Man! What next? A plague of locusts?

We've been hit hard by bad weather over the past week here in Detroit, and we didn't even see the worst of it. First, a dumping of heavy snow, then freezing rain, then dense fog as the temperatures rose to record highs, then flooding and high winds that took down power lines. More snow is predicted for tonight.

The economic news gets worse every fucking day, Santa Claus shot an eight-year-old girl in the face, and Israel and Palestine are doing their best to annihilate each other again.

To top it all off, the only Christmas card I got this year was from my insurance agent. And that bitch never even met me. Hell, it's no wonder that I'm depressed.

One good thing about all this economic trouble, though: When was the last time you heard somebody talk about being afraid of catching bird flu?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hey, speaking of that murderous Santa Claus... I was sitting on the couch watching the local news last weekend, just to see when the weather was going to break (and check out what fine young Ama Daetz was wearing), and the next thing I know I'm listening to the goddamned 9-1-1 call that went out when the bastard went on his bloody rampage.

What the fuck?!

How can the authorities release the actual tape of that? Isn't it some sort of invasion of the victims' privacy? If not, then what about my privacy? I didn't ask to hear the fucking thing. Don't get me wrong, people. I understand that it was a terrible, frightening situation that ended up in tragedy, but do we really need to hear the fear in the person's voice who called the cops while the deranged Kris Kringle mowed down his ex-wife and his in-laws? I think not, and was, therefore, duly horrified.

At least I had enough beer to outlast the ice storm and Ama was wearing that sweet little red number that fits her like a second skin.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The death of jazz trumpeter Freddie Hubbard marks the most recent celebrity passing this December. Hubbard's heart gave out just yesterday at age 70, as did the heart of pinup queen Bettie Page (85), who died earlier in the month. Joining them were Famous Monsters of Filmland founder Forrest J. Ackerman (92), and the talented Eartha Kitt (81), who died of colon cancer. Known far and wide as the most feline of the actresses to play the part of Batman's sexiest nemesis Catwoman, Kitt, who was also a singer, recorded the definitive version of 'Santa Baby' and, appropriately enough, passed on Christmas Day.

So, in closing, along with saying a heartfelt 'good riddance' to 2008, a special Almost Okay farewell goes out to everybody who left us this past year - famous or otherwise. Congratulations, you lucky pricks. You got the fuck off this rock before everything goes completely to Hell in 2009.

See you on the other side!

coolhandmarty@gmail.com

Dear Lyzako,

The same record-breaking storm that dumped snow on the Vegas strip has finally made its way to southern lower Michigan as predicted, tracking slowly along the I-94 corridor and across Detroit as I write this. I just now came inside, sweat-soaked from shoveling eight inches or so from the sidewalk and from in front of my Ranger, which I backed in and parked as close to the street as possible.

It's barely noon now and the forecast calls for the snow to taper off gradually throughout the rest of the day, with maybe a couple more inches of accumulation before it's all over.

There's wind on top of it, my friend, so it's blowing and drifting, too. You remember the term blowing and drifting, right? Of course you do. After all, you live in San Francisco now and I'm sure they must use the expression out there, but the kind to which I refer has nothing to do with what Jon Voight was doing in 'Midnight Cowboy'. Although in both cases, I suppose one of the hazards is getting the white stuff in your eyes.

Anyway, being at home in the middle of a winter storm on a lazy Friday with nothing better to do than make a pot of soup and listen to records isn't all bad. Gil Scott-Heron's on the turntable at the moment, singing about 'changing the world' and helping to drown out the low and steady hum of the snow blowers as the neighbors continue to frantically dig themselves out.

If the snow-blowing in the driveway next door goes the way it did last year, every north-facing window in my basement will be covered by now, producing a cozy, darkened space not unlike a comfortable underground cave. So comfortable, in fact, that I'm torn between getting some work done upstairs - sweep and mop the kitchen floor (long overdue), maybe shelve some records - and descending into that soft darkness for an afternoon double feature of 'Coffy' and 'Foxy Brown' while the snow continues to pile up and I pretend that it's 1977.

I think I'll put on some Hank Snow (in honor of the storm), make myself a sandwich and mull it over. But knowing my lazy nature, I'm guessing the double feature's going to win.

Holiday Greetings to You and Yours,
Marty Sherman

What better artist to feature here this holiday season than the man who passed away on Christmas day just two short years ago?

That's right, I'm talking about James Brown.

Born James Joseph Brown, Jr. in the tiny South Carolina town of Barnwell during the Great Depression (soon to be known as the 'Not-So-Bad Depression' thanks to George W. Bush), the young Brown got the first of his many nicknames as a toddler. 'Junior' grew up dirt poor, and after his parents separated he lived with various family members before his father sent him to live with an aunt in Augusta, Georgia, where she worked as a whorehouse madame.

Seriously. You think I'd make something like that up?

Anyway, the young Brown soon found himself hustling to make whatever money he could get, shining shoes, washing dishes and dancing for dollars on the street. By the time he was a teenager he'd had his first brush with the law and wound up in reform school, where he acquired another nickname: 'Music Box'.

While behind bars, Brown honed his performing skills as part of a gospel quartet, and after he was released even tried his hand at boxing and semi-pro baseball before turning to music full-time. By the end of the fifties Brown and his group the Famous Flames were scorching the R&B charts with hits like 'Try Me' and 'Please, Please, Please'.

But it was during the decade of the sixties when Brown's fame and talent peaked. In 1963 Brown recorded what is still one of the best live albums of all time at Harlem's Apollo Theater, financing the entire operation himself and catapulting himself and his group to international stardom. By the middle of the decade, Brown's sound was also beginning to evolve into the groove-driven funky style for which he would forever be remembered, culminating in what many believe to be the first actual funk masterpiece, 'Cold Sweat' in 1967.

And the rest, as they say, is musical history.

Today's LP, 'A Soulful Christmas' came out in 1968, and along with James' not-so-usual Christmas fare, you also get his ground-breaking (and Caucasian-frightening) single 'Say it Loud, I'm Black and I'm Proud' - Parts 1 and 2. (For all you youngsters out there: the reason some songs had two parts was because back then, the singles were released on 7” vinyl records and you could only get so much song on one side, therefore it was necessary to split longer songs into two parts. These records also spun at a faster speed than LPs and were therefore often referred to as '45s'.)

I have to tell you that my copy is not in very good shape, but I only paid four bits for it, so what's the big deal if it skips and pops a little? (Again, for you youngsters: a 'bit' is a quarter, as in a quarter of a dollar. Remember that old high school cheer 'Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar'? No? Never mind then. Coincidentally, though, 45s often sold for four bits in the sixties. Plus tax, of course.)

When I ran a quick check on Ebay I was astonished to find clean copies listed for anywhere from seventy to a hundred bucks! I felt pretty smart listening to my fifty-center last night, even though I had to get up twice to move the needle after it got stuck on side one.

As to the music... well, it's vintage funk and the tunes are some of the best Christmas-themed music you could hope to hear. Several songs are just dirty, organ-driven funk grinds with a few bars of recognizable Christmas melodies thrown in, and the opener 'Santa Claus Go Straight to the Ghetto' continues to get seasonal radio play to this day.

'Say It Loud' became a mainstay for Brown's live shows as well, with the 'Hardest Working Godfather of Soul in Show Business' calling out the 'Say it loud' part and the audience chanting back 'I'm black and I'm proud!'

It seems like Brown released hundreds of LPs, and this one, like most of his King releases, is a truly nice package. In addition to depicting Brown on the cover as the skinniest Santa of all time, the back shows James posing in several photos 'With His People' as though he were a minister and not just an entertainer. Gospel and funk singer Marva Whitney (who was performing with James at the time) is shown in one photo with the caption 'Dedicated Soul Sister' below it.

Now see, this is another argument for why LPs are better than CDs. When I bought this one I didn't even know if it would play. In fact, the price tag had 'skips' written right on it next to the price. But I bought it anyway, taped cover, scratches and all. Simply because it was a cool thing. Just the cover was cool enough to justify what I paid; hell I would have gone four bits if that's what they wanted.

Now, when was the last time you saw somebody buy a CD that had scratches all over it just so they could look at the booklet?

I'll tell you when: Never.

And don't even get me started on the mp3s!

So, in closing I'd like to wish a very Merry Christmas to all of you out there, and a special R.I.P. to the 'King of Funk'... 'Soul Brother #1'... the fabulous Jaaaaames BROOWWWNNNN!!!!!

Okay, so this guy probably should have been Ass of the Week last week, but his steadfast refusal to step down or admit any wrongdoing has earned him a spot this fine Tuesday. Not to mention he's sporting the worst haircut on a public figure since Donald Trump.

After being arrested and accused of trying to sell Barack Obama's vacant Senate seat, Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich has boldly continued forward, arrogantly claiming that he has done nothing wrong, despite the fact that federal wiretaps document him using language with some of his cohorts to suggest that the vacant seat wasn't going to be given away 'for free'. Of course, under law, the Governor is responsible for appointing a replacement to the post.

Is this a Republican scheme to taint the image of our new President, or just another example of the widespread corruption that permeates our government at every level? I'm inclined to believe that it's a little of both, but then again I live here in Detroit, where our former mayor is doing jail time and several City Council members are under investigation for taking bribes.

I also hate the Republicans, so I'm conflicted.

It's disheartening, isn't it folks? Here we are on the brink of catastrophic financial failure right at the height of the Holiday season, due in large part to the past eight years of Republican economic and foreign policy, and what do we have to look forward to as our new Democratic President takes office? Constant news coverage of this ridiculous scandal over his vacated Senate seat and an attempt to link him by association with Blagojevich, mostly because they were members of the same political party in the same state at the same time in history.

And believe me, it's a plus that Blagojevich has a name that makes him sound like a member-in-good-standing of the K.G.B. It scares all those people who were stupid enough to think Obama is 'Arab'.

No, this is just too juicy a news tidbit for it to die anytime soon, so we'll be stuck with it until it's all over, whatever the outcome. Legal analysts are now reporting that the evidence they've gathered pertaining to this particular charge against the Illinois Governor (Blagojevich has been an ongoing target of a number of investigations since taking office in 1997) may be too flimsy to stand up in court.

Ah, but it sure do play well on Fox News, do it not?

Today's Craig's List girl Candy is running a Holiday special between now and New Year's Day. Buy one get one free! I'm talking BBBJ, CIM, trips to Greece, France and the Swiss Alps... you name it! Also offering nude massage and erotic dancing, as well as full-service escorts for upscale gentlemen. Check Candy out on the Chicago page and tell her Sherman sent you!

My Dear Lyzako,

I find myself somewhat at a loss for words today, the subject of this missive a difficult one for me to broach even under the best and funniest of circumstances. So, rather than easing you into it, I'll just say it plainly right up front: A friend of mine died last week.

Not someone you know, mind you, and someone I looked to mainly as a business associate, for sure. But our relationship wasn't based solely on business; Rick was also a person with whom I had shared many humorous moments over coffee or lunch during the course of the past four years while we helped each other limp forward as self-employed individuals in this increasingly hostile economic climate.

In fact, just the week prior to his passing Rick had been here at the house, where we brainstormed over one of his new schemes and drank a pot of strong coffee before he treated me to a lunch of grape leaves and hummus at the new Anita's Kitchen in Ferndalia. I had never seen him more upbeat and positive.

Last Tuesday afternoon, after having just spoken to him via phone several times the day before, I retrieved the voice mail from my cell phone containing the bad news. It was as if a door had closed and locked tight, suddenly knowing that I would never have another conversation with Rick - about work or otherwise. No more coffee, and not even one more lunch.

It's the way of all flesh, I know. And to make too much of it would be as wrong as ignoring his passing altogether. But because of circumstances (he was a mere fifty-five years old) and the suddenness, it has left me stunned and contemplating my own life even after a full week of easing back to reality.

I think you would have liked Rick. I know you would have loved his memorial.

It was standing room only while family and friends each took turns telling wonderfully comical stories about Rick's past, each anecdote funnier than the previous one. Two hours passed while the crowded room swelled alternately with tears and belly laughs and we all got to know Rick a little better. Especially me.

I had only known Rick for a relatively short period of time, and when I began to hear the tales of his crazed partying as a young man, his deep love of sports that included an insane allegiance to the University of Michigan football program among other things - well, I was almost jealous of all the others for having known him for so many years.

We heard from his sister, his brother, his niece (Rick had no children of his own), his wife and several devoted friends. A member of the current line-up of the Four Tops (also a friend of the family) dedicated a song to Rick, sang it a cappella as he stood at the podium, his voice breaking on occasion, tears streaming down the cheeks of every last person in the room by the time the final note had reverberated to silence.

It was the best funeral I have ever attended.

Which brings me to my point: I'm counting on a similarly upbeat eulogy from you, my friend, when my time comes. I know, I know. It's a lot of pressure and there's no guaranteeing that you will outlast me. But should you, I am hoping you have enough stories at the ready to crack up the people in attendance at my service as often as they did at Rick's.

You see, I want mine to be at least the second best funeral I ever attend. You can even sing if you like.

Cheers and Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman

PS: If there's any saving grace to all of this, the man passed about as sweetly as anyone can hope for. After hitting the sack early last Monday, his heart gave out in the middle of the night. He was home. In his own bed. No hospitals, no tubes, no sad ebbing of life over days or weeks or months or years. Who could ask for better?

Two days passed. I didn't sleep much. Mostly I drank and I wept. I wept until the tears stopped flowing, then I drank some more.

While it was true that Jackie had been a a real ball-busting bitch since the first two years of our marriage, I still felt bad about having killed her, even if it had been in self-defense. And the fact that her hacked up body was now anonymously composting in landfills two thousand miles from her home and what little family she had left in the world was causing me even more remorse.

But somehow I was completely at ease with the idea of having several bags of flesh that I'd personally stripped from her skeleton sitting in my basement freezer. It was an odd feeling. I can only compare the anticipation of our first meal together since she'd left this earth with the feeling I used to get as a child on Christmas Eve. I was a little giddy.

The simplest solution for preparing the meat was the dehydrator. I pulled it out of its box, dusted it off and plugged it in to see if it worked. A little red light on the side came on so I unplugged it and put it on the counter to the left of the stove. Then I flipped through the instruction booklet until I found the recipe for turkey jerky, checked to make sure I had all the ingredients, put on my apron and got to work.

The recipe said that the meat should be thinly sliced and that it was easier to handle when it was frozen. Good. Finally I'd done something right. I pulled one of the gallon bags from the freezer and put it in the sink. After a few minutes of thawing, I dumped the contents, maybe two or three pounds of what looked to be thigh meat, onto a plastic cutting board and used a serrated carving knife to slice it as best I could into eighth-inch thick strips.

The marinade called for Worcestershire and soy sauce, some onion powder, garlic powder and lots of cracked black pepper. I decided to toss in some honey. Just to sweeten it up a little, I thought, and suddenly I was struck by the memory of the first time I'd met Jackie ten years before.

Jackie was a struggling actress back then. Between failed auditions, she made ends meet by waitressing at Angelo's, a small diner in LA where I used to stop on my way to work for a coffee to go. “You take cream and sugar, Sugar?” Jackie had said to me that first time, a slightly wicked grin working one corner of her mouth. Her eyes caught the sunshine bouncing off the lunch counter and sparkled like chestnut-colored gems as she looked at me.

“Just dip your pinkie in there.” I said. “That should sweeten it just about right.” I knew right then that I was in love.

With the memory of Jackie's smiling young face still fresh in my mind, I put the meat back in the freezer bag, poured the marinade over, zipped up the bag and squished it all together with my hands to make sure all sides of the flesh were exposed to the seasoning. A few slow tears leaked and ran down my cheeks.

The recipe recommended an overnight soak in the marinade, so I popped the bag into the fridge and grabbed a beer. I was sobbing aloud by then, and could taste the salt of my tears as they began to run freely past my trembling lips. The early autumn sun had just begun to set, a beautiful orange glow settling over the trees in the back yard, warm yellow light slanting into the kitchen and across the scarred top of the pine table where I sat. I could hear birds.

My favorite time of year, I thought. Autumn. Jackie never liked it, though. Said she knew autumn just meant winter was coming, and that girl hated the cold weather.

I poured a shot of bourbon and knocked it back. Then I poured another one.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later I woke up with my arms outstretched on the table and my head face down on top, drool running out of my mouth. Several empty beer cans stood on the table in front of me and the bottle of Jim Beam lay on its side, less than a shot's worth left inside. The room was pitch black and I had the sense that something, some sound maybe, had awakened me.

Pain shot through my neck and shoulders as I pushed myself upright. I picked up the fifth and drained what was left, squinted at the clock on the microwave. It read 11:17. I realized then that I could hear the sound of my cell phone ringing from the living room. “Who could be calling this late?” I said aloud before stumbling towards it.

As I reached the coffee table I looked down to check who it was, saw that the screen displayed the words 'Private Number'. I make it a rule to never answer calls from people I don't know, but this one felt strange, so I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Marty. What's happenin'?” A man's voice, vaguely familiar but I couldn't put a name to it.

“Who is this?”

“I'm hurt that you don't recognize my voice.”

“Who... is... this?” I repeated with measured emphasis on each word, small fear and anger beginning to rise within me.

“It's your cousin-in-law, bro'.”

Suddenly, a face in my memory matched the voice. It was Andy.


1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7...

Happy Birthday, Angel Kelly!

According to various Internet sources, Angel was born on December 7, 1962, which makes her a gently aging forty-six years old. Don't tell anybody, though, because according to her MySpace page she's trying to pass for a decade younger.

Born Pamela Moore in Lansing, Michigan, Angel made her mark on the adult film industry right at the end of the golden era of porn and at the very beginning of the video age. Most people don't realize this, but Angel Kelly was actually the first female black porn star to have scripts (yeah, they used to write scripts for these things) written for her as the lead.

During the course of her adult film career, Angel appeared in nearly two-hundred videos, starring in dozens of them and even directing a couple herself. She appeared in many all-black films, of course, but Angel made a name for herself doing interracially-themed movies (see my earlier review of 'Guess Who Came at Dinner?') starring opposite well-known white performers of the time, including John Holmes and the infamous 'Hedgehog' himself, Ron Jeremy.

Today's featured movie 'Alice in Whiteland' was shot in 1988, smack dab in the middle of her six-years in the industry. A follow-up to the all-black 'Alice in Blackland' (go figure) from the same year, this movie is a perfect example of Angel at the height of her popularity being matched with a mostly-white cast.

Based very, very, VERY loosely on the children's story by Lewis Carroll, 'Whiteland' gets right to the point when Angel, slumbering nude in her bed, is awakened by a tall white man who appears out of thin air and makes the hands disappear from her alarm clock by snapping his magical fingers. Within seconds the dude is on top of her and Angel gets her first 'taste' of 'Whiteland'.

But fucking isn't the only thing they do in 'Whiteland'. Oh, no. For some unexplained reason Angel is forced to endure golf and tennis lessons (her second scene is a hot girl-on-girl with her tennis instructor), before she's allowed to relax by the pool and work on her tan. Let me tell you, folks, a Williams sister she ain't. When she finally throws down her racquet in frustration, she actually misses the ground!

As a bonus, fans of 80's bombshell Keisha will be treated to a pair of scenes featuring the latina starlet, neither of them including Angel, however. The ubiquitous and tightly-toned Nina Hartley also appears in one scene.

My copy was purchased from the 'Adults Only' section of Ebay for a mere six bucks plus shipping. The box is a little beat up, but the tape played fine. My only gripe is that the screen went straight to snow the minute Angel delivered her final line, almost like the tape had snapped and been repaired. It was a little jarring, especially since Li'l Marty (still standing straight up and drooling) and myself were hoping Angel would put out one more time. Oh well.

Angel tried a brief modeling comeback some ten years ago and currently resides in Memphis, Tennessee where she runs Angel Kelly Enterprises, a booking agency that specializes in promoting local rap performers. Rumor has it she's working on an autobiography, which yours truly simply can't wait to read. Right on, Angel! Write on!

Seriously, I would be more than a little interested in her take on the adult film industry and her fellow performers. Semi-famous leading man Jerry Butler (in his own book 'Raw Talent'), compared Angel's looks to Sammy Davis, Jr. and claimed that she had to be told early in her career that she needed to douche so that folks could stand to go down on her.

I just can't believe it. Angel... Baby... Say it isn't so!

Folks, I apologize. I was wrong when I said I thought I was almost back to normal. I'm not.

First off, I suppose most people who know me will tell you flat out that I've never been anywhere near normal to start with. Whatever 'normal' actually means. But hey, at the time I said that I was talking about 'normal' for me. And I really thought I had gotten over the hump.

But like I said earlier, I couldn't have been wronger.

I've been nursing a sore shoulder for a month now and it makes me feel like I'm a hundred years old, no shit. Everything I do, from wiping my ass to picking my nose to jerking off, causes me pain and I can't exactly stop doing all those things, now can I?

And trust me, I'm not very clever with the left hand. The other morning I got up and plopped on the stool for my morning bowel movement. My right shoulder was still paining me after a night of fitful sleep, so I groggily decided to use my left hand for the clean up. Well, long story short, it was a messy one, folks. I couldn't keep the tissue bunched properly in my left hand, and before it was all over I wound up sticking my middle finger right through the toilet paper and up my dung-smeared bunghole.

All before I'd even brushed my teeth! And how about flossing afterward? Believe me when I say this, there isn't enough hot water and soap in the world to get a shit-covered digit clean enough to stick in your mouth!

I've tried to just suck it up and keep going, but it gets hard. It's not easy to enjoy a good hearty laugh when a mere chuckle causes pain to shoot down from my neck to my shoulder. At night, after a day's worth of use, it feels like somebody has an ice pick that they've heated in an open flame stuck right into the tender spot.

Oh, well. After six beers the pain almost goes away. Unfortunately, after three decades of that kind of 'pain control', so has a lot of my liver function.

* * * * * * * * * * *

This past Friday, 'Black Friday' as the day after Thanksgiving has become known, we witnessed a pair of shootings and a trampling to death, all perpetrated by impatient shoppers trying to buy the newest, cheapest crap that God knows everybody needs in order to make their holiday right. Retailers in their infinite wisdom have sprung this hoax on the unsuspecting herd to ratchet up the old bait-and-switch scam in order to double sales.

How does that work, you ask? I'll tell you: First, they get a limited number of 'special' items in each store location and advertise the hell out of them... let's say a laptop computer for example. They put an astonishingly low price on the damn thing, tell everybody that there's only a certain number of said items available, and then decide that they'll open on Black Friday at five in the goddamn A.M.

This produces a long line of mindless retards - no wait, retarded people are too smart for this... hmm... Anyway, people line up like sheep starting right after Thanksgiving dinner waiting for their chance to take advantage of this unbelievable deal. After standing around all night in the cold, it's no wonder that the anxious and frustrated herd gets a tad dangerous.

Shit, I can't even stand in line for ten minutes at the CVS without wanting to kill somebody.

So then the doors open and whooooooosh! The crowd rushes in and tramples the poor bastard who unlocked the place. To DEATH! Or a gun battle breaks out over who's going to get the last fucking Playstation!

Hell, I wouldn't stand in line overnight with the likes of folks like that if Jesus Christ himself was handing out gold bars!

The end result of all this madness is that the vast majority of that throng of impatient shoppers won't even come close to getting the item that they went there for in the first place. A crew of well-schooled pitchmen will immediately substitute another, similar item for the one that has just sold out, the catch being that this other laptop that they happen to have plenty of, costs twice as much as the bargain one that they advertised.

And if they're out of Playstations, you might as well just forget it. Not only will they not be getting any more of those in until after the first of the year, but you can't even settle on an XBox. Trust me on this, kids are so spoiled these days that if you got an XBox for some brat who's specifically asked for a Playstation, he'll look at you like you gave him a dog turd when he opens that gift come Christmas morning.

So from here on out, I put forth that 'Black Friday' shall be known for the deaths it has caused through senseless greed and ugly capitalism, not by the fact that one fucking shopping day a year is expected to keep our retail industry from losing money.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Finally, some long overdue shout-outs to my loyal readers... all fifteen of you...

Helloooo California! North AND South! And Florida... Hey Nancy, whussup? How's the knee healing? A nod to all my loyal Michigander readers, too. And hey, I can't forget about those bastards out in the state of Washington... How's it going, you Mountlake Terrace motherfuckers?!

Of course I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge all the international readers as well... most of them being Kiwis, Aussies or Brits. For some reason, I don't get many readers from non-English speaking countries.

I guess 'dung-smeared bunghole' doesn't translate all that well into French.

coolhandmarty@gmail.com