Archive for May, 2012

Memorial Day


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Memorial Day

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It was a hot summer in Georgia in 1986. After eight weeks of basic training in South Carolina, members of my platoon were finally granted our first weekend away from the barracks. We were not permitted to leave Ft. Gordon, so a group of fellow soldiers rented a room at a hotel on base. 

Several guys decided to purchase a prostitute who was working the curb near the giant Postal Exchange (PX)– a big Walmart of sorts. Not all of us wanted to take turns with her. I hung out in the bathroom of the hotel with Pvt. Ventura– a dude from Hawaii. His green eyes and olive skin haunt me still, although I admit never looking deeply into them. We drank what was left of the vodka, one sitting on the toilet, the other upon the edge of a giant bath tub. After screams and moans in the room had quieted down and late night videos on VH-1 turned to the Go-Go’s, Ventura and I quickly claimed one of three beds in the room. 

I did not need to ask Ventura why he did not want to fuck the whore. We were both merely children– 18 years old– and I for one had not had sex with anyone at the time. A smell of cured ham with a whiff of vinegar circulated through the air conditioning system causing all the exhausted boys to fall into a deep slumber. It was if the scent of the whore had poisoned them all– drunken asses seemed to fall deep into sleep upon the carpeted floor moments after eight week loads were released into the girl who wanted just $200 for the entire gang– back at the PX. I had to pay my $100 share for a room and the booze and other favors the men all shared. 

Ventura humped me while I pretended to sleep. He slowly pulled down my brown Army underwear and tried to enter an ass that had yet to fully develop. I felt like such a whore in the morning. I spent the next 12 weeks trying not to make eye contact with a man who I knew thought of me of nothing less than a homosexual whore, even though he did not pay me a cent or even offer to shine my boots one night back inside those barracks with a cement floor and tin walls and roof where television was still banned. 

Three years later, at a new duty station in Germany, I was sitting around the barracks with a bunch of guys just talking. Suddenly, a guy with long hair who I had known for over a year turned and said– “Hey! Wait a minute…I know you from Ft. Gordon.” He seemed to undress me for a moment with his beautiful eyes.

I blushed and asked if he remembered the night all the guys in the platoon fucked the ugly whore from the PX.

He claims he did not remember the incident and just winked at me, as if somehow, his homosexual tendency got washed away by a heavy gulp of beer that slid down his hairless windpipe. 

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City Council Speaker, Christine Quinn, was married yesterday. Just several months ago, the camera hog was in a commitment ceremony down at City Hall. How many times will the couple be permitted to register at Tiffany’s? 

Like a LadyGaGa wedding, Quinn appeared outside a church wearing a stunning half masculine, half lady-like gown, standing next to a lover who looked like an angry bull dog that was too dressed up in one of the outfits rich folks on the Upper East Side put on their mutts when it turns cold outside. 

Quinn’s lover, or “wife” or “husband”, whatever she is, wore a traditional tuxedo-like outfit that was the same shade as Quinn’s get up.’I’m the bottom, but still got a little man in me” is what Quinn’s dress expressed to flashing cameras on the stone carpet. 

The couple smiled for the cameras, yet for most watching, there was no cause to celebrate and why would such whores be dressed in white? Would Jesus turn water into wine at this wedding? You bet your sweet ass he would with all those truck drivers at the reception. Every news channel was there and so was Michael Bloomberg from Bloomberg News.

Quinn’s red hair seemed touched up with a bottle of Revlon Colorsilk #90– a perfect color for a woman who will likely be the big city’s next leader. 

Old and ugly gay people attended the ceremony. There were no handsome male couples invited. What a shame. The wedding guest list was not a true reflection of the real gay world, or maybe it was. 

Quinn, as leader of the world’s largest gay city must change her policy tone and understand that her grandstanding of the gay-marriage issue has made the general populous sick of gays. She will be safe with her lesbian partner and friends inside of Gracie Manson while the rest of us must move into homeless shelters, de-funded by Mayor Bloomberg over the past decade, and once again pretend we are not gay just so we can co-exist in a world that is governed by the rich and those who have mastered the art of reality television and politics. 

Poor gay people who live in the ghetto must face the back-lash of a ‘go back into the closet’ mentality that most of America, and many of its gay citizens, have assumed, ever since a handful of left-wing, rich radicals have re-written what it now means to be gay in America. 

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Sinplex 900

Thousands of children were taken from biological parents in the age of video cameras– footage clearly demonstrated that women beat their children in bathrooms at Walmart, fathers fondled little boys who belonged to others in places like football stadiums. Men were sent to prison for multiple lifetimes for crimes committed only on CNN and what was posted to Youtube.

On every building, on every street corner, a digital eye was watching yet no one blinked as digital wool was being pulled over every peeping, on-line eye.

With a software program designed initially for sexual realism in porn while he was still only a sophomore at Pratt Institute, Randolph Marlin discovered the technology that enabled users of Sinplex 990 to upload images of victims stolen from Facebook and re-write video history.

Now anyone could be Bette Davis in “What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?”

In this new digital age, everyone was assumed to be guilty if caught on camera, at least until proven somewhere else off camera, but not even the CIA stopped to consider the true power of Sinplex 900– it was a program that could alter any digital recording camera remotely, rewriting the facts for all possible clues that crime fighters used for all their prosecuting needs.

Like a little kid in a candy store with only a handful of pennies, Randolph Marlin with his smooth bald head, covered at the crown with just a little patch of red hair, took his revenge on a society that to him had grown dull and boring — where only the pretty were popular on-line.

Randolph Marlin spent nine years in Attica Prison in upstate New York for distribution of child pornography and attempting to have sex with a minor.

Randolph felt betrayed by the little girl who led him to her home—a little girl who never existed. She was just a screen name for undercover Catholic cops who worked the digital streets of Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. For many years, he remained convinced that cops did not send the message. Her little words seemed so convincing.

“Now run your little finger up and down it, slap it gently; now pretend I’m licking you with my tongue down there. Tell me—how many little hairs do you got down there?” he typed.

Moments later, he hit a radio box on an AOL Instant Message rectangle at the upper right hand corner of his ViewSonic computer screen. He yelled, “Fucking little slut,” as the instant message box seemed to blink in sheer heat over what had just rolled from his fingers—how marvelous, he thought—if only the rest of the world were sending instant messages like this—there are so many little sluts out there who need real men like me.

Mariama13, who Randolph thought was a little girl, returned his message with this simple and sweet comment—“I want more than a tongue, Mister! I can do that much with my own little painted fingers.”

How mean of the cops, he thought, years later— to have sent such a hidden message within a simple message.

Marlin jumped into his rusty, red Mustang convertible and headed to Sunset Park. He made it all the way from Nostrand Avenue to the Spanish part of Brooklyn in less than ten minutes The police were waiting along with television cameras behind the front door of 425 West 46th Street.

Those words were repeated in his head as he sat in prison for all those years—“I want more than a tongue, Mister! I want more than a tongue.”

The prison library was filled with books on computer technology as well as several classics including “The Grapes of Wrath,” by John Steinbeck, which was the novel that inspired Randolph Marlin’s invention of Sinplex 900. Eventually, the books that no one else was patient or smart enough to read changed the way the world conducted text messaging in the new modern era where cameras, like cops, were standing on every street corner….

(To Be Continued…)

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There was a gay bar in Bay Ridge Brooklyn that served as a set for the movie “Saturday Nigh Fever”. I visited the bar several times while living in nearby Sunset Park, back in the early 1990’s.

I recall pulling just a handful of men from the bar to bring home to my bed– just a $10 taxi cab ride away. Italian men have never been my favorite of lovers, so my time at the bar was spent trying to recall exactly where, upon the dance floor that lit-up in an array of flashing pastel colors, John Travolta danced in the movie.

It does not shock me that three men who have earned a living rubbing backs for $300 an hour, have filed multi-million dollar law suits, claiming the movie star somehow molested them during moments of “release”.

What makes me sick is remembering how it was I was never turned on by John Travolta, or that movie, of which, I do not recall ever watching from start to finish.

There was a time when the entire nation watched in lust as John Travolta rose to stardom, playing a character that any of us would have permitted to grab us during a rub-down.

Just because one does not share bodily fluids during massage therapy sessions does not mean that the individual doing professional rub-downs is not a true whore.

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News of a $2 Billion loss at JP Morgan Chase alarmed me late yesterday. I quickly called 1-800-935-9935 and checked the balance in my personal checking account. Ever since the day Chase Bank froze my account due to “suspicious activity” I no longer trust the institution that accepts direct deposit of my Unemployment Insurance Benefits. 

I’ll never get over the fact that the crooks at Chase considered a transaction I was handling for my job, a non-profit organization known as the Jewish Board, as “suspicious”. I deposited an $8,000 petty cash check, made out to me as office manager,and slowly withdrew the money over the period just over a week. (ATM’s in this town limit cash withdrawals to $1,000 a day.) It was the slow withdrawal of this petty cash money that caused suspicion, according to a teller who re-activated my account. In New York City, one cannot simply walk into a Chase Bank with a non-payroll check and expect the teller to hand over the cash. 

I’m still trying to understand the transaction that cost Chase $2 Billion. The company’s stock fell nearly 10% today. According to Bloomberg News, ‘synthetic credit securities’ are to blame. 

When Googling this phrase, all that one learns is that these synthetic investments are not the real thing and are simply another name for “Credit Swaps”– those seedy, under-the-table dealings available only to Hedge Funds, that nearly caused the entire country to file for bankruptcy and forced millions from their homes. It seems that Chase was banking on the fact that someone was not going to pay off a debt, yet the debtor did, and now, my bank is up shit’s creek. 

We may never know what synthetic credit securities really are, but the fact is, the phrase sounds sophisticated when used by journalists from Bloomberg news. 

If a woman from New Jersey nearly loses her child for sharing a tanning bed, we have no problem understanding what is written in the New York Post, but when $2B more is funneled to the rich Jews of East Hampton, we simply make up new words and print them on the front page of the papers, assuming there is no one out there who will question just what a synthetic credit security is. 

I’m on my way to the ATM to take out the $40 set aside for this month’s electric bill. I have decided to spend this cash on booze instead– a real synthetic credit security. 

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