up.

I looked at the card. It was yellow with an orange logo on it, my name embossed across the face. “Okay,” I said. “I guess it can't hurt to hear what they have to say.”

“Great! I'll call them right now. Excuse me a sec.” Boss got up and walked to the back where the door to the john was, looked around the room, opened the door, then went inside. Jose eyed me warily as he stood over in the corner behind the bar.

I finished the Margarita and held up my glass. “Uno mas?” I said.

By the time Boss came out I was one sip into the fresh drink. As he sat back down I stirred the concoction a bit with my straw while I licked the rim salt from my lip.

“It's all set,” he said. “You're on for Monday morning, first thing. They're dying to meet you.”

“You got me a plane ticket?”

“Right here in my pocket,” he said, tapping the breast of his jacket.

I let out a tired sigh. “You know the more I think about it, Boss man. I guess I could use a promotion.” I dipped the straw into my drink, held my thumb over the end to create a vacuum. “But if it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather have your job.”

“Ha ha ha! That's good, Sherman! My job!”

I swung the straw in a short arc, thumb clamped hard over the end, caught Boss square in the left eye, my aim a bit better than was the case on my first attempt with the Mexican earlier. The eyeball popped audibly and a warm, clear fluid gushed over the back of my hand. Boss reached up and pulled at the straw, a panicky, confused look on his face, his one good eye filled with fear. The fluid kept flowing, turning from clear to pink, then rapidly to crimson.

Boss slid off his barstool and sat heavily on the floor.

I put a bullet into his forehead.

Then I killed Jose.

To be honest with you, the U.S. release of this Tom Jones LP was one of my favorites long before I dug up this Spanish copy some time ago. Yep, one of the earliest Five Stars to appear in Goldmine magazine was Tom's 'Live at the Talk of the Town'. Remember Goldmine magazine? Remember magazines in general? Well, before the Internet, folks used to actually go to places called 'bookstores' or 'newsstands' and buy hard copies of what they wanted to read. No shit.

Anyway, way back when I used to actually get paid for penning the Five Star Record feature, I confessed at the time that I'd always had a weakness for Tom's act. He's a dynamite performer and really the only white singer (Tom's Welsh) who can come close to doing justice to James Brown or Otis Redding, in my humble opinion.

What makes this release different and better than the copies that were issued here in the States is that it includes a couple more songs and pretty much keeps the live set intact from start to finish. It's almost like you're sitting right there at the club listening. Tom's hit theme song from the 007 flick 'Thunderball' appears here but is missing from the U.S. version (I'm guessing there were publishing conflicts with the record company that owned the soundtrack), as does a nice take by Tom on the pop standard 'That Old Black Magic'.

'Talk of the Town' came out in 1967, right on the heels of one of Tom's bigger hits, his first country crossover 'Green, Green Grass of Home', which has been recorded by almost every C&W star before and since, but was originally made popular by Dolly Parton's old partner Porter Wagoner. You'll find that one here, along with a variety of material that really serves to illustrate just how versatile a vocal performer Tom really was and still is. 'My Yiddische Momma' is surprisingly touching (and may be the best version of the tune I've ever heard recorded - live or otherwise), and Tom's bold readings of a pair of Sam Cooke numbers ('Ain't That Good News' and 'Shake') whip the crowd into a party frenzy.

All in all, this may be one of the best live sets by a pop singer that I've ever experienced, Tom freshly re-working early hits 'What's New Pussycat' and 'It's Not Unusual' and folding them into his tour de force performance. And it's not just Tom's vocals that are spot-on here, either. The house band never hits a sour note and his backing group The Squires, who had been with him since the beginning of his career, moves the music along nicely.

Tom has managed to stay relevant for decades (while outlasting other male singers of the era by thirty years) primarily because he is supremely talented in the vocal department. His singing on the Art of Noise's remake of Prince's 'Kiss' (1988) makes the single almost as good as the original (tough for me to admit because I'm also a huge Prince fan), and his foray into country and western music during the seventies and eighties not only revived his career but garnered him a series of charting country singles, 'Say You'll Stay Until Tomorrow' shooting to number one in 1977.

But it's always been about the live performances for Tom. The same year 'Talk of the Town' came out Tom made his Vegas debut, becoming a fixture performer on the Strip for a number of years while releasing a series of great live LPs recorded in Sin City.

Also known for his rapacious sexual appetite and infamously large private parts, Tom screwed his way around the world (in spite of being married his entire career), including one legendary encounter with horror host Elvira (Cassandra Peterson), who claims to have lost her virginity to Tom when she was working as a showgirl in the '60's. In an appearance on the 'Howard Stern Show' Peterson went so far as to compare the girth of Tom's member to a beer can, and reportedly had to make a trip to the emergency room post-coitus.

Apparently she never heard the phrase: “Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas”.

And if you don't believe me about Tom's ability to sing soul music, just listen to his 'Fever Zone' album, which came out in '68. The LP not only includes his smash hit 'Delilah', but also has a nice mix of country, soul and Motown tunes as well, from 'Funny How Time Slips Away' to 'It's a Man's Man's World', which Tom takes on in a balls-out fashion that would win over even the staunchest James Brown fan.

So maybe Tom was just the 'Second Hardest Working Man in Show Business'. He still worked damn hard. And as far as I know, the dude's still working.

Dear Lyzako,

It's cooler than normal here for the second week of May. Five years ago I more than likely would have casually put the furnace on just to take the chill from the air, but nowadays... well, the cost of energy has just about sucked every bit of energy out of me. I'm getting used to the goosebumps, though. At this point in time they really don't seem all that bad, considering the direction in which the world appears to be headed.

The way I figure it, there's a good chance that five more years down the road here in Michigan we'll all be huddled in the corner of our basements in the middle of January waiting to freeze to death.

Especially if we elect John McCain.

The beer seems much colder tonight, and this Scandinavian-designed, steel-and-pressboard computer desk feels especially frigid on my bare forearms as I wait patiently for summer to arrive dressed in my Mutants 'Clown Nose Freakout' tee and khaki shorts.

I'm looking forward to summertime this year. While I continue to find our Great Lakes humidity difficult to deal with and could easily do without the barking dogs and the obnoxious teens driving their cars playing hip-hop so loud I can feel the vibrations in my chest as I sit on my sofa, I do find comfort in the fact that there will be at least a few days wherein I can enjoy living nearly naked in the sunshine, drinking Blue from the can and grilling meat in my own back yard.

After looking like rain all day, we had a spectacular sky at dusk tonight. Thin lavender clouds angled upwards to the north in ripples across a pale peach backdrop as the sun sank behind the trees, now fully-leafed and green, and the temperatures dropped into the fifties. The air was fresh and I could hear that train rattling through Royal Oak and Ferndalia, its warning whistle calling as if from the other side of a closed door as it passed in the distance.

In all honesty, I feel pretty good, lately. In lieu of watching television I've been reacquainting myself with my record collection. I believe I mentioned a while back that I'd fetched some Tom Jones LPs from the basement during my fiftieth birthday party just prior to passing out on the futon downstairs, leaving my guests to fend for themselves as I slept off the spins. Good sports that they are, they cleaned the dishes and left, then dutifully covered me with a blanket before leaving.

Sometime during the hungover Sunday that followed I discovered those fetched records on the floor leaning against the shelves below my stereo and put one of them on. I think it was a live Tom Jones recording that I dropped on the turntable that day.

Right now, I'm listening to Tom sing 'Delilah', a song about a man who stabs his lover to death. As evening moves towards bedtime, towards bundling up under the covers and forgetting what month it is, towards forgetting that it's colder than normal and I can't afford to turn on the heat, I feel some comfort in the tragedy portrayed in the song.

In comparison, my life seems relatively comfortable and calm these days, but I have to admit that by the time the old lady finally left two years ago, I had seriously contemplated pulling the butcher knife out a time or two myself.

Regards,
Marty 'The Ripper' Sherman

Even though the video cassette is damn near dead, I still manage to get some entertainment out of my collection and am always looking to add an interesting item or two as long the price is right. I found this copy of 'Modesty Blaise' for a mere buck at the Dixie Land flea market recently and finally popped it in the player last night.

I want my dollar back.

I guess I figured that the 1966 British movie based on the Peter O'Donnell comic strip (which I've always admired and enjoyed) would be a kind of campy James Bond take-off, which it was. What I didn't figure on was how difficult it would be to follow the 'who-gives-a-shit?' plot and how distracting Monica Vitti's accent would be in the starring role. The lone Italian in a mob of Brits , Vitti's pasta-thickened English is practically indecipherable in this, her first appearance in a non-Italian film. And her acting isn't all that much easier to take, either.

Thank god she's easy on the eyes.

Vitti smiles, smokes and talks on the phone, wears funny clothes, switches back and forth from blond to brunette, and shows her legs... a lot. I guess director Joseph Losey understood where the box office appeal would be once he'd seen the rushes after that first day of shooting. Her gorgeous Italian gams fill the screen at times, often clad in black fishnet. In one scene she even leg wrestles a bad guy before strangling him with her stockinged thighs, a must-see for nylon, leg and foot fetishists.

Longtime Hollywood heartthrob (and acknowledged homosexual) Dirk Bogarde steals the show as the foppish bad guy Gabriel, and Terrance Stamp appears as Modesty's sidekick Willie Garvin.

My favorite part is when one of the female villains (wearing an orange bikini) kills a mime (again with her legs!) then tosses him off a cliff. I have to confess I've always wanted to do that myself - sans bikini, of course. I also have to confess that I couldn't make it to the end of this stinker, asleep and drooling just past the mid-way point.

The soundtrack by jazz sax player and composer John Dankworth is better than the flick deserves, and it's currently available on cd.

Now, on to something I can really sink my teeth into: Porn!

'Doin' the Harlem Shuffle' was one of the first dirty videos I'd ever seen from beginning to end, rented while visiting my buddy Mort when he was in college way back in the day. The 1986 Caballero classic starring Angel Kelly, Taija Rae and Sahara has a decent plot as these things go, the characters all introduced at the beginning by the whorehouse bartender who looks directly into the camera, a la Ted Lange as Isaac on the 'Love Boat'.

The delectable Taija Rae, who's plump lips seem to perpetually pout, plays Rosie, the Madam of the place, who's hooker business is in danger of hostile takeover by one of its patrons, a greasy gangster. The mayor's involved, the Feds are involved, the bad guys lose and everybody gets laid.

One of my all-time favorites Angel Kelly only appears in one scene, but it's the first one and it's fucking torrid. She rides the mayor's white horse with merry abandon before expertly licking and stroking him to a perfectly-timed, slow-motion spurt.

Sahara has a nice girl-on-girl scene with a gorgeous, big-boobed (all natural) brown babe about two-thirds into it and Mauvais de Noire turns a trick with the bad guy. Billy Dee (the piano man of the house) clumsily fakes his keyboard playing before laying pipe with Madam Rosie and the bad guy's girlfriend, who's played by Trinity Barnes.

The director also works in a vintage silent black-and-white stag reel which I found distracting when I first saw this movie two decades ago, but given the passage of time proves to be a nice bonus feature which cleverly makes reference to the history of filmed porn in general.

My copy of 'Harlem Shuffle' is a DVD purchased brand-spankin' new from the 'Mature' section of Ebay, but I'd give my eye teeth for a video tape with the original box art. Anybody out there got one by chance?

Our last review is for a new release DVD titled 'Round and Brown Vol. 5', which I rented at my local Video Schmideo last weekend. Remember when I told you about their 'four for $10' adult video special? Well, these douche bags now have a different price for 'new releases' - four for $12. Since I picked three new ones and an old one it cost me $14.50, and the fucking retard counter clerk wouldn't budge. I should have told him to shove all four of them up his ass before storming out never to return, but hey... I was horny. What can I say?

The latest volume of the 'Round and Brown' series was the best of the bunch that I rented and it delivers based on the title alone, with a host of apple-bottomed black babes lounging by the pool and getting laid under the beaming California sunshine. Baby oil futures shot through the roof after the making of this one, which features copious amounts of the slick fluid (obviously purchased by the case from CVS) being generously slathered over brown bun and boob alike.

There are some seriously pretty girls involved in all this and it kept making me wonder if it was the baby oil, the California sun, the giant dick or the money that made them shed their clothes then suck and fuck like they'd never, ever get a chance to suck and fuck again. I guess it really doesn't matter. The baby oil is all I could offer them, and I'm doubting whether that alone would do it.

All the girls are spectacular and the special emphasis on ass worship is nice, but the best part of the whole experience was not having to sit through a half-dozen obligatory facials, the 'frosting' in every scene being reserved for the girls' enormous quivering behinds.

Due to contractual obligations, contemporary adult film actress Misty Love appears under the name 'Malia' (you know... like Charlie Parker was credited as 'Charlie Chan' on that 'Jazz at Massey Hall' LP from '55 - only in this case, 'Malia' is probably her real name), scorching the tube during her scene with a slow strip in the sun, lots of the aforementioned baby oil and some thunderous booty claps before eating one lucky dude alive.

Actually, if you're a big fan of the oiled brown booty, this 'Round and Brown' series is for you. I've only seen two of them, but they're of consistent quality and definitely stand up to repeated viewings. Recommended.

And speaking of repeated viewings, I think I'll grab a box of tissues and put that 'Harlem Shuffle' disc back in. Odds are I won't make it past Angel's scene, though. That girl plays the skin flute like Pavarotti sang Puccini.

My Dear Lyzako,

The past few weeks have been a trial.

I have become a veritable zombie in my approach to the days (which have been filled to bursting lately with meaningless, soul-scorching toil) as I shamble stiffly along, dragging my left leg and its weak knee behind me in the thin April sunshine, desperately in search of brains. Not to eat, mind you. No, I need to recover some gray matter mass of my own in order to think of an easier way to make a living.

I suppose in an ideal world, plenty of work would translate into a comfortable mode of living, but the world seems to be less ideal by the day. I often wait for months to get compensated for jobs that require me to travel on my own dime, burn tankful after tankful of overpriced gasoline as I criss-cross the Midwest, and stay up half the night slaving away in filthy, uncomfortable conditions.

The worst part is, of course, that all of this toil and fretting over money completely robs me of my ability to be creative, which in turn steals my happiness. I think it was Confucius who said: 'Find a job you love and you will never work a day in your life'. All well and good, but I wonder what it pays to be a Chinese philosopher these days. I'm guessing not so much.

The good news is I managed to plan an afternoon off today, this first Friday in May, with nary a single task required of me. And not only that, just yesterday I received a rather substantial check on account which will almost cover my current bills and still leave me enough left over to eat lunch out and tip my favorite dancer over at Hot Tamales.

So I guess I'll take today as it comes, call it a good one, and keep pushing on hoping for many more like it, wherein I will have few obligations, plenty of leisure time and a pocketful of cash to make my tiny dreams come true.

I think Confucius also said: 'It doesn't matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.'

I plan on going very slowly, but I don't anticipate being able to stop any time soon.

Warmest Regards,
Marty Sherman