Oh, man. . . I don't know where to begin today. I had a happy blog post to write, if I recall correctly, but things took a turn in the night. Apparently. I have six pillows on my king sized bed. Usually when I wake in the morning, the bed barely looks slept in. This morning, four of the six pillows were missing pillow cases. The bed looked as if there had been a pro wrestling tournament there. I recall waking to disturbing thoughts--not dreams--with a jolt. Just a series of non-sequiturs and problems with no solutions. People will tell you there is a solution to every problem. Death, motherfucker. Solve that one.
I had forgotten that I had a date to be beautified yesterday at two. Kind of cuts the day in half, especially when you don't realize you have the appointment until after ten. I didn't want to go to the gym to do the treadmill and stair master, et. al. so I grabbed my cameras and took a long walk. On my way, at an intersection of three roads, a big young fellow was screaming at a car, gesturing wildly. He came toward me shaking his head, eyes wide. I thought someone must have done something to endanger him in crossing. As he approached me, he said, "Hey, you got a dollar," rubbing his thumb against first two fingers. I patted my pocketless gym shorts and shook my head. Then he asked, "Do you have a cigarette?" Again, I shook my head and said, "I got nothing." As he passed by me, still bug eyed, he starting yelling. "Some people are just assholes, you know? They just need to be punched in the head."
Well, now. He was standing just off my shoulder looking dead at me. I'd better push this to its conclusion quick, I thought knowing the big, young fucker could hurt me, so I put on my crazy eyes, turned to face him directly, and took half a step forward.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
It worked. He waved me off and approached a car asking for money and cigarettes. This happened right here in my own little hamlet. The crazies are everywhere now, I guess. The world is more dangerous every day.
Per the Biden/Putin conference call. Biden let Putin know that if he invades another country and kills 100,000 in doing it, well. . . we're gonna. . . you know. . . boycott lots of stuff and, uh. . . charge you more for some things. And you can bet we'll be sending a strongly worded statement to the U.N. You can count on that.
And China? Oh, man. . . we'll send no administrators to the Olympics. No sireee. And Taiwan? You'll just have to wait and see on that one. Yup. You can't tell. But we'd sure do something.
So I went to see my little Russian Jew to get my hair done. I never know what will happen. I just trust her to do something good. Usually, she does. It takes a long time, though, and while we were talking about other things, I remembered an article someone sent me about Russian women coming on vacation to Miami and having their babies there. The baby automatically has dual citizenship and it helps the mother become a citizen later on. The article said there were 100,000 of these cases last year. Well, now, my little Russian Jew's family has a business "helping" Russians come to America.
"Hey! I read an article. . . that's what your family's business does, right?"
She squinted and hemmed for a minute before she nodded.
"These are super wealthy Russians," she said. "They pay a lot of money for the arrangements."
Her stepfather was a high ranking officer in the Russian military. He has connections.
She wasn't interested in talking about that, though, and she dove back into the story of the troubles of her life as it happens just now. She's been in a domestic relationship for some time, though, so her problems are not nearly as entertaining as they used to be. Worse than that, really. Mundane. But. . . she is very lovely.
When I left, I was once again a blond. I took a selfie in the car as I always do after I get my hair done. I have let my grizzly beard grow out about a quarter inch and I realized I looked like an aged country music singer, not the look I am going for. Q said I just needed a cowboy hat. Fuck me. I've become a Cowboy Quazimodo!
Cowboy Quazimodo and the Elaphantines play their hits this Monday night at the Starlight Lounge. Don't miss this opportunity to hear the songs of your youth.
After beers with mom, I came home to cook a quick dinner. I turned on the news. No, not news. What should we call it? Something else.
The Jeffery Epstein trial of Ghislane Maxwell has the country by the gonads. Millionaire sex workers with pseudonyms say that monetary compensation is the only way to heal. Epstein's death was not enough. Closure can only come after the healing balm of money with Maxwell's lifetime imprisonment. In order to secure this, prosecutors are selling a made up idea of grooming. I read the definition of grooming, which does not have an official acceptance as an actual thing by any valid institution, and substituted the word "education" anywhere words for sex or sexual were used, and it worked perfectly. Educational institutions are in the business of Educational Grooming if the definition holds. I think we should make up more terms to describe things we don't like and put he word "syndrome" behind them. It will make your argument sound authentic.
The prosecution is really laying it on, though. There were pictures of naked people in the house. They demonize nudity for the jury. It is not illegal, exactly, but who in the world had pictures of naked people? I don't know, man, the Puritans are out to get you.
"In the same house where they lived with their own children, they copulated nightly not ten feet from the door where their children slept. A sex toy was found in the drawer of the bedside table. She was known to spend a significant sum on sexy lingerie while her children were sent to a public school. Babylon High. Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, are these the acts of moral characters? Would you send your children on a sleep over if you knew these things were going on right there under that very roof? A search of the husband's laptop was revealing. Ten times in the previous week he had used the "private browser" in his internet searches. What, I ask, could he have been looking for that needed to be private? If you just look at the facts, you can only come to the conclusion that we are dealing with a couple of very depraved people here, and we need to put these children in a good Foster Home as quickly as possible. Thank you."
This morning I read an article about an actual Babylon High School on Long Island where back in the 1980s "grooming" of students was a common practice. Six former students have come forward to tell their stories. It was c.c. who made a point of the school's name. "Really?" he asked. Ha! Yes indeed. Anyone who sends their children to Babylon. . . .
Recognize that the complaints are not about an actual sex act. They are about innuendos and "misbehavior."
Q said that something happened to him in 1892 that needs revealing. We are starting a movement--#PastLivesMatter. No, I am. I shouldn't tar him with this brush. He still has a career to worry about.
As somebody said (I have to quit calling people out), prostitution pays, but the real money is in victimhood.
Wait. . . what? You were a victim, too? Well open up the vaults and let the healing begin. And if there is no money, let's just behead the infidels or stretch them out on the old Christian rack like they did in olden times.
O.K. Enough of that. You get my drift. Puritan America is titilated by tales of teenaged sex. Hearts race with indignation to "Sweet Little Sixteen."
Me? I'm joining the Body Positivity Movement. I have no choice. Now that I am old and fat, I reject my former self. I have entered the time of Healing and Closure.
Without compensation, of course.