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

SHERMAN WHISTLES WHILE HE WORKS
Chapter One: Back To The Grind

It's hot and muggy as I sit in my room at the Extended Stay here in Cincinnati. The air conditioning hasn't kicked in yet, but the fan is blowing hard, filling the room with white noise and billowing out the drapes near the foot of the bed, letting in flashes of evening sun that I don't particularly want to see. The freezer compartment in the tiny fridge is jammed with as many cans of Tecate as I could fit, and I'm taking occasional pulls from a pint of Jim Beam while I stare at the television and wait for the beer to get cold, chasing the booze with a bottle of Vitamin Water and a heap of regret.

It had been three lonely days on the road, one more 'job' that I didn't want to do. Another poor soul on ice and a big chunk of mine chipped off in the process...

* * * * * * * * * * *

I had just returned from my Oklahoma City trip with cash in my pocket and some time on my hands. I was looking forward to some rest and relaxation. As I napped in the cool of my basement, the windows covered with cardboard to block the afternoon sun, my cell phone chirped, flashed blue. It was my boss. I was hoping that I wouldn't be hearing from him for a couple of weeks. At least. A month would have been even better. I picked up the phone.

“Sherman?”

“Yeah.”

“Chop chop.”

That was it. No detailed conversations over the phone and I understood my end of the deal. The routine was always the same. Two hours later I was sitting on the patio at Mr. B's drinking a cold one when he walked up to me and dropped a manila envelope on the table. “Order me a Long Island,” he said. “I've got to hit the head.”

I snagged the waitress, a thirty-something dishwater blond with a ponytail and too much makeup, placed his drink order and peeked inside the envelope. There must have been some mistake. The photo of the target this time was a woman. A young, pretty one. I folded the flap back down, secured it with the clasp and waved at the waitress again. “Hey,” I said. She came back, a sour look on her face. It was a beautiful late summer afternoon, a glorious Friday, the sun was below the buildings and we were sitting in the long shadows, a cloudless blue sky above and a cooling breeze blowing out of the north along Main Street. All the tables were packed with thirsty folks celebrating the end of their work week. The waitress was busy, and the look in her eye let me know I was making her life more difficult. “Sorry, dear,” I said, “but I'm also gonna need a nice healthy shot of Patron, the silver if you've got it.”

“You need training wheels?” she asked, enthusiastically chewing her gum as she talked, working the gum hard, then cracking it loud to punctuate her question.

“Not necessary,” I said shaking my head.

Blondie left without saying anything else and I absently watched her ass bounce until she disappeared through the doorway.

“So, how's it going, Sherman?” said the boss when he came back.

“Not bad, Boss,” I said. I didn't know his real name. That much was necessary, but the prick actually seemed to enjoy being called 'Boss'. I didn't really care one way or the other, but sometimes it bothered me that he always called me 'Sherman'. It reminded me of High School gym class and a couple of nasty beatings I suffered at the hands of older bullies. The waitress came back with the drinks and he tossed her an easy, confident smile, lots of white teeth, looked her up and down. He was dressed to the nines, always was. A tan Italian suit, black silk shirt, no tie. Sandy hair combed straight back, not one strand out of place in spite of the breezy conditions.

“Thank you, baby,” he said to the waitress, looking her straight in the eye.

“You're welcome,” she said, returning his smile and nearly spilling my shot when she set it down.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I'm gonna need another beer, too.” She looked at me with the same eyes as before...the mean ones, then gave her gum another crack, grabbed my empty bottle, smiled at Boss and waltzed her ass away.

“I looked at the photo,” I told him when she was gone. “This one just ain't my thing. I think I'll pass.”

He took a sip of his Long Island. “Ahhh... now that hits the spot,” he said. He looked around, tipped his sunglasses down and peeked over them at a tanned blond walking by wearing a short skirt that exposed her shapely bare legs. Boss craned his neck to follow her down the sidewalk, spoke to me with his head turned. “I'm afraid you don't have a lot of choice on this one, Sherman. It comes down from the higher ups.”

“You can't get somebody else to do it?” I asked.

“I'm afraid not. But hey, it pays great. This one's major league, not that penny ante shit we started you out with. Sure, it's a little trickier and there's some dirty work involved,” he said turning back to look at me, “but it'll be good experience for you. You'll thank me later.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Oh, I think you will. There's a new I.D. and a matching credit card with a three grand limit in the envelope for expenses up front... rental car, food, incidentals, hotel. Make sure you stay some place shitty, by the way. Don't attract any attention. When this baby's in the can, you'll get forty grand in cash from the man.”

“Forty grand?” My biggest payday so far had been eight thousand.

“I told you you'd thank me.”

The waitress came back with my beer and Boss slurped down the last of his drink, noisily sucking at the empty glass through the straw. “You need another one, Hon?” she asked him with sugar in her voice. He stood up, towered over her by a foot and a half, looked down and smiled.

“Uh uh, baby. I gotta run. But you take care of my man here,” he said, lightly touching her shoulder and indicating me with a wave of his other hand. “Adios, Sherman.” A casual salute and he was gone.

The next afternoon I was eight hours into my drive to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, gingerly piloting the tan Chevy minivan I'd rented through torrential rain along the turnpike at the base of the mountains, four ways flashing, the wipers slapping across the windshield almost as fast as my poor heart was beating.

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

DOUBLE 'DD' FEATURE CHASES
MARTY'S BLUES!
Tune in at 11:00 for the latest cleavage...Did you know that Greece was on fire? No, not a grease fire, stupid, the country... Greece. The whole frigging thing is going up in flames and I didn't even know it until Saturday night. We had tornadoes touch down here in the Detroit area and across southern lower Michigan on Friday (luckily killing no one, by the way) and the media here covered that like it was the second coming of Christ. So forgive me for not knowing that the country that gave birth to the Olympics and produced some of my favorite gods was on frigging fire! (Did you know that Apollo - also a fave of Prof. Dirk Beat - was not only the god of the sun, but the god of poetry as well? Well he was. Doesn't that make poetry seem much more manly? I thought so.)

Now I admit to being somewhat out of touch with current news, but here's why: After ten minutes of the national broadcast on ABC Saturday night, I was nearly in tears. Not only was Greece on fire, but you could see it from orbit, see the columns of smoke rise into the sky. No shit! They even showed us a succession of poor villagers weeping over loved ones lost to the blaze. Then on to the War in Iraq where a number of folks were again killed by those ubiquitous road side bombers. Then a recording of a frantic 9-1-1 call from somebody sitting on the freeway near where that bridge collapsed in Minnesota a few weeks ago, complete with captions. Oh, and I almost forgot - one of those hot-air balloons burst into flame, rose into the sky and crashed to earth, killing two people - all caught on video by a bystander for my unbelieving eyes to see...'Stay tuned we'll be right back...'

Not this kid! I couldn't take it any more! After switching the goddamn thing off and sitting in the dark drinking beer for a while I was able to recover slightly, get my senses back somewhat. I stumbled upstairs and grabbed another bottle of Blue and contemplated the rest of the evening. What to do?

Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning into my soggy brain, I knew the answer. I got up, grabbed my DVD of 'Sheba Baby' and watched it from beginning to end, watched Pam Grier shoot that bad, bad guy with the harpoon as they raced across the water in speedboats, Pam wearing a skin-tight blue wet suit left unzipped at the top to show off her fabulous, hefty cleavage, her soft Afro blowing in the wind. But it just wasn't enough. I still had that bad aftertaste of 'news' in my mouth, so I reached for my VHS copy of 'Friday Foster' went upstairs for more beer and settled in for the night.

Ah, 'Friday Foster'... easily Pam at her most beautiful and I don't care what reviewers say about this flick, it's not bad at all. Pam cavorts with a cast of great character actors including Yaphet Kotto (unforgettable in the original 'Alien'), Eartha 'Catwoman' Kitt (Rrrrroowwrrrrrr!), Ted Lange (Isaac on the 'Love Boat'), Godfrey Cambridge ('60s comedian who also starred in 'Watermelon Man'), Carl Weathers (from 'Rocky'), Scatman Crothers (superb in 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' and 'The Shining') and Jim Backus (yes, Mr. Fucking Magoo and Thurston Howell III!).

Is the story dumb? Kind of, I suppose, but Pam's screen presence and the 'R'-rated action tend to carry it along just fine. Writer/Producer/Director Arthur Marks was no dummy, and he kept Pam on screen in nearly every frame, as she snaps photos (her character is a former model turned freelance photographer), showers and makes love to nearly everybody in the cast who's over six feet tall. I absolutely love Pam in this flick. She's more believably vulnerable and feminine than ever before, and I could just kiss her every time I see her face. She also displays a much broader range of emotions than her previous roles allowed, including a delightfully wicked, impish sense of humor, and some genuine anguish and fear.

Sure there are a few monstrous holes in the plot and some minor flaws in continuity and logic - for example: they are supposed to be running around D.C. in February (Valentine's Day, to be exact), but it was obviously shot in the middle of the summer. For the most part, though, it works just fine right up until it all unravels at the end. It almost seems like they ran out of film after the bullets fly and the mystery is solved.

Scene stealer Tierre Turner who plays Pam's kid brother also starred with Pam and Richard Roundtree in the Marks' directed 'Bucktown' before going on to a long career as a television character actor and stunt double. He's super cool here as the precocious street-wise Cleve, keeping a locked closet filled with goodies that were aimed at his big sister by local street hustler Fancy Dexter (played with panache by Lange) who's continually trying to recruit Friday into his stable of bitches. Lange arrives like clockwork daily in front of Friday's pad, gifts in hand, driving a pinstriped pimp mobile and accompanied by his whores. He delivers one of the movie's best lines when he's trying to hard sell Friday: “You have to admit, my shit is heavaaayyyyy...”

Made in the seventies, this flick also takes me back to a more innocent time before cell phones and computers had taken over the world, before news was an instantaneous look into the pain of other people and long before we could see every fucking disaster recorded and broadcast around the world within minutes of when it occurred. Pam actually bribes her way into the airport with a bottle of booze, slipping past security by wiggling her ass and smiling. Oh, those were the days!

And the music by Luchi DeJesus, who also scored 'Black Belt Jones', was precisely what the doctor ordered for my trauma, with just the right amount of wah-wah and chunking guitars riffs. I have the soundtrack on CD and listen to it all the time. I especially like to be in the shower with it blaring when the music for Pam's own shower scene comes on. It gives me the shivers imagining her naked right next to me under the tap, all slick and wet and soft, her warm brown flesh yielding to my firm hands, Pam smiling, then turning and bending to receive me from behind as the hot water splashes us both...

Anyway, by the time 'Friday' was over it was early Sunday morning, six beers further down my own road to Hell, and my 'news blues' were all but gone. I'd nearly forgotten about the storms, the death and the destruction. I fell asleep on the futon in front of the television and dreamed a pleasant scene of Pam running topless and drunk around my house, bouncing off furniture and go-go dancing for me before kissing me lustily with her soft, full lips.

When I woke up at eight o'clock I flicked on the set and accidentally caught just a glimpse of the news while trying to get the weather forecast for the day. Guess what? Greece was still on fire. I shut the thing off, rolled over and tried desperately to get back to sleep, tried in vain to recapture the magic of that sweet, sweet dream...

I couldn't, but I have successfully managed to avoid watching the news ever since.

A COUPLE OF LOVE POEMS
FOR YOUR MONDAY MORNING
Have a Good Week Y'all!

Dig This

Warm winter night, black streets slick with rain
Neon and streaking headlamps mixing in the shine
Red and blue lights flashing, slashing as cops race by
A slippery kaleidescopic view of the city in all its glory
Brought to you in living color and black and white

Can you dig it?

Shiny liquor bottles line the back of the dimly lit bar, side by side
Colorful rhythms arise for the eyes from their regular placement
Catching some bright green here, reflecting some pale blue there
Orange, red and yellow, too, hypnotic and dazzling liquid hues
Magically encased in glass, a transparent liquid made solid

Can you dig it?

Laughter fills this place, surrounds and coats it
The din its own kind of color and light, aural and human
The sound of glass on glass toasts, silverware and plates
Some breaking, some tinkling with joyful use
Happy New Year all around, one week late, still happy

Can you dig it?

She approaches, curvy and tight, skin a warm brown
Her aura visible to all, an inner light that also shines
Reminds me of a paint-by-number Jesus painting
Around his head a cardboard halo that almost jumps
Bright white to gray to blue in carefully measured steps

Can you dig it?

She moves and sits, all grace and long black hair
Smiles as she talks and laughs and eats and drinks
The room slowly beginning to revolve around her
Baby Doll a magnet, me a pile of steel shavings
Curly bits of scrap, turned on the lathe of my life

Can you dig it?

Half my age and twice the woman I deserve
Baby Doll raises her pint as I raise mine to her, smiling
Our eyes locked, the gesture a silent toast to her beauty
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask, daring to hope
“You sure can,” she says, and I gladly do

Can you dig it?

The jukebox plays and soothes the crowd now
Smooth crooning Marvin Gaye uplifting the room
As the people nod and sway to the rhythm of his voice
I get the urge to holler, throw up both my hands in wonder
Thinking to myself: What is going on, man?

Can you dig it? Can you?

I can

-Prof. Dirk Beat



















Ode To That Girl

Sharon, Oh Sharon
Your gentle laugh
Calls to me

Your smiling brown eyes
Your thoughtful ways
Draw me to you

It also doesn’t hurt
That your long brown hair
Would look good
Gathered in my fist
As I mount you from behind

It also doesn’t hurt
That your long, slender legs
Would feel good
Wrapped around my head
As I tease and taste you

It also doesn’t hurt
That your perfect breasts
Would perfectly fit my hands
As I cup them, squeeze them
Take them in my mouth

Your phone voice, dear
When you first answer
Sounds as though you’re
Being tickled

Sharon, please allow me
To be the tickler
You, the ticklee

-Ye Olde Blowharde

Dear Lyzako,

I walked back to my truck with perfect timing last night - up Woodward and across Nine Mile as an ominous storm rolled in, lightning bouncing around inside the blue-black clouds but no real rain. It was only around eight o'clock, but it was getting dark as midnight and an occasional plump drop fell as I made my way west on Nine, the sidewalk flecked with half-dollar-sized wet marks. The sky turned into a horrific painting of roiling blues, grays and black not unlike the one in El Greco's 'View Of Toledo'. Just as I made it to the parking lot behind Record Time, cutting through the alley to save a few steps, I experienced an ear-splitting peal of thunder and a frightening flash of lightning - so frightening and immediate in fact, that it caused me to duck, and the rumble set off several car alarms in the lot. I laughed at myself right away, knowing full well that ducking was no real protection against lightning, but it was a natural reflex anyway. Car alarms are no real protection against theft, either, by the way.

My reaction reminded me of that old 'drop and cover' reel they used to show us in grade school - advice that was supposed to protect us in case of nuclear attack. Then I thought of the more realistic and humorous take on that adage, which was to simply 'bend over and kiss your ass good-bye'. A group of teen-age girls that had just come out of BW3 screeched when it happened then erupted with loud laughter, both from fear and relief, giggled themselves silly as they ran for their car.

As the cacophony of alarms swirled around me I hauled ass across the lot and jumped in my truck, which was parked on the street just to the north. By the time I pulled away from the curb it had begun to rain. Not hard, just a steady whisper of rain, far less than I expected.

I came home, called Primo's and ordered a couple of mediums, the special - one with ham, pepperoni and mushrooms and the other with bacon, hot pepper and anchovy. They crumble the bacon at Primo's, which makes it surprisingly good and un-breakfast like. With fifteen to twenty minutes to kill before picking up dinner, I took out the trash, put to soak the two-week's worth of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink then headed out. Still just light rain, my wipers pulsing intermittently.

At the corner I stopped at the BP for some beer and noticed that they had Tecate tall cans on sale, so I picked up a couple for four bucks. On the way out I said 'sorry, not today' to some poor guy who picked me out to pester for money because of my glowing white skin, then headed back east on Nine Mile towards the pizza place. It was just beginning to come down by then. I grabbed my pies and headed home as the clouds burst and we got about five minutes of real rain before it dried up and moved to the north.

I spent the remainder of the evening fucking around on the computer, half-heartedly watching television and drinking my Tecates, enhanced by wedges of a faded half of lime that had been rotting in my fridge for over a week.

I'd had a few pints earlier at the Bar, watched some of the rebroadcast of the Tigers game, chit chatted with the bartender. A couple of cute young girls who work at the Magic Bag came in for dinner and told him that the Thursday night show was The Yardbirds.

“Did I hear them say The Yardbirds were playing tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Who could be in that band anymore?”

“That's what I was saying."

“It has to be somebody from the original band, doesn't it. I mean you and I can't just start a band called 'The Beatles' can we?”

“Probably the tambourine guy,” he said with a snide chuckle.

“You know what a yardbird is, don't you?” I asked him. He shook his head. “A chicken. That's why Charlie Parker was called 'Bird'. It was short for 'Yardbird'. They called him that because he liked to eat chicken.”

“I did not know that,” he said, seeming impressed with my knowledge of the obscure. “It's a good factoid to know, though.” He pointed at me as he headed back down the bar.

By the way, it turns out that the current Yardbirds lineup features two of the founding members - Chris Dreja and Jim McCarty, but no Clapton, Page or Jeff Beck. Not really a surprise, I suppose.

And certainly no Charlie Parker. Bird Lives!

Regards,
Marty Sherman

ALMOST OKAY SCATOLOGICAL
POETRY SLAM ROUND II!
Welcome to our newest contributor - Mark Kay!
Comment on your faves or add your own!

It would never fit
If it weren't for the butter
Anus tightly clenched

-Ye Olde Blowharde

Something that I ate
Is making some bad gas, man
Oh God let me fart!

-Prof. Dirk Beat

I BURP BELCH AND FART
SOCIETY EXPRESS NO
APPRECIATION

-Mark Kay

Sticky humid day
Scrotum rubbing denim sweat
Pass the powder please

-Ye Olde Blowharde

That can't be my turd
Doesn't even look like shit
More like afterbirth

-Prof. Dirk Beat

SENSE OF PUNANI
SCENTS DO REMIND ME OF TIME
SENT TO BUY TAMPONS

-Mark Kay

Gladly I would eat
Like Hershey's candy kisses
Peanuts from her shit

-Ye Olde Blowharde

You put your tongue where?
And she didn't even scream?
Think she would let me?

-Prof. Dirk Beat

I SMELL MY FINGERS
TOUCHING INNOCENT PLACES
VIRGINITY LOST

-Mark Kay

Insidious gas
The silent but deadly kind
Hey, it wasn't me

-Ye Olde Blowharde

My asshole is fire
In retrospect more hot sauce
Wasn't very wise

-Prof. Dirk Beat

WAS IT CLEAN OR NOT?
THAT WAS THE BURNING QUESTION
I FORGOT TO CARE

-Mark Kay

Love it or hate it, the 'Batman' television show was a ground-breaker in many ways. Airing on ABC in prime time, the series consisted of twice-a-week, half-hour installments instead of the traditional one-hour format, the first episode leaving the Dynamic Duo in some sort of predicament sure to get you to tune in for part two. Sort of like a miniature version of the old adventure movie serials. The show was also heavily influenced by Pop Art, the most public art movement of the Twentieth Century, and since it aired in the mid-sixties, right at the height of Pop Art popularity, 'Batman' became a sort of parody of itself. A goofy, illogical, extremely colorful romp through the pages of DC Comics' second most popular comic book, complete with flying sound effects brushed right across the screen.

More comedy than adventure, the show still worked on a lot of levels. The villains came to life thanks to wicked portrayals by some of the great character actors of all time... Eartha Kitt as Catwoman, Burgess Meredith as The Penguin, Frank Gorshin as The Riddler and Cesar Romero as The Joker. Oh, and one of my earliest crushes was on the curvy and succulent Yvonne Craig, who added some sex appeal for the good guys with her perky portrayal of Batgirl. Let's not forget the stars - Adam West and Burt Ward, who were unfortunately typecast as Batman and Robin for the rest of their careers. West continues to bank on his 'Batman' appeal as a recurring character on the FOX series 'Family Guy' and also appeared as himself on an episode of the underrated but extremely funny 'King Of Queens' television show.

And then there was the music. Neal Hefti's catchy score for the series included what may be the most recognizable television theme song ever. You even know the words I bet. Let's all sing!

“Da-da da-da da-da da-da da-da da-da da-da da-da BATMAAAN!”

Today's featured LP isn't exactly what it looks like though. A quick perusal would lead you to believe that it's pretty cut and dried, cheaply recorded kid's stuff, pressed to take advantage of the popularity of the show. A knock-off. The only credits on the cover are for the Sensational Guitars of Dan and Dale (not to be confused with the Sleepwalk Guitars of Dan & Dale, also from the sixties). The music here is actually recorded by a work-for-hire band made up of members of The Blues Project and Sun Ra's Cosmic Arkestra, including Danny Kalb and Steve Katz on guitars and the great Sun Ra himself on the Hammond B-3! And it rocks, in a twisted, sixties, surf/garage sort of way. But, aside from the Batman theme, little else here resembles anything Hefti ever penned, the majority of it sounding like a psychedelic jam session that the cats made up on the spot. There's even one song, 'Batmobile Wheels', that is simply a thinly-disguised instrumental rework of the Lennon and McCartney hit 'She Loves You'. My research didn't turn up a name for the female vocalist who appears sporadically amidst the instrumental madness, but she ably adds some serious soul to the rocking 'Robin's Theme' which opens side two.

The great Sun Ra is a story unto himself and richly deserves his own Five Star, but briefly...

Born Herman Poole Blount in Birmingham, Alabama, Ra played the role of jazz prophet, living an enigmatic life while fronting his 'Arkestra' for decades, pressing and selling his records himself and often contributing artwork for the covers. A bi-polar Renaissance man, Ra composed most of the music, booked the band's dates and was a virtuoso keyboard player as well. The mythology of Ra tells of his abduction by aliens when he was a young man, how the aliens whisked him off to Saturn and deeply changed his outlook on life. It was after that, in a frenzy of twisted logic that Ra renamed himself after the Egyptian god of the sun. Somewhere in this mess I call home I have a copy of Ra's biography, 'Space Is The Place: The Lives And Times Of Sun Ra' by John F. Szwed. It follows Ra's kooky life (including a brief account of the 'Batman' session) in great detail and I recommend it highly.

Back to the LP... This baby's available on CD now, too. Wouldn't you know it? It was just too cool not to be, I guess. I turned up my playable copy for a single buck about a month ago and it hasn't been off my turntable since. I had been looking for a clean copy of this album since my buddy Greg played it for me in a drunken frenzy one evening, and the LP is pretty tough to come by. I'm sure you can find it on Ebay, but go out and get the CD if you have to. Just get it, get it?

Dear Lyzako,

As I sit here and look up I see a centipede just languishing near the top of the wall, pretending that I can't see him. Somehow he knows that I'm ready to smash, full of hate and frustration as I am. If only I were six-five instead of five-six... he'd already be dead. As it is, I just watch. The prick still hasn't moved, by the way.

My trek into Ferndale started with parking up the street behind Buffalo Wild Wings, then nearly getting plowed by a car turning left as I crossed towards the public lot behind Nine Mile. The woman came within a foot of knocking me down and I still had my phone in my right hand, keys in the left, held my arms out in a 'What the fuck's up?!' shrug, which the bitch pretty much ignored. I watched her gesture through the window as though I'd done something wrong, but GODDAMN! I was in the fucking crosswalk. For pedestrians! FUCK THAT CUNT!

After my near-death experience I strolled up Nine Mile to Woodward, turned north and sat my dumb ass down at the Bar, where the bartender met me with my usual... a pint of Blue and a water.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"I may eat something."

I didn't, though. Five pints later the Tigers had iced the Indians 2-1 in a game that featured two incredible pitching performances and only lasted a couple of hours. The Tigers used everybody they had after their starter, a new kid named J.J. 'Jay' Jerkjizzbucket-J, pitched his ass off and held the Indians to a single run. Zumaya looked good and got the one out they needed in the seventh. Rodney was hot, too, dominated the eighth. Then Todd Jones came in and shut them down and it was over, a pop fly to center field for out number three in the top of the ninth.

I decided it was high time for me to leave, being short on cash an long on fatigue.

I took my time getting back to the truck, walked slowly west on Nine Mile and window-shopped at the Dollar Store, checked out the sun-faded packages stacked in the windows as I tried in vain to call another friend. “We're sorry. All circuits are busy now. Please try your call later.” I imagined that I'd killed a hive or two of honey bees just attempting the call, felt worthless and guilty. A block down the road I thumbed another number into the phone and got the same message.

On the way home I stopped at the BP station on the corner for munchies, noticed that the 25 oz. Blues were on sale - 2 for $3.00. There was loud rap music playing in one of the parked cars when I walked into the place, fluorescent lights burning my eyes. Inside I picked up a couple cans of Blue, noticed that they were different than the last time I'd bought them - taller and more slender, made to drink easier by holding in your hand I suppose. The ones they had when you lived here were fatter and more squat. Oh well... Big Blue is still BIG. I also picked up a 99-cent bag of Bugles (Grandma used to supply us with them while she taught us how to play penny-ante poker) and a bag of Better Made Sizzlin' Hot Cheese Crunchies.

Better Made... It's what's for dinner...

Cheers and Warm Regards,
Marty Sherman


















PS: That motherfucking centipede is still up there, though he's moved to just above the window. Do they bite? I'm going to bed...

MISCELLANEOUS RANTS AND RAVES

Take Two And Call Me In The Morning

Levitra... Adderall... Lipitor... Crestor... Elavil... Proventil... Tisenox... Every one of these words are underscored in red as I type this because this software doesn't even recognize them as words. You know why? Because they're not words. They're fabricated, silly names for drugs that are supposed to enhance and prolong our lives. But guess what, folks? It's all a frigging scam perpetrated on us by the pharmaceutical companies in collusion with the medical community. Why do you think the doctor gives you your first 'taste' for free? He makes it sound like he's doing you a favor because he has all these samples laying around. “Here,” he says, “Take these and let me know if it helps.”

It sounds a lot like a fucking heroin dealer to me.

The one that really cracks me up is Lamisil, the pill they push as a cure for toenail fungus. You know, so you can go to the beach and not be embarrassed by your ugly, crusty feet. “Be sure to tell your doctor if you have liver problems,” the ad says. All the ads say that by the way. Well, don't you think that your doctor should check for liver problems before he gives you this shit? And if it damages your liver, wouldn't you be far and away better off to just live with your ugly, fungus toes?

Now Viagra, that's another story. I can certainly understand the benefits of that. The biggest disclaimer I hear in their ads is “See your doctor if you experience an erection that lasts more than four hours.” I'm wondering what's so magical about the four hours. If it's painful, wouldn't that max out after four? Is it testicle pain? If it is, how much more blue can balls get? And what's the doctor gonna do when you call him up at midnight and tell him your boner won't go down? Lance it? Hit it with a freaking hammer?

I think I'd rather just put the thing to good use, even if I had to screw a hole in the mud after I've worn out the old lady.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ, RING RING RING

And did you hear this one? I just recently found out that cell phones may be to blame for the declining honey bee population. You know, the insects that make sure things grow by the process of pollination. Everything from cucumbers to cranberries and all sorts of crops and foliage in between depend on the little critters and now, because you have to be able to call and remind your husband to pick up Tampons while he's at the grocery store, from anywhere in the country no matter where the fuck you are, bees are dying by the bazillions.

It seems that the signals emanating from the evil devices confuse the insects and they can't find their way back to the hive. We need to wake up people. How many more things can we fuck up on this planet in the name of Holy Capitalism and the cause of Almighty Technology before we realize that Mother Nature is one complicated and delicate balance of forces that furnishes us with the means to survive? Do I really need to be able to sit in my basement, inside a brick house with glass block windows and get a good enough signal to talk to San Fransisco every goddamn time I'm lonely? Convenient, yes, but not really necessary in the grand scheme of things. Especially if it involves wiping out an entire species that we depend on for food. I mean, what the fuck?!

Hold on, I have an incoming...

Goodnight Max, Wherever You Are

On a more serious note, innovative jazz drummer Max Roach died last week in Manhattan at age 83. Long revered by music lovers and musicians alike for his pioneering approach to percussion, Roach was one of the last of the legendary jazz giants to have given birth to Be-Bop and fashioned the sounds that came after it - a stellar group that included Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk.

Roach could solo like no other drummer before him, embracing the avant-garde and leading unusually configured groups of musicians that combined strings and traditional jazz instrumentation. He even recorded pieces made up entirely of percussion. His collaboration with singer Abbey Lincoln (who he later married) on his LP 'We Insist! Freedom Now Suite' in 1960 is a classic not only for its innovative combination of voice and drum, but also for its contribution to the Civil Rights movement of the time.

It happens to be a damn good listen, too. You'll get goosebumps on top of your goosebumps. I did.

WELCOME TO BLUE FRIDAY
WITH PROF. DIRK BEAT...

Unhappy Hour

Wave after wave of horror
As the booze can't catch up, man
Can't come close to catching up

Still, only a coward wouldn't try

-Prof. Dirk Beat

This Is Hell, Man

I take no joy in telling you this:
Life's a shit sandwich

No matter how much mayo
You slather on...
Pour a whole goddamn jar of
Hellman's on it if you want

It still tastes like shit

-Prof. Dirk Beat

The Days Like Grains Of Sand

What day is this? Thursday?
Are you sure? Sure seems like Friday.
Was I in here last night, Hon?
No, seriously.

Was I?

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Lord help me, I'm drunk.

But that's what you all wait for, isn't it? Marty gets nice and fucking entertaining when he's got a few fucking beers in him, doesn't he? He's a regular Sammy Petrillo, that fucker.

“I'm Charlie. Where the fuck are my goddamn Angels?” said Marty, pretending he's fucking Charlie...you know, of 'Charlie's Motherfucking Angels'.

Well, no more. I'm not in an entertaining sort of mood. I'm actually kind of down. I don't give a fuck if you morons ever laugh again. Get me? Fuck you. AND the motherfucking horses you rode your asses in on. Fuck those motherfucking horses, too, goddamn it. FUCK YOU ALL!


It's just another fucking day here in Detroit, you know. Another fucking Hump Day. I worked maybe two whole hours and drove back and forth to Ann Arbor, got hot as fuck and soaked to the bone in drizzling rain. It was just enough to mess up my hair. The first three pints were taken one bar, another one at the second place, then two more (which I really didn't need) at my third stop, The Bar.

Hey, the fucking Tigers lost, okay? They LOST! Fucking Tigers...

I'm listening to music...mostly CD's. I've gone through the Isleys, Keishia Cole, 'Death Proof'. Now I'm listening to 'Coffy' the soundtrack. Hello, PAM! I LOVE you! Fucking Roy Ayers...Coffy IS the color! I LOVE YOU PAM GRIER! There, I said it.

I spent too much time tonight trying to figure out that MY SPACE bullshit because I really wanted to send Angel Kelly an email. HELLO ANGEL KELLY! I LOVE YOU! I'll get there. I'm just drunk. Did I mention that? Loaded. Pissed. Fucked up. Half in the bag. Wait a minute. I think I'm all the way in the bag. Did I mention that I'd been drinking?

Hello? HELLO? It's Marty. I'm drunk...NO, I said DRUNK!! I LOVE YOU ANGEL...

Who is this? I love you whoever you said you are...

BARKIE TRIES HIS PAW AT
THE SCATOLOGICAL HAIKU
POETRY SLAM CONTEST
(See More Below...)

My Dear Lyzako,

It sounds as though you're settling in nicely there, my friend. Cheap, accessible booze is always a plus when you find yourself in unfamiliar surroundings. Cheers! On a recent work-related trip to eastern Pennsylvania I was stunned to find that not only were spirits, wine and beer tightly controlled and sold only through special outlet stores there, but that the amount available for purchase was regulated as well.

After putting in a long day on the job, I asked one of the locals where I might find a six-pack of beer. The lovely young girl had a quick conversation with a co-worker before giving me directions to the nearest Wine and Spirits Store. It was 8:40 on a Tuesday night.

“Are you familiar with Fruitville Pike?” she asked me.

“I'm not familiar with anything,” I said. “I'm just in town for two days. But I'm thirsty. Is that the same road that the Home Depot is on? I was at Home Depot earlier.”

She looked at her co-worker, momentarily unsure. “Yes, I think so, but instead of turning towards Home Depot when you get off the freeway, you'll want to go the other way,” she said. Then to the co-worker: “Right?”

“Right.”

“So instead of going right, I go left?” I asked

“Yes, left on Fruitville Pike.”

“Which side of the road is it on?” I asked.

She turned to face the direction that she thought I'd be heading, then swung out her left hand as though she were signaling a turn through the car window. “It'll be on your left, in a strip mall past Chuck E. Cheese. You can't miss it.”

I hightailed it, imagining that the place would close by nine, was relieved to find that it stayed open until ten, walked inside and took a quick look around. I saw stacks of wine in cases, piles of them all over the store, and every kind of liquor you could imagine, all in fifths and gallons. But not a single bottle of beer. I started to panic, snagged a young guy who was shopping and asked him about the beer situation.

“Oh, you have to go the Beer Mart for beer,” he said as though everybody should know that. “It's in the same strip as the Chuck E. Cheese. Just back that way.” He pointed in the direction I had driven down Fruitville Pike. “You can't miss it.”

“This place has the craziest rules I've ever heard,” I said to him, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Chuck E. Fucking Cheese...” I muttered to myself as I sped back up the Pike, turned in and drove all the way around the restaurant, seeing nothing that looked like a beer store. I swung my rental van around the parking lot, drove by all the store fronts, passed a big sign that said 'PARTY STORE', and for a moment thought I'd hit pay dirt. But unlike the 'Party Stores' here in Michigan, this place sold no alcohol. Guess what they did sell? Funny hats, balloons, costumes... shit like that. I should have known.

I was about to give up and just resign myself to miserably drinking a few at the pathetic hotel bar when I saw the sign - like a red, glowing oasis in the dry Pennsylvania desert: 'BEER AND BEVERAGE MART'. After sliding into a parking spot I rushed inside and was nearly overcome by the fluorescent lights.

“Can I help you find something?” asked the guy who worked there. Late forties, balding, paunchy. He looked like a beer drinker.

“Are the six-packs in the cooler?” I asked. I could almost taste the cold suds, nearly quivered with anticipation.

“Pennsylvania law doesn't allow me to sell you a six-pack. You have to buy a case,” he informed me.

“You've got to be shittin' me,” I said.

“But if you're not looking for that much I have cases of seven-ounce bottles that are almost the same as a twelve-pack.”

“I don't believe this,” I said to no one in particular, not even really realizing that I was speaking aloud.

“I know,” he said with sympathy. “I moved here from Illinois and I'm used to being able to buy just one can if that's all I want.”

“It's fucking crazy,” I said. “Doesn't it actually encourage people to go to a bar, encourage them to drink and drive?”

“They're gonna be changing the law but it hasn't taken effect yet,” he said.

After weighing my options I decided on a case of Tecate - four six-packs of cans shrink-wrapped into a shallow cardboard box, each six-pack held together with those plastic rings that end up killing ducks if you toss them in the trash. (I'm not quite sure how that works. The ducks strangle themselves on them somehow, I guess.) I also picked up a couple of bottles of spring water and put it all on the company card. Twenty-four bucks of my per diem spent on a case of beer that I didn't even want. I figured that since I was driving on this trip and not flying, I could just pack the unopened ones and bring them along to Ohio and then back home when the job was over.

So, to sum up...no forties, no Tall Boys, no singles, no six-packs. No little airplane bottles of liquor. No pints, half-pints or anything less than a fifth. No wine at the grocery store. No sir, not in Pennsylvania, dammit! Not in the home of the Amish, the Liberty Bell and... can you FUCKING BELIEVE that you CAN'T BUY a FORTY in PHILLY?!!! Listen, I didn't ACTUALLY GO to PHILLY, but the guy said it was a STATEWIDE LAW, this CRAZY FUCKING NO-SIX-PACK-CASE-ONLY BEER LAW!! Please, PLEEEEZE....SOMEBODY tell me that in PHILLY you can get a SIX-PACK OF COLD BEER!!! PLEEEEZE.....!!

WHAT THE FUCK EVER HAPPENED TO THE CONCEPT OF FREEDOM, FOR CRYIN' OUT LOUD?!!!!! HUH?!!!! FREEEEEDOOOOMMMM!!!!

GIVE ME A FORTY
OR GIVE ME
MOTHERFUCKING
DEEEEAAAAAATH!!!!!!

Cordially,
Marty Sherman

ALMOST OKAY SCATOLOGICAL
HAIKU POETRY SLAM!
Comment on your faves or add your own!

Wild Beyonce Dream
Morning Boner says 'Hello'
Slowly rub one out

-Ye Olde Blowharde

Crushing hangover
Too much beer, no food...uh-oh!
Pants shitting mishap

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Clogged drain scum water
Pubes floating like lily pads
Shower piss relief

-Ye Olde Blowharde

Hey baby whassup?
Are you really on the rag?
All I want is head

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Pinky third knuckle
Careless booger-ectomy
Unfortunate blood

-Ye Old Blowharde

Ah sweet pussy scent
Even though they sound alike
Queef sure ain't no fart

-Prof. Dirk Beat

Sour taste of vomit
Rumble gut cramp must be flu
Squirting stream of shit

-Ye Olde Blowharde

Sweaty crack of ass...
Flower petal vagina...
It all smells like taint

-Prof. Dirk Beat

A DETROITER IN SAN FRANCISCO
DSF Special Report!

Can you fucking believe it? I found a store on Sutter at Van Ness that sells Labatt Blue!

It's true. I was out walking Taxi in the early afternoon and saw a large store called BevMo! Yep, the exclamation point is built in. Because of my journalism experience, I quickly surmised this to be a left-coast way of saying "More Beverages!" I peeked through the door - no dogs allowed - into the cavernous heaven of angels. An hour later, I found I was right, as usual.

I took Taxi back to the apartment, damn near jogged back to the place and sure enough after ogling more tequilas than I'd ever imagined existed - Homer Simpson drool-style - there they stood at attention, proudly, on shelves under a marquee labeled "Canada": my soldiers in blue in bottled six-packs, canned twelves, and my favorite, the Big Blue. I opted for the cans, raced home to put six in the freezer and six in the fridge. Out of respect for my good luck, I went back out for tequila to plan a celebration.

TEQUILA + POLACK + BUKOWSKI = POLACKOWSKI!

I've never seen a wetter city than San Francisco. There are mini-markets everywhere and If they sell beer, they sell liquor. One, two, even three joints on each block that along with the usual Seven/Eleven necessities carry every imaginable size of every liquor: minis, half-pints, pints, fifths, half-gallons…why, once I even saw a bottle of Patron so large I couldn't lift it. The sheer number of 100% Agaves available in SF is staggering. Literally.

While my inexpensive favorite, the Sauza Hornitos is in the $25 range (like in Detroit), super premiums are cheap as fuck. A $60 Corazon in the D is only $33 here. At BevMo! a pint of the blanco was $20 but luckily I'd remembered a bodega three blocks away (not Yogi Market) near our high-tech apartment where a pint was only $17. I hightailed it over and wisely spent my money there. Thank you, God (if there is a God).

The bad news about my new San Fran lifestyle is I'm probably drinking too much. The good news is I never drive drunk - Christine and I left our rides back in the Motor City where almost everyone learns to drink and drive at an early age. Not proud to admit that - it can result in devastating consequences, of course - but it's true.

CRAZY ABOUT PASTA!

As I stood on a bus coming back from the Mission District, an older lady seated near me yelled out to no one in particular: "I like meatballs with my spaghetti!" San Fran sure has its share of colorful humans. Don't get me wrong. I mean, I like meatballs with my spaghetti, too, but you don't hear me spilling my guts to the world on public transit. Come to think of it, I haven't had meatballs in a long while...and it's funny, I don't really miss them, either.

DEMO DeMERRIER!

The wife and I have lived in San Francisco for two weeks now. There's a swell, stress-filled backstory I haven't even gotten to yet. Right now I'm just punching out demos, looking for an angle, missing Detroit, and learning to live in what some folks call the 'air-conditioned' city." Whew, they got that right. More sunny than cloudy, the high temps are rarely close to 70 and the lows are in the 50s. My kind of weather, man.

Please note the spiffy new email address: artlyzak@gmail.com or because you're no dummy you can reach me by hitting the 'reply' button on this missive. Remember I love you all, some less than others because you were swiped from previously received emails where the sender didn't use the "bcc' function. I don't even know you but it feels like we're getting along, doesn't it?

Until next time I remain,
A Detroiter in San Francisco

I've tried to watch the news lately. Really, I have. It just isn't something that works for me.

I was sitting at The Bar for Happy Hour the other day and they had CNN or MSNBC (one of those 24-7 news channels, I'm not sure which) on one of the televisions that hangs above either end of the bar, muted with the closed-caption on. The evil display was close to where I sat, and even though I'd played a bunch of my favorite songs on their unbelievably good jukebox, the stories I saw kept my Happy Hour from being very happy, I'm afraid. In a matter of minutes I witnessed video of some idiot letting a toddler smoke cocaine, a story about a seven-year-old who chased an armed robber out of a convenience store (again, all captured on tape) and another story about a twelve-year-old girl who'd had liposuction, a tummy tuck and gastric bypass surgery because she couldn't lose weight. I didn't see any footage of the surgery, but they did show some before and after photos of the girl and an interview with her stupid fucking mother. There were other stories going on as well... those poor trapped miners, the heat wave in the Midwest, Barry Bonds tying Hank Aaron's record... you've watched yourself, I'm sure. You know what I'm talking about.

Above and beyond the bothersome nature of the news and the frightening idea that nearly every fucking thing anymore is caught on video tape, was the fact that the stories were repeated in half-hour segments, and I saw each one three times during my stay... Bonds swung the same swing over and over with the same result, the fat twelve-year-old thrice walked across the living room smirking, and that poor little kid with his face cubed out smoked a cocaine-loaded cigarette again and again and again.

I thought I would vomit from watching and it made me want to dig both of my eyes right out of my head.

I know, I know. I should have turned away, stared at my stupid reflection in the mirror or watched the girls work. I tried to. I really tried to. But the moving images and the words scrolling across the screen were so seductive that I just couldn't do it for very long at a time. Showing on the TV at the other end of the bar was one of those '50 Best Baseball Catches Ever' shows, and I even tried watching that from a distance, but they showed each catch multiple times as well. Spectacular though they are, when a player jumps above the fence and grabs a ball headed out of the park, it pretty much looks the same no matter who's doing it. I don't really need to see it six times. If they'd really wanted to, they could have shown all fifty catches in about four minutes. But that's not much of a show, I guess.

Then last night on good old PBS, after Barry Bonds actually broke the home run record, I saw another tired debate between Bob Costas and William Rhoden over whether or not Bonds' 'alleged' use of steroids has tainted his accomplishments. In a nutshell, Costas said 'yes', Rhoden said 'no'. Of course, Bonds doesn't think so. Neither does George W. Bush. The concise Costas, glib as ever, stared without smiling into the camera, while Rhoden, a columnist for the N.Y. Times, stammered and shifted uneasily in his seat. I made it to the end of the debate, but just barely.

What do I think, you ask? I think it's a sad intrusion of privacy that I've witnessed an innocent toddler smoke cocaine, captured for all time by an unthinking adult with a camera in his phone. And I think that there must be some way to get a twelve-year-old to lose weight besides carving up her body.

And since you're asking, Hammerin' Hank was one of my favorite players as a kid, and I think it stinks that Bonds has broken his record, steroids or no steroids. But right now, there's a large painful pimple or ingrown hair on the back of my left leg right where ass cheek meets thigh, and it rubs against the edge of the chair whenever I sit down. Come to think of it, it was rubbing against the bar stool the other day. It's sore as hell still, and I'm more concerned about that.