Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Fat-Shaming!

           



        










             





         Any semi-normal American male is aware of how men and adolescent boys talk when not in the company of members of the opposite sex: locker rooms, pool halls, golf courses, bowling alleys, card games and saloons are such male environments. The manner in which Fat-Assed Trump talks about women would be quite appropriate in any of these masculine settings. Boys will be boys, and boys are obsessed with girls, or more specifically -- tits and ass. The wonderful world of sex is probably the most lucrative industry in the world. And yes, men do objectify women. They always have and they always will. It has something to do with hormones. That said, it is not wise to objectify women in front of women. Yes, they do it themselves, but they rarely want to hear your views on the subject of female pulchritudinous. The absurdity of a group of malformed naked men showering together while discussing women's bodies is laughable. Many's the time I've participated in these locker room hi jinx, and the irony was never lost on me. 
        Eventually one hopes to appreciate women as fellow human beings, and not sex objects. Some of my best friends over the years are women I've never had sex with. Life is tough for men and women. When women are young they can use their sexual powers to great advantage. Not so much when they get older. All men need if they are fat and homely, or old and decrepit, is money. The scales tip in their favor, or so I've been told. 
        Having a daughter is instructive. You know what pigs men are and you want to protect them. When my daughter wanted to try out for cheer leading I encouraged her to go out for a sport instead. I think the bottom line is cruelty. Kids can be cruel, and so can adults. There are very few perfectly formed human beings. If you are smart you learn to laugh at your imperfections and give back as good as you get. Still, I think it's harder for young women to handle being made fun of. Hollywood and fashion magazines, with their air-brushing, professional makeup,  and freakish body-shaping have created an ugly pathology that a lot of young women have to traverse. 
       Beauty pageants are sordid affairs. I rarely find them entraining. I'd much rather watch a naked girl pole dancing. I confess listening to beauty pageant contestants give their views on climate change, or world peace can be hilarious. Still, you have to feel sorry for these young woman parading around like cattle at a county fair. It can't be fun, and is probably quite humiliating. So Trump bought the Miss Universe Beauty Pageant. I'm on record as stating the Miss Universe contestants are better looking than the Miss America contestants. In fact I consider myself an expert on female pulchritude. Even in my decrepitude I can still appreciate a beautiful woman. I don't know what Trumps motives were in buying the pageant. I assume it was to make money, although he might have thought it would be a great way to score for some hot pussy. One wonders? Which brings us to Monday nights debate.
        As I previously stated, Hillary made Trump her very own special bitch. She waited to the very end of the debate to bring up Alicia Machado, the 1996 Miss Universe winner. Alicia, who is from Venezuela, put on fifteen pounds after winning the contest. This is not surprising given how unhealthily skinny these women are during the competition. This weight gain displeased Trump and he excoriated her for eating. He referred to her as Miss Piggy, and if that wasn't bad enough, he also started referring to her as Miss House Keeping because she was a Latina. And then, for reasons known only to Trump, he decided to publicly shame her by making her workout in front of TV cameras. 
       One of my ex-wives was a naked dancer in San Francisco, so I know what slime balls the men who run these strip clubs are. I heard the stories from my ex and her colleagues. But none of these strip club owners have ever run for president, at least that I know of. It's a business, and I've known several women that worked their way through college stripping. I doubt if it's any worse than getting your ass grabbed waiting tables, and it's certainly more lucrative. The last thing I mean to do is put down strippers and waitresses. They've got to be tough, and they certainly learn how to deal with men at their worst. Still, watching a pig like Trump fat-shame Alicia Machado in the internet videos floating around,  is sickening. She's a remarkably beautiful women. No, she's not a mannequin like Trumps ex-hooker wife Melania, but she's infinitely more sexy than Melania. To call a woman like Alicia fat is absurd. 
        Now one would have thought the supposed smart people around Trump would have  gone into immediate damage control after the Machado debacle. The whole purpose of their debate strategy was to appeal to the white-suburban women living around Philadelphia and Columbus Ohio who will decide this election. So what does Fat-Assed Trump do? He goes on the morning Fox News show and doubles down on how fat Alicia was. It was amazing. I don't know if you have observed the three hosts of this show. There are two men and a woman. The woman is positioned in the middle of the couch. Between spells of rapid blinking, they sit staring with lidless intensity at the one who is speaking. The broad in the middle is a woman of forty who spends countless hours before dawn trying to look 39. The two men try to look serious. They are bland; both have identical mocking, half-dead smiles. When Trump doubled down on Alicia's weight, even these three Republican pimps appeared shocked.
         I have a hunch we will be seeing and hearing a lot more from Miss Alicia Machado in the days to come. I also think even some of the self-loathing women Trump supporters, especially the ones with daughters, might want to rethink their support of this gross swine.

                   Between the three of these vapid morons their collective IQ can't be over 100 points.




          
        

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Debate

     

        I watched the widely anticipated presidential debate last night at the Old Town Ale House. About ten of us started watching it at eight, and by nine-thirty our number had tripled. My only criticism of Hillary was the color of her outfit. Being a conservative in dress, I would have preferred black, grey or navy. Fat-Assed Trump is a real slob. When the debate began he had the demeanor of a coke head mc-ing a sports award show. The split TV screen is Trumps enemy. Hillary is infinitely better at debating than she is at giving speeches. She keeps her voice at a normal octave, and avoids goofy facial gestures. I knew Trump couldn't keep it together for ninety-minutes and he didn't. He takes the bait every time, and within the first twenty-minutes he was his old smirking, insulting self. I'm sure the fact checkers are ripping his tiny nuts off today. He denied supporting the Iraq war even after moderator, Lester Holt, corrected him. He followed his original lie about Barack not being and American, with a new lie about Hillary being the one that started the racist rumor. Hillary finally handled the email nonsense with brevity.
        During the last forty-minutes of the debate Trump was in free fall. He reminded me of one of Jimmy Cagney's gangster characters being dragged off to the electric chair kicking and screaming. The final ten-minutes were hilarious. I could read Hillary's eyes as she stared at the now emasculated Trump: "Now my bonny lad, you're mine, you foolish, silly boy I've made you my bitch, and after I'm finally done with you I'll make you love me more than your dear, departed Scottish mother." 
        Trump's self-indulgent bravado was no longer on display. Not only did he lose the debate, he'd been humiliated by a girl! Reduced to grim sneering and knowing he'd been turned into a colossal dunce in front of a hundred-million people, his lips were sealed in an expression of intense sadness as he shook Hillary's hand. 
       My only remaining question -- what will his excuses be? His first excuse came quickly -- he had a defective mic.  Big fat tub of shit, Chris Christy, who's entire career depends on Trump becoming president now that Bridgegate is happening, was the first Trump surrogate to appear on TV. You could see the panic in his unhealthy, watery eyes, "hey, Obama had a bad first debate and he came back and not only won the next two debates, but the presidency…" Because the Second City kids were now piling into the bar it was too noisy to continue hearing what the commentators were saying. The lovely Eve Studnicka had made a pie for us and it was delicious. Ukraine Mike was almost relaxed. He'd been sitting next to me; he said they were showing the debate at three in the morning at the book store he owns in Prague. 
        The hardcore Trump supporters will still support their maladroit candidate. Why? Because not only are they fundamentally stupid people -- they are clowns, freaks, ghouls, and vampires and have no where else to go. One would think those all important white Republican women living in the suburbs of Philadelphia and Columbus Ohio would have seen enough of the flatulent buffoon by now to know they have to vote for Hillary. Bartender Kim showed me her smartphone. She said the internet was buzzing, " people are attributing Trumps bizarre sniffling to his having ingested a prodigious amount of coke before the debate." Trumps claim that Hillary not only didn't look presidential, "but lacked stamina," was especially bizarre given  by the end of the debate he could barely stand erect, while she looked as fresh as a dewy violet.
         When I got home from the bar I checked Facebook. Pauly Woo Woo had panicked early and written that Hillary had lost the debate. Pauly Woo Woo is a notorious hysteric, so I was forced to scold him. He immediately hurled some hurtful, borderline cruel, invective  at me,  the gist of which was as follows: "Bruce, you are an old, mean, at times vicious, bitter person." This coming from an old pal, I was almost brought to tears. Much like Trump, I tend to overreact when attacked. Once Pauly Woo Woo realized he was overmatched he deleted all my clever barbs. Since he's become a tea totaler he's lost much of his once vaunted sense of humor.        



          *


        I wasn't surprised Sunday night when Josh told me Arnold Palmer had ascended to the big golf course in the sky. He was 87 and not in the best of shape. At this years Masters Golf Tournament he just sat in a chair and watched Fat Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player hit the ceremonial first drives. I first saw Palmer play during the old Tam O' Shanter golf tournament just west of Chicago in 1955. A friend of my dad's was a member and gave my dad a free pass for me. My dad would drop me off at eighth in the morning and pick me up on his way home from work on at five-thirty. Even the great players from Europe and Australia showed up for this tournament because it had - up to that time - the highest purse in the history of golf. In those days five grand was a lot, and the "World Championship" was worth fifty-grand, with another fifty-grand in guaranteed exhibitions money. The week before the World Championship, a smaller pursed tournament was also held, so the players were in town for two weeks. 
        The owner of Tam O' Shanter, a rolly polly guy partial to Hawaiian shirts, name George S. May, thought big. In the middle of these two big money tournaments was a tournament for the best lady pros. I got to see players like Patty Berg, Babe Zaharias, Betty  Hicks, Jacky Pung and the smoking hot Bauer sisters. In 1950, the Bauer sisters, Alice and Marlene were among the 13 founders of the Women's Professional Golf Association. There was a bit of a scandal when I first started attending the two tournaments. A guy named Ben Hagge had knocked up Alice, who was ten years older than Marlene. After the baby was born he married the more attractive Marlene. I couldn't resist watching the Bauer girls when they were paired together one day. Hagge was following them around. He was a large, paunchy, unwholesome guy with tight blonde curls and glasses. Years later , when Tobin and I were spending a winter in Sarasota, I saw Marlene at the LPGA tournament being played at Bent Tree Golf Club. She was a cautionary tale about what the sun can do to female skin. It was horrible to behold. I guess the girls patched up their differences because  when I read about Alice dying at age 75, she was staying at her sisters home.
        Although Arnold Palmer was a rookie when I first saw him play, I'd heard of him after he won the US amateur. He was skinny then, with remarkably big forearms. He was what was described as a hitter rather than a swinger. Back in the 40's and 50's players didn't automatically come out of college with cooky-cutter swings like they do now. Most of the great ones, Hogan, Sneed, Demaret, Nelson and Bolt had been caddies; they got jobs as assistant pros and had unique, individual swings. Nobody swung a club like Julius Boros. 
        Palmer was fun to watch and I saw him play a lot. Even after Nicklaus started dominating golf, Palmer was much more popular than the blubbery, plodding Nicklaus. In his prime Palmer was the greatest putter I've ever seen. He was responsible for golf becoming a major sport, and the tremendous increases in purses. He had a plain Jayne wife named Winny. We caddies weren't the only ones that knew of Arnie's philandering. Sammy Sneed's golfing nephew once said of his uncle, "Uncle Sam would fuck the crack of dawn if he got up early enough." The same could be said for Arnie. Although I've described my favorite Palmer quote in a previous blog, it bares repeating now that he's dead. An old time bartender from Florida came into the Billy Goat one day and told Jeff, who was bar tending the following story: During a Florida PGA tournament a group of touring pros were sitting at the bar he was working at. Palmer was putting the moves on a rather homely woman.  When they were getting up to leave, and the women went to the ladies room, one of the pros said, "Arnie, isn't she kind of ugly for you?" Palmer answered, "hey, if you want to fuck them all, you've got to fuck the ugly ones too."
        Palmer predictably became a right-wing tool, and a shill for any product that was legal. When he did his commercials he sounded like his mouth was filled with bubble gum. 
                        

Monday, September 26, 2016

Art Expo

             Although I've been attending the various Chicago Art Expo's for over twenty-years, I've never gone with anyone who actually bought any of the works of art. Trivial pieces by unknown artist are priced from a thousand bucks up. The Aficionado bought two works by famous artists, and gave her card to two other galleries, "in case you don't sell the paintings I'm interested in, my offer still stands." I talked her out of buying a 1910 Augustus John. "It's really a mediocre piece -- certainly not worth sixty-grand." The problem with these shows is the quality of art by the famous artists. There's always plenty of mediocre Picasso's floating around if your just looking for a name. I liked two Lucian Freud etchings, but not for eight-five-grand a piece. I'd never seen graphic art by Freud before, and they were quite good. Given the Aficionado's penchant for privacy I won't say what she bought Saturday. She certainly knows far more about the contemporary art scene than yours truly. When my brother had his big gallery on Madison Avenue in NY I had a pretty good idea about who the art world makers and shakers were back in the 70's and 80's. I didn't recognized any of my brothers former art world enemies at this years expo. I guess everyone has died or gotten old.
         I'm glad the Aficionado has clout because I had no desire to stand in any of the long lines for beer. It was a lot more crowded this year than in previous years,  and they had insufficient food and beverage stands. This was not, however, a problem in the VIP Collectors Lounge. The only time I've ever picked up the tab when I was with the Aficionado was a ten-dollar meal at Valois. I had a couple of craft beers. I draw the line at pouring good beer on ice. The trouble with craft beers is not knowing how many you can drink. When I contemplated having a third beer the Aficionado nudged me and said it was time to get back to checking out the art.
         I was glad the Aficionado talked me out of walking to Navy Pier from the Gold Coast. "Bruce, it's a long walk and we'll be walking around the expo for at least two, maybe three hours. You want fresh legs, and didn't your doctor tell you to stay off the leg you just had surgery on?"
       "Yes, but it doesn't hurt. It's just that it's so nice out, and when we get out of the Expo it will be getting dark."
        The Uber driver picked us up in less than two minutes.
         It wasn't my legs that became tired as we walked in and out of the various booths, it was my goddamn back again. When we stopped to listen to a couple of people speaking in a small make shift lecture hall at the end of the Expo I was happy to sit down. The man, and two women were discussing a deceased performance artist-photographer named Mark Morrisroe. Morrisroe was the son of a junky mother who rented a room from the Boston Strangler. Morrisroe insisted the Stranger was his father. He ran away at fifteen and became a gay hustler. A disgruntled trick shot him in the back. They couldn't remove the bullet because it was too close to his spine. They showed some of his photos on a big screen. I wasn't impressed. He died of Aids at thirty.  
          There were a lot of galleries from San Francisco. Wayne Thiebaud has a gallery there. When the Aficionado expressed interest in a Thiebaud I talked her out of it. "I've seen a couple I liked, but these are not close to his best." The price of Warhol and Lichenstein prints are outrageous. "Aficionado, it's doubtful Warhol even created these pieces. They came from his factory in Chelsea. These prices are a joke."
        "Bruce I've got two Warhol silk screens that I love."
        "Well, if you love them and enjoy seeing them on your wall, great. It's just that I could forge some for you that would be every bit as good. "
         "You could?"
          "Yes, in fact, I have."
         "Do tell."
          The Aficionado listened with rapt attention as I described my checkered career as an art forger many years ago. I told her the next book she should read is Clifford Irving's "Fake." "It's about Elmyr de Hory, who was a Hungarian art forger. He sold close to a thousand forged paintings to galleries all over the world. They did a great profile of him on Sixty-Minutes."
         The Aficionado did not believe reputable art galleries trafficked in fake art.
         "He duped them. Read Irving's book. It inspired me. I learned more about technique trying to forge other artists paintings than from any other source. I became extremely good at Diego Rivera's. After de Horry's was finally busted, when one of the big Chicago galleries told a collector in Minnesota that they were refunding her money for a couple of Matisse's Elmyr forged, she told the dealer she loved her paintings and had no intention of giving them back to the dealer. So the moral of the story is, if you like a painting, buy it, but forget art as an investment. Ranalli bought some god-awful oil paintings from a friend. I don't know how he could bare looking at them all these years. When he told me all he wanted was to get what he paid for them back, I couldn't help laughing."
         I can't figure out how Jim Dine's bathrobe paintings sell. And they're expensive. When I spotted a couple of Raphael Sawyer paintings in one booth it was like running into an old friend. Most of the art on display was abstract, and most of that was pure crap.
        Kerry James, the black artist who just had a big exhibition at  the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art, was signing books. There was a long line of people seeking his autograph.
       I bumped into local artist Paul Lamantia and his wife. They were seated at a table having a drink. I told her that if she outlives Paul she might make some money on his paintings. "It seems like you need to be dead before you make the big bucks."
        Paul agreed. He gave me one of his catalogues to take with me.
        After leaving the expo we sat down in the sun. The exhibition hall was at the very end of the pier. The people watching on Navy Pier is always interesting. After we rested for a while we walked to Carmine's and had dinner. I've had enough pasta lately to last me for a month.

        *

        The Bear game Sunday night was a snooze. I was the only one at the end of the bar watching the game. 

        *


               Congrats to Steve James for winning an Emmy for his documentary on Roger Ebert, Life Itself.  I still can't believe the movie was snubbed by the Oscars.

             


Hillary Clinton has only herself to blame for giving Trump an excuse to put Jennifer Flowers in the first row at tonights debate. Somebody in her half-assed campaign had the brilliant  idea of putting goof-ball Mark Cuban in the front row. I guess they thought it would psyche Trump to see fellow billionaire Cuban smiling at him. So now Hillary is going to have to look at the floozy her hubby used fuck while they were living in Arkansas.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Yowza

      
       I overslept this morning. This happens when the seasons start to change. Because of my highly evolved central nervous system I'm more affected by the position of the moon and sun then most mere mortals. Since I've restricted myself to drinking Polish martini's and going home earlier, my sleeping has improved significantly. On my way to the Ale House this morning, at approximately 8:30 ,who should I see crouching next to a garbage can in the alley between Cleveland and Hudson, than Street Jimmy. When I called his name he turned abruptly;  when he realized it was me  he smiled. It was a sad smile. I wagged my finger accusingly, "Jimmy, aren't you supposed to be at work?" Of course Jimmy would have been perfectly within his rights to ask me the same question. Instead he shrugged and walked toward the other end of the alley. 
         By the time I reached Dunkin' Donuts he'd caught up with me. 
         "Jimmy, I've been looking all over the neighborhood for you. I was worried that something happened to you."
         He gave me an odd look, "you jus' on your way to the lounge, you ain't been lookin' for me. It ain't even eight…"
        "It's past 8:30."
         "No it ain't."
         "Where's your little scooter?"
          "Flower store, I needs a bike."
          "You can't take care of a bike. You either sell your bikes or they get stolen. A scooter is perfect for you."
         "If you gets me a bike I lock it to the post."
         "You don't have a lock."
         "I gets one."
          After I unlocked the front gate Jimmy said Don was still at large. "He actin' real crazy. He say he don' care if he go back to the penitentiary…"
         "Great, so he'll just keep breaking windows."
          Jimmy said he had an altercation with a big white boy on Sedgwick last night. "He big as hell, an' he be actin' crazy, talkin' to himself, an' he call me a nigger…"
        "He called you a nigger on Sedgwick Street!"
         "Yeah, he come after me. I wished I had a pipe."
        "Well, I don't care how big the white boy is, Sedgwick is not the place to be tossing the N word around. Was he looking for dope."
         "He live across the street from Marshall Field Apartments."
         "Point this guy out to me."
          "I gonna definitely hit him with a pipe."
          "Good luck."

         *

         The Cub fans continue to be the lowest form of pond life. I've never had a problem with the real fans -- the fans that grew up going to Wrigley Field since they were kids. Sure they're obnoxious, and have learned to embrace losing with an almost religious zealousness, but at least they've paid their dues. It's the new, Yuppy fans that are particularly loathsome. These fair-weather fans remind me of the types of insects and reptiles you find under slimy rocks. My friend Pauly Ansell is a perfect example of the new, ersatz Cub fan. He is totally ignorant of anything to do with sports, but now, suddenly, he's got Cub fever. Hawkeye also feigns an interest in the Cubs. 
        Ronny Woo Woo is a deranged black man who has been attending Cub games in his Cub uniform (including spikes) since the Sixties. He is the personification of a loser Cub fan. He walks around the park making bizarre woo woo sounds while chanting the names of Cub players. I'm really sorry I didn't get a picture of Woo Woo in a Sox uniform in 2005 when he walked into the Billy Goat while the Sox were playing in the World Series. Pauly Ansell has become the Ronny Woo Woo of Hillary supporters. To read Pauly's remarks on the internet,  Hillary is the most perfect human being to ever walk the face of the earth. Of course were going to vote for her, but she's the antithesis of perfection. 

        *

        Last night at the Old Town Ale House a fellow named Tracy introduced himself to me while I was seated at the bar. He was from LA, and had seen the Ale House on Parts Unknown. He was quite interesting and we chatted for almost an hour. 
        Cougar was dressed casually. She is leaving for San Francisco this morning. As soon as she arrives in California she's renting a car and taking highway 1 to LA. There's a convention she plans on attending, and then she's going to spend some time with her free spirit daughter, Chloe.
       I drove highway 1 from San Francisco to LA forty or fifty years ago; I could not tell you how beautiful it was because I'm frightened of heights and was in a state of terror for most of the trip. The drive along Highway 1 in Marin County is particularly daunting. I drove Tobin and Gracie along the narrow, scenic, mountain  road when Gracie was less than a year old. I was almost hyperventilating as I prayed to Satan no trucks or cars would come from the other direction.  Cougar's ex-husband  came in the bar while she was telling me about her upcoming trip. He is very garrulous and after listening to him for over half an hour I told Cougar I was calling it a night. She immediately jumped up from her bar stool and said she was coming with me. 

    *


               Trumps brain damaged sons. They're into killing exotic animals. The fruit did not fall far from the trees.



                         Little Miss Flint giving Barack an emotional hug.          

Little Miss Flint unable to conceal the fear and loathing of having Trump touch her.




      John Kass replaced legendary newspaper columnist, Mike Royko. This was the ultimate fuck you from the Tribune to Royko. Kass suffers from the classic, short ugly guy syndrome. It's not just that he's a horrible writer  -- which he is -- he's also a knuckle dragging, ultra-right-wing Tea Bagger. As if that isn't bad enough he belongs to a primitive religion called Greek Orthodox. His heavy, dull eyes are surrounded by wrinkled , dead skin. He has the countenance of an abject reptile. There is a self indulgent moroseness to his persona that I think he affects to convey gravity. The inflection of his voice is guttural. He is not even highly esteemed by the right-wing goons he writes so lovingly about.



    I would love to see Barack rip Putin's eyeballs out and shove them down Putin's nostrils and then pull them out of Putin's ears. Trump loves Putin. I wonder how much money Trump owes Putin? 



             

For some reason most people don't recognize VP candidate, Mike Pence embracing Fat-Assed Trump when they look at my painting. I refuse to change the title from "Goldilocks and the Thee Bitches," to Pence, Trump, Gingrich and Christy. People sicken me with their stupidity.







             




Friday, September 23, 2016

The Fugitive

           


           One must not always think that feeling is everything. Art is nothing without form. 

          I am in absolute agreement with Flaubert. It's the chief reason I'm not a jazz buff; it is why I dislike shit-on-a-stick abstract art. (Don't get me wrong, I dig a lot of de'Kooning and Pollock, but there is a form to their best work, or at least a series of reoccurring patterns. Formlessness is also my main criticism of improv theater. Pinter lacks form. His plays are nothing more than a series of character studies. Great for actors, but ultimately unsatisfying to the audience. I admit to having slightly reactionary views on art, music and literature. I'm a classicist at heart.

        *

        My daughters is still too busy to take an hour out of her hectic day and send me photo's of the art she took from Indiana to Maryland. These are some of my best paintings and I'd like to share them. Alas.

        *


We all miss Fancypants




       Then Governor Sandford, currently a US Representative, fingering his soul mate while his wife looks on in horror.







                 Newt giving it to Collista while his two ex-wives look on in horror.



             Jesse Jackson Junior and the white chick he gave the sixty-five-thousand dollar Rolex too. Junior went to jail for stealing. His wife just got out of jail  - also for stealing. Wouldn't it be great to see senior do a little time before he cashes in his chips? Great family.




         

          Nobody I know has heard from Howie since he left town. Hope he's well.





             *

            Last night at the Old Town Ale House Michaela Junior and  Charles A. made separate  appearances. Michaela Junior, who is presently a Chicago cop, and her dad, Touhy, were sitting together at the bar when I finished unplugging the urininal in the mens restroom. I've known Michaela Junior since she was a little kid. I rarely see her or her two brothers since her mom died. When she asked me to inscribe my book, Last Night At The Old Town Ale House, to her, I wrote: "To the only girl I would ever have pulled a job with." Her late mom, Mike, thought that was the highest form of complement I could have possibly bestowed upon her darling daughter. Michaela had a very interesting take on Fat-Assed Trumps condemnation of the shooting in Tulsa of an unarmed black man by a white woman cop: "There's been plenty of equally egregious shootings by white male cops caught on video, isn't it interesting that male chauvinistic pig Trump picked out the only one of a white woman cop shooting someone to condemn."
         I hadn't thought of this until Michaela suggested it. Of course it makes total sense. The guys been a sexist pig his entire life. He's justified rape in the military because women have no business serving with men. While I was talking to Touhy and Michaela, Charles A. arrived with three Community College colleagues of his. Charles has recently received a better job out East and will be leaving his current job with Chicago's City Colleges in a week. Between his demanding job, and his wife and two sons, Charles has very little time for his old pal Bruce. While I was regaling his colleagues with Charles stories, Cougar joined us up in the window. She told Charles that he resembled his sister Ida. In fairness, Ida looks much cuter than Charles. One of Charles colleagues, Mary Ann, was particularly hot. She promised to visit the Ale House as soon as an opportunity presented itself. 
         It's possible that Charles might disappear from sight all together once he moves out East. On-A-Leash, his wife, keeps the leash short. Anyway, we wish Charles luck in his new endeavors. His two very young sons are quite precocious.

         *

         Two detectives were in the bar the other night looking for Street Jimmy. When I relayed this information to Jimmy he didn't seem concerned. "I didn' do nothin' ."
       "The dicks said it wasn't a criminal matter."
        "Las' time I was in court the judge tell the cops they be stupid to keep arrestin' me all the time. I done lots of good things. I stopped a dude from raping a broad in the alley one time. The cops thanked me. China an' me was livin' in the alley an' I heard her a lady scream and I chased the dude away…The cops probably jus' wanna know how I be doin'…maybe they wants to ask me 'bout Don. He wasn't around this mornin'. Maybe the cops was his parole agents? Parole agents can toss your ass in prison…"
        "No they can't. They have to take you to County. They can't just take you to Stateville."
          Jimmy disagreed, "parole agent can toss your ass right back in prison without no trial or nothin'…"
        "Jimmy, first you go to County, then a judge agrees that you violated your parole, then they have to find the right prison to put you in…"
         "Uh, uh…Don be a fugitive jus' like in that movie. Did you see the "Fugitive" movie?"
         "Yeah."
         "It one of my favorite movies."
         "The star used to come in the Ale House when he was a kid. He and his brother were carpenters."
         "Damn, I woulda liked to have met him."
          "It was 1961 or 62, you weren't around then."
          Jimmy said when he woke up this morning outside St. Michael's church he smelled food. "It smell real good. They say I can't have a plate until everyone gots there's."
         "Don't worry , Tobin made some spaghetti for you."
          "Can I have it now, I'm hungry as hell."
          "Sure, why not."
            Jimmy said after he finished sweeping he was going over to the hardware store and get Jose to fix the wheels on his tiny scooter.
        
        

Thursday, September 22, 2016

Michelle In Atlanta

            Michelle in Atlanta sent me a message inquiring about the availability of Genius paintings. She's under the impression that most of the paintings on my Genius Web Site are gone. I know some are. Fortunately I have lots more in Indiana. When Pub Crawl Liz, or some other internet expert pal of mine is available, I'll go to Indiana and bring some back and post them, so fear not Michelle from Atlanta.   

          *

           Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

           The kiss you take is better than you give.

           I only saw "Troilus and Cressida" performed once. It was a matinee in a London park. It was a lovely afternoon, and the actors seemed to be having a great deal of fun. The play, however, is a complete mess. It seems like every character in Homer's the "Iliad and the Odyssey", is crammed into this study in self-indulgent hubris. The actor who played Achilles was quite entertaining. 

           And sometimes we are devils to ourselves
          When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
          Presuming on their changeful potency.

       The actor that played Troilus was a queer looking, truncated figure. A jowly, balding forty year old fellow played Hector. I think the problem I had with the production was there were no heroes. Every character was a pompous, affected, self-absorbed prig. Cressida was a smart-alecky self-conscious chick, with dull, lifeless red-hair. I listened to the actors with bored tolerance. It was only upon reading the play that I realized how many great lines it contained. I'm sure there's been a few intrepid directors over the years that have restructured this botched masterpiece and made it watchable.

           Beauty, wit,
           High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service,
           Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all
           To envious and calumniating time.
           One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

         *

          Shakespeare would have had lots of fun with Fat-assed Trump, much fatter Chris Christy, as well as repellently ugly, Rudy Giuliani. Watching Trump sitting behind convicted murderer-boxing promotor, Don King , yesterday was fascinating. King, although getting up in years, is a large light-skinned black man with tumultuous kinky hair. He was wearing a loose, beige outfit with odd badge's and insignia-like things sewn on it. Trumps eyes betrayed his inner amusement as King hurled the N word around like New Years Eve confetti. Trump wanted King and convicted rapist Mike Tyson to speak at the Republican convention. In retrospect, it's a shame his inner circle talked him out of it. I'm sure the two of them would have been great theater.
         The venue was a black church in Cleveland. It would be interesting to know how much Trump paid-off the preacher, a nasty looking black man with sinister eyes, and a prognathous jaw. Trump addressed the recent shooting of an unarmed black man in Tulsa. There are multiple tapes of the shooting -- body cameras, a dash camera and a helicopter camera. They all show the guy, who's car had stalled in the middle of a rural highway, with his hands up. A small white woman cop, gun drawn, follows him to his car where he places his hands on the car. According to the police spokesman, the woman cop is an expert on drug identification, whatever that means. So with the guys hands in plain sight she shoots him three times. Why? She claimed he was reaching through his window which appears to be closed. She also said she was never so frightened in her life. Two other male cops are with her when she shoots the unarmed man. Up in the helicopter the audio of a cop can be heard saying: "he's big big one, looks like a bad one…"
       Because he was in front of a black audience Trump decried the shooting. "It's troubling. He (the victim) seems to be complying with everything he's supposed to be doing. Maybe the lady cop choked. People who choke shouldn't be on the police force…"
       Within hours the biggest police union in the country, which had endorsed the anti-union Trump the day before, let out an indignant yelp! Trump should not prejudge until all the facts are in. I'm sure at some point today Trump will walk back his criticism of the Tulsa cop shooting. Later yesterday he urged going back to routine "Stop and Frisk" in black communities. I realize that he will never sink lower than forty or forty-two percent in the polls. That's how many racist, irrational, anti-intellectual voters there are in the land of the free and the home of the brave, which is essentially todays Republican Party. What would scare me is if Trump ever starts polling above forty-two percent in states where people no longer practice incest, and reading and writing is encouraged in the public schools. That would be ominous.
            Chris Christy is a particularly loathsome human being. He is a perfect Shakespearean flunky. With the condescension he's perfected when in the company of men with superior wealth, he waddles after Trump with small, timid steps. He speaks in a high, singing voice. Although Trump denounced Christy when Bridgegate first happened, "he knew about it, of course he knew about it," since Christy has become his toady, he treats him like his pet poodle. 
          The Bridgegate trial began earlier in the week. Both the defense and the prosecution said in opening remarks Christy knew about the intentional blocking of the George Washington Bridge. It's a shame some deserving person didn't die in an ambulance that got caught in traffic. It would certainly have given the case a more dramatic plot. Christy is your typical fat guy who was bullied as a kid, achieves power, and immediately devotes his life to getting even with the popular kids that bullied him. Had it not been for Bridgegate, I'm reasonably sure Fat-Assed Trump would have picked big-fat-tub-of-shit Christy to be his running mate. This would have been a cartoonists dream ticket.

        *

       Anthony Wiener is more Dickensian, than Shakespearean. And not just because of his name.

       "I wants to make your flesh creep."

        "He had but one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favor of two."

         "Subdue your appetites, my dears and you've conquered human nature."

           "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."


       Cougar, who fancies herself an expert on big-dicks, says she's pretty sure from carefully studying the pictures of Wiener's erections, even though slightly hidden by his jockey shorts, "he has a big dick."
       "I can see why he'd want to emphasize his dick, given how grotesque his face looks."
        Wiener, who is married to Huma Abedin, Hillary's top aid, is a serial sex-texter. He got nailed texting pictures of his dick to a series of internet sluts while serving as a NY US Representative. Prior to being outed, he was an obnoxious, left-leaning do-nothing politician who spent most of his time appearing on TV and radio. After he was nailed he said all the remorseful things one does in those situations and disappeared for a while. His wife, a woman with large passive dark brown eyes, stood by him faithfully like  typical, ambitious careers woman do. When Wiener ran for mayor of NY it seemed like the public was willing to give the goofy asshole another chance. And then, guess what? It was revealed that he couldn't stop sending dick-pictures to like minded internet women. Usually in politics it's two strikes and your out. While his campaign was still going on his wife allowed a documentary film crew to come into their home, suggesting she was as insane as he was. The movie is coming out any day. However, that's not why I'm writing about Wiener today. 
         Yes, dear reader, it was revealed that Anthony Wiener was once again showing his dick on the internet. To make matters worse, his four-year-old child was in the background of one of the dick shots. (Anthony had been relegated to a stay at home daddy.) But then it gets better, the chick he was sexting turns out to be fifteen. Naughty, naughty!  Anthony, there are state and federal laws against showing your dick to minors. 
        I'm sure Trump will attempt to use her top aids spouse against Hillary. Why not?  And so it goes.
       

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Oft Expectations Fail

     

          The Chicago Bears continue to wallow  in mediocrity. 

                       Perseverance, dear my lord,
                       Keeps honor bright: to have done is to hang
                       Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
                       In monumental mockery.

        *

          Marcia Clark, according to a review I read of last weeks Emmy's, was not only rehabilitated from the O.J. Simpson debacle she presided over with her klutzy side-kick, Christopher Darden, she, thanks to the TV show, is now a heroic figure. The mini-series about the Simpson murder trial - which I did not see -  won a bunch of awards. Say what you want about O.J., he continues to enterain us. First as a college athlete: I was going to Cal when he was playing football and running track at Southern Cal, and was he good! He was even more outstanding as a pro football player; made a few funny movies, and then hacked the heads off a couple of low-life LA nobody's. His trial was nothing but laughs. The LA DA would've fucked up a one-car funeral. Marcia Clark decided to make the trial a domestic abuse case instead of what it was -- a case of coke heads gone amuck. Clark did such a horrific job that even though I and millions of others were convinced of O.J.s guilt, we celebrated his acquittal just to spite the persnickety bitch. Word had it that she was fucking Darden, who was an Uncle Tom token assistant DA. Clark's husband at the time, was divorcing her because of her bulimia; he described the horror of living with her: "I'd wake up in the morning smelling vomit on her breath, come home from work and smell vomit, and then go to bed smelling more vomit. My life had become an orgy of vomit."

         *

         The largest police union in the country has endorsed fat-assed Trump. And cops wonder why their PR is so awful? First of all Trump is anti-union. He believes in implementing "Right To Work" laws in all 50 states. (I wish somebody would poll the black and Hispanic members of the union.) I doubt if Trump's union views matter much to the racist hierarchy of this union. They believe his bullshit. Remember when the Air Controllers Union supported brain-dead Reagan for president, and one of the first things he did after taking office was to fire all the striking controllers?

        *

        This morning, just as I was stepping out of the door of the condo, after a flash of lighting, the heavens opened their floodgates. I jumped back inside the door and grabbed an umbrella. The problem was keeping the ace bandage on my leg dry as I headed to the Ale House. A few minutes after I unlocked the front gate Jimmy knocked on the side door. He's once again driving the tiny scooter. "Hardware Nick fixed the handle bars for me. It don' work too good, maybe you could put it on your log tha' I needs a bigger scooter. "
           "Being the soul of kindness and generosity, I certainly will do that for my dear friend Street Jimmy…"
           "You know, I gots to get things right with Tobi before it get too cold out."
          "So far, my dear boy, you've done an abysmal job of making amends. The bullshit about you being famous that  you laid on her last week was really appalling."
          "Wha' you mean?"
          "I mean instead of begging her forgiveness for smarting off at her when she woke you up, you instead told her you should be allowed in the bar during business hours because your famous. I was standing by the bar taps at the time and her face, I clearly observed, was even more unforgiving than when you gave her shit."
           "I'm a survivor. Most people's couldn' live on the street likes me."
           "True. And most people wouldn't want to. If you weren't such a loser asshole, you could have your own pad, and a check. What are you , 57?"
            "Yeah."
            "All it's going to take is a bad winter, pneumonia, or a bad infection, and when they take you to the morgue nobody's going to know you're dead. People will just say, 'hey, where's Jimmy, I haven't seen him for a while,' and then Hawkeye will check County Jail and you won't be there and so then someone will say, 'hey, check the morgue,' and you'll be dead and already buried in a paupers grave on top of twenty other bums, and nobody will know where your grave is and that will be the end of the famous survivor, Street Jimmy…"
              "You wrong, my family make sure I gets a good funeral."
            "Nonsense, your family doesn't know where you are and you don't know where they are…"
            "They find me."
            "They won't know you're dead. You didn't know it when your nephew died. How are they going to know you died. It is a lamentable fate, but it is the fate you've chosen."
             "Wha' you mean?"
              "I mean you care more about your crack pipe than you do about your family.
               Jimmy's face was now serious and attentive. "I ain't gonna die for a long time."
               "Because you are clearly a man of great persistency, perhaps you will. Still, I think your present lifestyle bodes ill as far as longevity is concerned."
               Jimmy said Crack-Head Don is still on the loose. "Po-leece not be lookin' for him 'cause he be in front of McDonald's every mornin'. I say, 'Don, wha' you bust those windows for, they gonna send you back to the penitentiary.' He jus' kinda laughs. ". Jimmy said this with a spurious tone of concern. "Cops be shootin' peoples but they don' arrest Don. A man come out of McDonald's while I be talkin' to Don an' hand me two dollar. I didn't ask him for it or nothin'. You know tha…"
           "How would I know that? I wasn't there."
            "You don' understand nigger talk, I can see tha'."
             Jimmy was pleased that Tobin had left some food for him.