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Archive for May, 2010

Watching the Dow Jones Industrial average meter has become an obsession for me. Having not a single share in any corporation through private investment or a 401k retirement package, I sometimes wish for total collapse of our so-called “free market”. I stare at the red number on the bottom of the television screen.

Just when I am about to go blind, a commercial comes on and I’m tempted to buy an upside-down tomato growing contraption.

When numbers tumble drastically on the Dow, I get so excited that my face turns red. In my opinion, our nation is in need of another great depression.

The most trivial of news reports seem to have an impact on the Dow, as was the case yesterday. The Federal Government was proposing a law to limit the power of banks. Large financial institutions were facing new regulations that would have required complex hedge funds and short-selling ‘bear and bull’ market accounts to exist as separate entities from the branches of banks where personal savings and checking accounts, certificates of deposit, and safe deposit boxes are kept.

Barney Frank, the aging, powerful queen of the Congress released a statement yesterday to prevent the Down from falling beyond 300 points– Miss Thing thinks it’s a good idea not to require banks to separate high-risk banking from sound, simple savings accounts. Immediately the Dow rebounded.

I laughed and snapped at the television screen.

It was the Duchess of York story that ruined my hope for America, or any other “Western” country for that matter, not Barney Frank’s nonsense. Not only was the whore story a real headline, unlike the lie that is the Dow Jones Industrial Average counter, but the event caught on camera showing an exchange in cold hard cash (off the books) is only the tip of the ice berg of what is the true rotten cavity of civilized society.

When capitalism finally collapses like communism, we as a nation cannot divorce her, but I sure as hell can.

Let the Dow fall!

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Wild Turkey

Hunting turkey gobbler requires a powerful shotgun, camouflage clothing from head to toe, and musical inclination.

In late spring, male turkeys feverishly respond with a song when hearing the clucking noise of the turkey hen. The key to bagging a gobbler is a skill familiar to musicians of woodwind instruments such as the oboe, saxophone or clarinet.

A paper and plastic reed device (sold in most hunting supply stores) is placed atop the tongue. Hunters, by controlling airflow from the windpipe across the top of the tongue and roof of the mouth, are able to simulate the chirping cluck of the turkey hen.

Gobblers, as with almost all other mammalian and avian species, are highly competitive in the race to claim a mate. Avid hunters enter cool, damp forrests with painted faces. They hunt with hollow, rubber tube devices that are shaken like maracas. The noise made with these rubber instruments is nearly identical to the real cry of the turkey gobbler. Gobblers make this noise when in a competitive rush to mate with hens. Hunters, by gobbling with these devices with skill only acquired from years of careful study of the bird’s call, often cause these cautious, land loving feathered creatures to rush on webbed foot into the path of a barrel of a gun, one often hidden behind a canopy of thorns and briars.

Hunters with patience to remain motionless for hours, may, if skilled at making the turkey hen clucking noise, attract a gobbler. When desperate at calling in male turkeys with a reed, hunters will often use the gobble device.

The Wild American Turkey has vision equivalent to the American Bald Eagle. Often these national treasures will spot a well-camouflaged hunter before the hunter has the time to remove a safe switch on a gun. The competitive cry of the gobble is nearly irresistible to a cock strong gobbler.

Wild turkeys, unless simmered for hours in white wine and rosemary are not good for eating. A heavy garlic taste is common in the meat of turkeys harvested on the East Coast. These land-based birds enjoy a healthy diet supplemented with wild garlic that is common in the foothills of the Piedmont.

Hunters enjoy the sport of hunting the bird that Ben Franklin once proposed to be America’s national symbol. The beard that grows on the long throat of the gobbler is used for witchcraft and bragging rights.

Although the meat and feathers are wasted by hunters, often turkey beards, judged by length and thickness, are secured on rusty nails above doorways to homes.

Hunters of the great black bird say the gobbler beard brings peace upon a home.

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Hanging on display inside a chic pornography store in New York City is a tee- shirt with the imprinted words: ‘America’s Next Top Bottom’. The slogan was printed on the shirt to replicate the logo from the now popular television series: “America’s Next Top Model”.

The muscle- enhancing shirts are priced well over twenty dollars, but the humor of the queen who designed such fashion essentials is priceless.

It takes guts to be an out bottom in this age when even within the gay community, being perceived as an effeminate sissy is a sin. The trendy world likes men to act like men and women to behave as ladies. One should bow-down to any bottom with the balls to purchase and wear such an accessory beyond the boarders of Chelsea or West Hollywood. If a man wishes to be sought after in any community, he should be macho, not an open bottom!

Only within the confines of the ‘changing booths’ at the back of the porn shop named The Blue located on Eighth Avenue and 21st Street in Manhattan do men dare try on such works of trendy fashion. The changing-rooms made of plywood have walls of Plexiglas. Large holes have been cut into the walls for hanging things.

Walking inside this porn store in the heart of one of New York’s more fashionable neighborhoods is not an embarrassment to the general public. Men and women of all sexual persuasions pop in and out to shop for high-end dildos, top- of- the- line fantasy sex attire, and douches that one could use for cleaning hardwood decks.

This is where the men of style shop– the in crowd. The place is packed despite the current recession.

America’s Next Top Bottoms flock here– to the back of the store with so-called “Private Booths”.–

Waltz into the changing rooms at the rear of the store while listening to the thumping of house music being piped throughout.

This is where a skateboard dude with pearly white buckteeth took- off his plain white shirt yesterday to model for a fellow shopper. The runway show was an exhibit of a most elaborate natural design. Caucasian body hair upon a bony and slender physic—the new look that’s in this spring.

His unshaven body hair grew in the shape of a ‘T’ over his pinkish nipples. The trail ran like fire beyond his indented belly button. He lip synched through the glass—“I’m going to fuck you.” Not—“I want to fuck you”, but “I’m going to fuck you.”

The skate board dude pulled out one of the plastic condom packages so available in New York City these days—the condom packages handed out by GMHC and other community prevention programs.

In one hand the skateboard dude with closely cropped hair held a bottle of poppers, in the other hand with dirty finger nails, the young man flashed a video phone camera and nodded his head towards America’s Next Top Bottom, who couldn’t resist the chance to be seen even without royalty payments.

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Amtrak, THE sole source of passenger rail service between New York City and Central Pennsylvania will not be receiving an additional $130 from this infrequent traveler. There is something sinister about the employees that work on Amtrak trains. Perhaps these workers in blue and white are jaded from too much exposure to the general public, or they suffer from a form of earthbound jet-lag, but the truth is, the service sucks, train passengers seem a little out of their minds, and riding so long in a tin can with wheels is simply draining.

A headache slowly formed at the little ball on the back of my head just where the spine intersects with the lower cranium as we rolled between Lancaster and Harrisburg. The woman who sat next from Philadelphia to points west used a portable CD player to listen to a Lena Horne CD. She hummed every inch of her journey– a moaning sound of sorts came from her; a call that women full of lust must make when making love. She moaned out of tune though. The lady had to pee just once and made several attempts to engage me in conversation. I was reading Carlos Castenada’s “The Fire from Within”.

“Where are you headed?” She asked, picking tiny specks of white lint from a charcoal wool sweater.

“Huntingdon,” I replied, offering just a brief penetrating glance into the pupils of her eyes.

“Is that before or after Pittsburgh?”

“The stop is quite a ways before Pittsburgh. It’s just two stops from here, about an hour or so from now.”

‘I always take the bus and now I remember why,” she explained. “It’s must quicker than the train. I’m not due into Pittsburgh until 8 this evening.”

“You must have a lay-over,” I suggested to her. Huntingdon is not that far from Pittsburgh; that I know for sure.”

“The bus is much nicer,” she said. “You see the same site over and over again on a train— the row of trees that follow the tracks, and of course the banks along the tracks—you can never see over them.”

“I’m sure anxious to get to Huntingdon, I said. “It’s such a pretty little town in the mountains. I forgot how the mountains back here look like little volcanoes.”

“They sure do.”

“I’m amazed that Amtrak trains still stop in Huntingdon after all these years,” I said. “Usually, I’m the only one who gets on and off there.” I placed a Big Bird bookmark into the open pages of “The Fire from Within” and went on to explain why I was being so anti-social–“These trains always give me a headache though, and they don’t sell Tylenol in the café car.’

“I do have something in my bag that is a prescription for my joint pains, but it will put you asleep. I cannot even pronounce what it’s called,” the stranger shared.

“Oh– this is what all the kids these days make such a fuss about. I really shouldn’t. I nodded off back in King of Prussia with my headed bobbing forward and my neck and head hurt so much.”

“Oh hush. Take one. At least you don’t snore. My husband always snored. Back when he was still alive,” the black woman, who was at least was Lena Horne’s age replied, with a sinister Lady Gaga gleam in her eyes.

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It has been more than a quarter of a century since my last wet dream. This morning, if not for my lover in the bed next to me, snoring in my face with stagnant breath, I would have creamed all over our new bedspread.

Viki Rosebud, a former co-worker was in my dream, although it was not Viki Rosebud’s red hair or plump breasts that caused an erection in my sleep. Viki was in my penthouse on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, although, in waking-life, I do not own a condo. She was impressed with fancy window shades that my lover designed. With a push of a button, the shades moved like a curtain and the glittery world of Manhattan was revealed. Viki stood with her thin-lipped mouth wide- open in my dream, agahst by the fancy shades over our skyscraper windows. A crystal glass filled with red wine was grasped by Viki as it should be– the stem balanced through gaps in the fingers, curled in a delicate, freckled hand formed to the shape of a Grecian urn. Bradley, my lover, kept opening and closing the shades on her. I offered Viki more wine and refused to talk about the old job.

Viki Rosebud’s appearance in my wet dream is a symbolic one, and not sexual at all. In fact, I recall, as a young, acne-faced critter, once having a wet dream about my aunt’s best friend, Penny Kauffman, but later grew up to be a raging homosexual with absolutely no desire to put my pee thing inside anything with mucous membrane.

That fact is apparent to me as I reflect on the matter here in the light of a beautiful Brooklyn morning why Viki Rosebud appeared out of nowhere, into my subconscious, dirty mind. Although it is unethical of me to share information about Viki Rosebud’s patients at a mental health treatment facility in which we both worked, I will share a bit of data on why I conclude that her appearance out of ‘nowhere’ in my ‘vision’ is relevant when thoroughly psychoanalyzing one’s buried nature:–

Years ago, one of Viki’s adolescent male patients was kindly released for treatment at the clinic in which we both worked for flashing blue-eyed Viki during a talk therapy session. Therapist are not supposed to be as pretty as Viki. What was to be expected from our troubled teens? The lad whipped out his cock and asked his therapist– “What am I supposed to do with this?” With a full grasp of what psychologist call ‘sexual transference’, Viki Rosebud immediately diagnosed that the young man suffered from a mutant form of attention deficit disorder of the lower extremities.

Viki didn’t stay long in the dream– nor did she as a therapist after that little event. But today, Viki Rosebud was there in my twilight– watching the blinds move, sipping glass after glass of expensive Australian kangaroo wine.

For some reason, as in mostly all dreams, the setting of my excursion early this morning changed from my sprawling penthouse to the Port Authority bus terminal. Day changed to night. I had been riding the bus for a very long time it seemed, for I found myself in rural America– a place in New Jersey, most likely, where houses were far apart. The bus, mostly empty, rolled down a desolate stretch of land where corn and alfalfa fields were plentiful. Realizing I had missed my stop, not understanding exactly where I was headed in the first place, I got off the bus and attempted to read a bus map hanging upon a lamppost along the road.

It was too dark to read and my eyes, too tired to care.

Apparently there was not a scheduled bus back to New York until early morning. Nearby, the sound of Bon Jovi filled the night air. It was a pool party. The crowd was mostly Italian– Jersey Shore types. The house with a pool was built of stone, but had aluminum siding along both the house and the pool.

I entered the sprawling dwelling without knocking and witnessed, while standing near a fireplace hearth, a fight between two college jocks. One had asked the other for a cigarette. Rather than hand him the fag, the young man who had the cigarettes threw it to his friend rather than handing it to him. The man turned and walked away, leaving the cigarette on the carpeted floor. I picked it up when neither was looking, smoked it, and headed outside to the party where everyone was swimming in the nude.

College chicks with huge breasts sat with shaven legs dipped knee-deep in the crystal, heavily chlorinated water at the pool’s edge. Their dark nipples were like stains of red wine upon burgundy shag carpet. Their nipples were large enough to accommodate large- mouthed bass.

The college jocks were busy playing pool games. I had remembered, just as I jumped into the salty water that I had left my wallet with at least $5,000 in it, inside the house. Considering the fact that the girls at the pool party were not concerned about leaving sopping, unshaven vaginas dangle at pool-side, why should I worry about money when there was so much of it, seemingly available. Where was Bradley? Why was he not with me? Did it matter? He would certainly enjoy the party. Dreams are funny like that.

“The only thing better than entering a virgin for the first time is actually screwing one for the first time, ” I said to the young, beautiful male swimmers who obviously, until that point were synchronizing some sort of robbery scheme involving my wallet and tons of cash.

“Where’s your wife now?” one of the men asked, entering me from behind, handing me a bottle of poppers to breathe through my left nostril, just before a Italian with a crew cut took over the air passages of my throat. Bi sexual men always ask me that– “Where’s your wife? You really are straight ain’t ya?” I always answer yes, because I know they don’t want to have sex with a guy who openly admits to being gay.

“I’m gay,” I attempted to say. I wanted to tell them that it was true. I have only had sex with a woman three or so times in my life, but never before have I enjoyed such good squeaky-clean fun.

The guys nearly suffocated me as they attempted to bring me back. Three or four of the angelic creatures shoved me underwater before I could explain myself, but I held my breath and enjoyed the moment one of the glowing nymphs erupted in golden lava, under water, upon my smiling face.

“We are thieves,” a girl I hadn’t touched admitted as I came up for air and slowly crawled out of the pool.

“Ain’t that the truth?” I asked, leaving the house naked, deciding to walk back to New York– not concerned any longer about money, clothing, or shelter.

Suddenly, Bradley hogged the sheet from me, waking me in a tug from early morning bliss, just as I was prepared to release that sticky mess that most men at 42 can only dream of.

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