Or so he would think ... I heard his voice through a degenerate video-poker drunk who was knocking back Black Russians while the bartender snuck breadsticks on a butter pat, "I've never seen anyone eat chicken wings with a knife and fork," he said as he whispered "f--kin yuppie" under his breath and rather than point out that I was eating boneless tenders smothered in hydrochloric acid, I snarled at the decrepit, toothless son-of-a-bitch and said, "If you live long enough, you'll see a lot of things."
He left.
Bukowski would have taken a swing. And, after he was bloodied, he'd go home and call his woman a c--t.
Alan Fishman Fleeced WAMU for $7.5 Million
As the dust continues to settle around the annihilation of Washington Mutual by Jamie Dimon's JPMorgan Chase, common stockholders of WAMU should be readying the pitchforks and torches and hunting down the directors who so shamelessly abandoned the company in a week of a panic leading up to the congressional rescue vote. A good place to start the effigy is with replacement CEO, Alan Fishman, who stands to make $7.5 million in a signing bonus for two and half weeks worth of "work."
Fishman, who seems more interested in not spilling martinis on his evening wear than mulling through stacks of 8-Ks and 10-Qs, may have orchestrated this so-called run on the bank by phoning Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and blowing the whistle to facilitate a fire sale of the nation's largest thrift. In my opinion, he should be sued and shamed far worse than Martha Stewart was for her ImClone dealings.
While Washington Mutual's loan portfolio stunk worse than a wino smeared in his own feces, its physical market share and deposit base had value, so much so that it was speculated Jamie Dimon was willing to bid $7.50 per share, that is until he found out he could screw the common shareholder completely.
As congress bickered over the bailout, executives of Washington Mutual watched their offers dry up as Jim Cramer stumped irresponsibly on CNBC's Mad Money about a run on its bank, but where was the evidence? I didn't see any lines at the branches strewn about the Tri-State area, nor did I hear any mention of it from Governor Swarzenegger when he delivered his moratorium on the state of California's economy, where WAMU was most exposed.
How could a bank, governed by the Office of Thrift Supervision, disclose that it was well capitalized and at the height of its provisioning for loan losses a month ago be marauded overnight?
The whole thing reeks more than the unfettered sub-prime lending WAMU proliferated during the deregulated Bush administration. Not to mention that scoundrel Kerry Killinger who should be thrown in jail for defrauding the public and stealing more loot from shareholders than those convicted for Enron's malfeasance.
Reports are that Alan Fishman won't be seeking severance that JPMorgan Chase has agreed to pay WAMU's employees, but then again I'm not sure how much he'd be entitled to for two and half weeks anyway.
Fishman, who seems more interested in not spilling martinis on his evening wear than mulling through stacks of 8-Ks and 10-Qs, may have orchestrated this so-called run on the bank by phoning Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson and blowing the whistle to facilitate a fire sale of the nation's largest thrift. In my opinion, he should be sued and shamed far worse than Martha Stewart was for her ImClone dealings.
While Washington Mutual's loan portfolio stunk worse than a wino smeared in his own feces, its physical market share and deposit base had value, so much so that it was speculated Jamie Dimon was willing to bid $7.50 per share, that is until he found out he could screw the common shareholder completely.
As congress bickered over the bailout, executives of Washington Mutual watched their offers dry up as Jim Cramer stumped irresponsibly on CNBC's Mad Money about a run on its bank, but where was the evidence? I didn't see any lines at the branches strewn about the Tri-State area, nor did I hear any mention of it from Governor Swarzenegger when he delivered his moratorium on the state of California's economy, where WAMU was most exposed.
How could a bank, governed by the Office of Thrift Supervision, disclose that it was well capitalized and at the height of its provisioning for loan losses a month ago be marauded overnight?
The whole thing reeks more than the unfettered sub-prime lending WAMU proliferated during the deregulated Bush administration. Not to mention that scoundrel Kerry Killinger who should be thrown in jail for defrauding the public and stealing more loot from shareholders than those convicted for Enron's malfeasance.
Reports are that Alan Fishman won't be seeking severance that JPMorgan Chase has agreed to pay WAMU's employees, but then again I'm not sure how much he'd be entitled to for two and half weeks anyway.
Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001
My lungs burn with the ashes of the desperate,
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
The last gasp stretches across the river and into Brooklyn,
From the roof, the triumphant towers' boastful predecessor,
Green on St. Patrick's Day, purple for Gay Pride,
Red, white and blue on the Fourth of July ... Now black,
The Empire State in mourning,
The wondrous skyline, majestic, awe inspiring,
Raped while I watched helplessly,
Now thousands of people all looking to help
Thousands of people who can no longer be helped,
New York, New York, the city so nice
They built the tallest building twice,
A master plan destroyed by a mastermind,
Newly fueled jets, United, American,
Strike the heart of money and American defense,
Allies of Israel, enemies of bin Laden and the Islamic zealot,
Thousands of refugees on the Manhattan Bridge,
I stopped and stared, the Mona Lisa lost her nose,
The masterpiece wrecked, the smoldering tragedy, unequivocal,
A ferocious bite taken from the Big Apple,
The restoration and mourning will loom larger than the structures,
A beleaguered mayor, a confident president, an undetermined
Enemy and the continuing threat of more media coverage,
To witness Babylon's fall to the sea,
To witness the long line at the blood bank,
To witness girls eating ice cream on Ave. A,
New York, New York, on a clear summer day,
September 11, a state of emergency,
The dream has not died bin Laden, your mark, the latest on this town,
But you underestimate me and those by my side.
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 2008
In the spirit of our great departed Doctor of Divinity, the founder of Gonzo, I fear Sarah Palin because she is sexy and can herd sheep that bah she sounds like my sister when we talk on the phone.
You knew McCain wasn't going to go out with the weakling Lieberman or the buffoonish Giuliani -- no, McCain can only be slew like the 18-0 Patriots. If you recall your Scorsese, to kill a king, you must do it in open court
Bill Clinton is prescient, Obama is on the right side of history and like Eli Manning he will have to orchestrate a fourth quarter drive, complete a miracle, and throw a perfect spiral before he and Michelle can move into the White house.
And then, four years from now, when John S. McCain is shelved by the GOP like Bob Dole, Palin can run with her VP, another staunch example of family values, Mr. Tom Brady.
You knew McCain wasn't going to go out with the weakling Lieberman or the buffoonish Giuliani -- no, McCain can only be slew like the 18-0 Patriots. If you recall your Scorsese, to kill a king, you must do it in open court
Bill Clinton is prescient, Obama is on the right side of history and like Eli Manning he will have to orchestrate a fourth quarter drive, complete a miracle, and throw a perfect spiral before he and Michelle can move into the White house.
And then, four years from now, when John S. McCain is shelved by the GOP like Bob Dole, Palin can run with her VP, another staunch example of family values, Mr. Tom Brady.
I Hate Valentine's Day Films in Brooklyn
For two weeks this summer our neighborhood was transformed into a movie set once again as Nia Vardalos and John Corbett of My Big Fat Greek Wedding were seen daily on Prospect Park West shooting scenes for their upcoming movie, I Hate Valentine's Day. 
Production began at Terrace Bagels, a neighborhood standby that stayed open to the public so that I was able to get my morning coffee with the minor inconvenience of having to step over a power cord. The next day, however, after picking up my dry cleaning, I nearly tripped over a boom when Nia came storming down the sidewalk shouting reasons why she hated Valentine's when I realized the bum I had taken for granted on my way in was actually an actor.
Up close, Nia was thin and reaping the benefit of her professional hair and make-up and I wondered how I might look if a team tended to my appearance with such care, surely better than the usual cross between Charlie Brown and Bob Dylan, who, as it happens, will be performing at Prospect Park this summer, too.
At times the line between illusion and reality was blurred. There was a buzz in the neighborhood when a sign above the old pet store read: Get on Tapas. We all rushed to see the menu posted in the window with a four-star review pasted by its side, only to find out that it was a set.
As the days wore on, Nia and John were at home among the Windsor Terrace faithful and even left autographs for nearby proprietors, which the crowd at Farrell's had seen before when Dog Day Afternoon, Smoke, As Good As It Gets and an episode of Third Watch were filmed on the same stretch of Prospect Park West, south of Bartlett Pritchard Square.
The shoot culminated one night with the lighting of a Christmas Tree on Prospect Ave. across from the Regina Bakery, where extras huddled around in winter coats and wool hats while my wife and I shopped at a nearby market for sunscreen in our t-shirts and flip-flops.
The next day the show moved on and the neighborhood returned to its regular busy-body self where a nice woman was murdered opening her store and a quiet skateboard punk was stabbed in the shadows of noisy little league games and the rowdy families gathered outside Lia's for ice cream.
Production began at Terrace Bagels, a neighborhood standby that stayed open to the public so that I was able to get my morning coffee with the minor inconvenience of having to step over a power cord. The next day, however, after picking up my dry cleaning, I nearly tripped over a boom when Nia came storming down the sidewalk shouting reasons why she hated Valentine's when I realized the bum I had taken for granted on my way in was actually an actor.
Up close, Nia was thin and reaping the benefit of her professional hair and make-up and I wondered how I might look if a team tended to my appearance with such care, surely better than the usual cross between Charlie Brown and Bob Dylan, who, as it happens, will be performing at Prospect Park this summer, too. At times the line between illusion and reality was blurred. There was a buzz in the neighborhood when a sign above the old pet store read: Get on Tapas. We all rushed to see the menu posted in the window with a four-star review pasted by its side, only to find out that it was a set.
As the days wore on, Nia and John were at home among the Windsor Terrace faithful and even left autographs for nearby proprietors, which the crowd at Farrell's had seen before when Dog Day Afternoon, Smoke, As Good As It Gets and an episode of Third Watch were filmed on the same stretch of Prospect Park West, south of Bartlett Pritchard Square.
The shoot culminated one night with the lighting of a Christmas Tree on Prospect Ave. across from the Regina Bakery, where extras huddled around in winter coats and wool hats while my wife and I shopped at a nearby market for sunscreen in our t-shirts and flip-flops.
The next day the show moved on and the neighborhood returned to its regular busy-body self where a nice woman was murdered opening her store and a quiet skateboard punk was stabbed in the shadows of noisy little league games and the rowdy families gathered outside Lia's for ice cream.
Chinese Herbal Medicine
Heavy eyes and brain booze-addled again in a world of magic and tragic ends of meandering man-made waterfalls forged like talent captured by sellout crowds who can define this life of ours by hours of whores and bores and the money honey exchange among the tyranny of bleak bloodshed that will not dwell in the lap of melancholy beauty surrounded by well wishers and sentiments from another year with golden-haired princes arriving at her shore covered in the wretched stink of desperate designer perfume and the unyielding cool of boundless possibilities bound like bosoms in a black brassiere of politics and pendulums that govern brave brains who dare produce light from the electric shock of the fragile mind which beckons like Ahab and Hemingway to chase the invincible Mexican goddess thrashing about in the evening surf amidst the terrible stench of decaying print smothered in hibiscus to kiss the harsh minds and terse verse of a curse cast upon a pallet of pure blond beauty in a pale cocktail dress studying Picasso to haunt the conversations of a gumshoe in the grand auditoriums lit by the rich and humble to inspire a moist cloud on a hot, sticky day to pause and pray for what you want most at the very moment you realize you have it and can only contain it like a firefly burst in a plastic pail or a forlorn sail in crisp circles gauged by a synthetic count of days and dollars and hollers market wide within the great tombs of our construction, where lie great poets and words that dare strike out for new pastures and artificial putting greens atop the magnificent waste of euphoric good taste and the wonder of when it might end among the notion that it only now began.
The Kid From Buffalo
I was on the express train from DC to NY when the news caught up to me that Tim Russert had died. A great shock to us all, but fitting that he was doing what he loved, having just spent time at the Vatican with his family.
Tim Russert was a journalist's journalist and we mourn his loss. I shall dedicate my plate of hot wings and cold pitcher of beer in honor of the kid from Buffalo while I try and figure out how to get through this election without him.
Tim Russert was a journalist's journalist and we mourn his loss. I shall dedicate my plate of hot wings and cold pitcher of beer in honor of the kid from Buffalo while I try and figure out how to get through this election without him.
Eat, Drink, Fuck
Caution dear reader, the following is an exercise in futility, a bslog, if you will:
Eat, drink, fuck -- our fate says so and then blames us for stretchy pants, cirrohis, and the herp lip. Bliss be damned.
Luck rhymes with fuck. Take Sarah Jessica Parker and Robert Downey Jr., who lived together in L.A. over 20 years ago and now share fame in largess, which is a word I've yet to use in Scrabulous.
Breathe too much, you'll hyperventilate, think too much, you'll go insane, dream too much and you just might change the world.
Type like shouting epithets down an empty hall, vain and sustained like carvings on a cave wall. Excavate is to Big Brown what Scrabulous is to Triple Crown.
Genius is overused like Google and the word like.
The world is a monster, so I say eat, drink and fuck to your heart's content, cause you're gonna die alone anyway.
Eat, drink, fuck -- our fate says so and then blames us for stretchy pants, cirrohis, and the herp lip. Bliss be damned.
Luck rhymes with fuck. Take Sarah Jessica Parker and Robert Downey Jr., who lived together in L.A. over 20 years ago and now share fame in largess, which is a word I've yet to use in Scrabulous.
Breathe too much, you'll hyperventilate, think too much, you'll go insane, dream too much and you just might change the world.
Type like shouting epithets down an empty hall, vain and sustained like carvings on a cave wall. Excavate is to Big Brown what Scrabulous is to Triple Crown.
Genius is overused like Google and the word like.
The world is a monster, so I say eat, drink and fuck to your heart's content, cause you're gonna die alone anyway.
Congressman Vito Fossella Arrested for Drunk Driving in DC
Congressman Vito Fossella from Staten Island, N.Y., was arrested for drunk driving the morning of May 1 in DC after leaving Logan Tavern with his "pal" Brian, who fell face first through a table, breaking the stand in half. I actually helped carry Brian's drunk ass out to the street where Vito waived off a cab we hailed for them and slid away with his mummy in tow.
Here's the coverage on Eyewitness News:
http://abclocal.go.com/wabc/story?section=news/local&id=6116077
And here's the scoop from an actual eyewitness:
I joined my colleagues Chelsea, Meghan and Meghan's friend R. at Logan Tavern around 10 p.m. not long after Chelsea was sure she spotted Taylor Hanson of boy band fame at a nearby table in the outdoor section. A bit later in the evening, Chelsea departed and Meghan, R. and I moved to the bar indoors to escape the evening chill. Then Vito Fossella walked in with his pal, Brian, who was evidently drunk. R. recognized Vito through his involvement with the Republican Party and invited him over, where I noticed his lips and teeth were horribly stained with red wine.
"Can I buy you a drink congressman? Perhaps a nice Cabernet?" I said.
He was dumbfounded that I got the order right. I ordered one for his pal, too, who shuffled off to the bathroom where I found him later slumped in a chair outside the door. The manager of Logan Tavern caught sight of this mess and complained to our party, which subsequently dispatched the congressman to tend to his lamb.
When I returned to the bar, I was informed that I'd been cut off. I politely suggested to the bartender that I was not the drunk he was looking for and after he conferred with the manager, my drinking status was reinstated with one on the house.
Vito Fossella brought Brian back to our fold and he sat on a stool next to mine and passed out, head on the bar. I thought it strange that Vito left him there, drunk beyond good measure, but he seemed distracted by the conversation on pop music, inspired by mention of the Hanson sighting. Suddenly, Brian rose to his feet and stumbled to the corner and fell like a dead flounder on the table, which held his weight for approximately three seconds before it crashed to the ground. I went over and tried to get him to his feet, but couldn't budge his drunk ass until the waiter gave me a hand. We were able to get him up and I walked him out to the curb where I assured him the fresh air would do him good. All the while Vito shook his head disapprovingly with a mischievous, cheap, red lipstick grin on his face.
R. was holding the cab door open not ten feet away, but Vito Fossella decided he and Brian were well enough to walk ... and apparently drive back to Alexandria ... drunk and delirious.
Here's the coverage on Eyewitness News:
http://abclocal.go.com/wabc/story?section=news/local&id=6116077
And here's the scoop from an actual eyewitness:
I joined my colleagues Chelsea, Meghan and Meghan's friend R. at Logan Tavern around 10 p.m. not long after Chelsea was sure she spotted Taylor Hanson of boy band fame at a nearby table in the outdoor section. A bit later in the evening, Chelsea departed and Meghan, R. and I moved to the bar indoors to escape the evening chill. Then Vito Fossella walked in with his pal, Brian, who was evidently drunk. R. recognized Vito through his involvement with the Republican Party and invited him over, where I noticed his lips and teeth were horribly stained with red wine.
"Can I buy you a drink congressman? Perhaps a nice Cabernet?" I said.
He was dumbfounded that I got the order right. I ordered one for his pal, too, who shuffled off to the bathroom where I found him later slumped in a chair outside the door. The manager of Logan Tavern caught sight of this mess and complained to our party, which subsequently dispatched the congressman to tend to his lamb.
When I returned to the bar, I was informed that I'd been cut off. I politely suggested to the bartender that I was not the drunk he was looking for and after he conferred with the manager, my drinking status was reinstated with one on the house.
Vito Fossella brought Brian back to our fold and he sat on a stool next to mine and passed out, head on the bar. I thought it strange that Vito left him there, drunk beyond good measure, but he seemed distracted by the conversation on pop music, inspired by mention of the Hanson sighting. Suddenly, Brian rose to his feet and stumbled to the corner and fell like a dead flounder on the table, which held his weight for approximately three seconds before it crashed to the ground. I went over and tried to get him to his feet, but couldn't budge his drunk ass until the waiter gave me a hand. We were able to get him up and I walked him out to the curb where I assured him the fresh air would do him good. All the while Vito shook his head disapprovingly with a mischievous, cheap, red lipstick grin on his face. R. was holding the cab door open not ten feet away, but Vito Fossella decided he and Brian were well enough to walk ... and apparently drive back to Alexandria ... drunk and delirious.
Brooklyn’s Best Burger, Maybe New York City’s Best Burger, Can Be Found at The Dram Shop Bar
As May is indeed the month of the hamburger, it’s the time of year when a man must ask himself, where do I go for the best burger in town? To me, the Burger Joint in Le Parker Meriden and Corner Bistro in the West Village spring to mind, then off course there’s the surf shop Island Burger in Hell’s Kitchen.
I dare not argue or presuppose what ingredients are required to make the best burger, rather I rely on one simple rule: If it tastes good, it usually is. And the tastiest I’ve had in a while was at The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn, located on 9th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
The bar is elegant and high-minded with a pool table located in back, a shuffleboard on the side, TVs and lights fixed appropriately, so they’re easily found, but not in your way and music that is familiar and new and in a word, cool.
The Dram Shop Bar has a selection of good, not obvious, beers on tap with fine whiskeys and vodkas decorating a bar, whose mirror the mighty Jack Nicholson could possibly deceive himself in. The six unisex bathroom stalls demonstrate a change in the paradigm of modern restrooms, where privacy can be had and the long lines women endure due to bottleneck avoided.
The bar menus are simple and to the point and feature a blurb about how this delightful concoction originated in Dallas and found its way to Brooklyn three generations later by a dude named Clay, presumably the proprietor. Admittedly, I thought this tale rather self-indulgent along side a nine-dollar price tag, but my hunger prevailed.
The Brooklyn version of this beauty consists of two thin patties, slightly charred like good bbq with fixins that are crunchy and full of zest and served in a basket with a healthy portion of hand-cut fries that are crispy and lightly dusted with kosher salt. The first bite is kind of like the first bite you take of an IN-N-OUT Burger in SoCal, where your appetite wells up like a tsunami and crashes down on anything in its path. Oh, and they serve their beer in frosty mugs, too!
I encourage everyone to stop in The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn (take the F Train to 7th Avenue) for a beer and a taste test and who knows, maybe I’ll challenge you to game of shuffleboard.
I dare not argue or presuppose what ingredients are required to make the best burger, rather I rely on one simple rule: If it tastes good, it usually is. And the tastiest I’ve had in a while was at The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn, located on 9th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
The bar is elegant and high-minded with a pool table located in back, a shuffleboard on the side, TVs and lights fixed appropriately, so they’re easily found, but not in your way and music that is familiar and new and in a word, cool.
The Dram Shop Bar has a selection of good, not obvious, beers on tap with fine whiskeys and vodkas decorating a bar, whose mirror the mighty Jack Nicholson could possibly deceive himself in. The six unisex bathroom stalls demonstrate a change in the paradigm of modern restrooms, where privacy can be had and the long lines women endure due to bottleneck avoided.
The bar menus are simple and to the point and feature a blurb about how this delightful concoction originated in Dallas and found its way to Brooklyn three generations later by a dude named Clay, presumably the proprietor. Admittedly, I thought this tale rather self-indulgent along side a nine-dollar price tag, but my hunger prevailed.
The Brooklyn version of this beauty consists of two thin patties, slightly charred like good bbq with fixins that are crunchy and full of zest and served in a basket with a healthy portion of hand-cut fries that are crispy and lightly dusted with kosher salt. The first bite is kind of like the first bite you take of an IN-N-OUT Burger in SoCal, where your appetite wells up like a tsunami and crashes down on anything in its path. Oh, and they serve their beer in frosty mugs, too!
I encourage everyone to stop in The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn (take the F Train to 7th Avenue) for a beer and a taste test and who knows, maybe I’ll challenge you to game of shuffleboard.
Hyannisport Holiday
It was the summer of 1997 and my friend Tom invited me up to the Cape for a weekend to see some of his old college buddies and attend the Robert Malfi Third Annual Summer Extravaganza, where the boys played soccer on a lawn over looking the ocean and the girls pranced around the ample grounds in summer dresses, drinking catered cocktails from bendy straws.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
Nothing Says Marijuana Party Like Dave Dowling
Goodness gracious, great balls of Google! My Canadian campaign has come to light:
Dave has spent the last few years working with the Federal Marijuana Party of Canada as a candidate’s official agent in 2000, and ran as a Candidate in the 2004 Federal Election.
By why should I listen to him?
Dave has been quoted on CNN at least 50 times. He has also been interviewed numerous times in newspapers, been on a multitude of radio shows and been seen on many television stations.
Did someone say Barack Obama?
Dave Dowling knows that rights and freedoms are to be there for all, and that children should have educational and economic opportunity, wherever they reside in Canada. The Citizens of Edmonton, Alberta and Canada and their children deserve this. Poverty, the homeless, hemp, healthcare, education and other such issues affect all levels of Governments. This is why Dave runs in Elections, to raise awareness on the real issues. Dave sticks to poverty type campaign budgets to show fiscal integrity, and no signs posted during campaigns to show respect for the environment. Mr. Dowling not only talks it during elections, he campaigns it too.
But can I trust him?
Dave Dowling has worked at various companies in the oil industry, usually shipping and receiving multi-million dollar orders of high tech electronics, radioactive materials and explosives. Dave has been on the board of directors of one company and incorporated and ran his own business selling art.
When you think Marijuana Party, you think Dave Dowling!
Dave has spent the last few years working with the Federal Marijuana Party of Canada as a candidate’s official agent in 2000, and ran as a Candidate in the 2004 Federal Election.
By why should I listen to him?
Dave has been quoted on CNN at least 50 times. He has also been interviewed numerous times in newspapers, been on a multitude of radio shows and been seen on many television stations.
Did someone say Barack Obama?
Dave Dowling knows that rights and freedoms are to be there for all, and that children should have educational and economic opportunity, wherever they reside in Canada. The Citizens of Edmonton, Alberta and Canada and their children deserve this. Poverty, the homeless, hemp, healthcare, education and other such issues affect all levels of Governments. This is why Dave runs in Elections, to raise awareness on the real issues. Dave sticks to poverty type campaign budgets to show fiscal integrity, and no signs posted during campaigns to show respect for the environment. Mr. Dowling not only talks it during elections, he campaigns it too.
But can I trust him?
Dave Dowling has worked at various companies in the oil industry, usually shipping and receiving multi-million dollar orders of high tech electronics, radioactive materials and explosives. Dave has been on the board of directors of one company and incorporated and ran his own business selling art.
When you think Marijuana Party, you think Dave Dowling!
Are Bill Ritter and Liz Cho in Love?
For several weeks now, I've noticed Liz Cho of Eyewitness News hasn't been wearing her wedding ring. There was idle speculation that it may be due to weight she put on during her pregnancy, but that was months ago and she has been in fighting shape for a while. Hard to remember now, but I do think it was there when she returned after Labor Day.
Of course it was clear from the start that Bill had a thing for Liz. Why not, most of us do, but what was it that put him over the edge? Does Liz actually look up to him, respect him as a venerable newsman, or is it simply the fact that work is an easy place to fall in love.
During this evening's broadcast, their was a tender moment revealed when Liz finished reading the Valentine's Day Health Alert. After she said "most people do not actually pursue their ideal mate, suggesting that we often think with our hearts," Bill looked at her tenderly and said, "Who would have thought that?" and she echoed the sentiment immediately. Take a look:
The glowing eyes, the hidden smirk, the school girl smile, caught on camera!
While the Channel 7 bio and wikipedia entry for Liz mention that she is still married, where's the rock? And if she did leave her husband for Bill, what was the catalyst?
Of course it was clear from the start that Bill had a thing for Liz. Why not, most of us do, but what was it that put him over the edge? Does Liz actually look up to him, respect him as a venerable newsman, or is it simply the fact that work is an easy place to fall in love.
During this evening's broadcast, their was a tender moment revealed when Liz finished reading the Valentine's Day Health Alert. After she said "most people do not actually pursue their ideal mate, suggesting that we often think with our hearts," Bill looked at her tenderly and said, "Who would have thought that?" and she echoed the sentiment immediately. Take a look:
The glowing eyes, the hidden smirk, the school girl smile, caught on camera!
While the Channel 7 bio and wikipedia entry for Liz mention that she is still married, where's the rock? And if she did leave her husband for Bill, what was the catalyst?
Hillary Clinton Is a Bigger Man Than Terrell Owens
Somewhere Fred Exley is smiling.
Eli Manning's 47-second scoring drive will come to be known simply as "The Drive" among fans of Big Blue. Mr. Jacobs nearly shattering the playclock coupled with Osi Umenyiora's dominance of Flozell Adams in the fourth quarter was a sweet sundae on Sunday complete with cherry on top.
Just when Hillary thought she had softened her image, she now looks like Ray Nitschke compared to the blubbering Owens.
Go forth Big Blue to the wild tundra of Green Bay and battle the immortal Favre. Know that we stand behind you and that your legacy is etched in the withering Botox jowls of Jerry Jones.
Let's win one for The Gifford.
Eli Manning's 47-second scoring drive will come to be known simply as "The Drive" among fans of Big Blue. Mr. Jacobs nearly shattering the playclock coupled with Osi Umenyiora's dominance of Flozell Adams in the fourth quarter was a sweet sundae on Sunday complete with cherry on top.
Just when Hillary thought she had softened her image, she now looks like Ray Nitschke compared to the blubbering Owens.
Go forth Big Blue to the wild tundra of Green Bay and battle the immortal Favre. Know that we stand behind you and that your legacy is etched in the withering Botox jowls of Jerry Jones.
Let's win one for The Gifford.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)