THE PASSIONATE PURSUITE OF PORNE

Okay, I admit to being somewhat titillated by pornography. Yeah, yeah. I know it's an understatement. I can't explain the psychology of it, but I have to believe it goes all the way back to the caveman era. Survival of the species was man's paramount mission in life and the sights, sounds and smells of copulation were stimulants to produce arousal in others, who quickly followed suit with their own procreational behavior, thus ensuring that the population of the tribe would be maintained. (The orgy is a natural thing, you see.) Modern society has pushed this instinctual animal behavior into our private lives and away from the public eye, thereby making it seem 'dirty'. Laws have been set up to strictly dictate where, when and how we can not only view pornography, but copulate with other consenting adults as well. And let's not forget the Pope. Organized religion has had more than its fair share of influence on the rules these days, too.

I remember the first time I got aroused just reading something. It was 1971 and I had recently become a teenager. My dad always had mystery and action paperbacks laying around and I was suddenly deemed old enough to read them. That summer I picked up a Nick Carter novel to start the odyssey and I don't think I put it down until I had read the whole damn thing. Mixed in with the spying and the killing were fairly graphic descriptions of the hero bedding the ladies and I was floored by the fact that so much stimulation could be found between the flimsy, ragged covers of a paperback book. I raced from page to page to get to the sexy parts and before I knew it I'd finished it.

After I'd polished off all the Nick Carters my dad had, I moved on to the Carter Brown mysteries and fell in lust with the covers. The lovingly crafted illustrations of beautiful women depicted on the outsides of the books drew me in more than the stories on the inside, and no doubt accounted for a substantial portion of the publisher's sales as well. At that early point in my life, the half-naked, leggy women were as much of a turn-on to me as anything I'd ever seen, and I longed for a career like the one enjoyed by the cover artist, Robert McGinnis, who I considered a magician with the brush. I still collect the paperbacks to this day.

Of course, my innocence was compromised when a year later I found a stained and coverless Playboy magazine in the bushes across the street, took it to school and showed it to a select few friends. It was my first glimpse of female pubic hair, and the centerfold seemed almost alive when I folded it out, the brunette's perfectly smooth and shapely legs revealed with the final flip of the page. Word got around and the magazine was eventually confiscated, but there were many clandestine viewing sessions at my locker prior to that. I'd finally realized the power of pornography, but I didn't understand why it was feared and frowned upon so. Still don't.

I lost my virginity at sixteen, went on to a few girlfriend relationships but nothing serious, and at age eighteen saw my first X-Rated film, 'Emmanuelle', in a mainstream movie theater at a shopping mall in my home town. Some buddies and I went as a group to see it, and when we came out and got in the car, there was actually steam rising from the crotch of my jeans in the cold January air.

In college I was a serious student. I graduated in '82, moved to the big city, got a job and set up residence with plans for the future. Plans of being a fine artist - a painter popular enough to live on gallery sales and commissions. I had a few magazines of naked women under my bed, but the pursuit of pornography wasn't something that I thought about on a regular basis at the time. Living a spartan lifestyle in a cheap apartment, I deprived myself of every unnecessary luxury while saving my hard-earned dollars for an eventual return to school to earn my Masters Degree in Fine Art. Well, that never happened, but I did get to see some porn videos at a friend's house around 1989, and upon returning home was flabbergasted by the array of selections available at my own local video store. I immediately rushed out and bought my very own VCR and have amassed a private cache of personal favorites since then, duping them onto my own tapes with the aid of a second VCR which I purchased some time later.

I had favorite starlets...Angel Kelly, Dominique Simone (before the plastic surgery on her face and boobs), Sade (not the singer) and the sweet-but-not-so-innocent girl pictured above, Miss Nina DePonca. She's still tops in my book. Then came this God-forsaken Internet and everything was ruined with viruses and spyware that compromise your computer if you take a look at anything resembling pornography. And lest you Mac users think you're off the hook in that department, just wait until you've carved out a large enough market share for those nerds to take the time to fuck with you. Then watch out.

No, I'll stick to my trusty VCR, thank you. I now have one that plays both DVDs and tapes. And my low-def television set works just fine for porn. I mean, who wants to see some of those close ups in high resolution? I sure don't. The body hair, the scars, the pimples on the asses... I shudder just thinking about it. I truly don't want any more advances in technology that makes porn even more realistic than it already is. After all, the best part of the whole experience happens inside your mind, inside the fantasy. That's the whole point, am I right?

Did you ever see that holodeck thing on the new Star Trek shows? You know... the one where you can go inside and experience a three-dimensional, physically real world of your own choosing. You can fight with gladiators, climb mountains, go sailing...pretty much anything you want. Captain Picard used to visit often and play like he was a detective, a lot like the character in some of those Carter Brown books I mentioned before. Well, if they ever actually do come up with something like that, I won't make it out from my first trip inside. You see, gladiators and mountain climbing aren't my idea of fantasy. It just sounds like too much work to me.

No, in my fantasy, Nina DePonca and I would fuck like animals until there wasn't a single drop of fluid left in my body, and I would die a happy man.

THE GIRLS OF CRAIG'S LIST
HOTTEST BUBBLE BUTT
SEMI FINALS: ROUND ONE!
Vote for your favorite!**Remember: Your vote matters! Exercise your freedom of choice by voting for the girl with the hottest booty!
VOTE OFTEN FOR AS MANY AS YOU LIKE. ONE WINNER WILL
EMERGE FROM EACH OF THE SEMI FINAL ROUNDS!

Thanksgiving Day, 2032

“Uncle Marty, tell us the story about that time you broke your arm!”

“Yeah, Uncle Marty, tell us! Tell us how you did it!”

“Listen, I already told you little bastards that story a dozen times.”

“We wanna hear it again! We wanna hear it again!”

“Alright! Alright, already. Just shut up and one of you go get me another beer.”

“I will! I will!”

“And don't run with it! You'll shake it up. I'll wait to start until you get back.”

Fourteen seconds later: “That was pretty fast...Sure you didn't shake it up?”

“Uh-uh, Uncle Marty. Honest I didn't. You'll see!”

“You better be right, kid, or no story...” Pshtttttt! Glugluglugluglug... “Ahhh, that's better. You're lucky. Now let's see, it was Summer...2006...August, I think...No, wait. July...

I'd spent the whole day working - ten hours, moving very heavy stuff from one place to the other. It was a Saturday, but I worked all the time back then, I was self-employed you know. When stuff needed to be moved, I had to jump on it. There was no telling how long before they'd invent some kind of computer to move the stuff and then nobody would need me anymore. So when the work was there, I did it. Without complaint. I was strong back then, a lot stronger than I am now and stronger than any of you kids will ever be.”

“Not me! I'm gonna be stronger than you!”

“Do you want me to tell the story or not?”

“Tell it, Uncle Marty!”

“Then don't interrupt me!” Glugluglugluglug. “Now where was I...?”

“You were moving stuff!”

“Oh, yeah. I moved stuff all day that Saturday. Heavy stuff. And the weather was hot, like ninety-nine degrees. It got hot even back then, you know. Not like it is now, but still plenty hot. It was way before they built the bubbles and I had to work outside under the sun all day long. You kids will know what it's like outside the bubble some day...”

“I already been outside the bubble!”

“Liar! And I thought I said NO INTERRUPTIONS!” Gluglugluglug... “Anyway, I was working outdoors and got myself pretty tired, but not too tired to ride my bike into town for some beer and some food. I'd planned to watch the Tigers play the Yankees on television. They went to the World Series that year, the Tigers. The last time they made an appearance. I had old-fashioned broadcast TV back then and the game was only on cable, so I figured I'd hop on the old bike and pedal uptown to see it...”

“What's broadcast TV?”

“When I was your age the only way we could watch our favorite shows was to have an antenna hooked up to the TV set and pick the signal up out of the air.”

“Out of the air?”

“Yeah, it worked like cell phones and wireless used to work before they had to stop using them and hard wire lines into everything because they were killing all the insects and the birds.”

“I know what insects are...they're bugs!”

“Bugs...bees...cicadas...crickets...the high frequency waves they were sending through the air was killing all of them. And the smaller birds. Anyway, I ride my bike up into town, see? And I lock it up to a telephone pole on the sidewalk smack dab in the middle between my two favorite watering holes...”

“Watering holes?”

“Bars...places where you could go and get a drink. That reminds me...Go get me another beer one of you...”

Nine seconds later...Pssshhhhttttffttt! “DAMN IT! I TOLD YOU NOT TO SHAKE IT UP!” Glugluglugluglug... “So I'm sitting at the bar watching the Tigers whip the Yankees and I get hungry, right? I'd had maybe three pints of ale by then, had my mouth set on a hamburger - rare, fries, maybe some onions rings and more beer, of course. The only problem was the place I was at didn't make hamburgers or fries or onion rings...”

“No hamburgers?”

“No. No burgers. And in 2006 they used real beef. From cows. The good stuff. Not that crap they grow in tanks nowadays. So I finished up and headed across the street for the burger because they did make them over there, at my second favorite bar. The one with the deep fryer and the grill.” Glugluglugluglug... “Ahhh. So I sit down at the end of the second bar and order me another beer, the burger and onion rings. I eat my grub, have two more beers and then decide to head home and enjoy the sunset sitting in my back yard under the trees, no bubble...just me and the birds and the crickets and the sun turning the clouds pink and orange and red. I'm feeling pretty good by then, not drunk, but good...”

“You said last time you were drunk!”

“Well, I wasn't. Just nicely lit that's all. Lit means a little drunk, okay? So I start to get on my bike, put my left foot on the pedal and swing my right leg up and over the seat like I was a cowboy getting on a horse. Only problem was, I caught my leg on the seat and lost my balance, fell backwards towards the curb. I'm laughing at this point, right? Thinking I'm gonna fall on my ass, dust myself off and get on with it. But just as I hit the ground I feel my left shoulder go THWACK against the telephone pole and my arm goes numb. Just like that! I tried to lift my arm up and it just wouldn't lift, sagged at the elbow and just laid there on the ground. Somebody told me later that it wrapped right around the pole.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, did it hurt, Uncle Marty?”

“Not much at that point, but it started to soon enough. Anyway, I thought I'd dislocated my shoulder. I just couldn't believe it could be broken that easily, so I grab my wrist, sit up and twist it around and put in my lap to straighten it out, thinking I can pop it back into the socket.”

“Eewwww!”

“All of a sudden I'm surrounded by people and they tell me to just lay back down, that an ambulance is on its way. I argued with them, told them I thought I'd be all right but they insisted that I lay back down. I could hear sirens at this point, so I figured, what the hell, I'll lay back down.”

“You were drunk!”

“NO, I WAS NOT! Now shut up! So an ambulance shows up, a fire truck, three cop cars and they wrap me up in a sling and the ambulance drives me to the hospital after the cops lock my bike back up. I sat in the hospital for two hours, they X-Rayed it, told me it was broke - a greenstick break they called it, where the bone breaks like you're breaking a branch from a tree. They stuck needles in my good arm, bruised it all up trying to find a vein, bruised it so bad that the next day my right arm looked like an overripe banana stuck full of holes. Anyway, they never even set it, just put a cast on it the way it was. I told them that I had set it myself on the scene and they didn't seem to believe me, but the alignment was good enough, so the doctor put a plaster cast on it and they sent me on my way.” Gluglugluglugluglug... “That doctor didn't look much older than you, kid. He had red hair and didn't even look old enough to shave.”

“I got whiskers!”

“Like hell. Go get me another beer.”

Twelve seconds later: “You better not have run with it thish time. I'm telling ya...” Pshtttt. “That'ss better...” Gluglugluglugluglug... “So I catch a ride back up to where my bike is. At the emergenshy room they tell me they're gonna call me a cab, but I pretend like I'm going out to catch it and then jush start walking. After walking a mile or so, shomebody finally picked me up and dropped me off where the bike was. I made sure it was locked, then went into the firsht bar I'd been to and had another beer. They told me they thought shomebody got hit by a car because of all the copsh and shirensh.” Glugluglug... “Then I went acrosh the shtreet and got another beer and the girl, my favorite waitresh, Janine, jush laughed at me. Ghod she wazh cute that Janine. Big brown eyes...great ash.”

“Were you drunk by then?”

“No. I dinent get drhunk at all. After that I got back on the bike and rhode it home one-hanned, in third gear. Hall the whay. They dinent even give me anyany pain killersh at the hoshpital. The worsht part was, I coonent work for t'ree monthsh, coonent move mush of hanything and I jush ate TV dinnersh ev'ry night becauzhe I honly had one good hand and coonent cook my hown fhood. My han' shwelled up an' my fingerzh looked like shaushagezh!” Gluglugluglug... “I laid downshtairsh hall day and halmost wen' brhoke. Ev'ybody told me I should shue the barzh for hovershervin' me, the power company 'cuzh of the pole, the shity of FuhFherndhalia, but I jusht wazhn't like that back then. Boy, if I hadhad it to do hover I'd have had a lawyer tosh shome paperwork at shomefuckinbody. I jusht dinent want that girl who wazh working at the shecond bar to loozh her jhob. Oh, and I mished the shunshet, too, bytheway. Shomebody tol' me it was shpeck...shpectacular. The nashural onezh were sho much better than the onezh we shee through thezhe shitty bubblesh...no dishtortionsh, jusht beautiful colorzh...hic...” Glugluglugluglug...

“You're drunk now, Uncle Marty. Aren't you?”

“NHO!! HIME NHOT DRHUNK! NHOW ONE OF YOU BASHTARDSH GHO GHET ME HANOTHER BHEER! AND FHIND OUT WHEN THAT GHODDAMN TURKEY WHILL BE READY!!... I shoulda shued the pantsh offa thozhe pricksh...”

“He's drunk alright.”

“Yep."

SHERMAN WHISTLES WHILE HE WORKS
Chapter Five: The Dirty Deed Is Done

After parking her silver Neon in front of the garage, she killed the lights and got out, talking on her cell phone. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but it sounded like light conversation, her voice colored with happy half giggles. Damn. If she talked until she was inside, I wouldn't be able to pull this off tonight, would need to spend another day in this shit hole town and another night in that dump where I was staying. I held my breath, crossed my sweaty fingers and waited.

As she approached I could hear her better. “Alright then,” she said. A pause. “No, I don't need anything.” She had stopped and was looking up at the sky as though she were trying to identify constellations. I could see the creamy expanse of her throat as she twisted back and forth and listened to whoever was on the other end. “Okay, then...Listen, I'm home now, so I'm gonna let you go.” After another pause: “Talk to you tomorrow, Mom....Love you, too. No, I'll call you. I promise. 'Bye.”

I grabbed the extension cord in both hands, made circular motions with rigid fingers as I wound the cord around each palm several times, then pulled it taut leaving about eighteen inches of cord in between clamped fists. As she stepped past the bush I made my move, reached over her head and pulled back hard, taking her off her feet and letting her weight drop while tightening the cord around her slim neck. She never made a sound. I dragged her back behind the bush as she slapped at the ground with her left hand and reached back to scratch me with the other. I managed to keep my face from getting clawed, but she brought her left elbow up and banged me hard in the balls. I grunted but held on. The cord dug into my fingers as I pulled it even tighter and she really started to slow down.

Now came the hard part. I loosened the cord on her neck just a tad, just enough to let her get some of her senses back, but not enough so she could make any noise. Then I leaned in, my face to one side of her head, my lips to her ear, and whispered: “Sorry, but Little Papi says goodbye.” As per my instructions, it was the last words the poor girl heard in this world. I pulled the cord tight again, so tight my fingers got numb.

After she'd stopped moving altogether, I dragged her closer to the house and put her face down on the lawn, stepped on the back of her head and tightened the cord another inch or so, wrapped it around again for good measure, then tied a series of knots to keep it from loosening. It probably wasn't necessary, but I would have hated for her to come to halfway to the grave. That would have been more cruel than a quick, easy death in my book. Besides, it's just the way I am. When I leave the house I can't just turn off the coffee maker. I have to actually touch the pot to make sure it's cool. I was just making sure she was cool. She was.

I pulled out one of the trash bags, quietly opened it by sticking my arms inside, then rolled the body up in the fetal position and worked it into the bag head first. As I had pushed her knees towards her chest I heard a long release of gas as her bowels emptied and the front of her jeans turned dark with urine. I held my breath and kept going, trying not to gag. Luckily she was a fairly small thing, no more than one-fifteen...one-twenty, tops. I had to rock the body back and forth on the ground as I gradually inched the bag up underneath, but in a minute or so she was inside. I cinched the top of the bag, opened another one and then double-bagged the body. I picked up her purse, took all the cash and credit cards, grabbed her car keys, then dumped the purse behind the bush.

I peeled off the canvas gloves and put them in my pocket, went over to her car, started it and backed slowly down the drive with the headlights off, then popped the trunk. It was an awkward bundle, but the bags held up without splitting and I managed to get the body in the trunk fairly easily, got back in the car, turned on the lights and backed down the driveway, then out into the street. I pulled up behind my rental van, retrieved the shovel and the end cutters, then drove her car off and out of the neighborhood. Twenty minutes later I was parked in the woods off US-30, lost in the inky blackness of the humid night, the sound of the crickets swelling almost loud enough to drown out my sobs and the horrible loud thumping of my broken heart. I could taste the salt from my tears as they rolled over my cheeks and clung inside my mustache.

My Dear Fictional Lyzako,

After a week of banishment from The Bars due to my horrible, horrible behavior (see below), I find that I now have a lot more free time on my hands, spending far less of it at Happy Hour than I was before. Coupled with the fact that work has been scarce this past month, it has given me the freedom to spend more time mastering the craft of blogging. I've also done some light housekeeping, shelved a couple hundred LPs that have been sitting on the floor for over a year, and refreshed my memory as to what went on during that last tequila-tinged brainstorming session we had concerning our good buddy, Del. You'll be seeing something soon. I promise.

I did manage to scrounge up three days' worth of work this short week after Labor Day, logging six hours of sweaty toil on Wednesday, six more on Thursday and a spirit-crushing seven hours today. Not being used to such a frenetic and exhausting schedule, I was worn out by the end of it this afternoon, so after checking my email and the Tracksy numbers, I decided to fine tune some of the links on Almost Okay before hitting the sack early.

Guess what I stumbled across in the process? An entire website and blog devoted to none other than... drum roll please... Ta Daaaaaaaaaaa!.... HOT WAITRESSES! It's actually called 'Smoking Hot Waitress'! (Dot com, of course.)

You can look at snaps of the newest girls or peruse the selections in your favorite city - both Detroit and San Fran are represented well by the way. The girls all have photos - the vast majority of them are gladly-posed shots but a few were obviously taken without their knowledge by cell phone cameras (I have to get me one of those!).

Not all the girls are identified by name, but when they are it's often by first only, although sometimes by first and last. There are addresses, phone numbers and a handy link to Google maps with directions to each location where they work as well. While the contents shy away from explicit language (at least what I saw), the spirit is much the same as what I had in mind with my own meager attempt to glorify the ladies who serve the suds here in Ferndalia, just a bit less autobiographical and literary in approach.

I knew I was on to something!

Cheers and Warm Regards!
Marty Sherman

DELETE THIS MOTHERFUCKER DELETE
X

In honor of his appearance at the 2007 Detroit International Jazz Festival, the Five Star spotlight today falls on jazz pianist and composer Herbie Hancock...

Looking back over his career it seems a shame that Herbie is better known for his 1983 Funk/Fusion/Hip-Hop hit 'Rockit' than he is for this LP, his first as a leader on Blue Note. It was 1962, and the young pianist had only been on the jazz scene for a couple of years when he was invited into the studio for 'Takin' Off'. Recorded when he was a mere twenty-three years old, the album features six muscular tunes, all Hancock originals, including one of his most enduring compositions - 'Watermelon Man', which went on to be a top ten hit for Mongo Santamaria the following year, and made the charts again in 1965 when Gloria Lynne added lyrics and took it to #62.

But there's lots more than Pop to this LP. It's got Bop, too - the best kind of Bop, the Post-Bop, Hard Bop kind of Bop. The Bop that causes the slow head nod with the loose neck, eyes closed... the finger snaps... the toe tapping on the twos. Ya know? It's got a lot to do with the lineup here, which includes heavy hitters like Dexter Gordon on tenor, Freddie Hubbard on trumpet, Butch Warren on bass and Billy Higgins on skins. Gordon's blowing propels the mood - especially on side two's 'Maze' and 'Driftin'', and Hubbard's solo on the finale 'Alone And I' will jerk a tear if you let it.

Hancock's first few outings (including stellar LPs 'Maiden Voyage' and 'Empyrean Isles') garnered him a lot of attention in the jazz world, and it wasn't long before he found himself playing in one of THE best groups Miles ever put together, a group that included bassist Ron Carter, drummer Tony Williams and Wayne Shorter on tenor sax. Aside from Coltrane's quartet from the early-to-mid-sixties, there wasn't another jazz group that could touch them, and Herbie was a big part of the sound that dominated the music throughout the entire decade.

You can blame Miles for introducing Herbie to the electronic sound, too, getting him all juiced about Fusion music, the Moog and assorted synthesizers. Hancock had classical training, had played with the Chicago Symphony before he was even a teenager, and rumor has it he was reluctant to embrace the non-acoustic sound. But before he knew what had hit him Miles had dragged him along for 'In A Silent Way' and 'A Tribute To Jock Johnson'. Herbie was hooked.

His experimentation with electronic instruments and Fusion eventually led to the formation of his group The Head Hunters in 1973, along with some long-overdue financial success though album sales. Ten years later, 'Rockit' won a Grammy and a slew of MTV Video Music Awards in the very first year they started doling those things out. Ten years after that, the group US3 practically made their careers by cleverly looping Hancock's piano vamp from 'Cantaloupe Island' (from 'Empyrean Isles') into their Jazz/Rap hit 'Cantaloop'.

More than just a pianist and jazz composer, Hancock also had a tremendously successful second career penning scores for motion pictures and television, including his Oscar winner for the critically acclaimed 'Round Midnight' in 1986, in which he also appears alongside the film's star Dexter Gordon (Yes, the same dude who blew so much life into today's featured LP!). In it, Gordon - an ex-patriot himself living in Europe at the time, plays a part based on the tragically short life of pianist Bud Powell, who spent the majority of his last years in Paris playing to a much more appreciative crowd than he could attract in the States.

Hancock's list of film scores also includes Michelangelo Antonioni's 'Blowup' (1966), 'Death Wish' (1974) and 'The Spook Who Sat By The Door' (1973), a film by 'Hogan's Heroes' cast member Ivan Dixon based on the 1966 novel by Sam Greenlee. Herbie also wrote music for Bill Cosby's 'Fat Albert' animated television show from 1969.

My copy of 'Takin' Off' is a reissue from the eighties, but if you're lucky enough to own an original in good shape it could be worth as much as forty or fifty bucks. Cover design and photo here is by the always-right-on Reid Miles, and the recording engineer is none other than Rudy 'The Genius' Van Gelder. Add liner notes by the author of 'The Encyclopedia of Jazz', Mr. Leonard Feather himself, and you have one classic jazz package that I'm sure you can't live without.

As far as his appearance here in Detroit at the Jazz Fest... well, it was a bit of a disappointment to me. Not so much because of what Herbie did or played, but because of the venue - a packed, closed stage area crawling with people on a warm Friday night downtown. It was like a freaking ant farm. I didn't get down early enough to be inside with the cool folks, so all I could see of the performance were live shots fed to large LED displays to the right and left of the stage, which left me completely at the mercy of the cameramen for visuals. I couldn't hear it very well, either, the music blasting through the speakers and mixing mercilessly with other tunes being played on the street and in booths along the strip. It was a lot more 'Rockit' than 'Watermelon Man', too, and I decided to head home after just a few tunes. But the crowd who was inside seemed to dig it, so don't mind me. My experience was also colored by the fact that a twelve-ounce Budweiser cost eight tickets, which amounted to $6.66! Not only is that the Mark of the Beast, but it's damn unfair.

THE GIRLS OF CRAIG'S LIST
HOTTEST BUBBLE BUTT
ROUND THREE!
Vote for your favorite!**Remember: Your vote matters! Exercise your freedom of choice by voting for the girl with the hottest booty!
It's NOT TOO LATE to vote for the girls in ROUNDS ONE & TWO!

Magic Soup

He liked to make soup, especially in the Winter
Vegetable beef usually, the broth made from
Neck bones bought on sale, carrots, celery, onions
Fresh parsley, bay leaves, salt and whole peppercorns

While cooking he pretended to host his own TV show
Calling out the procedure and using a false voice
As he chopped, diced and measured, drank beer
Sometimes he was Julia Child, sometimes Emeril

The simple comfort of that simmering pot of soup
Added warmth to his day, augmented the sunshine
As it slanted into the small kitchen in late afternoon
Black and white checkered linoleum dotted with stains

“I like to add a diced zucchini right at the end”
“Be sure not to overcook it! Some crunch is good”
“Not too many onions...and I like extra celery”
“Always taste as you go. This needs more salt”

The words were repeated when he served the soup
Usually eating alone, but sometimes a friend or two
Would drop by or he'd give them a frozen bag of it
“You really make good soup,” they would say

And the soup would carry him through the cold times
The hard times with no work, the lonely times with
No woman no children no friends just books and
His angry thoughts of frustration and self doubt

The soup cured it all at times, made him whole
“A crust of bread, a bowl of soup and thou”
Said to himself in the mirror with a sad smile
And then one day an artery burst in his head

Finally he was free, but no more soup

Just days after the funeral a friend opened her freezer
Discovered a frozen bag of his magic soup and smiled
That should have been on his tombstone, she thought
'He made good soup'... He would have liked that

-Ye Olde Blowharde


If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Hell, Pt. I

The appetite's gone
Shot to shit

The hunger that does exist
Isn't for food, money,
Attention OR
Love

The hunger that IS here-
Right HERE in the center,
In that deep, dark place where
It feels like the Soul resides

That ornery hunger
Is a massive empty ache,
A searingly dull void

Where a Soul
Should be

-Prof. Dirk Beat

SHERMAN WHISTLES WHILE HE WORKS
Chapter Four: Dinner and a Murder?

I parked the van up the street from her place, ate the chicken and waited. It was still an hour before she'd be home, provided she stuck to her M.O. It was messy going, the eating. I spilled the gravy and lost a big chunk of the cornbread under the seat, but I managed to get enough food in my mouth to satisfy my hunger. I kept thinking about 'Latisha', though...

She had been placed in the witness protection program by the Feds and moved to Lancaster from Ohio after testifying against her boyfriend, Luis Gonzalez, a big-time drug dealer known as 'Little Papi' because of his resemblance to the Red Sox ball player and the fact that he only stood five-five. Little Papi was a bad guy. That much I understood. He wasn't just a drug dealer. Weapons, gambling, prostitution...you name it...if it was illegal, Little Papi had a hand in it. Word on the street was he'd put a bullet in the head of a rival or two, and cut up a couple folks just out of meanness. The world was a better place with him in prison, that's for damn sure, but even behind bars Gonzalez had power. And he'd decided that his former girlfriend should pay for what she did. That was where I came in.

It was eating at me, though, as I sat in the waning daylight waiting for her to come home. This girl wasn't an evil person, not like the two I'd done before. And she wasn't a prized pet, like that dog I'd taken out in L.A. as a lesson to its deadbeat owner. This was a young, pretty girl with her whole life in front of her. Christ, I don't think she was more than twenty-three. I kept telling myself that she was complicit in all of Big Papi's crimes, that she might even have helped him on occasion. More than likely this bitch has witnessed a murder, I thought. No matter what I told myself to try and make the job easier, it didn't help. She was pretty and she was young, and that's all I could see.

As night fell, the late afternoon song of the cicadas turned gradually into the comforting trill of crickets. A small dog yapped from a back yard down the street. With the windows down in the van I could feel the weight of the humid air as I sat there and watched the sun descend and die over the tree tops, the soft melon-colored strips of cloud turn blood-red then black when the last of the daylight was gone.

Once it was dark I put on the rain poncho, then a pair of latex gloves, over which I slipped on the work gloves. I put a couple of the trash bags in my back pocket, grabbed the extension cord and slipped down the street and up the driveway to get behind her house. The poncho was a precaution in case of blood, but I was really hoping to avoid that. There was a big Hibiscus bush at the edge of the driveway as I reached the back corner of the brick bungalow. I took my spot in the shadows behind it and waited. Mixed with the scent of the Hibiscus was the aroma of smoke from a neighboring barbecue, and that fucking dog was still yapping. I tried to channel my irritation with the dog into anger. It worked. My hands were really beginning to sweat by the time I saw her headlights bounce off the garage door.

Perfect weather, cheap beer and the best Polish food this side of Warsaw made Hamtramck the place to be this past Labor Day weekend. The firefighters bravely served up the Blue and various local eateries dished up enough pierogi, kielbasa and kapusta to kill Hannibal's army. Luckily my stomach is impervious to the stuff and I put down a great drinking base at Stan's booth, which seemed to be the cheapest eats on the strip.

In addition to the lure of sausages and suds, a variety of musical acts old and new took to the stage to entertain the crowd. Polka bands from all over the Midwest played favorites while silver-haired red-and-white clad couples competed in furious dance competitions. Headliners on the main stage included Rare Earth on Friday night, ? and the Mysterians on Saturday and perennial local faves The Polish Muslims on Sunday. The Muslims drew more fans than all the other shows combined, partied right along with their drunken audience, tossing White Castles into the crowd and dishing out their patented parody songs until the sun had set on another beautiful late summer day here in Detroit.

I made the trip into Hamtramck Saturday afternoon planning on just eating and grabbing a few beers before heading downtown to the Jazz Festival, maybe sticking around for a few minutes of ? and the Mysterians. I didn't even expect to like them enough to stay until they got to '96 Tears', but guess what, folks? ? put on a fantastic, tight set. He shimmied like a go-go dancer while singing Stones songs, James Brown songs and his own songs with equal verve and elan, decked out to the nines in purple satin pants, purple cowboy hat, frilly orange bolero and sunglasses (which I later found out he's never seen without). Before I knew it, it was ten o'clock. I'd put away four beers, they'd played for an hour-and-a-half and the audience was bobbing and singing along to '96 Tears'. It didn't take much persuasion to bring ? out for an encore, either. The dude seemed to be having the time of his life. “He looks pretty good for his age,” I said to one potato-nosed guy standing next to me. “I mean he's gotta be what, sixty, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Potato Nose. “I shaw him at a danshe when I wazh in highshcool in nineensixshtyhate, annieannie looksh jush like he did back then.”

They did three more tunes, including a brief reprise of 'Tears', and then all hell broke loose.

Just as they hit the last note, there was a rush of people running by from up the street like rats leaving a sinking ship, and two Hamtramck black and whites raced through the crowd, engines roaring, sirens wailing and flashers tossing spooky blue and red light over what was left of the audience. I was standing next to Greasy and he said: “Bet somebody got cut.” After just a moment or two of mayhem, the street was empty except for a few curious onlookers. The cops had pulled up in the parking lot beside the bank and across the alley from the Port-A-Johns, about thirty yards from where we were watching the show. Within seconds an ambulance arrived on the scene confirming that somebody was indeed down. I looked around and saw that the place was deserted. ? had packed up his Mysterians and was long gone, too. I hightailed it back to my truck which was parked about five blocks away over on McKay, walked swiftly along down the black streets over cracked and heaving sidewalks, all the while listening for anything out of the ordinary that might lead to me getting cut, too. I even put my keys in my fist as I walked in case I had to punch a hole in somebody's cheek to defend myself.

The next day I found out that it wasn't a stabbing. Shots were fired - nine to fifteen of them according to the police, but being so close to the stage I had heard none of them. The report stated that at least one gunman pulled the trigger after somebody refused to give up an expensive pair of Cartier sunglasses, estimated to be worth $1200. The would-be victims returned fire, and each of them got hit in the leg while their assailant got away. After reading it I felt lucky to have made it out of there without being hit myself.

To me, it seems an odd thing to get shot over... sunglasses. I still can't help but wonder who the fuck needs a pair that cost over a grand - Cartier or otherwise? The guy with the sunglasses and ? were probably the only folks in the entire crowd still wearing them at ten o'clock that night, and I'll bet dollars to paczki that ? didn't pay that much for his pair.

I guess you gotta laugh at the whole thing, right? Either that or cry, cry cry cry...

SHERMAN WHISTLES WHILE HE WORKS
Chapter Three: Face to Face With the Face

It was still hot and muggy the next morning as I drove to Home Depot. I needed some supplies... latex gloves, canvas work gloves, a shovel, 55 gal. heavy duty trash bags, a 5' extension cord, a rain poncho and a large pair of heavy duty end cutters. After paying with my company card, I piled the stuff in the back of the van and went back to my room to wait. She didn't get off work until after nine pm, so I figured I might as well try to get some rest. I hadn't slept well the night before and I would more than likely be up late again.

Sleep doesn't come easily in hotel rooms for me. I like my own bed. I tossed and turned until around seven, woke up in a sweat after a brief nap and felt vaguely hungry. Figuring I might as well polish off two birds with one stone, I drove over to the Boston Market on Lititz Pike just minutes from the room, for some dinner and some reconnaissance. The same Boston Market where the target was working her lunch and dinner shift.

As I waited my turn at the counter I saw her come around from the back. No mistake, it was her.

“Can I help you?” she said, a touch of fatigue in her voice.

“Yes, I'll have the three piece dark,” I said. She had beautiful deep brown eyes the color of chocolate and the photo I had didn't nearly do them justice. Her name tag read 'Latisha'.

“Sides?”

“I'm sorry?”

“What sides do you want?” She turned her hand, covered in a flat transparent glove, palm up to show me the choices, which were kept in heated tubs under glass in the middle of the counter.

“Well, I have to have the stuffing,” I said. “Hmmm... How many do I get?”

“Two.”

“How about the corn.”

“Three piece dark with stuffing and corn,” she repeated into her headset. “For here or to go?”

“To go,” I said.

My Dear Lyzako,

The last day of this god-forsaken month is starting out nicely so far. The sun is high, the air is crisp and I managed to get a full eight hours of relatively deep sleep with a cool breeze blowing over me and crickets singing in my ears. One funny dream I had involved washing the tiny live severed heads of dogs and it leaves me puzzled yet this morning. They told me to turn them over and scratch their throats as I wiped away the dirt from their fur. When I did so, the cute little dogheads relaxed and licked out with their tongues in rhythm as I scratched. I seem to recall another pile of shrunken live heads of Native American warriors complete with headbands and feathers, shiny black braided hair. They were shy and kept their eyes closed most of the time.

Being banned from The Bar is not altogether a bad thing for me it seems, and I might just have backed into the very means necessary to save what little is left of my sanity and health (not to mention at least ten bucks last night - in tip money alone!). Louis treated me to a burger at Another Bar and I had only two to wash it down, came back home and plowed through a couple chapters of my current read, 'White Doves at Morning' by James Lee Burke, fell out around ten. I woke up this morning feeling better than I have since I was in grade school, motivated and ready to attack my day. “Seize it!” to paraphrase both you and Saul Bellow.

The Tracksy numbers indicate that most of the folks I upset have probably seen the apology and I'm going to get back on with blogging (minus the use of real names and locations, of course). I've learned an important lesson. Let's not forget that all of this is fictional, including my missives to you, and the thought processes of one Marty Sherman are often fabricated and exaggerated beyond the bounds of taste for effect. The ranks of the Almost Okay readers swelled from 13 on Tuesday (including myself and you) to 29(!) in a matter of twenty-four hours after my local ad campaign and the fallout that ensued. Yesterday that number dwindled to 16 (again, including the two of us - and sometimes I get listed more than once because of my cheap dial-up service which jumps from server to server). Today the projection is for a mere 7. Ah, my faithful few. Hi Mom!

Monday this week was protest night in Ferndalia. You remember... the night when the hippies hold up their anti-war signs on the corner of Woodwierd and Nine, cause the horns of passersby to honk, thereby upsetting the semi-automatic-rifle-toting Ferndalia Gestapo, who it would seem must be instructed to vote straight-line Republican. No horn blowing in our neighborhood, ya hear? Support Our Troops! I was in the good graces of The Bars at that time and was making my way across M-1 when I saw one funny sign being held up by a young girl wearing a backless summer blouse, sunglasses and long dark hair, tight blue jeans. It read: 'QUAGMIRE ACCOMPLISHED!' Thinking it was clever and wondering idly if I might enjoy participating in the demonstration (especially in light of seeing that beautiful young lady holding her sign), I started thinking what I could print on my very own as protest. The first thing that came to mind was: 'KILL THEM AND EAT THEM!' Of course, that would land me in jail at some point, I suppose. Maybe even in a Federal Prison. We all know that Republicans are severely lacking in the sense of humor department.

I decided to forgo the demonstration in favor of The Bar and, well, you know the rest.

The Jazz Festival here in Detroit has me excited this weekend. Herbie Hancock, Mavis Staples, Dave Brubek's Mummy and Modeski, Martin & Wood along with John Scofield are the headliners. ? and the Mysterians are also shedding 96 Tears at the Hamtown Fest on Saturday night. I'm looking forward to it. The sunshine is forecast to be abundant with highs around eighty, lows around sixty. It's my idea of heavenly weather as Summer slips away in favor of my favorite time of year... Autumn.

Speaking of which, I do have one tiny complaint to mar this otherwise glowing missive: I was driving north on Woodweird last weekend and spied some banners tied to an old vacant store in Royal Hoax, instantly transforming it into 'The Halloween Store'. Since when did we start celebrating Halloween more than two full MONTHS prior to the day on which it falls?! I was shocked. I guess I shouldn't be, though. We both know that the world is getting uglier by the minute. I'll take it with a grain of salt, but I still try to avert my eyes when I drive by it. Back in the days of Sir Graves Ghastly Halloween used to be one of my favorite times of year, but the rules of CAPITALISM and GREED have caused the cheap plastic Chinese junk to come flowing in early, and I often see giant blow up pumpkins tethered to lawns in my neighborhood well before the end of September.

Seize your day as well!

Regards,
Marty Sherman

PEARLS OF WISDOM FROM THE PROF...

“The only difference between weeds and a garden is the evidence of persistently meddling people. So why bother mowing?”

- Prof. Dirk Beat

“I feel like I'm falling down a well sometimes and there's nothing left but finding out if I'll make a splash or bounce. I'm hoping for the splash, but betting on the bounce.”

- Prof. Dirk Beat

“Thank the gods sideburns are in again. That's a lot less of my face to shave. Whenever I get around to shaving, that is.”

- Prof. Dirk Beat

THE GIRLS OF CRAIG'S LIST
HOTTEST BUBBLE BUTT
ROUND TWO!
Vote for your favorite!**Remember: Your vote matters! Exercise your freedom of choice by voting for the girl with the hottest booty!

The Professor, Keeping Later Than
Normal Hours, Blogs On...

Misery Loathes Company

The doorbell rings
More of a ding-knock than a ring
But that's what it does because
It's not quite right, never has been

I ignore it

It's almost 7:30 at night, for Christ's sake

An insistent knuckle rap on the door
Follows the ring...RapRapRapRap
A pause, then more RapRapRap
RapRapRapRap

I make my way to the door
Look out the window and see
Somebody trying to sell something

Some fucking thing that I don't want

Just as he reaches to rap again
I open the door wide
Swing it suddenly open

I stare at him a second before saying:
“No thanks, man”

Before I can close the door
Thinking that would be that
He says: “But you don't
Even know what I want”

“I know you're selling...”
A pause as I look for the logo
The logo on his uniform that
Will tell me specifically

What it is - the thing that I don't want

“I know you're selling alarms”
I say after seeing the logo
“No, thank you”

“See, I'm not selling anything”
I look at him, wait for the right moment
“I'm doing a survey” he says

Suddenly the moment is right and I say:

“I DON'T GIVE A FUCK
WHAT YOU ARE DOING!”

“I DON'T WANT TO ANSWER
ANY GODDAMN QUESTIONS!”

“I DO NOT WANT TO ANSWER
ANY MORE GODDAMN QUESTIONS!!!”

“I DO NOT WANT TO TALK
TO YOU ANYMORE!!!!”

“GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY
GODDAMN PORCH!!!!!!!”

******

You see, I tried to make it easy
Tried to teach him the power of

'No'

Tried to save him some precious
Wasted LIFE minutes but
He just wouldn't LISTEN
Didn't hear the patience in my voice

Before I lost my composure

Didn't understand that I was
Doing him a favor when I said
A simple 'No, thank you'

Twice

Helping him to get on his way

******

I can say honestly that I don't know
What I want other than to be
Happy, of course

But I DO know what it is that I
DON'T want

And that's EVERYTHING else

-Prof. Dirk Beat


Blues For Jack

It's not the wine, my friend
In & of itself, the wine is good
No, it's the frailty of this bag of flesh
In which you & I are trapped

The bones seem to need it
The heart the brain the liver...
All need the warm comfort of it
All hurt when it isn't here

You & I, we both know the truth:
It should not be necessary
Absolutely should not be needed
To feel as though we 'fit'

Suddenly it is, though, needed
& I can't help but wonder
If this Road that I'm On
Is the same damn one that you traveled

The same long, dusty path towards
Pain & the End of Wine, also
Towards Comfort & Peace
Towards Home

-Prof. Dirk Beat


Blues For Jack, Again

How many poems get tossed back
Like so many fishes too small to eat?

I have a strange feeling that there is
A value to every sincere thing that's written

No matter how seemingly insignificant,
Callous or cruel

No matter how filled with self-pity
No matter how trite or predictable

It is the human spirit made tangible
The only thing that gives us all voices

I prefer not to apply critical judgment
To anything anymore, whether it be

A Painting, a Poem or a Song

Is there truly such a thing as
Bad singing?

If singing is what you need to do
Sing!

-Prof. Dirk Beat

SHERMAN WHISTLES WHILE HE WORKS
Chapter Two: It Rains, Pours, Turns to Shit

The sky was dark all around me, much blacker to the north, where pulses of lightning flashed through the clouds as I raced along US-30 trying to beat the back end of the storm to my hotel room. After hours of only being able to pick up fading young country stations and religious programming, I found a decent R&B station with a strong signal on the radio and had cranked up the volume to see what kind of guts the stereo had. It was Lil Mama, the beat stomping along, hand claps helping me forget my troubles...

“...They say my lip gloss is cool... My lip gloss be poppin... I'm standing at my locker and all the boys keep stoppin... What you know bout me... What you what you know bout m...”

KRACKABOOOOOOOMMMM!! The sky was split in two by a blinding vertical rope of lightning, the landscape momentarily turned a ghostly blue and Lil Mama died a sudden death. A push of the 'seek' button yielded a crackling, mechanical warning that sounded like it could have been broadcast from Mars: “...the National Weather Service has issued a flash flood warning for parts of...” I stepped on the gas, took a deep breath and kept my eyes on the road as the rain started coming down hard again.

Twenty minutes later I was checking into the Days Inn on Keller just west of downtown Lancaster. The room was a dump, easily the worst one I'd ever stayed in. Just outside the door and across the parking lot was a stop for the eastbound commuter train which ran all night, and the toilet took three flushes to get rid of the nervous load I dropped as soon as I'd bolted the door. I had asked the clerk at the desk where I could get a six-pack of beer on a Sunday night in Pennsylvania.

“You must go do de leegor store,” he had said. “Bot eet eez doo late. You ghan buy beer from de bar, d'ough. Eet weel be oben ondeel eeleven.”

I picked up six Corona for nine-fifty at the bar and the bartender threw in a lime for another seventy-five cents. I thanked him, dropped a couple more singles for tip then headed back to my shit hole of a room. Sleep came late and I dreamed about the pretty brown-haired girl, the girl who's photo was in the manila envelope in my bag. The girl they'd sent me here to kill.

The Perfect Shave

Freshly showered I pick up the razor and look at myself in the mirror as steam rises from the tap.
Sometimes I barely recognize my face these days, can scarcely bear to look myself in the eye.

But I do it, wink as I strop the straight razor, an heirloom from my mother’s side of the family.
WARRENTED and made in SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND, the box declares, Price $1.25 EACH.

Lathered up, I begin.

Pulling long smooth strokes, I rake away the beard and rinse it down the drain.
As the steam fogs the mirror, I take time to wipe it with a towel, revealing my half-shaven face.
I move around the face with the steel, carefully and luxuriously making myself smooth.
Checking with the other hand for stubble, I go over rough spots again, smoothing all.
Mouth twisting, nose lifting I remove every remnant of hair from the face.

My face, after all.

I stopper the sink and as it fills with hot water, contemplate the job I’ve done in the glass.
I turn my head from side to side, inspecting the skin for strays that eluded the razor’s path.
Scooped water from the sink rinses away the last of the lather and I towel off.

Finished. Except for one thing.

With the water still running I raise the blade and pull it down heavily across my left wrist.

It cuts to the bone.

-Prof. Dirk Beat