Most of you out there probably don't even know who our 'Ass' is this week, even after looking at her photo. Well, allow me to enlighten you. She's Monica Conyers, wife of Congressman John Conyers and a member of the hilariously dysfunctional Detroit City Council. Believe me though, had you been staying at the Magnolia Hotel in Denver during the Democratic National Convention this past week, you'd damn well know who she is because she would have damn well made sure you knew.

According to police reports, Mrs. Conyers was upset with her accommodations and threw a very public fit in the hotel lobby. Expecting a suite instead of a room for four with two beds (so that she and her husband could sleep in one room while their teenage sons masturbated in another), Conyers actually called the cops herself, protesting to them that the lone Denver police officer assigned to the hotel for security during the Convention was 'rude'.

Eventually the staff was able to make Queen Conyers comfortable, but the funny part of the whole incident is this: she has denied that any of it ever even happened, claiming to be asleep in her room at the time of the disturbance, despite the fact that police records show a call to them from her very own cell phone.

I'm not sure what kind of coverage this story got on a national level, but it was all over the radio and television for the past three days here in Motown. And, along with the ongoing scandal surrounding Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, it was absolutely the last thing beleaguered Detroiters needed to hear. We thought we'd managed to avoid the national spotlight when that judge ordered Kwame to stay in town and remain electronically tethered because of his recent probation violations.

Did I mention that Conyers is also under investigation by the FBI for allegedly taking bribes in exchange for voting to award city contracts, and that an indictment is almost certainly forthcoming? To make matters worse, she's also in line to become City Council President if current President Ken Cockrel Jr. has to take over the Mayor's office once Kilpatrick is forced off the throne.

Is it any wonder that Barack Obama is a little worried about coming to Michigan, a state which he desperately needs if he has any hope (audacious or otherwise) of beating John McCain in November? How's this for a photo op?... the first African-American presidential nominee from a major political party standing between Mayor Kwame and Councilwoman Conyers on the stage at Hart Plaza for this weekend's Jazz Festival!

The Republican election machine would have a freaking field day with that one.

Speaking of the Jazz Festival, there's another great lineup this year. I'm planning on attending a couple of days, Saturday's highlights being an afternoon performance by bassist/vocalist Esperanza Spalding, a set by legendary sax player Sonny Fortune and Lalah Hathaway on the Main Stage to close the evening.

Let's see, that's five hours at two 12 oz. beers per hour... ten beers at $7.50 each... of course you have to buy tickets so I'll probably go home with a few but I'll figure $75.00 just to make the math easy. Add in another $15 for snacks and miscellaneous and for just under a hundred bucks, the whole show is free!

One last thing about Conyers... Don't look directly in her eyes for too long or you risk turning into stone.

Today's Craig's List girl is a hometown favorite here in Detroit. Rose is available for early meetings, lunch quickies and full evenings on the town. Her services are for 'companionship' only and any other arrangements that may be agreed upon will be between consenting adults. And get this, she accepts all major credit cards and has a few girlfriends she can call if you're up for more than one at a time. By the way, that's not a tan line; she's wearing a pale flesh-colored bikini.

It was brought to my attention recently that this column never actually 'raves' about anything. “It's supposed to be rants AND raves,” one reader wrote. “Don't you like anything?” The simple answer to that would be 'not really'.

After checking the definition of 'rave' at Mirriam-Webster's Online Dictionary, I understood her point, though. In the context of 'ranting and raving' it is implied that the 'rants' are lengthy tirades from a negative point of view, and conversely the 'raves' are usually boisterously enthusiastic positive opinions about something, as in 'I rave about the beauty of Pam Grier'.

However, depending on the usage of the word, 'rave' can also mean 'to talk irrationally in or as if in delirium', which isn't altogether wrong as it pertains to the content of this column. You've read a few. I do rave.

Anyway, long story short, I've decided to rename the column in the spirit of keeping things simple. I think you'll agree that BITCH BITCH BITCH is more in line with my personality, but I reserve the right to occasionally spew forth enthusiastic praise whenever I deem it appropriate.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Now that the Olympics are drawing to a close I have a few things to get off my chest...

I'm sick and tired of nicknames for the USA basketball team. You know what I'm talking about: 'The Real Dream Team'...'The Redeem Team'... Who cares? The Olympic basketball finals have turned into the American NBA All Stars versus the Spanish NBA All Stars. And if we send our best starting five, we will win EVERY SINGLE TIME!

Nation against nation? Christ! Pau Gasol and Kobe Bryant are frigging teammates during the rest of the year and one of the best guys on the Russian team is J.R. Holden! He's from Pittsburgh, people! Pittsburgh, PA, USA!

And even though the USA women's basketball team has run the table for four straight Olympics, they should stop comparing themselves to the men. A good high school men's team could beat the best women's team in the world! It's not even the same sport! That being said, I have to say that Candace Parker is a hottie and I'd root for her even if I was watching her compete in a potato chip eating contest.

Talk about fun to watch, when did beach volleyball become an Olympic sport? I'm not gonna lie, I like the bouncing up and down and the near nakedness of the women, but come on! Beach volleyball is about as much of a sport as mud wrestling is! Say, that's not a bad idea. Olympic mud wrestling... it has a nice ring to it.

You know I watched a lot of the swimming and I must say that the so-called 'expert' commentators completely ruined each and every race I saw, especially the relay race where the US passed the French in that miraculous finish. The dumb bastard that was supposed to be the 'expert' opined non-stop about how the French were unbeatable and he just couldn't see the United States winning. Right up until they won, that is. I almost turned the channel just from listening to his constant negativity.

And the commercials... Shit! During one heat of the women's 800 meter freestyle they went to an ad break right in the middle of the race! Damn! The race itself was barely eight minutes long! You mean to tell me they can't go eight minutes without showing a goddamn car commercial?

No more synchronized diving! Diving one at a time is plenty! Who came up with this? A bunch of gay guys who wanted to see two young lithe male bodies twisting in unison during endless slow motion replays of each and every dive, that's who. And it has to stop.

Speaking of stopping... Stop counting the medals! The Chinese have declared themselves 'winners' because as of this writing they have an insurmountable lead in gold medals. Who gives a shit? They have the most populated country in the world, which means they should have a pretty good crop of athletes to select from, especially since they've started growing them to genetic perfection from the time they were unfertilized eggs! Plus, everybody knows that the total medal count is the true measure of which country 'wins' this thing, and it looks like the good ol' US of A has that pretty much sewn up. Again.

Finally, in a world faced with global warming and constantly shrinking resources, why in the hell do we have to move this thing around every four years and erect billions of dollars worth of fancy arenas that will ultimately end up being underutilized and eventually torn down? Let's do the Summer games in Athens every single time. They can move the Winter Olympics around to wherever they have snow.

And I don't mean in Dubai, where those idiots have built an indoor ski resort right in the middle of the Arabian Desert!

* * * * * * * * * * *

Oh, and I almost forgot... Kudos to MSNBC for selecting the hotter than hot Tamron Hall to host their Olympic updates from New York. Since I don't have cable myself I've been forced to watch her at my local sports bar on the big screen with the sound off. Last night she was wearing this low-cut red dress and her smiling cleavage kept Li'l Marty at attention even after four tall Blue!

Check out Tamron crossing her beautiful legs on YouTube and you'll see exactly what I mean!

Dear Lyzako,

Looking at the calendar I realize that not even a week has passed since my previous letter, but I feel the need to update you on my status as a soon-to-be ex-husband (finally!).

The soon-to-be ex-Mrs. stopped by last night with a form for me to sign acknowledging the divorce complaint. After carefully checking to be sure that it was as simple as she had described and that the box next to 'No property to be divided' was clearly marked, I signed. Now we wait six weeks and voila!... my marriage is no more!

She came by on short notice and I wasn't in the best of moods. I'd been out in the garage for an hour, just getting into the swing of forgetting about another bad work day, toiling away at one of my personal projects and humming along to the new Erykah Badu CD when she arrived and marched straight into the house without knocking, despite my calls to her that I wasn't even in there.

We eventually made our way into the kitchen together where I cleared some space on one end of the table and sat down to read the thing over, doing my best to imitate Ed Norton's armflap show prior to putting my signature down in ballpoint.

“Where do I sign?” She flipped the double-sided document over and pointed towards the bottom.

“Here.”

As I read the line just above the space where I was supposed to make my mark, I saw another blank line with the word 'Attachments' next to it. “What's this?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Dat's nothing,” she decided. I read a little more.

“Oh, I see,” I said. “I'm just acknowledging that I've received a copy of these papers and instead of you suing me and the court sending someone over, you're doing that part.”

“Yes,” she said, drawing out the 's' at the end like the hiss of a snake. “I'm just servicing you with papers.” I'd forgotten how cute I once thought her Portuguese accent was and how funny some of her grammatical mistakes were when she spoke English.

“Just for the record,” I said, “You're not 'servicing' me. You're 'serving' me with papers.”

“Oh, yah,” she said with a smile and a hint of shy giggle once she'd realized the implication of what 'servicing' me actually meant.

She looked good, better than when we were together. Since running afoul of the credit card company she'd lost the resources for her weekly manicures so her fingernails were natural and short, just as they had been when I met her and just as I'd always preferred. And her hair, though still adorned with unnatural extensions tied in, was short and easier to believe than the lengthy braids which she wore at the time of our parting.

I had pulled what was left of the pan of chicken wings I'd smoked on Sunday from the fridge and was planning on having a few for dinner. There were four left so I asked her if she wanted to try them. She shook her head. “Are you sure? They're really good, but I've been eating them all week. Help me out and take a couple with you.”

“Well,” she said as she eyed them. “I guess I'll take one.”

“Once you eat one you're going to be mad at yourself for not taking two.”

“Den I'll take the two big ones.”

And that, my friend, in a nutshell, was how the whole shebang went sour in the first place.

To Life!
Marty Sherman

My Dear Lyzako,

Life. It sure is a funny thing. And by funny, I do mean strange. It can be downright hilarious, too, of course, but sometimes in order to laugh at life, one must cultivate a particularly twisted sense of humor as pertains to it. As luck would have it, this past weekend provided me with several contrasting experiences that illustrated life's strangeness, both laughable and otherwise, which have left me wondering if I have enough of a sense of humor to make it through to the end.

It also gave me something to write about.

First off, we had a glorious summer day here in Michigan on Saturday. My morning walk took me towards the city offices and through the park, where several groups were planning picnics for later in the afternoon. Even though it was before nine o'clock, the early birds had already begun staking their claims to shady areas by covering the picnic tables with colorful paper tablecloths and posting signs to identify the groups. One inventive person had even used some of that yellow 'CAUTION' tape, wrapping it around the trunks of a stand of trees that surrounded a handful of tables on the far west side of the park.

As the cicadas trilled high in the oaks, smooth jazz played on portable stereos and charcoal was being lit in preparation for a low and slow fire for the ribs that would be served for lunch. Upon passing a pair of fifty-five gallon drum smokers trucked in for one church group's picnic, I encountered an older gentleman power-walking towards me and perspiring profusely. “I think I'll just go over there and sit down until that stuff is ready,” he said after catching a whiff of the charcoal.

I chuckled and said: “You'll probably be waiting a while, but it's a perfect day for it.” And it was.

Saturday evening I attended the Tigers/Orioles game at Comerica Park with an old buddy from high school. Our perfect summer day had slowly evolved into a perfect night for baseball - eighty degrees and sunny at game time with a cool breeze blowing in out of the west.

We sat twelve rows up behind the Tigers' on-deck circle surrounded by families with annoying children. Still they were the best seats I'd ever had and I enjoyed the game immensely, despite the fact that several of the fidgety young ones behind me kicked at the seat backs and one very cute but evil six-year-old girl sitting in front of me held up a tiny 'Go Tigers!' sign made from a sheet of typing paper being sure to completely block my view of the batter as she did so. I know it was intentional because prior to holding the sign up she looked right at me with that glint in her eye that let me know if I were a turtle, she'd turn me on my back and see how long it took me to die.

Four beers helped me forget the evil little girl and the Tigers won 5-3. As we crossed Woodward heading back to the car, fireworks shot up over the stadium against the night sky, a full moon hanging like a silver disk in the background. Suddenly I remembered a scene on the way in as we approached the ball park, one that had made me wince upon seeing it.

We were trailing a group of jersey- and ball-cap-clad couples up the crowded sidewalk before the game, one woman with astonishingly flawless legs, her bronzed flesh on display from instep to crotch thanks to a pair of heeled sandals and some extremely short shorts. Back in the day we called them 'hot pants', and hers truly were. I couldn't take my eyes off of her until I heard one obnoxious member of their group drunkenly yell: “Take my picture with the bum!”

The next thing I knew my buddy and I had overtaken the group as they all stopped to pose, their arms draped over the shoulders of a toothless, unshaven black man who laughed and smiled right along with the white suburbanites, hoping to panhandle a couple of bucks out of them in exchange for his humiliation. I heard the photographer say something like, “You're bad” to the guy who had originally suggested the photo-op, but other than that they all just laughed as though bums were put on this earth for their personal amusement.

Sunday was a good day, too. Prior to coming home and grilling some chicken wings and sausages, I had stopped at BW3 for my usual. They had the front open to the street and passersby were soaking up the final hours of the Dream Cruise which had taken place the day before. The room was comfortably uncrowded and I took some pleasure in watching the end of the Tigers' afternoon game on the big screen in between glimpses outside.

I had just become pleasantly fuzzy when a handful of loud folks crossed Nine Mile and caught my attention. There were three adults, two men and a pear-shaped woman, along with a chubby pre-teen girl with straight red hair. The woman was pushing a modified stroller containing one of the adults, his body twisted and robbed of control by what appeared to be cerebral palsy.

The pear-shaped woman had got the stroller stuck on the curb and was yelling at the other man to help her with it as the handicapped guy wriggled and waved soundlessly in front of her. Her companion (I assumed it was her husband) seemed perturbed at having to deal with the situation, and instead of just helping her push, he reached in and casually lifted the guy with palsy up until the woman was able to get the stroller off the curb, then callously dumped the guy with a bounce back into the stroller, complaining the entire time as they passed out of sight.

From beginning to end the event took no more than two seconds, but witnessing that man casually treat another human being like he was a sack of groceries made me think of the bum and the suburbanites from the previous night and it was all I could do to get my thoughts back to the positive side. I suppose I could have found some humor in both scenes had I allowed it, but I just couldn't. It took three more tall Blues plus quite a few more here at home to forget about the cold, cruel world and how truly funny life can be.

By the way, the Tigers lost the afternoon game 16-8. At least we picked the right one to attend.

All My Best to You and Yours,
Marty Sherman

By the time the tape had rewound half-way, the reels started moving slower until they eventually whispered to a halt. Damn. The batteries were dead.

After rushing to the kitchen and finding no fresh ones in the junk drawer, I grabbed the remote for the stereo, snapped off the cover on the back and tapped the two AAs inside it onto the coffee table. Fumbling with thick and trembling fingers, I eventually managed to transfer them to the tape recorder and fast-forwarded to the point where I could hear Jackie knocking at the door.

As I listened to the sounds of what had happened, it felt as though my heart would burst, systole and diastole audibly pumping heat and pain and sorrow throughout every inch of my body. Flashes of memory caused me to close my eyes tight as blurred snapshots from the previous evening began to flood my alcohol-addled brain. It was all there...the argument, the fight, her screams and finally, the sounds of my heavy breathing as I shuffled out of the living room, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as I made my way to bed. Then silence.

It had been only a matter of ten minutes or so, but they were ten minutes of absolute horror that had changed my life forever. I remembered...

She had knocked on the door while I was working - both on that first million-dollar idea and on my second pitcher of martinis. It was obvious when listening to the playback that I was more than a little drunk. Our divorce wasn’t yet final and Jackie was after more money, even though she had bled me dry before I moved here from L.A. She took the beach house and the majority of our savings, while I was left with just enough in my bank account to rent a broken down bungalow in one of the seedier neighborhoods on Detroit’s east side. I remember her attorney at the time calling it ‘fair’.

During my relocation to Motown the previous winter I had been very careful to cover my tracks. No land line telephone. No forwarding address. I was hoping for a fresh start and, most importantly, to never see Jackie again. She shouldn’t have been able to find me so quickly.

As the tape continued to play, amid her shouts and my slurred exclamations I heard Jackie mention the name 'Andy' more than once. The same Andy I had run into in lockup that weekend I spent in Oakland County for DUI. The very same Andy who was Jackie's cousin. And even though I couldn't remember telling him where I lived, it must have been Andy who ratted me out.

At some point during the argument Jackie had turned up the heat, like she was so good at doing. She always knew just which buttons to push to send me over the edge and she had pushed like there was no tomorrow that night...calling me names, spitting at me and eventually brandishing the aluminum softball bat that I kept in the umbrella stand near the door.

She was feisty, I had to hand it to her. It was one of the things I used to like about her, but with a bat in her hand and Jackie pissed at me, her feisty nature was a definite negative. She had a swing like Barry Bonds going for Aaron's record and the first one had hit me high on my left arm. When I pulled the injured arm away Jackie had swung again, lower this time, the bat striking me hard in the ribs. I winced as I remembered the pain shooting through me from that blow, the resulting uncontrollable rage that followed as I saw red and the real violence commenced.

That was the last I remembered, really. Even on the tape, what happened after that was kind of hard to decipher. There was the sound of glass breaking, some grunts and groans, a scream or two and that was pretty much it.

I turned off the recorder and looked out the window. It was just starting to get light outside and the clock on the living room wall said it was a quarter to seven. Birds were chirping, a new day was dawning and Jackie was still dead.

My head throbbed. I began to formulate a plan.


1... 2...

Can you believe the NFL has started playing already? Where the fuck has the summer gone?

Oh well, what are you gonna do? Ask four rhetorical questions in a row? I guess Steve Miller was right: “Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'... into the future...” Man, that guy was a visionary.

But Brett Favre... well, he's another story.

I remember watching this boob break down like a little girl when he announced his retirement at the end of last season. There's been speculation all summer that he was going to try to come back and he even got in some hot water for illegally contacting the Minnesota Vikings to discuss it.

It took months to come up with a solution that everybody could live with, and now finally the Packers have announced that Favre will be traded to the Jets for some sort of future draft pick. I can't for the life of me figure out what took so long, but thank the gods it's over.

Now I can get back to worrying about whether those poor Olympic athletes will get asthma from breathing Beijing's polluted air.

Speaking of sports in general, though, there's just waaaaayyyy too much of it these days, professional or otherwise. The television coverage is non-stop, too, and of course, NFL quarterbacks and Olympians top the list in terms of prestige. But you also have thousands of other people trying to eke out a living playing things like professional lacrosse (really, there is a league!) and soccer (indoors and out), not to mention bowling, cycling and mixed martial arts fighting.

Hmmm... that gives me an idea: maybe they should combine those last three and we can watch heavily tattooed guys on bicycles trying to kill each other with bowling balls.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Brett Favre. You know, when the guy was just playing and keeping his mouth shut I didn't really have a problem with him. But now that this on-again-off-again retirement fiasco has put him in the news more often than the Iraq War, I'm just sick to fucking death of him.

In my opinion, if you hold a fucking press conference and announce to the world that you are going to retire from your sport of choice, you should have to sit out for a year. Any contractual obligations you had to the team or they had to you are null and void, including future salary. So go watch the games on TV for a season. That's retirement. If you still feel like coming back after that, then you can sign as a free agent with whatever team is interested in you.

Try telling your boss at the end of the day today that you've had enough and it's time to move on. I'll bet he has somebody new sitting at your fucking desk trying to look busy by lunchtime tomorrow.

I'm just glad Favre went to the AFC, because if he'd gone to Tampa Bay like they speculated he might, we weary Lions fans would have had to deal with him on a regular basis, and that would have been cruel. It would have meant that for a couple of games each season Favre's antics might distract us from our serious routine of watching the home town boys discover a new way to lose each week.

Speaking of which, notice he didn't get in trouble for illegally talking to Lions' management.

He may be an ass but he's not completely stupid.

Trish 'The Dish' is a Florida girl born and raised, and you'll find her plying her trade on the Miami page. Not only does she claim to have the 'phattest booty' on Craig's List, Trish also promises to be the 'perfect stress reliever' after your long day of work. Upscale gentlemen preferred. Check out her 'blow-and-go' special on Sundays during football season for a mere 'forty roses'.

Well, finally! A precious minute to myself.

First off: How the hell are you all? Good, good. Glad to hear it. Me? Oh, I'll get by. Between long days of meaningless work and the inevitable Happy Hours that follow, I've been pretty busy lately. So you have to forgive me for not writing much.

I haven't even had the time to get all the 'Spooge' out of my system.

But seriously... I know most of you don't even bother to read this drivel that I type out here. Since my Tracksy account went into limbo I've been using good old Google Analytics to track my visitors and the overwhelming majority of you are still hunting for porn links. Good luck with that. You'll find a few good ones on the right over there, including one of my favorites, The Vintage Erotica Forum.

And I never realized until recently how obsessed some of you are with news anchorwomen. We have some hot ones in the Detroit area (as I'm sure you must have in other parts of the country) and there seems to be an endless fascination with their marital status. Wake up, guys. Even if Fanchon Stinger is getting a divorce, I doubt she'd rebound by jumping right into the arms of a middle-aged man who's been essentially stalking her via the Internet.

I thought you might find them funny, though, so here are a few recent news anchor-related keyword searches:

ama daetz reporter... ama daetz youtube... ama daetz/nude... carmen harlan divorce... carmen harlan free nude pics... "carolyn clifford" news anchor fight... "fanchon stinger" "carolyn clifford" fight... "fanchon stinger" "married to"... "fanchon stinger" "trainer"... "fanchon stinger"+divorced,... fanchon stinger i choose ama daetz glenda lewis carolyn clifford... fanchon stinger in trouble... fanchon stinger nude... and my favorite... how tall is ama daetz.

Does it really fucking matter how tall Ama is? Are you trying to figure out if the lingerie you bought for your inflatable love doll will fit her? And, listen, Carmen Harlan is an attractive woman. No doubt about that. Why, on one memorable broadcast I saw, she was wearing a low-cut black leather top and I have to admit to getting a little swollen in the lap department myself. But come on, people. She's got to be pushing sixty. Do you really want to see her 'nude'?

The naked celebrity and porn searches are funny, too:

"brown boobs"... k.d. aubert buttcrack... lela rochon buttcrack... unfastened zipper down lesbian (What?)... arcieri leila sexy feet and toes... and the piece de resistance... "mr. president" "oval office" "hard cock"!

Oh, sure, I still get a few folks looking for legitimate information on people like Gil Scott-Heron, Yma Sumac and Dianna Rigg, but it seems the vast majority of readers are looking to see them either naked or dressed in latex.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday I was watching the big screen at Happy Hour - sports news on ESPN25 or some shit like that. During the commercial breaks they repeatedly showed a 30-second spot for Quizno's that featured an old Chinese woman eating a five dollar bill. She's working at a laundromat and the bill is taped to the wall like maybe it's the first money she ever made when she opened the joint up. Suddenly, she just peels Old Abe off the wall and stuffs him into her mouth while a disclaimer appears across the bottom of the screen: “Dramatization. Do not attempt.”

What? Is it gonna kill you to eat some fucking paper? And isn't the fact that she's Chinese and working the counter at a laundromat somewhat racially stereotypical? What's next? A black guy who's a pimp eating five dollars' worth of extra large condoms?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Say, I was just reading through this again before I post it; you know... checking for spelling glitches and grammatical errors. Well, when I reread the part about Carmen Harlan wearing that black leather top... I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but I chubbed up again. So if you do happen to stumble across some 'free nude pics' of Carmen (even just nip slips or buttcrack), please send me a link at: coolhandmarty@gmail.com. Please.

I guess it turns out I wouldn't mind taking a gander at her naked body after all.

Dear Lyzako,

I passed yesterday's Happy Hour pleasantly at BW3 with a pair of the establishment's employees who were already in the process of getting 'happy' when I arrived. Both of the off-duty table servers - one a young man and the other an extremely cute young woman who reminds me very much of a former flame from college - were laughing and drinking like there would be no tomorrow, ably holding down one end of the bar.

I joined in, and in short order found myself buying a round, relishing the bar experience once more, and for a brief moment feeling as though I were back in Hamtramck sitting on my favorite stool at Lili's. Ahh... those were the days, eh?

Anyway, at some point during our drunken conversation, I told your 'This woman goes to her doctor for labia-reduction surgery' joke. Bear in mind, these two are in their mid-twenties, and were more than a little loaded at the time I told it, but their reaction was completely unexpected.

You see, I've practiced that joke, polished it like the gem that it is. I have it 'down', as they say, and I expected the same hoots and hollers that followed every other time I've told the joke since you related it to me (except for the time I told Louis - but that's another story). Anyway, upon delivering the punchline I was met with a pair of blank stares and a chorus of “I don't get it”.

“Listen,” I told them. “You guys must be drunk because that's a funny joke. You know what labia are, don't you?”

The guy looked at the girl and said, pointing towards her crotch: “Isn't it that stuff you have down there?”

“Yeah, it's what I got down here,” said the girl, laughing. They still didn't get it.

“Well,” I said, “they do plastic surgery down there if that stuff is too big. I know. I've seen the pictures.” Another pair of blank stares. I made a flap-like motion with both my hands. “And the doctors removed the extra... and made ears for the guy who had his burned off.” I then transferred the flap-hands to either side of my head to demonstrate.

“Eeeewwwww!” from both in unison as they just then understood.

I guess the point is this: BW3 isn't Lili's, but I sure as shit wish that it were.

Cheers and Warm Regards,
'Tipsy' Sherman

PS: Just prior to Happy Hour I had been doing my laundry at the old Wash 'N' Dry in Ferndalia, which continues to decline as each day passes. Every other machine in the place was broken, and even though the weather was ninety degrees and humid, I found it much more comfortable to sit outside on the bench as I read my book of Quentin Tarantino interviews, the feeble and overworked air conditioners inside dripping fat plops of condensation into a series of buckets strategically positioned below each unit. I believe it was Jean-Paul Sartre who said: “Hell is other people.” I'll go him one further and say: "Hell is other people, and they're all doing their laundry. And they brought their kids."

Choking back the urge to panic, I rushed to Jackie's body and felt for a pulse along either side of her throat. No sign of a heartbeat, but the flesh was still warm. I turned her face towards me and tried mouth-to-mouth, even though I really didn’t know what I was doing. It didn’t work.

Poor Jackie. What was she doing here? How had she managed to find me? Suddenly overcome with nausea, I pressed a hand to my mouth, felt a slickness on my lips. I held the hand before my face, fingers spread apart, saw smears of purple lipstick mixed with saliva. Purple? When did she start wearing that color?

My mind raced to try and remember what had happened, but I simply had no recollection. Even so, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that I must have been the one who killed her. The likelihood of a third person doing it seemed pretty slim, even though I had visible signs of fending off an attacker. No, the killer had to be me. As horrifying as that thought was, nothing else made sense. And that would logically mean Jackie would have been my attacker. But why?

I looked around the room and it was only slightly more out of order than normal. I had always kept a pretty sloppy house, and even the sight of an overturned chair wasn't all that uncommon. But this was different. More than a few things had been knocked around and there were books on the floor - some open and face down, others face up with torn pages. I was always careful with my books, even when I was drinking. Shards of broken glass were strewn across the floor, and the floor lamp lay on its side, the bulb shattered.

I sat down heavily on the chair across from the sofa, held my head in my hands and tried to make sense of it all. “What was the last thing you remember doing, Marty?” The sound startled me for a second before I realized that it had been my own voice I'd heard. “Oh my God,” I added. “What have I done?”

I thought back, closed my eyes and tried desperately to recall what I'd been doing before going to bed. As I sat there searching my mind for some memory of what had happened, I spied the blue plastic casing of my hand-held tape recorder on the floor below the coffee table, half hidden under a book that had been tossed there.

That was what it was, I thought. I had been taking verbal notes, brainstorming as I often did late at night, hoping one of these days to come up with an idea that would land me on easy street once and for all. An invention... a novel... that one script idea that was so fresh and good that I could option it to Hollywood and become a household name overnight. Anything that would get me out of Detroit.

I couldn't remember what I'd been working on, but I did have a vague recollection of using the recorder as I sat on the sofa. I dropped to the floor and crawled through the debris towards Jackie.

My hand was trembling as I picked up the recorder. The tape had run to the end and was stopped. The ‘record’ button was still pushed in.

I thumbed re-wind and held my breath.

1...

Dear Lyzako,

Even though I am descended from a long line of warm-blooded hillbillies, I must confess that each year about this time I begin to look forward to winter.

As the daylight grows shorter and the afternoon shadows swing further north each day, I long for the cool night air that autumn brings, the chill that slows foot traffic down the sidewalk and keeps that annoying, constantly-barking bitch-hound-from-Hell next door inside the house more often than not.

The indrawn breath of air that quenches my spirit's thirst like the first taste of cold beer after a long day of difficult work under the punishing smile of the sun. The exhale a cartoon balloon of hovering frost that dissipates in the wind.

Then, winter.

Yes, we have to shovel the walks and driveways. Yes, it's difficult to drive. But the magnificent silence that results from six inches of freshly-fallen snow and a forecast for lows in the teens... well, it seems as if God himself has granted my dearest wish and sent all the loudest fools in this world to Hell.

I may already have told you this, but I used to have a recurring dream in which I played baseball as a child under a high sun in the middle of what I knew to be night. In this dream, I would vociferously point out the fact that it was nearly midnight and we still had enough light to play ball. The other kids seemed to not understand my point.

I believe some sort of cellular memory survives within us. Perhaps the strength of it ebbs and flows with age or some other circumstance, but that dream of midnight baseball (repeated over time) caused me to believe that I lived a much happier life in the past somewhere significantly north of Michigan.

We barely survived those winters and played throughout the brief summers in that life, but the survival was a precious memory of itself. That heat we had to work so hard to provide when the sun went away created a space where we lived beyond the harsh rules of Mother Earth, a space where we collectively survived.

So when winter rolls around these days, that precious feeling of having made a space for myself in this cold, cruel world causes a puddle of strength to appear in my heart. I feel like a happy survivor. The morning coffee changes from a necessary daily dose into a palm-warming ritual that fuels what little love is left within me.

I can't wait until the first frost.

Ever the Optimist,
Marty Sherman

PS: The challenge of aging gracefully is a difficult thing to balance, balance being part of what makes the graceful side of aging so difficult. Two nights ago I forcefully stubbed my toe into the base of the living room sofa as I reached for the remote to silence the stereo. I don't need a doctor to tell me that it's broken. I just need time for it to heal. Did I mention I was drunk? Luckily, it hasn't caused me any kind of real pain beyond the first twenty-four hours, during which it throbbed in time to the beat of my warmly generous heart. Now it just feels like I have a very numb and sweaty Slim Jim stuck between my little toe and the one two toes to the other side. On my fucking left foot.

Two weeks ago John McCain's top economic advisor and campaign co-chairman Phil Gramm called America a “nation of whiners”. Sick and tired of our constant complaints over the skyrocketing cost of living and the steady loss of jobs here in the good ol' U.S. of A., Gramm (a one-time Presidential hopeful himself) went on to profess that our economic woes were all in our heads, going so far as to claim that the current economic downturn is merely a “mental recession” and that our economy continues to grow despite hard evidence to the contrary.

Last week, after refusing to retract his comments from the week before, Gramm resigned from his position in McCain's camp, saying that he didn't want to be a “distraction”.

This week the former Texas Senator and current vice-president of a Swiss investment bank has been named... You guessed it! Ass of the Week! And we're proud to have him on board.

In Gramm's defense, I'm sure someone who's as well-connected as he is probably doesn't feel the economic pinch at all, so it's not really surprising that he would consider we lowly middle-class folks “whiners” when we suddenly have to choose between heat and food and beg the government for help after we get laid off and can't find a job. After all, most of his money (a fair share of it earned as a publicly-funded salary during the twenty-something years he spent in office in Texas) is probably invested in that bank in Switzerland where it's nice and safe (and probably grows tax-free).

What you should be asking yourself, though, is this: How in the fuck could a guy like Gramm become one of McCain's top aides? Of course! They're all members of the Loyal Order of Republicans! Let's just suppose for a second that Gramm had kept his mouth shut and McCain gets elected come November. Where do you think that would put Gramm? How about Chairman of the Federal Reserve? And I have to believe he'd be the worst one ever.

I don't know if this has been under-reported or I've just been so sick of the news that I can't watch anymore, but Gramm's resignation seemed to be just a tiny blip on the election coverage radar. In fact, most of the stuff coming out now from both sides seems minor compared to the glare the media put on the Democratic race when Hillary was still part of it.

And remember this: Phil Gramm is the one who put together McCain's economic policy from the very beginning of his Presidential campaign. You know, the policy that steers us towards four more years of George W. Bush's policies. Anybody out there really want that? Look at Gramm closely and remember that face. He's evil and you should never vote for him again. For ANY office. Even in Texas.

One last thing... If John McCain picked Gramm for such an important position in his own circle of advisors, how good do you think he'd be at picking Supreme Court Justices?

Your Honor, I rest my case.

Hailing originally from Biloxi, Mississippi, today's Craig's List Girl Mimi, now shakes her ass at local strip clubs in the Baltimore area, moonlighting as a private dancer and escort. Check the Baltimore page for rates and availability, and Mimi's willing to travel if the 'price is right'.

Welcome to 'Ye Olde Mail Bag'!

Yes, we get mail, and in an effort to share some of our readers' concerns and answer some of their questions (both the stupid and the not-so-stupid kind) our version of the Letters To The Editor column will be appearing regularly.

So feel free to pipe up and let us know what you think!

Our first letter is from darryld34, who asks: “What kind of site is this anyway? I don't get it. I was looking for some porn and got directed here but all I find is links? Is this a porn site or what?”

Well, darryld34, it seems obvious to me, but I'll try to explain anyway. Almost Okay is a blog, which is short for 'web log'. When this blogging thing got started the initial concept was to use it as an on-line journal of sorts where one could post pictures and share thoughts with friends and family all over the world. However, blogging quickly evolved into all sorts of things - from daily news and commentary to (yes, it's true) porn. Since porn has been as much a part of my life as anything I learned in five useless years at art school, I include some links and references to my favorites. Is Almost Okay a porn site? Technically, no. It is more of a journal, with entries (including a few porn-related ones) aimed to entertain. If you're looking for a true porn site, try some of the links on the right over there. I'm sure you won't be disappointed. And tell 'em Sherman sent you.

The next one is from Percival Von Pluttbugger. Percy writes: “Whatever happened to the poetry? It was my absolute favorite part of the whole entire thing!”

First off, I hope that's not your real name, Percy, but I'm happy you appreciated the poetry. At present, however, the verse has been put on hold due to the second death of Prof. Dirk Beat and the disappearance of our other regular contributor, Ye Olde Blowharde (who actually came up with the name for this column before vanishing into thin air). I'm hoping for ol' Dirk to start writing from the grave again any minute, but I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

Lastly, from The Batster: “How come you review old bad movies on tape and never review new movie releases like 'The Dark Knight'?”

You must be a relatively new reader, Batster, because I actually did review 'Death Proof' when it came out in theaters during the spring of 2007. Aside from that one, though, there hasn't been a single film released domestically which I found to be worthy of my attention, let alone the time it takes me to write a thoughtful review. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure 'Dark Knight' is going to break every record ever set and will get Oscar nods and all that crap. It's just that between the endless promotion and product tie-ins, I feel it has been covered more than sufficiently by the mainstream media. So go eat your goddamned 'Gotham City Pizza' and leave me alone.

I guess that's it for now, folks.

If you have any comments, questions or jokes to share, please feel free to write me at: coolhandmarty@gmail.com.

I'm looking forward to hearing from each and every one of you sonso'bitches!

Heywudanashhh!

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Shumbody... shumbody... HEY, HOZAAAAYYY!!... Me... MeunYOOO! LeshGOOO!

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G'nide...

The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul.
-John Calvin

He who eats alone chokes alone.
-Proverb

* * * * * * * * * * *

Oakland County Jail, Pontiac, Michigan, July 2006

The concrete floor felt like ice. How can it be so cold in here when it's ninety degrees outside? I thought. Then aloud: “Are they trying to keep us from spoiling?”

“Sherman? Is that you?” A familiar voice, but I couldn't place it. “It's me... Andy.”

“Andy? How long has it been? Five years?”

“Closer to ten. How's tricks?”

* * * * * * * * * * *

I had blacked out from drinking before, but never like this.

I woke up in a cold sweat, fully clothed and lying in bed. The room was pitch black except for the red LED on my clock radio which told me flatly that it was 3:19. Since it was still dark, that meant a.m. I tried to remember how I came to be in bed still dressed, but I couldn’t. There was no memory of coming to bed, and the time before that was a fuzzy black emptiness inside my besotted brain.

The room was eerily silent, even though my window was open wide to the night air. No barking dogs, no traffic. Not a single sound.

I sat up with some difficulty and realized that my rib cage on the left side was very tender. I fumbled for the switch to the reading lamp on my night stand and winced at the brightness of the bulb when it came on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light I could see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors to one side of the bed, and what I saw wasn’t pretty.

I had expected to be hung over, but this was ridiculous. I’d never looked worse in my life...pale, bloated, with a three-day growth of beard, and there were heavy bags under my eyes, the whites of them shot through with swollen and ruptured blood vessels. My road map of woe leftover from several days of binging.

What day was it? I couldn’t recall. In order to get to my feet I needed to steady myself with one hand on the wall. I limped out of my tiny bedroom avoiding piles of dirty clothes, books, stacks of porno magazines and the occasional shoe lying in the middle of the floor. When I got to the bathroom I could see light coming from the living room.

Strange, I thought. It wasn’t like me to leave a lamp on, no matter how drunk I got, but I needed to check out my ribs before I did anything else. I was just then beginning to realize how difficult it was to breathe, sharp pain knifing through me with each inhale. It suddenly dawned on me that the pain was what had awakened me in the first place.

I splashed some cold water on my face in an effort to make myself feel better or normal or something, but it didn’t help. I spent some time staring straight into my own eyes and trying to recall what had happened, but I just couldn’t. Then I lifted my soiled and sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a nasty bruise that had already turned three shades of blue about half-way down my left side. There was also a wide bruise on my upper left arm near the shoulder and both of my hands were sore along the knuckles.

After checking my face more carefully and probing for loose or broken teeth with my tongue, I came to the conclusion that I was basically okay. I must have been in some sort of fight, I reasoned, but didn’t remember leaving the house. Assuming that a fight had caused my injuries, I wondered vaguely if I had won the bout. If this is the face of victory, I thought, no telling what the other guy looks like.

My balance seemed to be returning so I decided to head to the living room and see if there were any clues as to what might have happened in there. I walked gingerly down the hallway, my stockinged feet sliding along the hardwood and my hands touching the walls to guard against falling as I moved.

The realization that my ribs might be cracked and not just bruised was weighing heavily on my mind until I saw what was in the living room. Suddenly, the pain all but melted away, only to be replaced by a sense of overwhelming horror when I spotted the lifeless form sprawled awkwardly across my sofa. I closed my eyes and opened them again, hoping that in my drunken state of mind I had been seeing things, but I hadn't. The body was still there, and there was no mistaking who it was.

It was Jackie, my ex-wife.

Dear Lyzako,

In a sincere attempt to keep myself informed, I tried to watch the news last night, only to find my brain so burdened with anxiety and fear afterwards that I could not sleep. Thank the gods for beer and fatigue, although I don't know how much longer I'll be able to afford the beer.

It seems as though each new day brings another crisis in the world, and the big news yesterday was the failure of one of the nation's largest banks. The report showed people literally camped outside in line awaiting an opportunity to withdraw their cash from said bank, most of them having less than the $100,000 FDIC maximum in their accounts, which means their money is fully insured by the good old United States government.

As a result, there is now serious speculation as to whether or not more banks will be in trouble, thanks in large part to the ongoing problems in the mortgage industry and the skyrocketing number of foreclosures caused by our faltering economy. When I heard my own bank of twenty-something years mentioned at the top of the list of other possible failures, my heart sank. I reached for another Blue, thumbed the remote to Letterman and waited for the Top Ten List as I tried to turn my mind to kinder thoughts.

After the commercial break I was treated to the 'Top Ten Ways You Can Tell Your Bank Is In Trouble', and even though most of the ways were very funny, I couldn't even manage a chuckle.

Of course, the majority of what I've been able to save over a lifetime of sweat and toil doesn't even fall under that magic FDIC umbrella, my IRA heavily invested in mutual funds that continue to decline in value each quarter. The pittance I keep on hand to pay the bills (and buy my Blue) will be covered entirely, however, but in the event of a complete economic collapse, I can't help but wonder: Who's insuring the FDIC? China?

Last Saturday I spent the afternoon at a matinee, a time-warp double feature of 'Creature From the Black Lagoon' and 'It Came From Outer Space', both shown in the primitive 3-D process that requires the viewer to wear those flimsy cardboard glasses with the red and blue lenses. The glasses they handed out with admission, though, had the red and blue opposite of what was needed for the dimensional effect to be properly seen, so we were instructed to reverse the lenses by wearing the glasses inside out. It worked.

For three hours I was able to live within a simpler world, a black-and-white one where creatures - whether they be from outer space or from beneath the surface of a remote Amazonian lagoon, were the people's biggest worries. No corrupt politicians (although I found the sheriff in the second movie to be more than a little suspect), no global warming and not a word about failing banks.

It felt good.

As things go, I realize that I've had it pretty easy most of my life, even if I lose every dime during the course of this Republican plot to change our middle-class status to that of indentured servants. I have ample space in which to hide from the world and accumulate the things (records, books, etc.) that make me feel comfortable, and I still have a house note that I can afford (although I don't know how much longer that will be, either). I am in relatively good health and want for little but happiness.

Still, recent economic events point to more losses and greater downward shifts in our standard of living, and I can't help but be a little concerned that I have to be concerned with which bank my tiny pile of money is in. I don't think I'd be very good at figuring out when to pull all my cash out of the bank in a panic.

You see, at times like that, I usually do panic. And panic causes confusion, which is the exact opposite of the clarity of mind one needs to feel alive and safe and secure. As I write this, I can feel the blood rushing past my ears and my heart thumping heavy rhythm in my chest... all from simply contemplating the scenario. I'm afraid actually living through it would be my undoing.

I keep thinking back to that double-feature, though, and the 'cutting edge' technology that made the whole 3-D process possible. The world was a far less complex place in the fifties, my friend, as you are well aware, and I have no doubt that there were times when many folks felt some anxiety even back then. But has the march of technology helped us out at all? Has it driven much change aside from more greed and greater misery?

I think not.

I just wish that the problems of our world today were as simple to remedy as those wrong-sided glasses they gave us at the movie. It sure would be nice to restore some of that rose-colored view of the future I once innocently held, long before cell phones and laptops and digital media ruined our lives.

Regards and Well Wishes,
Marty Sherman

During the fifties and sixties, exotica pioneer Les Baxter spent fifteen years working in the music department at American International Pictures, scoring dozens of low-budget flicks and making a name for himself as the go-to guy when it came to delivering soundtrack music ahead of schedule. As Roger Corman was to the direction of the B-movies, Baxter was to the music, grinding out themes and cues faster than anybody else could, sometimes composing and recording entire film scores in just a matter of days.

Today's LP, 'Barbarian' did double duty as both a Les Baxter album and as the soundtrack to the film 'Goliath and the Barbarians', which starred famous muscle-man Steve Reeves. By 1959 - the year this movie was released, Baxter had already landed a handful of pop hits on the charts, while developing a solid following for his brand of exotic, bachelor-pad type music through a series of successful LPs on the Capitol label.

Among his other early achievements are the 'Music Out of the Moon' LP (a 1947 recording that featured compositions by Harry Revel with the theremin as principal instrument), session work for Nat King Cole and musical direction for Yma Sumac's most commercially successful LP 'Voice of the Xtabay' (1950). Baxter also wrote the familiar opening whistle theme for the 'Lassie' television show and worked as musical director of Abbott and Costello's radio program.

Highlights from his other soundtrack assignments at AIP include 'Master of the World' (1961), 'The Pit and the Pendulum' (1961), 'Dr. Goldfoot and the Girl Bombs' (1966), 'Cry of the Banshee' (1970), and one of my all-time drive-in favorites - 'The Dunwich Horror' (1971), which starred sexy Sandra Dee.

Baxter's first film score was for 'Tanga Tika' in 1953, and his sound track for the low-budget western 'The Yellow Tomahawk' from 1954 was rumored to have been composed, arranged and recorded in only three hours.

Baxter's blue-collar work ethic emphasized perspiration over inspiration, and his willingness to accept any assignment kept him busy throughout his career, eventually landing him jobs writing music for Sea World and other theme parks long after rock and roll had killed his brand of pop music and the film score work began to dry up.

The credits on 'Barbarian' list the London Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Muir Mathieson, and according to a 1981 interview with Baxter it was because of strict union rules in England (where the feature was shot) that he didn't conduct the session himself.

I'm not going to lie to you, though... The music you'll find on this LP isn't as good as some of Baxter's other stuff, and I would never have bought this if I'd had to pay the catalog price of thirty bucks. But I happened to find this copy at one of my favorite local stores just a week ago for only $4.50, and in spite of side two being scarred (the clerk used the term 'bruised' in describing it) with several visible scuffs that run throughout, I decided I had to have it, mostly for the extremely cool cover. As a bonus, it happens to play perfectly fine with nary a pop or hiss.

I've never seen this flick but from what I've been able to ascertain through the few reviews I've read, it wasn't exactly Oscar-worthy. Reeves, a bodybuilder and former Mr. Universe, got a lot of mileage out of his limited acting ability, cashing in on his physique to become an international star in the Italian production of 'Hercules' in 1958. That appearance led to a string of similar roles including a sequel called 'Hercules Unchained' the following year, and being cast as Goliath in this stinker.

Reeves also appeared in Ed Wood's 'Jail Bait' (1954) and, in probably one of the worst moves of his career, infamously declined the Clint Eastwood role in Sergio Leone's 'Fistful of Dollars' (1964).

Reeves died in 2000 at the age of 74 after retiring to southern California in the eighties.

Les Baxter, who's best-known composition continues to be 'Quiet Village' (ironically, a bigger hit for exotica music rival Martin Denny than it was for Baxter himself), died in 1996. He was 73.

Sadly, with the advent of digital technology and the invention of the compact disc, the vinyl LP continues to die a slow and lingering death in 2008.

Stay tuned for the next chapter in the ongoing eulogy...