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AutoBARography 6: A CHRISTMAS PAST

Published on December 16, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: , bars, bartenders, christmas eve, egg nog, fifth avenue, global warming, HENRY KISSINGER, masrisol, new york city, pousse cafe, richard nixon, rockefeller center, SOHO, spring street bar, VIETNAM.

New York City, Christmas Eve, 1973…Global warming hadn’t become an A-list cause. Ozone layer sounded like something you inhaled at a party.

In Washington, the hottest present was a bootleg White House tape of President Nixon drunkenly ranting about the Watergate investigation to Attorney General John Mitchell. It was played at office parties all over town.

On Dec. 16, with the help of an Eagle Scout and a Brownie, Nixon, planted a 45 foot Colorado spruce, which was to be the first live White House Christmas tree. A few days earlier the North Vietnamese had rebuffed Kissinger’s peace plan. That day the Arab oil producers had announced they were lifting their oil embargo against every country but the US and Netherlands, who they said were being punished for giving aid to the Israelis during the recent October War with Egypt. As he delivered his greetings to the nation, promising to “maintain the integrity of the White House,” Nixon knew that the Joint Chiefs of Staff were running an espionage operation against the White House. Not only were the Democrats crying out for his impeachment, but his own military commanders were spying on him.

It had been a cruel month. On December 17, ice storms had delayed the opening of the Stock Exchange. Christmas Eve, a blizzard was dumping 30 inches of snow on Buffalo. In the city , a dark cloud settled like a wet blanket over the stars. Fluttering shreds of wrapping paper clung to my legs as I walked to the subway. Twin brothers in Santa hats marched outside the 72nd. St. station carrying signs reading “USEFUL IDIOTS FOR THE CIA.”

The energy shortage had curtailed the decorations on the tree in Rockefeller center. Fifth Avenue wasn’t its usual glittering self. The faltering economy, the war in Vietnam and the Watergate scandal had dampened the Christmas spirit.

Downtown, in Soho, the only way you could tell it was Christmas was that the galleries were closed and the sweatshops had sent their Hispanic ladies home early. The artists emerged from their lofts, hunched in fatigue jackets, with an occasional scarf as a gesture to the cold. Everything was closed. Only one light burned like a beacon in the night–Spring Street Bar.

We had no tree, no lights, no Christmas dinner. And we only had one customer: Kobe, the son of an Admiral in the Japanese Navy. Rumor was that he had been sent packing after he stabbed some guy with his father’s ceremonial sword. Earlier in the evening Mei, the Chinese busboy, had knocked over his drink It seemed like an accident, but then I saw Loq, the Chinese dishwasher giggling in the kitchen doorway. Kobe saw him, too. Now he was downing tequilas and glaring at Mei, visions of the Rape of Nanking dancing in his head.

Marisol was a famous Venezuelan artist, who was having an affair with Jack, my bar partner. She was known for her explosive temper. “Get ready for some shit, I stood her up today,” he had muttered as she lurched in, having fortified herself elsewhere for an epic confrontation.

I watched warily as he poured her a red wine, which she knocked back like a shot of whiskey, while glaring at him. Then thrust her empty glass at him for another…And another…

A couple came in out of the flurries. She was tall, graceful, wet snow glittering on her dark hair and cashmere coat, the kind of beauty who never buttoned her coat, even in bitter cold. He was shorter than she and softly fat. Biology hadn’t given him a break. His face was red and chapped by the cold, just as it would be red and blistered by the sun. He steered her to the bar and glared as I smiled at her. There was a lot of glaring going on tonight.

“What would you like?” he asked her with what sounded like a parody upper class drawl.

“I don’t know…anything.” Her indecision gave me an excuse to look at her. Dark eyes under thick, unplucked brows, were focused somewhere else.

“What was that crazy drink you loved in Venice?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

“Pousse cafe,” he said.. He threw down the challenge. “Can you make that here?”

I had never made one in my life. “I can make it anywhere,” I said, defiantly.

I rummaged in the office behind the bar and found a torn copy of Mr. Boston’s Bar Book. Pousse cafe had six ingredients floated on top of one another to produce what the author called “a striped rainbow of color.”

The liquors had to be floated in the right order, the heaviest down to the lightest. I would have to make the drink in front of her because if I carried it the colors might run.

First, I covered the bottom of a highball glass with Grenadine. Using the back of a mixing spoon I floated Yellow Chartreuse on top of that. Then… reddish Creme de Cassis…White Creme de Cacao…”

A stool scraped.

“Nobody move please,” I said. With a steady hand I floated Green Chartreuse and a final layer of Cognac.

I stepped back and contemplated a work of art, one layer of gorgeous color on top of another.

“This is probably the greatest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” I told Jack.

But the girl pushed it away with a sob. “I can’t.” The drink came apart, its colors sloshing and bleeding into one another. She got up.” I’ve got to go back there.”

“No…” He pushed her down and whispered vehemently. “We’re going to have a Christmas drink just like we said…Then, we’ll go uptown…”

You stand behind the bar and try to get the story straight. This looked like a long term relationship finally crumbling. He trying to hold it together. She desperate to escape.

Peggy, the waitress, sipped the ruined pousse cafe. “It tastes like poisoned candy,” she said.

The girl found a crumpled cigarette. He fumbled with his lighter. “What do you think they’re doing now?” he asked

She took a sucking drag and blew the smoke through her nose. “I don’t know what they do anymore.”

“Your Mom’s making her special egg nog like she always does, right? Well, we can have one, too.” He turned to me with a pleading look. “Bartender, two beautiful Christmas egg nogs…”

We made a classic egg nog at Spring Street. Three parts heavy cream, two parts cognac, one egg yolk and gomme syrup in a mixing glass (we didn’t use blenders back in the day.) Shake vigorously and pour in a tall glass. Sprinkle with nutmeg.

The beauty lit one cigarette off another. Not a good sign.

“Talk to me,” the fat kid said urgently. “What did you do on Christmas when you were a kid?”

“You know…”

“Tell me anyway…”

Another deep drag. “We’d spend a few days in town with Daddy…Skate at the Wallman rink…Then he’d put us on a plane to Aspen to meet Mom and Bart. Mom and Bart would go skiing and Francy and I would freeze in that dark chalet…When it was dark, they’d come back with their friends. Bart would try to get the fire going and everybody would laugh because he was so loaded. Mom would come out of the kitchen. Time for my special egg nog, she’d say…”

Almost on cue I laid the drinks in front of them. He took a tentative sip and brightened. “This is good…Just like your Mom used to make… “

She could hardly put it to her lips. When she did she shook her head…”No, it’s not like it at all …” And got up again. “I have to go back there…”

On second look I saw that her long, graceful fingers were yellow with nicotine. The face under that mass of dark hair was gray. The eyes had the panic of a trapped animal. “Let me go back there, please…”

What was “there?” A pile of coke? An abusive lover? Was this fat, red-faced kid trying desperately to save a tragic beauty he would hopelessly love forever? Suddenly, his face had a suffering nobility. His shoulders sagged and he stepped away. “I’ll get a taxi.”

He slid a twenty under the ashtray.

“Sorry about the egg nog,” I said.

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Merry Christmas.”

He stood arm raised in the middle of Spring Street where cabs never came, while she shivered in a doorway.

Peggy took a sip of my spurned masterpiece and made a face.

“More like ugh nog,” she said.

OBAMA’S CABINET WILL NOT LAST, SAY CHINESE

Published on December 9, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: attorney general, bill richardson, cheney, China, eric holder, geithner, Hillary clinton, Iran, israeli, lawrence summers, nuclear, palestinian, President Obama, rumsfield, Russia, tom daschle, treasury secretary, us cabinet, war on terror.

BEIJING, China,…Dec. 9 A top-secret report prepared for China’s Ministry of State Security (MSS) predicts that none of President-elect Obama’s appointees will be in office at the end of his first term.

They are all qiao zong huo fan,” the anonymous author says, using the Chinese term for bridge burners. “They will depart, leaving flames in their wake.”

The report, which was leaked to the Daily Event by officials who prefer to be nameless out of fear of summary execution, analyzed bios and interviews to compile a profile of the typical appointee.

“He or she is addicted to conquest,” the report says.” But once success has been achieved becomes bored and either moves on or self-destructs.”

The author sees Obama’s cabinet as a “snake pit of militant egos,” Three appointees sought the presidential nomination–Clinton, Richardson and Daschle. “Clinton feels great bitterness toward Richardson and Daschle for rejecting her to support Obama. She regards Richardson as an apostate who turned on her after all she and her husband had done for him.

“Richardson for his part, feels that he has not been rewarded for courageously spurning Clinton to support Obama in the early days before the outcome was clear. Every cabinet meeting will sting like a slap in the face as he sees Clinton sitting on the president’s right hand in the job he coveted.”

“Clinton and Richardson will make a public show of working together, but will intrigue against each other in private.”

Daschle, was humiliated by his defeat in 2006 when Democrats were sweeping into office everywhere else. The report says that he he must engineer a major health care initiative to restore his political viability and predicts that his possible opponents in 2016 will try to block him at every turn.

“Competitive people do not give up their dreams,” the author says. “The three who lost still aspire to ultimate power. Secretly they will wish Obama to fail.”

The report predicts that the early days of the new administration will be rife with conflict and controversy. “Each cabinet officer will be given daunting tasks that they will be unable to perform.”

As Secretary of State Clinton will be charged with persuading the Europeans to contribute more troops and money to the War on Terror.

“This they will not do.”

Iran will not swayed from its nuclear path, the report says. “Clinton will try to ignore the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, but a series of attacks and retaliations will force her to engage…and fail.”

The exit from Iraq will be messy. “American troops will fight bloody rear guard actions designed to extract the utmost humiliation.”

Wary of appearing weak Obama will not remove the missile shield in Eastern Europe and Clinton will try to mollify the Russians into accepting it.

“This she will not do,” the report says.

Defense Secretary Gates is a possible Republican contender. He will be looking for a way to maximize his credit while subtly detracting from his possible opponent in 2012. Sensing this, Clinton will try to minimize his influence. “There will be much backstage plotting,” the report predicts..

“After the last American soldier has left, Gates will resign…”

Clinton and new Treasure Secretary Geithner will try to get the Chinese to open their financial markets and let the yuan appreciate.

“This of course, we will not do,” the report says. It concludes that Clinton’s tenure will be dogged by one failure after another that, fearing for her place in history, she will have to find a way to escape. A seat on the Supreme Court might provide a graceful exit.

Attorney-General designee Eric Holder has been chosen to “prevent revenge prosecutions,” the report says. “The left wing of the party will want to indict Cheney and Rumsfeld. It will seek prosecution of high level financial donors. Obama does not want to alienate Republicans by going after Bush war criminals. Holder will hold the fort for Obama’s wealthy patrons as long as he can. He will suffer a great loss of public prestige and will return to his lucrative law practice.”

As Commerce Secretary Richardson will have to create business opportunities in a depressed global economy.

“This he will not do,” he says. “He will be diminished politically.”

Treasury Secretary Geithner will try to find a way to keep taxes and inflation down while Government expenditures soar into the trillions.

“This no one could do.”

Lawrence Summers, Obama’s top economic adviser is “a brilliant careerist, but not an original thinker,” the report says. “Faced by a real unemployment rate of 15% he will be unable to innovate. Watching his fabled reputation wither as the economy languishes he will focus on the job he really wants—Chairman of the Federal Reserve. Current chairman Bernanke, weakened by the crisis, will be easy to topple. Summers will have a job that confers the maximum of prestige with the minimum of thought.”

The report expresses puzzlement that Obama has not chosen loyalists, but “competitive individuals with deep personal agendas.” It asks: “does this show that he is a naive bungler? Or is he brilliantly creating scapegoats for the failures he knows will come?”

It says a deeper analysis of Obama can be delayed in the short term. Given the turmoil in the US, China’s future is not threatened.

“If we control dissent, stifle protests among migrant workers and farmers and keep the yuan artificially low we will continue to prosper. The US will not stop us.”

IS VITAMIN C A COMMUNIST PLOT?

Published on December 5, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: albert szent-gyorgi, british navy, chinese, christopher columbus, curacao, fda, hlippocrates, james lind, john woodall, kazmir funk, linus pauling, mutiny on the bounty, nobel prize, scurvy, vitamin c.

Igor Yopsvoyomatsky,
editor of paranoiaisfact.com
answers readers’ questions.

Dear Igor,

On the advice of Nobel Prize winner Linus Pauling, I began taking eighteen grams of Vitamin C daily twenty years ago. Now my doctor tells me new research shows that far from being a miracle cure Vitamin C actually protects malignant tumors, causes kidney damage and lowers the body’s resistance to dangerous disease. On top of that he says the Chinese have monopolized the manufacture of Vitamin C and nobody knows what they are putting in those tablets because the FDA does not test supplements. My bowels are shot, my bank account depleted. I’m in a panic that an evil nanobot has been planted in my brain, which can be activated to make me assassinate investment bankers or cable news commentators. Am I the new Manchurian Candidate?
Sanguo Peridonto,
Ciudad Constipato, Paraguay

Dear Sanguo,

You might very well be. Vitamin C is the scientific equivalent of the Tulip Craze, the South Sea Bubble and the subprime fiasco all rolled into one. Almost every living thing can produce it internally. Only bats, guinea pigs and humans need to take it externally. It is essentially a cure for scurvy, a disease that no one has anymore. But it has been elevated to the status of Wonder Drug and we have to ask why?

Scurvy was first diagnosed in the Fifth Century, B.C. by Hippocrates, a Greek physician. noticed that slaves were collapsing in bloody, delirious hulks on the Acropolis. A cursory work up revealed starvation as the probable etiology. Greek medicine was limited to cold baths, leeches and hemlock shooters. Feeding the slaves was not an option.

On his maiden voyage of discovery Christopher Columbus observed his Portuguese crew members spitting blood, swooning and shirking their duties. Convinced that they were either bewitched or suffering the plague he had them put into boats and cast out to sea. The desperate crew made landfall on an uninhabited island, which had an abundance of wild fruit trees.

When Columbus sailed by the island months later, his own crew depleted by disease, the Portuguese swam out to meet him, vigorous and fully restored. Columbus was convinced they had landed on an enchanted island and named it Curacao for “cured.”

Ghost ships provided the next clue. They were found floating aimlessly their crews dying or demented. In 1612, after millennia of nautical mystery a British naval surgeon named John Woodall hit upon an explanation:

“They ran out of food.”

Woodall recommended a simple cure. “Three teaspoonfuls of lemon juice given in the morning.” But the British Admiralty, reluctant to pamper the crews, overruled him. Naval historians estimate that in the next two centuries 800,000 British seamen died as a result.

In 1747, British Naval Surgeon James Lind noticed that German crews were fat and vigorous while the English could barely lift their noggins of grog. He decided it had something to do with the barrels of fermented cabbage or “sourkroute” that they carried. The English called them “krauts” and made fun of their ration, but Lind thought it might be saving their lives. He devised the first controlled experiment in medical history. He gave his sailors lemons and oranges, while feeding a control group of French prisoners a mixture of elixir of vitriol, vinegar and seawater. The English flourished, their protein intake enhanced by feasting on dead Frenchmen.

Still, the Admiralty resisted. It was only in 1794 when the crew of the Bounty mutinied over Captain Bligh’s refusal to let them eat breadfruit that the Crown relented. British crews took so enthusiastically to their citric rations that they turned bright green and became known as “limeys.”

A hundred and twenty years later Kazmir Funk discovered chemicals, which helped release energy, build cells and protect against disease. He named them vita(for life)mins.

During World War I, Hungarian Albert Szent-Gyorgi, a self-proclaimed “mad” scientist shot himself in the arm and claimed he had been wounded by enemy fire so he could get back to his researches on the new discovery ascorbic( for anti-scurvy) acid. He was one of the few Hungarians who disliked paprika, the national condiment. When his wife served it to him he said: “Honey, I’d love to eat this, but I have to use it for my experiments.”

With his fingers crossed and his suspicious spouse looking over his shoulder, Szent-Gyorgi went to work. Luckily, he found he could produce kilograms of pure Vitamin C from paprika. He won a Nobel Prize and spared himself a nasty divorce.

Now Linus Pauling enters the saga. He explored human biochemistry right down to the molecular level. He won a Nobel Prize. The range of his mind was unfathomable. And he was an apostle of Vitamin C.

Once, when Szent-Gyorgi was in bed with a bad cold Pauling entered his sick room and advised: “Take more C.”

Szent-Gyorg took massive doses. He also secretly slurped gallons of his wife’s chicken soup. He recovered completely.

Pauling believed in his science. He discovered the genetic roots of sickle cell anemia . He believed in his politics. He became a crusader for nuclear disarmament and won a Nobel Peace Prize. He was the only person ever to win Nobels in different fields.. It added to his self-belief.

Pauling became convinced that Vitamin C was the answer to all the world’s ills. He wrote a book called Vitamin C and the Common Cold in which he claimed that massive doses of the vitamin could prevent and cure colds. The book became an instant best-seller. The vitamin industry exploded.

Pauling recommended 18 to 20 grams a day, more than eight thousand times the minimum requirement. He claimed to have experimental evidence to back up his theories, but hundreds of studies failed to confirm his findings.

Paulson raged at his critics, accused them of performing imperfect studies, of deliberately rigging the results to disprove him. He broadened his advocacy, now claiming that massive doses of C could cure cancer as well.

In anyone else it would be called faddism, but in a man of Pauling’s genius it could only be insanity. In addition to his C regimen Pauling drank five shots of vodka a day. He claimed alcohol added to “a feeling of well-being.”

Over the years studies consistently showed no significant benefit to taking Vitamin C. Mystics noted that its powers only worked on diseases that started with the letter “C” –colds, cancer, constipation, collagen deficiency, Nevertheless, its reputation grew.

The Chinese saw that it fit their business model of slave labor and cheap manufacturing. They developed a shortcut for the synthesis of ascorbic acid. The Chinese government subsidized the vitamin industry allowing it to lower prices and undercut the competition. Companies in other countries were forced out of business. Within five years China had 60% of the vitamin market.

The Chinese manufacture C under contract to companies which then sell it under their “brand” name. If a vitamin says “packaged and distributed by,” but not “Made in USA” or “Made in Canada,” its C component was probably made in China. The FDA does not test food supplements so you could be taking a useless pill with a possibly lethal additive put in to cheapen the process.

Or it could be an implanted nanotransmitter. At this moment, an agent in Guangdong could be whispering instructions right into your brain.

If you wake up one morning with an almost irresistible urge to shoot Chris Matthews suck a lemon and lie down. It will soon pass.

WILL OBAMA SAVE THE WORLD?

Published on December 2, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: , bankers, book of judges, CEO, China, europe, hebrews, napoleons, Obama, oil companies, Russia, samuel.

Igor Yopsvoyomatsky
Editor of paranoiaisfact.com
Answers readers questions.

Dear Igor,

My Western Civ. prof, Leon Notsky says Obama is not the saviour we have been hoping for, but just a counter swing in the dialectical pendulum from right to left. He says nothing will change in Washington but the faces. Is this paranoia or fact?

Hopeful,

Berkley, CA

Dear Hopeful,

This is fact. Obama can revive America, but cannot save it.

But first a little background. In the Book of Judges the Hebrews, chafing against rigid divine rule, appeal to the aging prophet Samuel: “Make us a king to judge us like all the other nations.”

God punishes the Hebrews for rejecting him by granting their request. He plucks Saul, a clumsy, unlettered peasant from the ranks and elevates him to kingship. And thus the “charismatic Ruler,” the tragic figure that has haunted history, is born.

At first, Saul is a hero, uniting the tribes and leading them to victory. But he proves unable to control his pillaging troops. And later cannot master his homicidal jealousy of the young David. The people lose faith. Even his own son turns against him. In desperation he turns to witchcraft. A sorceress summons the ghost of Samuel, who predicts Saul’s downfall. The next day he is killed in battle.

This is the paradigm of the rise and fall of the Ruler. It continues through the Bible and into recorded history in the stories of the Roman Emperors, the kings of Europe, the Czars, and Napoleons; the totalitarian cult figures of the 20th Century; the demagogues of bourgeois Democracy. The people, unwilling to assume responsibility for themselves, rush to surrender their autonomy to the charismatic one. At first he (or occasionally she) is a hero, bringing triumph, wealth and national pride. But inevitably the Ruler becomes mired in the swamp of daily rule; the rise of an oppressive bureaucracy, the petty squabbles and intrigues of the courtier class. As the Ruler’s power grows so does the resentment against it. Sensing that it has lost the faith of the ruled, the Ruler strengthens its power over them. It oppresses dissidents, rewards favorites, encourages corruption and deceit, plays off competing cliques. In the end, nothing avails and the Ruler is discredited or overthrown.

Obama has studied history. He knows how charismatic Rulers crash and burn. He was a cautious child, treading carefully through an alien society. His rule will be circumspect. He has sought to dampen messianic expectations, backtracked on some of his promises, warned that tough times lie ahead. His administration will be lullingly familiar. We will have Clinton, Gates, Summers, Holder, etc.—familiar faces from previous controversies of arrogance, lost opportunities and abused power.

But as cautious as he is, Obama will be beset by the parasites on the body politic.

The bankers and CEOs who believe that they are the victims of the crisis they caused and will oppose any attempt to curb their wealth or influence.

The oil companies who profit from waste, pollution and over consumption.

The racists who will seek to undermine with rumor and innuendo.

The hypocritical radicals who will condemn him for not leading a revolution that they secretly do not desire.

The sub- cultures—abortion crusaders, animal rights zealots, gay marriage advocates, gun owners, BCS critics, etc., who will judge him through the monochrome prism of their single issue.

The Chinese, who have declared economic and cyber war on the US.

The Russians whose suicidal bravado will increase as their power declines.

The Europeans whose anti-American schadenfreude is so intense they act against their own interests to confirm it.

The runaway media that is increasingly addicted to scandal and exaggeration.

A popular culture that encourages self-pity, greed, over-indulgence and outright stupidity.

On Election Day America gave itself a reprieve. If the world does not change the fault will not be with Obama but with ourselves.

But at least we will live to be discontented another day.

AutoBARography 5: A HIPSTERS THANKSGIVING

Published on November 25, 2008 in archives. 2 Comments Tags: ANGEL DUST, BARCARDI RUM, bartenders, CHRISTMAS, cocktails, HOLDIDAYS, MERCE CUNNINGHAM, RAUSHENBERG, REMY MARTIN, RICHARD SERRRA, SOHO, SPRING STREEET BAR, THANKSGIVING.

Soho, 1974 BC, Before Coach…(Prada and Gucci.) Old cast iron buildings, half sweatshops, half artists’ lofts. $500 a month gets you 5000 feet of raw space.

Spring Street Bar, the hippest place in the city, just ask us. On a good night you can see Johns and Cage, Raushenberg and Cunningham. Richie Serra comes in to punch people out, Andy Warhol shows up with his entourage after a Castelli opening. John and Yoko nurse beers. There has even been a “Clyde” Frazier citing.

But on Thanksgiving everyone dutifully turns into good little bourgeois and eats turkey en famille. Restaurants offer special menus, but only tourists and those with parents in elder care show up.

It’s the slowest and most hazardous day in the bar business. There’s no money to be made and you risk mutilation at the hands of some resentful reject who is drawn in by the lights. There had been a bit of a rush around noon as the locals fortified themselves for dreaded dinners. But now at 3:30 it’s dead. I’m using a lemon to show Mei, the Chinese busboy, how to throw a knuckleball when a guy in a green car coat slides in at the end of the bar.

He answers before I can ask. “Any kinda beer.”

People who don’t care what they drink just want to get loaded fast and act out their drama. This guy is white and blotchy with a sloppy red comb- over that starts under his ear and hardly covers his freckled bald spot. He’s got a blunt chin and a fighter’s caved-in nose. His watery blue eyes seem focused somewhere else even when they’re looking right at you. He’s the kind of holiday wacko who sets the alarms off , but for some reason I’m not concerned. He raises his glass. “Cheers, fellow outcast…”

I never speak to customers, even regulars. “No confessions please,” is the standard line. But the holiday has loosened my defenses. I pour myself a Remy.

“Cheers.”

He chainsmokes and stares into his beer while I chug Brandy Alexanders at the service end. When I go to empty his ashtray he puts down a fifty.

“Is there a magic cocktail that’ll put me in a festive mood?”

“Nothing that works on a holiday,” I say. “Holidays are God’s way of telling us we’re having too much fun.”

It’s a half-smart gloss on the cliche mantra of the decade: “Cocaine is God’s way of telling us we have too much money.” But he looks up at me like it’s the Sermon on the Mount.

“That’s really true, man,” he says. “Christmas is a total ordeal, too. Nobody ever gets what they want…”

“Because what they want can’t be bought in department stores,” I say. “Like the song says: All I want for Christmas/Is my two front teeth. But they’re lost forever like your youth and your innocence…”

He slaps the bar “That’s so profoundly true, Man. Christmas in a nutshell. But look at New Year’s. It starts out so great, but ends in disappointment.”

He wants a guru. Not usually my thing, but for some reason I rise to the bait. “That’s because people aspire to an ecstasy that is only available to the insane.”

“Then let’s get crazy,” he says. “Let’s have a double Bacardi 151.”

It’s the strongest booze in the house, 75% alcohol. I never touch it, but now I’m filling two rocks glasses. My new best friend throws down his drink with a practiced flip and waits for me. I follow suit. The rum burns a flaming trail of lava from my throat to my rectum.

“There’s three houses I”m not welcome in,” my pal says. “My parents, my ex wife and my girlfriend who just threw me out because I’m always stoned. How about you?”

Sirens wail in the distance. Everything here is totally under control.

“I’m past unwelcome,” I say. “I’m not even an afterthought. I’m only here today because they need somebody to turn off the lights.”

He gets up quickly, knocking over his stool. Through the mist I think I see him smiling.

“Man, you’re in worse shape than me,” he says. He pushes a hundred at me. “Thanks, you really cheered me up.”

“Any time,” I think I say.

I watch him go out and turn the corner. A hundred and fifty bucks is more than I make on a good night. “Nice guy,” I say to someone.

There’s a plate at the end of the bar. Turkey breast and glazed ham with pineapple…Brussel sprouts… Sweet potatoes with marshmallows…

“Thanks, maybe later,” I say.

Mei is at the bar, tugging my arm. “Come outside…”

A cold gust brings the smell of burning rubber. My friend is shivering in a storefront across the street with Jimmy the Irish cook. He offers me a thin, tightly rolled joint.

“Here, man, Happy Thanksgiving.”

I’m not a big reefer man, but I take a toke to be sociable. It’s harsh and unfamiliar, but I’m not a big reefer man so I take another when it comes around.

There’s a lot of hugging and hand clasping.

“You guys got me through,”my friend says. “I love you guys.”

Back in the bar, Mei’s face is very big.

“He your brother?” he asks. “He looks like you.”

“You think all white people look alike,” I say. “You guys…one billion twin brothers.”

“And you, two hundred fifty million,” he says. “So we going to crush you…”

And that’s the funniest thing we’ve both ever heard…

How did I get into Van Gogh’s yellow room? It feels so good to wash my face with soapy dish suds.

I realize I’ve turned myself inside out and got stuck into my brain.

“I have to get out of my head,” I say.

I ride my tricycle down the long, dark foyer. Can’t ride your bike in the house, grandma says.

In the bedroom I open the closet door. My mother is hiding behind the dresses, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, tears pouring out of her eyes.

The radio says it’ll go below zero today. I’m waiting for the 41 Flatbush Avenue bus. There’s nobody at the stop, which means I just missed it. The wind goes through my black leather jacket. My feet are so cold they’re burning.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I’m waiting for the pus,” I say. “That’s funny, huh ’cause that’s what I really am waiting for.”

My feet are sliding along the cold ground. In the sudden warmth of a car, the rum burns a lava trail from my rectum back to my throat…

“He’s puking…”

My head is in the cold air. Yellow vomit runs down the side of the car.

“We found you in the schoolyard in Thompson Street.”

It’s the owner. They had called him when I bolted out of the bar, screaming “I have to get out of my brain!” I had walked across the street to the schoolyard and had been there for hours.

“That guy slipped you a joint laced with PCP,” he says.” Mei freaked out. They had to give him Thorazine in Bellevue. Jimmy ran his car into a lamppost, but he’s okay.”

Mei was too humiliated to return to work. But I heard he had stopped losing all his money at fan tan games in ChInatown and bought into a takeout in Jackson Heights. Jimmy joined AA and went back to Dublin.

I ended up with pleurisy and had to wear a belt around my chest for two weeks. In the doctor’s mirror I saw the booze flush starting to spread through my cheeks.

“I can’t live this way anymore,” I said to someone.

When I was better I made the rounds looking for the guy. I had bloody fantasies of beating him with a bar stool. Never found him. For years his face was fresh in my memory. I knew that if I ever saw him again I would easily summon that vengeful rage that still festered.

But then, his face began to fade. The rage subsided.

Now I think he might have been sent to make sure Mei stopped gambling, Jimmy took the pledge and I never spent Thanksgiving alone again.

WILL BUSH GET EVEN WITH AMERICA

Published on November 19, 2008 in archives. 1 Comment Tags: , AIG, american express, auto industry, bankers, banksruptcy, dulles, fdr, george w. bush obama, McCain, no child left behind, rockefeller, uaw.

Igor Yopsvoyomatsky
Editor of paranoiaisfact.com
Answers readers’ questions.

Dear Igor,

My grandpa is in the garage cleaning out his combination orgone box/fallout shelter. He says that George W. Bush is planning to use his last gasp of presidential breath to get even with all the liberals, workers, minorities, secularists, environmentalists, journalists, economists, scientists, entertainers, politicians, psychologists, foreigners, veterans, gays, retirees, Muslims–in other words, just about everybody in the world–who opposed, criticized, ridiculed or rejected him. Grandpa says he’s locking himself in his shelter and not coming out until Obama is safely in office. I say he is way paranoid. Bush is an addled, but well-meaning incompetent, who will go quietly to his brush pile in Crawford.
Who is right?
Realist,
Verity, Pa.

Dear Realist,

Grandfather knows best, while you, my way gullible friend, prove the axiom that a realist is someone who thinks everyone is as crudely obvious as he is.

Put yourself in Bush’s place. (If you can accomplish this relatively simple task of empathic imagination.) For the last eight years everything you’ve done has been horribly wrong. You have been exposed and embarrassed time and time again. Your malaprops and misspeaking, your non-grasp of major issues, your pariah status among world leaders, your ritual shunning by John McCain have all been revealed in the harsh glare of the global spotlight. Scholars soberly estimate that you will be considered the worst president in history.

Would you not harbor thoughts of bloody revenge?

But this is nothing compared to the battering you’ve taken from within your own camp. Since the early 20th. Century when the Walker-Bush dynasty joined with the Rockefellers and the Dulles brothers in league with Prussian industrialists, Saudi rulers, and British bankers to control the flow of oil and finance, no leader, including Herbert Hoover, has done as much harm to the cause as you have.

Who will cut you into sweetheart deals? Ignore your mulligans? Eat your three alarm chile?

And it all started so well. Given what you constantly called “political capital” by the 2004 victory you began advancing your domestic agenda under cover of back-door dealing, Rove-like obfuscation and officialese.

Your unfunded No Child Left Behind was an attempt to push voucher schools at the expense of the public educational system which over the years, has produced the major opponents of your class conspiracy.

Your legislation, exempting 6.5 million workers from collecting overtime, was an attack on the trade unions, who are the only defenders of the wealth-producing classes. Its intended effect was to impoverish workers and make them easier to exploit

You passed a law making it prohibitive for an individual to declare bankruptcy. You said too many people were making fraudulent misuse of the existing statutes. But statistics showed that 50% of bankruptcies were caused by inability to pay medical expenses and the 40% by long term unemployment in outsourced industries. Only 3.6% were alleged to be fraudulent.

You bailed out your blood brothers in finance-perhaps hoping for a cushy post-Presidential job- but have refused to allow one penny of the $700 billion to guarantee delinquent mortgages on the grounds that people (not bankers, who are presumably aliens) should have to pay for their mistakes. You’ve given AIG $85 billion fix and just shot them up again for $40 billion more. But not a penny for the auto industry. You say Detroit shouldn’t be rewarded for years of mismanagement, which you define as paying workers too much in salaries, pensions and health care. If Detroit goes bankrupt the union contracts will be inoperative and one of the most cherished dreams of your class—the destruction of the UAW—will be fulfilled.

Now it has all turned to ashes. The popular revulsion against you has led to the election of a man who will overturn every one of your overturnings. Not since FDR has a leader been given such a mandate to attack wealth and privilege. The CEO as hero will cease to be a cultural icon. No more “workaholic tycoons” on the cover of Time Magazine.

Your own class has turned against you. You went, scrapbook in hand, to one university after another, looking for a home for your Presidential Library, which after Cheney has censored it, will consist of a few Christmas cards and Laura’s recipe for Hopping John. You were turned down everywhere until daddy’s arm-twisting in Dallas got you a grudging admission to SMU. But even in the center of Bush power, a committee of professors, rose up to condemn the library.

How does it feel to be on your own?… A complete unknown? You can answer Dylan’s question: Not great!

Now, it’s your turn. “Little Georgie tries so hard,” your dad, the baseball hero said, watching you muff one grounder after another.

Well now Little Georgie, burning with humiliation, is going to smash his tormentors as hard as he can. Look for vindictive lame duck rule changes. For presidential pardons to be granted to the most odious corporate felons. Do not rule out an “inadvertent nuclear accident,” or “sudden, inexplicable eruption” in the watersheds of NY, LA and Chicago of chemicals which cause hair loss and impotence.

We should have a nationwide alert: All infants and elderly people: everyone with a health issue; teachers, union members, aw hell, everybody…

Stay indoors and boil your drinking water until January 21.

THE NEW PROFITEERS:SHRINKS, SHYSTERS, SHREDDERS AND SHYLOCKS

Published on November 14, 2008 in archives. 3 Comments Tags: bear stearns, greenwich, HENRY PAULSON, hettiefred road, Lehman Brothers, profiteers, richard fuld.

GREENWICH, Conn… Nov. 16…Greenwich was once considered the wealthiest community in the US. But yesterday morning its residents awoke to a depressingly familiar sight.

Foreclosure auctioneer Edgar Jaeckel was leading a convoy of vans and five tons trucks up the half mile wooded driveway of an abandoned mansion on Hettiefred Road.

An elderly gentleman in a Norfolk jacket with an Irish setter heeling at his side, stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache as ferret-eyed liquidators, antique scouts, rug merchants, used furniture dealers and junk men marched in and out with the leavings of a humbled fortune.

“The looters are entering the temple,” he said. “It’s the sack of Rome, the burning of Atlanta, a giant redwood crashing in the forest, the storming of the Winter Palace…” Bereft of metaphor he burst into tears and jumped aside as a pick up truck loaded with Queen Anne chairs, screeched out of the driveway, its driver hooting with glee.

Located on a fifteen mile swatch of suburban Connecticut known as the “Gold Coast,” Greenwich has been devastated by the financial crisis. There have been 34 foreclosures since January of ’08. Scores of homes are in delinquency as owners sell off family treasures just to make the mortgage. Children have been pulled out of boarding school, domestic help laid off. Gourmet shops and wine merchants are shuttering.

The deposed plutocrats are suddenly afflicted with a firesale mentality. Former Lehman CEO Richard Fuld sold off a a chunk of his art collection for a paltry $13.5 million last week. High end real estate, Old Masters, jewelry, yachts, furs and luxury playthings are going for ten cents on the dollar.

Somebody is buying cheap and holding to sell dear.

“Call them scavengers, parasites, bottom feeders, hustlers, they are participating in the greatest redistribution of wealth this country has ever seen,” says Efraim Durg.

Durg, 24, is CEO of Epicurus a venture capital firm specializing what he calls “The New Economy,” says there are myriad opportunities to profit from the losses of the wealthy.

“We operate on the theory of Conservation of Money,” he says. “The amount of money that was in the system before the crisis is still there. It’s like when a ship sinks the treasure is still on it. We just have to go down and get it.”

He offers the example of Park Avenue, psychologist, Dr. Hyman Kleinkopf.

“Kleinkopf specialized in teenage substance abuse and was losing business because the kids couldn’t afford drugs anymore. Then he discovered a disorder, Sudden Wealth Loss of Libido Syndrome. Suddenly impoverished executives of both sexes were suffering a plunging in self esteem and were suddenly unable to have casual sex over their desks or in dark booths in hotel bars, in airplane bathrooms or massage rooms in five star hotels

“Kleinkopf came to me for marketing advice,” Durg says. “I told him the first priority was to concoct an acronym and he came up with a beauty: SWILLS. Next we developed a series of casual sex support groups in which patients participated anonymously. They couldn’t pay their gardeners, but everybody got the money up for Kleinkopf. Now he’s franchising formerly wealthy enclaves in the US, Europe and Asia, doing really well in Moscow and Abu Dhabi.”

Attorneys for the formerly wealthy were having problems collecting fees.

“After paying civil and criminal penalties their clients were unable to pay their lawyers,” Durg says. “Plus many of them were either incarcerated or on the lam, I mean” –Durg hastily corrects himself–”in flight to avoid imprisonment.”

Durg offered an elegant solution: “Get them before they go broke.”

“We created a program called Preindictment Strategy Session Training or PSST. Clients are encouraged to call their attorney as soon as they embezzle or falsely represent or launder funds for foreign clients so they can get a head start on the FBI. This way they can start planning their defense, stashing money and setting up escape routes. And the lawyers get their money before their clients are convicted and imprisoned.”

“One of my clients had run janitorial services for Lehman and Bear Stearns,” Durg says.” I showed him that there was a larger market for trash than ever. We put out a fax blast with the slogan: IF YOU DREAD WHAT YOU SAID,WE’LL SHRED. We just opened our fourth office in Beijing.”

The credit crunch has given new life to an old business.

“My client Fat Funzi, the shylock, was content to lend to a few busted Bohos in Brooklyn Heights,” Durg says, “but I squeezed him into a pin striped suit and took him around to Merrill and Morgan Stanley. Told them to forget the Fed or the Treasury, Funzi would be the new lender of last resort. And he wouldn’t ask for preferred stock, just the standard six for five, which is better than what you get from Capital One these days.

“Funzi put together a financial group made up of Afghan narcolords, Mexican cartels and kosher meatpackers,” Durg says. “They called it the Funzi effect and are crediting it with staving off a total systemic breakdown. Now he’s applying for $10 billion under the new recapitalization program.”

With a complicit wink, Durg lowers his voice.

“Lucky for us Henry Paulson isn’t good at due diligence.”

CULTS IN CONFLICT

Published on November 12, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: , armenian, catholic, greek orthodox, Jerusalem, Jews, mormons, muslim, pope, Saudi Arabia, vatican city.

MONKS CALL FOR
INSTANT REPLAY

JERUSALEM, Nov. 11…Greek Orthodox prelates today demanded that the Armenian side stop declaring victory in yesterday’s brawl at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

“Video review will clearly show that the Armenians committed a flagrant foul,” a Greek official said, “and thus should be red carded according to the laws of God and man.”

“Replay will show that the Greeks were offside,” an Armenian priest retorted.

The church, in Jerusalem’s Old City, houses six different Christian churches, who often fight over home field advantage.

Yesterday’s brawl erupted when the Armenian side staged a procession to commemorate the fourth-century discovery of a cross, believed to have been used in the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. The Greeks, demanding to be included in the celebration, sent their star sweeper into the Edicule, the structure which houses the cross and is built over what is believed to be Jesus’s tomb. The Armenians claimed that the Greeks had too many monks on the field and had sneaked a ringer in from out of bounds. They insisted this was their holiday and the Greeks vacate the Edicule. The Greeks refused and blocked the Armenian advance at midstreet. In a moment both pews had emptied. Monks were pulling beards and flailing at each other with censers and scepters.

“This is an unpardonable innovation,” Greek Patriarch Theofilus III said.

“The Greeks have created a new conflict,” said Armenian patriarch Father Pagrat.

Serafim, a Greek monk, claimed that an Armenian struck him from behind. “They broke the lens of my glasses and gave me a bloody scratch,” he said. “I am feeling dizzy for hours…”

Israeli police, blowing their whistles, intervened and ejected Serafim and a brawny, bearded Armenian monk. They were then attacked by monks wielding stale fronds left over from another Greek-Armenian melee on Palm Sunday.

Suddenly, a monk came running out of the Edicule brandishing a splintered board.

“He has a piece of the cross,” several priests cried in alarm.

When calm had been restored it turned out to be the rung of a ladder that the Turks had put up in the 19th century while attempting to build a fire exit in the Edicule to conform to safety regulations issued by the Ottoman Empire, which have still not been implemented.

POPE AND IMAM TRADE ‘YO MAMA’ SNAPS

VATICAN CITY, Nov. 11…A three day conference, which ended last week, produced a rare display of harmony between Catholic clergy and Islamic scholars. Pope Benedict XVI told participants he had followed “the progress” of the talks closely and urged the delegates to “overcome all misunderstandings and disagreements.”

In this ecumenical spirit Imam Adsan Tair rose to say he hoped the Pope would now apologize for remarks he made in 2006, that Muhammad had only brought “evil and inhuman things” into the world, such as his “command to spread by the sword the faith that he preached.”

With a sweet smile Benedict said he would be glad to if his “honored” guest would admit that in Saudi Arabia non-Muslims could not worship in public and faced death if they converted.

With their delegations forming behind them, the Pope and the Imam faced off in the middle of the Apostolic Palace.

“Yo mama was so ugly she died a virgin,” the Imam hissed.

“Yo mama was so ugly she could go three days on the desert without food or water,” the Pope responded.

As his followers egged him on the Imam thought for a moment. Then:

“Yo Mama was so ugly she had to live in a manger,” he shouted.

The mullahs howled and ululated.

Benedict and his crew regrouped. Then shot back:

“Yo Mama was so fat they called her Fatima”

The papal delegation cheered and hi-fived.

And theologians on both sides hurried to the holy texts for more citations.

JEWS TO MORMONS:
THANKS BUT NO THANKS

SALT LAKE CITY, Utah, Nov. 11…There are 12.6 million Mormons in the world, about half living in the US. But if the church has its way there will soon be millions more.

And a lot of them will be Jews.

Mormons have been quietly baptizing dead Jews for years. They do it out of love, they claim.

“Baptism by water is necessary ordinance for people to return to God,” the Mormon Guide to the Scriptures says. “Baptism for the dead in Mormon temples gives those who would have embraced Christ and His Church the opportunity to do so after death.”

According to Frontline, the Mormons maintain extensive genealogical records at Granite Mountain Records Vault, a climate-controlled repository designed to withstand nuclear attack, in the Wasatch Mountains, 20 miles southeast of Salt Lake City. They have compiled 2.4 million rolls of microfilm containing 2 billion names, all of whom they mean to baptize.

The process went on quietly for years with living Mormons standing in for the ones to be baptized and immersing themselves in the baptismal fount. In the 90′s however it was discovered that Mormons had submitted the names of 380,000 Holocaust victims for baptism.

“We do not ask for or want your love,” said Ernest Michel, honorary chairman of American Gathering of Holocaust Survivors. “We ask you to respect our religion as we respect yours.”

Mormons agreed to remove those names and other Jews as well who were not related to Mormons. But the practice has continued. Mormons believe that is unfair to deny” salvation” to those who died without being taught the Gospel. Elder Mark E. Peterson says posthumous baptism gives them a chance to be “saved in the presence of God.

“We baptized Sigmund Freud,” a Mormon cleric says. “Now in the afterlife he has decided that sex with teenaged girls is not neurotic after all…Karl Marx has renounced communism Albert Einstein understands that e=mc2 only by the grace of the Angel Moroni.

“They’re all good Mormons now.”

ANALYSST: OBAMA’S VICTORY WILL REIGNITE COLD WAR

Published on November 7, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: Bush, capitalism, China, clinton, democracy, egypt, election, Hu Jintao, Iran, Israel, jordan, Middle East, Obama, oil, Russia.

GREENPOINT, Bklyn, Nov.7…Toasts and cheers resounded at Golubchik’s tavern last night as Obama euphoria kept the party floating two days after the historic election.

“To change,” people shouted, raising their glasses.

“To peace.”

This was too much for Ivan Yopsvoyomatsky, recent immigrant from Pinsk and senior scholar at the Greezhnizihd Think Tank.

“Peace?…PFUI!”

Rising quickly from a stool he had occupied for two days, blood rushing to an unfamiliar location–his head–he faced the crowd with fine Slavic disdain.

“You pathetic puppets of Capitalism,” he sputtered. “Peace is when the ruling class has its foot on your neck and its hand in your pocket. Twenty-eight years with Reagan, Bush the Father, your precious Clinton and Bush, the Simple Son was peace…The Russians got rich, the Chinese richer with American corporate help and against the interests of American workers and consumers…Now that Obama has been elected get ready for total war.”

A waitress pushed a plate of piroshki across the bar. “Eat something Ivan…”

Yopsvoyomatsky sent it flying. “I haven’t finished my salad yet,” he said, dipping a cucumber in a glass of Popov vodka.

There was muttering in the cowed crowd. Finally, they pushed a young blonde in Uggies and a tight leather skirt forward for a timid challenge.

“But the world has welcomed Obama,” she said, cringing.

Yopsvoyomatsky leered and beckoned. “My dear you are victim of noble blowjob… I mean global snowjob. World leaders are quaking in their boots…”

“Bloggers in China went crazy,” someone hollered from in back. “One guy said this proved that America was a great Democracy and China was a one party oppressive dictatorship.”

“Doorak,” Yopsvoyomasky boomed. “How do you think Hu Jintao felt when he read that? With China wheezing from pollution, puking from poisoned food, factories closing from financial crisis, people oppressed from internet crackdown, does he need proof that America is closest thing to real proletarian power?” He stroked the blonde under her chin. “I promise you, dooshenkya in party meetings they are talking about one thing only: how can we defeat this upstart Obama?

“But they are a great economic power, aren’t they?” the blonde asked, gaining confidence.

Yopsvoyomatsky smiled indulgently. “From slave labor, my dear. They make your underwear cheaper. Later we will see if your panties were made in Guangdong. But now you must understand that when Obama calls for tougher environmental and labor regulations they see their costs going up and their competitiveness coming down. When he promises to award tax breaks to companies that keep jobs in the US they say the dirty word: protectionism. They know that US market powers their economies. Without help from Bush and American financial interests to keep their yen low and their labor costs lower they will go broke…”

” Obama restored the American image in Europe,” a young man with a German accent said.

“You mean old, decadent, zero population growth Europe?” Yopsvoyomatsky sneered. “How many black faces in English House of Commons? Mostly flushed, overfed, flatulent whites enjoying their squeals of indignation while country’s business is done by MI6…French don’t allow headscarves in public schools…Turks are second-class citizens in Germany, even after three generations in residence. Do you think they want mixed race underclass to embrace electoral politics…?”

Several people finished their drinks and slipped out onto the rainy streets.

“Bush brought us to the brink with Russia,” a voice piped up. “They must be happy to see Obama…”

“Melancholic is closest Russians come to happy,” Yopsvoyomatsky said. “Russians follow Stalinist doctrine of probe with bayonet. Medvedev, latest in long line of metrically challenged rulers, climbs up on two Moscow phone books so he can see over lectern and makes hollow threat to put Iskander missiles in Kalingrad to counter US missile defense. Iskanders have range of 175 miles when they are working. They might land in a barnyard in Poland and kill a few chickens…”

“Russia must be dealt with,” a pale man young man said in a quavering voice said and ducked behind a pillar as Yopsvoyomatsky loomed over him.

“Russia is a gas station with a broken pump,” he roared. “A tavern with drunks snoring through frozen snot. Their market has lost 50% in value. The oligarchs, who grease their corrupt machine are broke. They have to kill a journalist a week just to stay in power…”

Sighing heavily, more people shrugged into their coats and left.

“Obama will bring peace to the Middle East,” a swarthy young man shouted angrily.

“Peace can only be made by people who are fighting each other,” Yopsvoyomatsky countered.

“People in the Middle-East have great hope for Obama.”

“Not Iranian daily Jamhou-ye Eslami,” Yopsvoyomatsky said. “They say: The most that black man can do is replace staff and change ceremony…He will never change capitalist, Zionist, racist structure of American regime.

Saudi daily Al Wotan says: There is no difference between McCain and Obama. Both mean to achieve America’s chief goal which is to rule for a hundred years…”

“But Bush favored Israel and that got us nowhere.”

“Nowhere is obviously where they want to be,” Yopsvoyomatsky said. “Jordan and Egypt do not want Palestinian theocracy funded by Iran on their borders. Lebanese do not want more power to Hezbollah allies. Anyway, Obama will be busy with economic crisis. Israelis and Palestinians will have to sit on back burner for years. They might do something sensational like a war of a terror attack to refocus the world’s attention…”

Most of the revelers had slunk away, leaving a few brooding in their cups. One man paused at the door.

“So there is no hope,” he said

“When does hope last more than a day?” Yopsvoyomatsky said. “The power of the status quo will be arrayed against Obama…Maybe he will prevail…”

He looked around the empty room with satisfaction. “Looks like the party is over,” he said to the blonde. “Want a cucumber?”

CANDIDATES SEEK FRINGE SUPPORT

Published on October 31, 2008 in archives. 1 Comment Tags: betty white, bob barr, candidates, Chuck Baldwin, cynthis mckinney, greenpoint brooklyn, john mccain, madeline albright, maya angelou, Obama, Presidential election, samantha ronson.

GREENPOINT, Bklyn, Oct. 30…Jaws dropped and eyes bulged last night when a Navigator stretch pulled up in front of the national headquarters of the Gambler’s Rights Party at Golubchik’s Tavern in Greenpoint, and John McCain stepped out.

“Where’s my friend Efraim?” he demanded. “Take me to that great American.”

Efraim Durg, presidential candidate of the Gambler’s Rights party, jagging on Amaretto and Aterol after a forty-three hour poker game came to the door, snarling, “Okay, who’s tryin’ to punk me…?” But gaped in amazement as McCain rushed up and clasped his hand, declaiming:

“I just want to shake the hand of the courageous warrior who has waged a lonely battle to guarantee that, in this time of crisis, every American has the right to gamble him or herself out of–or into– poverty. And yes, to fuddle his- or her- brain with marijuana…Because this is America and no tax and spend socialist is going to spoil our fun.”

Meanwhile, halfway across the country, Anarcho-Feminist Party , presidential candidate Leah Schildkraut got an unexpected boost when a contingent of prominent women, among them Maya Angelou, Betty White, Madeline Albright and Samantha Ronson, swept into her campaign headquarters at the Foxhole Tavern in downtown Madison, Wisconsin.

“The mainstream is reaching out to the babbling brook,” Ms. Angelou intoned as Schildkraut boosters blinked in bafflement. “Flowing deep into the forest of idealism to form a mighty tide that will flood the banks of intolerance with the clangety-clang of the righteous hammer…”

Betty White jumped up. “Chill, Maya…” And appealed to Schildkraut: “Obama needs your endorsement, Leah. Whaddya say?”

As this hotly contested presidential race nears the finish line, both sides are reaching out to fringe candidates for support.

“We’re trying to get everybody under the tent,” an Obama staffer says.

The parties are going after the rebels and dissidents on their extreme flanks. Ralph Nader and Green Party Cynthia McKinney on the left, Libertarian Bob Barr and Constitution Party candidate Chuck Baldwin on the right.

Barr has been described as “John McCain’s worst nightmare” because his staunch anti-immigration position has siphoned off a number of far right votes. At a secret peace parley at his headquarters in Atlanta, the former Georgia Congressman made his point, bluntly. “John, it’s hard to find an issue on which you don’t want bigger government.”

McCain squinted and reddened as he thought hard. Then snapped his fingers.

“Aluminum bats, Bob!” he said. “I’ve been a staunch opponent of Federal regulations against the use of aluminum bats…”

“You sponsored a law that would have allowed illegal immigrants to apply for citizenship,” said Barr.

McCain got a cagey look “But I also added a stipulation that this could only begin once we had secured our borders,” he said. He prodded Barr with a wink. “And that’ll never happen because as soon as some liberal says the borders are safe I’ll just say, no they’re not. Get it?”

Obama-Nader relations have been fractious since Nader accused Obama of “being a corporate taker” and “talking white” to calm the fears of white voters. Still, mindful of the fact that in 2000 Nader won 97,000 votes in battleground Florida an Obama delegation visited Nader’s headquarters, five blocks from the White House.

To their surprise they were greeted cordially and offered a sumptuous lunch of Nader’s favorite foods–hummus and stuffed eggplant with pignoli nuts. When they broached the subject of an endorsement, Nader responded enthusiastically.

“I’m so glad you guys finally came to your senses,” he said. “You tell Senator Obama I accept his endorsement whole-heartedly. I promise I will be the greatest President this country has ever seen.”

Constitution Party candidate and Minister of the Crossroads Church Chuck Baldwin has strong right wing support for his program to eliminate every program that is not provided for in the Constitution. At his Grand Rapids, Michigan headquarters, he lectured McCain.

“We believe in the abolition of IRS and the Federal Reserve…”

McCain nodded vigorously. “That’ll be my first official act as President. Bernanke’s a socialist, anyway.”

“Also, we want to repeal Roe v. Wade,” Baldwin said.

“And I’ll go you a step further, Chuck,” McCain said. ” Pro-Life for animals. No more neutering or spaying of pets. We’ll make it a national priority to find homes for every cute little puppy and kitten, God bless ‘em.”

Green Party candidate Cynthia Mickinney has denied accusations that she was a stalking horse for Obama. At her Atlanta headquarters she laid out the conditions under which she might endorse his candidacy.

“Repeal of the Patriot Act, repeal of Bush tax cuts, repeal of FISA, immediate withdrawal from Iraq and Afghanistan…”

The Obama rep nodded. “We can live with that.”

McKinney raised a fist, her eyes flashing. “And an immediate declaration of war against the apartheid state of Israel to be followed by an invasion code-named Operation Palestinian Freedom…”

The Obama man shook his head with a pained look. “That might not go down so well with the old Jews in Boca…How about we wait until after the election…?”

Secret polls show that previously obscure candidates Durg and Schildkraut have gained surprising strength in the last few months.

Durg has a catchy two issue platform: “A casino on every corner…A bong in every basement..” At last count he had collected over a million signatures and was on the ballot in four states.

McCain turned down a toke, saying “I’m on antibiotics,” but stressed his support for universal gambling. “I’ll give tax breaks to any casino that opens in an inner city neighborhood,” he said “I’ll allow gamblers to write off their losses and charge them a 15% capital gains tax on their winnings. I”m a crapshooter myself,” he added. “That’s how I’ll run the country.”

Durg was doubtful. “You’ve been quoted as saying: I don’t think marijuana is good for people and you’ve repeatedly expressed opposition to medical marijuana laws…”

McCain looked around warily, then whispered. “C’mon man, stoners always lie, you know that. I’m on a cocktail right now–claritin, Ambien, simivastin, flomax, ciallis. I’m seein’ colors, dude…And Cindy is a 24 hour party person. Percoet, Vicoden with a Stoli chaser. See how frozen she is when I’m making a speech. Sometimes I’m scared the bitch is gonna fall off the platform…”

“I don’t know,” Durg said. “Sarah Palin seems pretty square…”

“You joking?” McCain asked with feigned incredulity. “What do you think those people do up there in Alaska when it’s 20 below? Wasilla is Inuit for “miracle herb growing under permafrost…”

In Madison, Leah Schildkraut was still not convinced.

“Obama has moved to the center,” she said. “He’s waffled on choice and separation of church and state and supported the Supreme Court decision on gun control. He supports tort reform, which is just another way of denying the poor due process. He voted to give immunity to large telecoms who turn over private information to the government…”

“Hold it girl,” Maya Angelou said.

Everybody braced themselves for another round of poetry.

“Close your eyes and imagine McCain with his finger on that red button and Putin calls him an idiot,” she said. “Got that image? Now imagine Sarah Palin, gavel in hand, about to cast the deciding vote in the Senate of the United States of America…”

Schildkraut opened her eyes and looked around at the circle of avid faces.

“Obama ’08,” she said.

TRAVELING UNTIL NOVEMBER 5, 2008

Published on October 25, 2008 in archives. 1 Comment

NEBRASKA DUMPS LOHAN AND DUCKS SCANDAL

Published on October 21, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: creighton university medical center, freaky friday, golden raspbery award, herbie fully loaded, i know who killed me, Lindsay Lohan, mtv award, safe haven law, teen choice award, the parent trap.

LINCOLN, Neb., Oct. 21…Red faced officials were scrambling today to explain why they denied Lindsay Lohan shelter under Nebraska’s Safe Haven Law.

“We’ve changed the requirements” said an official from the Department of Health and Human Services “She may be needy, but she’s no longer eligible.”

Lohan’s mother, Dina, brought her to Creighton University Medical Center in a Hummer Stretch yesterday and applied to have her declared a ward of the state. Social workers claiming patient privilege would not reveal the reason for the application, but the Safe Haven Law offers refuge to children whose parents can no longer cope with them for economic, social or medical reasons.

“I think her mom has had it,” a social worker who would not give her name confided.

Nebraska was the last of 50 states to adopt the Safe Haven law, which essentially allows parents to abandon their children without fear of prosecution. While most other states will only accept children up to the age of one year the Nebraska legislators, in an excess of altruism, removed all age limits.

“We wanted to offer the service to all hard-pressed parents and needy children,” says an official, then adds with a rueful smile, “but we had no idea how desperate so many people were.”

Within days of the law’s passage local hospitals were overwhelmed by parents from Nebraska and neighboring states seeking to place their children.

“We had a widower come in with his nine children and say he couldn’t afford to take care of them,” a social worker said. “Grandparents who couldn’t raise unruly teenagers. Children with social and emotional issues. Parents who said they couldn’t get treatment for their disturbed children and were now throwing up their hands.”

Ages ranged from 3 to 17, she said. But so far, Lohan, at 21, is the oldest they’ve seen.

“She’s not even a minor,” a state official said. “It’s a sad case, but we can’t help.”

Lohan, a former child star, has had many highly publicized brushes with the police. She has been arrested several times for drunk driving and possession of cocaine. Once she was charged with bringing a “controlled substance into a police facility,” which could have resulted in serious jail time. But the judge let her off with a one day sentence and community service.

Lohan has been in and out of detox over the last few years. “It is clear to me that my life has become completely unmanageable because I am addicted to alcohol and drugs,” she said, before entering Cirque Lodge Treatment Center in Sundance for her third attempt at rehabilitation.

Yesterday, Lohan’s mother, Dina, who is also her manager, hurried out of the hospital into the Hummer and drove back to the airport without speaking to the horde of reporters and paparazzi who had appeared minutes after her arrival.

Reporters peeking through a window saw Lohan sitting alone on a bench in the waiting room. They shouted questions, but she shook her head and turned away.

Lohan was born in New York City in 1986 and raised in Merrick, L.I. Her parents signed her with the Ford Model Agency at the age of three. Her Wikipedia entry states that “at first she found little work as a model, but persisted and eventually appeared in more than 100 print ads for companies like Toys ‘R’ Us.” She later modeled for Calvin Klein and Abercrombie and Fitch.

Lohan’s ambitious parents next steered her to television work. Again, after a few blown auditions she was hired for a Duncan Hines commercial and went on to do 60 more commercials, including a famous Jell-O spot with Bill Cosby.

From then on she never stopped working. In 1996 she won the role of Alexandra “Alli” Fowler on the soap opera Another World where, according to Filmbug UK ” she delivered more dialogue than any other 10 year old in daytime serials.”

“The girl was a workhorse,” says talent manager Fletch Pedlar. “She made a lot of money for the studios her parents, her agents, her lawyers, but nothing for herself.”

Between 1998 and and 2008 Lohan racked up 16 feature film credits, among them Disney hits The Parent Trap, Freaky Friday and Herbie Fully Loaded, winning an MTV award for Breakthrough Female Performance and a Teen Choice award for Breakout Movie Star. She became a full-fledged star playing a sexy teenager in Mean Girls, for which she won a Critics Choice, a Blimp Award for best new actress, an MTV Award for best Female Performance and five more Teen Choice awards. She worked with Robert Altman (Prairie Home Companion), Jane Fonda (Georgia Rules), taking time out to make 15 TV appearances, hosting Saturday Night Live three times. She recorded three solo albums and six soundtracks.

“She was an ATM,” says Pedlar. “But she finally broke down…It’s Judy Garland all over again, but it happened a lot quicker in this 24 hour news cycle.”

Lohan’s partying took its toll. She became unreliable, holding up productions with lateness and absences. When she did show up she didn’t know her lines, looked haggard and couldn’t focus. She was publicly reproached by studio head James Robinson for her lateness and irresponsibility on the set of Georgia Rules, but seemed unwilling or unable to reform. After a few losers she hit bottom last year with I Know Who Killed Me, a dismal horror movie for which she won the Golden Raspberry as worse actress of the year.

She stayed in the headlines with her arrests and relentless clubbing. Even added a new wrinkle, proclaiming her love for Lesbian DJ Sam Ronson.

But Lohan’s notoriety did not translate into box office success.

“If they can read all about you on the Internet they won’t pay to see you in the movies,” said Pedlar.

Her behavior made it difficult for producers to get insurance on her, always the kiss of death for dissipating celebrities. A prominent executive was quoted in Entertainment Weekly as saying Lohan’s career was over. “Right now she’d have to pay a studio to get herself into a movie.” Publicist Michael Levine said she was “unemployable for the next 18 months.”

Many bloggers said this trip to the hospital was another publicity stunt, but Pedlar disagrees

“For the first time since she was three years old she isn’t making money for the army of parasites that had grown up around her,” Pedlar said. “She’s just a crazy, self-destructive kid who needs help.

“So they dumped her.”

Late yesterday afternoon, Nebraska authorities rewrote their Safe Haven Law. “We need to get back to the intent of the law…the protection of newborns in immediate danger of being harmed,” said Todd Landry, director of Health and Human Services.

At the hospital social workers called Dina Lohan and told her to come back and get her daughter. As night fell, the chill of the oncoming Great Plains winter could be felt in the air. A social worker threw a blanket over Lohan’s shivering shoulders. Then, sat on the bench with her waiting for her mom to come.

SOX TRANSPLANTS KEEP THE FAITH

Published on October 17, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments Tags: , big papi, California, Carlos Pena, Evan Longoria, j.d. drew kevin Youklis, Jonathan Papelbom, Red Sox, Santa Monica, Tampa Bay, World Series.

SANTA MONICA, California, Oct. 17th…An amazing thing happened in Fenway Park last night.

Red Sox fans walked out on their team.

In the bottom of the 7th inning all seemed to be lost. The Sox were down 7-0 to the upstart Tampa Bay Rays, a team of hard-nosed youngsters that had bedeviled them all season. The pitchers weren’t competing. Carlos Pena and Evan Longoria looked like they were taking batting practice when they hit back-to-back home runs in the third. Even ferocious closer Jonathan Papelbom had stumbled, giving up a two run double to B.J. Upton in the seventh to widen the score to the seemingly unbridgeable 7-0.

At that point the unthinkable happened. Red Sox fans began to leave.

“It looked like Dodger Stadium for God’s sake,” says Brian Flanagan, a regular at Sonny McLean’s on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica where the patrons actually stop quaffing to sing “Sweet Caroline” in the Fenway tradition.

“They booed Big Papi,” waitress Maude Gunn said in disbelief.

A short, pleasant survey of Red Sox bars in the area revealed that not one stool had been vacated during the game. Of course, many of the fans were unable to move, but those who stayed alert were rewarded with the greatest comeback in post season play since 1929 when the Philadelphia A’s rallied from 8-0 to beat the Chicago Cubs (Who else?)

Because baseball is a signifier for the economy, the mental health and the sex lives of most Bostonians, analysts were busy soon after the first disdained now deified J.D. Drew drove Kevin Youklis home with the winning run.

“Boston has the highest average ticket price in baseball at $46.46 per,” said Morley Whiteshoe, Professor of Marketing at Babson U. “Boston was the fourth team in baseball history to sell out a whole season. But the more people pay the more they expect. You don’t buy a Bentley and expect it to break down.”

“It’s interesting that we use the word rally to describe what happened,” said Carmen Invidiosa, Tom Clancey Professor of Comparative Literature at Boston University. “In the 1929 Depression and in today’s economic crisis the baseball teams are said to have rallied when the markets could not…Pointless, meaningless and totally irrelevant perhaps, but interesting.”

“I blame it on global warming,” offered J. Gladstone-Bagge, Yuri Lysenko Professor of Environmental Studies at MIT. “The unseasonable heat raises the percentage of negative ions in the atmosphere causing a condition similar to Santa Anna winds and Mistrials in the Mediterranean, which gives rise to irrational behavior.”

“We’ve gone from a victim to a victor’s mentality,” says Arnold Farb-Blodgett, Wilhelm Reich Professor of Psychology at Harvard. “Victims band together and empathize…Victors become individualistic, arrogant and insatiable. Victims find solace in the smallest triumph. Victors are inconsolable in defeat…”

The morning after the euphoria still hadn’t faded for Sox transplants. This reporter donned a Red Sox tee (Ramirez, the only one he had) and took a stroll down Main Street in Santa Monica.

A harried young mother looked up from her fussing twins to smile: “Go Sox.”

Outside the Rand Corporation’s new building a young construction worker slammed himself in the helmet. “Damn! I turned the TV off and went to bed. I always miss the comebacks.”

“Ya gotta believe,” said an older colleague, echoing the rallying cry of the ’69 Miracle Mets.

Further down a red eye gleamed from within a pile of dusty Hefty bags. A homeless man rose, a thick black scab on his sun baked face. “I had it all,” he said, pointing to his headphones. “I stayed with ‘em to the very end.”

At Ocean Park Avenue, the truly miraculous occurred. A California fantasy jogger, a tall, tan blonde female in a halter top and bikini bottoms stopped at the sight of the Red Sox tee.

“What a game, huh?” she enthused. “Did you see it?”

“Sure,” the reporter replied. “I always stick ’till the last out.”

“My boyfriend says he’s a fan, but he fell asleep in the seventh,” she said.

“Time to dump him,” the ever hopeful reporter said.

“Yeah,” she laughed and offered a hi-five. “Go Sox…”

All was right with the world. The Red Sox were front runners again.

For the next thirty-six hours.

JOE SIXPACK CHANGES HIS NAME

Published on October 16, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments

MORAINE, Ohio, Oct, 15…Sixpack has been a proud name in the Ohio River valley for seven generations.

But that will end today.

Joe Sixpack VI, the great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of the original settler is changing his name.

“We Sixpacks have been mocked and humiliated by the media and by unscrupulous politicians,” he says. “I won’t stand for it any longer.”

The family put down roots in 1760 when French fur trapper Joseph Sespaque settled here, fleeing the English victory in Canada. He set his traps along an Ohio River teeming with otter. He fought off poachers, haggled with the trading companies and built a small fortune.

Sespaque dropped his pelts in 1776 to fight the English again. Joe holds up a rusty fowling piece. “This is the rifle he used to defend the Ohio Territory at Fort Laurens during the Revolutionary War. The Indians called him Sixpatches because of all the regimental badges he wore and the name stuck.”

Driven out of the trapping business by farmers and fishermen, the Sixpatches became itinerant peddlers traveling along the Ohio River with their goods in gigantic packs on their backs

“My great-great-great-great grandpa was a big guy and the local jokesters called him Joe Sixpack for all the packs he could carry,” Joe says. He gets a defiant look. “We had this name long before it meant cans of beer.”

The name stuck right up to the Civil War when Joe’s great-great grandpa put down his pack to fight for the Union in the 48th. regiment. When he returned the railroad and the steamboat were delivering goods faster than a wandering peddler ever could. He opened a small store outside of Moraine, Ohio.

He called it “Sixpacks” and offered six of any item for the price of five.

“People came from all over the state,” Joe says. “He opened a little diner and then a camp ground…”

Great-great-grandpa Joe took off his apron to join up with the 147th. Infantry during World War I. When he returned the Volstead Act had been passed, prohibiting the sale of alcohol. His cousin Nate had built a still in the woods behind the store and was selling bootleg booze, six quarts for the price of five. They changed the diner into a speakeasy roadhouse. They made booze for the Cleveland Mob.

It was the “Roaring ’20′s.” Prosperity was here to stay. Great-grandpa Joe invested in the booming stock market. He bedecked Great-grandma Edna with diamonds and bought himself a Pierce Arrow.

Then, the market crashed. The Sixpacks were wiped out. Great Grandpa Joe’s mobster pals moved in and took over the booze business. They kept him on as a front man for a few dollars a week. He lost that job in 1932 when Prohibition was repealed.

“He and Great Grandma shot squirrels, lived off the land, anything to stay off Relief,” says Joe.

In the midst of the Depression the auto industry was booming. Great-grandpa got a job at the plant in Janesville, Wis. Pay was low and conditions were brutal.

“He was no socialist, but he could see that the union was the only way to protect the workers,” says Joe. “He became a charter member of the UAW, participating in the first strike at Flint, Michigan, fighting Henry Ford’s hired goons at the “The Battle of the Overpass…They called him Sixpacker for the Colt. 45 he had in his belt.”

Joe’s grandpa was working at the GM plant in Lima, Ohio when World War II broke out. He dropped his tools and enlisted in the Marine Corps. His job was waiting for him when he returned and he stayed at it, turning out trucks until retirement.

Joe’s dad, Joe Sixpack V worked at the plant all his life, taking time out to serve with the First Air Cavalry in Vietnam.

Joe continued the tradition, going to work at the Moraine plant after high school. Except for a twenty-four month stint in Iraq with the Ohio National Guard, he stayed at the SUV Assembly plant, turning out GMC Envoys and Chevy Trailblazers.

Joe doesn’t remember how it happened. “It’s like one day I woke up and my name was the butt of a joke,” he says. “Joe Sixpack was a bigoted jerk with a beer belly, a guy who gorged junk food and only cared about NASCAR.”

Joe took the jokes good-naturedly. In the small town of Moraine, pop. 6800, everybody knew his family—his son, an Eagle Scout off to Annapolis, his daughter, a gymnast, known as “Little Sixpack” for her perfect abs, .

Then, in June, GM shocked the town by announcing it was closing the plant, laying off 2400 workers. Joe says he should have seen it coming. With 19,423 jobs lost in the first three months of 2008, Ohio is the fourth highest state in mass layoffs, behind California, Michigan and New York.

Ohio politicians scrambled to keep the plant open. They offered hundreds of millions in tax breaks to GM, but were turned down. Gas prices and green politics had destroyed the SUV market, they were told.

“It was the end of an era,” Joe says. “GM had mismanaged its business and we were paying the price…”

Joe was putting together three hundred years of family memorabilia for a trip to the Antiques Roadshow when one of his friends called, laughing. “Sara Palin wants you to be Vice President, Joe.” He You Tubed the VP debate and heard Palin say: “It’s time that normal Joe Sixpack Americans were represented in the position of Vice President.”

He doesn’t know why, but he just snapped.

“This little twit was patronizing me,” he said. “I was the blue-collar sucker who you could talk into fighting your wars and working in your factories…Who you could dump when he was no longer useful…”

Next day, Joe was in court petitioning for a name change.

What’s his new name going to be?

“I don’t know yet,” Joe says. “Maybe Warren Harding…? Lebron James? Somebody from Ohio.”

TRAVELING UNTIL OCTOBER 15, 2008

Published on October 8, 2008 in archives. 0 Comments

HeywoodGould.com

AutoBARography 6: A CHRISTMAS PAST

OBAMA’S CABINET WILL NOT LAST, SAY CHINESE

IS VITAMIN C A COMMUNIST PLOT?

WILL OBAMA SAVE THE WORLD?

AutoBARography 5: A HIPSTERS THANKSGIVING

WILL BUSH GET EVEN WITH AMERICA

THE NEW PROFITEERS:SHRINKS, SHYSTERS, SHREDDERS AND SHYLOCKS

CULTS IN CONFLICT

ANALYSST: OBAMA’S VICTORY WILL REIGNITE COLD WAR

CANDIDATES SEEK FRINGE SUPPORT

TRAVELING UNTIL NOVEMBER 5, 2008

NEBRASKA DUMPS LOHAN AND DUCKS SCANDAL

SOX TRANSPLANTS KEEP THE FAITH

JOE SIXPACK CHANGES HIS NAME

TRAVELING UNTIL OCTOBER 15, 2008

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By Heywood Gould
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Drafted, A MEMOIR OF THE 60'S
By Heywood Gould
Tolmitch Press