Sonia

The phone rang and rang, bringing me out of my gin-soaked sleep. I looked at the clock. 9:00. Only one person calls me that early in the morning. I didn’t want to talk to her. Let the machine get it. I closed my eyes. I was asleep before she even left the message.

Four hours later: I roll over. My cat jumps up on the bed and lays on my chest, waiting to be fed. I slide her off me and get up. My head is throbbing, but I can fix that. What I always do when I have a hangover is fix myself a banana milkshake with honey. The banana calms the stomach while the honey builds up the depleted blood sugar levels, the milk soothes the stomach and rehydrates. Bananas also contain magnesium and potassium, which are depleted during drinking. Plus, it’s fucking delicious. It gets me back on my feet. That and a hot shower.

I didn’t mean to get wasted the night before, but I was up late working away on the manuscript. I don’t know, I guess I felt Hemingwayesque. So I broke out the bottle. When I happened to look at the clock, it was 4:27 AM. I wasn’t sure how it got to be so late; it didn’t feel that late. This feeling of lost time has happened before when working on the manuscript. It might be my imagination, but I’m not sure. I have vivid dreams that seem to recall this lost time.  Ah, who am I kidding, it’s probably the gin.

I finally get around to checking the message. As expected, it’s my ex-wife. I’m excited at first because usually the only time she calls is if she needs a good balling. Our divorce wasn’t so bitter that we still don’t enjoy a good romp now and again. After all, that was probably the best thing about our relationship. It damn sure wasn’t the conversation.

She used to call me for money after our divorce. She and her lawyer tried to stick it to me. The bitch was threatening to take everything I had, simply because she knew I loved it more than her. She’d have taken my ass for a ride too if not for some help from my old man. He worked for the government in some capacity – it was never discussed – and he had friends who could make a legal problem disappear. I’m not sure what happened, but her lawyer began to advise her to take a small amount of money I offered and get on with her life. Whatever my father’s friends did, it worked. I imagined it must have involved some Luca Brasi-type character. She asked me countless times what I had done, and I honestly couldn’t answer her because I didn’t know. Whatever happened, it worked, and my marriage officially became a footnote in my personal history.

Moe tells me I’m crazy to still sleep with her, even if it’s only occasional. I can’t help it, the woman is a wildcat. She’ll leave you gasping for air. In fact, she’s so good I sometimes contemplate remarrying her. And then it wears off and I’m back to normal.

She wanted to meet me for lunch and to call her to confirm. Looking at the time, lunch was definitely out. I dialed her number. She answered on the fourth ring, just before I hung up.

“Hi, Tobias.”

“Sonia.”

“I guess lunch is out.”

“Yeah, I…”

“I know, you just got out of bed.”

“Why don’t you come over?”

“It wasn’t that kind of call, Tobias.”

“Oh. Then what?”

She pauses.

“I’m engaged.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. His name is Russell. He lives in my building.”

“His name is Russell? My condolences. What’s his last name?”

“Spoonts.”

“Jesus. Have you said your future name over and over again? Sonia Spoonts. You have to admit Sonia Manco sounded a lot cooler.”

Another pause.

“Yes”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“A little over a year.”

“Haven’t we, you know, a few times over the last year?”

Another pause.

“Yes…but I wasn’t engaged at the time.”

“Ah, well, I guess that makes it okay. Well, I’m happy for you, Sonia. I hope it works out. You have my blessing.”

“I don’t need your blessing.”

“Look, uh, why don’t you come over…you know, one last time?”

Another long pause.

“I can be there in an hour.”

Home Defense

A few weeks ago, perusing the racks at a local record store, I fell into a conversation about music with this kid named Max. Well, not exactly a kid, he’s twenty-four. Max is a multi-generational listener, meaning he can listen to everything equally and without much bias. It’s admirable, if ultimately unsatisfying in my opinion. Part of being a music collector is finding a niche and making yourself at home. Nevertheless, despite his refusal to draw a line in the sand, Max is a good guy.

He seems to like me. I think he considers me this crazy old coot who always smells of gin and eyes the young girls who come into the shop….which I am, of course. I was trying to unload some 45′s I had multiple copies of [it happens more than you think] so I invited him over to check out the records. They were mostly Doo Wop singles, which he seemed frustratingly unconcerned with, preferring a few of the Sun rockabilly and blues singles I was offering. I let it go. He wasn’t ready for Doo Wop. Doo Wop requires a lot of late nights alone before it can sink into your bloodstream.

I’ve made my home into my own image. When I die, I suppose I can ask my survivors to turn it into a Pop Culture museum. To most people, it wouldn’t look like much. However, to the trained eye, there are treasures aplenty in this hovel I call home. I’m proud of my collections. It is as close to having children as I will ever come.

In fact, that’s why my wife left me – because I preferred my collections over having children with her. She had a biological need to have children (i.e., all of our neighbors had children and she was tired of being asked why she didn’t have any by the miserable hags when they would congregate) . At least, that’s what she told me. Well, I had a biological need to not have children.

I couldn’t envision bringing a child into a world such as this. Seems cruel when you think about it. Not to mention the poor Earth currently sagging under the pressure of all these dilapidated fools running around in droves, starving by the millions, hurtling themselves desperately against their own eventual destruction. Yet, this wasn’t a logical reason to my wife. Women want what they want, no excuses. If it means personal or ecological destruction, so be it.

She left, but the collections stayed. She used to tell me I loved my collections more than her. In hindsight, I think she was right. I do love my collections. It’s a pure love, because it doesn’t require reciprocation in order to make it feel tangible.  These collections come from different times and walks of life, from my young days to these current events. There is a story connected to many of them. Like a time machine, each one can transport me back to when I first experienced it.

Max was suitably impressed with the place, though the poor bastard was almost skewered when he hit a trip wire for a booby trap that I had forgotten to disarm. It took a few drinks to calm him down. Fortunately he didn’t ask too many questions. It would have been difficult to explain to him that, aside from protecting the valuables in my home, I’m also protecting an unfinished manuscript that I believe is being transmitted to me from a higher power of some sort, and that there may exist a group of people who would like to use it for their own nefarious ends. I’m not sure he would have understood.

I wasn’t sure I’d see him again. After all, near death can be a social impediment for most people. Yet, when I ran into him at the record store a few days later, he acted as if everything was okay, though he seemed reluctant to make plans to visit anytime soon.

However, he did invite me to a party that he and his roommates are throwing. Fortunately, it’s on Saturday, not Friday. As I’ve written, Friday night is poker night. Regardless, I didn’t commit myself to attending. I’m not much of a party person. Anything that requires prolonged exposure to the human race makes me nervous. The goddamn fools are capable of anything, as our history continues to illustrate.

Plus, what is an aging fuck like me going to do at a 20-something party? Maybe I’ll let Moe go in my stead; he’d eat that shit up.

Continuing through the record store, I find myself becoming irritable. Independent record stores are biting the dust, and it’s becoming harder and harder to find anything good in even these stores. All they want to stock now are these smart ass bands with the cute or ironic names. You know, the ones who think they’re edgy and onto something because they have the audacity to use “Fuck” in their band name. Ridiculous.

Jan has introduced me to a lot of good music I wouldn’t have listened to otherwise because of the year in which it was recorded. But it’s few and far between. The sad truth of the matter is there is very little left in this world to be excited about.

I discussed this with Grace over dinner the other night. She seemed bored by the conversation, displaying the body language I’ve come to know from certain women who have spent too much time in my presence. All the charm in the world can’t improve your standing in a woman’s eyes when they realize you have little ambition for anything. I think Grace saw some kind of future in me, but I don’t believe in the future. You can be as honest as you want to be with a woman, it doesn’t matter. They decide from the moment they meet you what the future will be, leaving you with the terrible decision to play ball or tear their future down.

Women are ambitious, almost to a fault. It surprises me that they haven’t taken over the planet yet. Men seem bored with running things. That’s why everything is so brutally fucked up in the world today. When men become bored, they like to destroy things. For kids, it’s toys. For men, it’s each other.

Yet, I’m not sure women are the answer either. They’re very demanding creatures. Imagine a woman president. The first time her demands aren’t met, the ultimatums will follow. And I haven’t known a woman yet who takes no for an answer.

Manco’s Movie Reviews: The Picture of Dorian Gray

Today’s movie is 1945′s The Picture of Dorian Gray, starring Hurd Hatfield, George Sanders, Donna Reed, Angela Lansbury and Peter Lawford.

The film was based on the 1890 novel by Oscar Wilde. This story continues to be relevant in a day and age where everyone is doing everything they can, no matter how ridiculous the circumstances, to cheat the aging process. I don’t know when aging became a crime, but someone needs to take these slugs aside and point out to them their efforts are meaningless. It’s the fate of every human to grow old and die. You are not special.

We all have a story arc – a beginning, a middle and an end. One is no better than the other, they all serve the purpose of the story. However, many are only interested in the beginning of the story, and they will do whatever it takes to delay the ending as long as possible. These are the health nuts and plastic surgery idiots with their carrot juice and their botox. They tell themselves they’re going to live forever, despite the evidence to the contrary.

There’s an old cemetery not far from my place. Sometimes I take a walk through there. It’s a nice way to remind myself of my mortality. Not that I would ever have myself buried. No, I’m not interested in feeding the worms. Instead, I’m going to be cremated and have my ashes scattered at a location to be named later.

I’ve always found something intriguing about cemeteries. There are usually few people around, it’s quiet, it’s respectful and there are a number of stories throughout the place. Walking through the cemetery you come across names from over the years. Some recent, others long gone. Passing through there recently I came across a grave marked 1890, the year Dorian Gray was published.

Life goes on without us. You, me, all of us, we are insignificant when it comes right down to it. Sure, the assholes of the world like to tell themselves they mean so much, and there are usually buttsniffers there to facilitate that belief, but there were assholes before them and there will probably be assholes of some sort after them. They are not special, no matter how tight they pull their skin back, what they eat, how they dress, their bank account or what they’ve accomplished or failed at. The person occupying the grave from 1890 remains in the world only as a patch of grass, some bones maybe, and a fading tombstone. Probably not the future they had in mind, but a far more plausible future for us all than we care to admit.

Spending time with Moe the other night, who is also trying to avoid the inevitable, reminded me of the story of Dorian Gray, and subsequently led me to watching the 1945 adaptation after not seeing it in some time. I also recommend reading Wilde’s novel, because, as usual, the movie and the novel are quite different in their presentation.

The movie opens with George Sanders as Lord Henry Wotton paying a visit to his friend, the painter Basil Hallward [Lowell Gilmore]. Basil has not been seen in weeks so Lord Henry drops in to see what the fuck’s going on. After all, it isn’t like Basil to miss a social outing or two. He thought they were tighter than that.

It turns out that Basil is hard at work on the portrait of a young, handsome society figure by the name of Dorian Gray [Hurd Hatfield]. Basil thinks this portrait is his greatest work. In fact, he believes that it has been painted by a force guiding his hand. In other words, Basil’s a little hot for Dorian. Lord Henry is also taken by the image in the painting, wishing to meet this young stallion. Lord Henry in some ways represents the Devil in this film. He is a witty, hedonistic and influential man of society who will soon seduce Dorian into following his desires, no matter their consequences on other people.

As Dorian seeks out these pleasures of the flesh and mind, he commits terrible sins against those he loves and himself. These include ruining his romance with a vaudeville singer by the name of Sybl Vane [Angela Lansbury] who then kills herself out of sorrow, murder, defiling men and women, soliciting prostitutes, frequenting opium dens and blackmail. Ah, the joys of living.

As he does this, the portrait that had been painted and given to him by Basil begins to change form, aging and rotting with each sin he commits. The painting is his soul. For on the day when the painting was completed, Dorian, spurred on by the ramblings of Lord Henry, made a wish that he would like to remain young and beautiful while the painting aged. His conviction was so strong he even offered his soul for this to happen, which it did. His soul manifested itself in the painting. And even though Dorian was handsome on the outside, the painting, which he kept locked in a room, increasingly decayed, showing Dorian the damage he had wrought on his soul.

The years pass on with everyone aging but Dorian. People talk about the oddity of Dorian Gray, but they keep it under wraps. After all, Dorian has the dirt on his fellow members of high society. He has seem them at their Victorian naughtiest. Step out of line and he’ll lay their dirtiest secrets bare. People begin to hate Dorian, which seems to delight him more than upset him.

As the years go by, Dorian begins to realize the emptiness and evil he has brought upon himself and others. He seeks to end the cycle of destruction he has wrought by confronting the painting and destroying it. However, when he stabs the painting with a knife, he suddenly feels a knife pierce his own chest and realizes too late that he and the painting are inexorably linked. He falls to the floor dead. Upon discovering his body, it is revealed that he now bears the age and rot of the painting while the painting itself has reverted back to the young image of Dorian from years before.

The movie was a hit upon its release on both sides of the Atlantic, with numerous accolades bestowed upon it. Angela Lansbury was nominated for an Academy Award for her supporting turn as Sybl Vance [She won the Golden Globe for the performance], Harry Stradling, Sr. won for Best Cinematography, and the film was also nominated for Best Art Direction-Interior Decoration.

The movie uses a series of paintings, painted specifically for the film, with which to highlight Dorian’s continued descent into the abyss. The paintings were done by Ivan Le Lorraine Albright, an artist well known at the time for his use of the macabre in his work. The painting of Dorian in his degenerative state is now part of the art collection of the Art Institute of Chicago.

The performances are all solid, particularly George Sanders. One gets the impression that he liked the character of Lord Wotten quite a bit.  Also of note is the score by Herbert Stothart,  which is very beautiful despite the grimness of the subject matter.

The movie remains a nice slice of Gothic horror, with a tale of vanity, greed and shallowness that unfortunately continues to shine a mirror on this globe of humanity. How many of us truly know the image of our inner self, and would we want to if given the opportunity?

Poker Night

Every Friday night is Poker Night for me and a few chosen comrades. None of us are worth a fuck at Poker but it gives married friends of mine time away from their wives and children, which they desperately need. With each passing day they find themselves being crushed more and more by the American Dream.

As you can imagine, their wives don’t think of me. They don’t like the fact that I’m divorced, like to chase tail, drink too much, bitch too much, am writing a manuscript sent from Heaven, still like loud music, don’t work, and that their husbands are always in much better moods after the weekly Friday night sessions.

Their wives didn’t start out as sniveling, controlling bitches. They were once tough-minded broads who knew how to have a good time and could out think any old son of a bitch. But age, children, lost dreams and having to deal with the same asshole on a daily basis have taken their toll. These women are angry and their anger has severe repercussions for all those that cross their path. I avoid the bitches like the plague.

Another reason I enjoy Poker night is it allows my married friends to mix with some of the more eccentric acquaintances I keep or have kept. When Moe isn’t trying to pick up young punk rock girls, he’ll stop by for a few hands. I don’t invite him as much lately because of my fear he’ll get drunk and start talking about the daughters of some of my married friends. These daughters are well into adolescence, which makes them prime targets for a scumbag on Moe’s insidious level.

There’s Roy, the 9/11 activist. Roy spends half his days working for the City, the other half researching the events of 9/11. He’s become obsessed with it. Even I have to tell him to shut up occasionally. On the 4th anniversary of the event, he went to New York to take part in a 9/11 Truth gathering, handing out literature and telling anyone who would listen what really happened that day. Unfortunately he hasn’t been back because a couple of meatheads took exception to what he was saying and gave him a heck of a beating. The poor bastard came back looking like Joseph Merrick.

Jimmy. Jimmy is a sex addict. Only problem is, Jimmy is one ugly motherfucker. This guy is the human manifestation of every bowel movement in human history. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy – he’s got great taste in music with the best Sinatra collection I’ve seen and he’s a loyal guy – but he’s an ugly cuss. Can you imagine how difficult it must be for a sex addict whose appearance repulses women? This guy has to peel some serious dollars off to the working girls in order to get his fix. Fortunately for him he makes good money as a postman.

And then there is Fergal. Fergal is Irish. He doesn’t talk much. I met Fergal in a bar I frequent after we came to blows. It wasn’t a big deal. I’d had one too many toasts and became suspicious of Fergal sitting alone in the corner. I thought he might be a spy. I confronted him about it, he took exception, and a fight ensued. Fergal can throw a few haymakers. That was one of the tougher fights I’ve ever been in. Employees of the bar broke it up before it got too out of hand. Since then Fergal and I have been friends. Turns out Fergal is a school teacher. He teaches high school math. Unmarried, no kids that he knows of. Keeps talking about going back to Ireland. Won’t tell me why, but I think it has to do with some high school floozy.

I relish my married friends – men I’ve known for years – sharing a room with my newer friends. It’s good for both sides, to see how the other half lives. It’s a reflection of my own life. My old friends represent a more conventional life – marriage, kids, careers – while my newer friends, not necessarily shunning the conventional life, seem made for an unconventional lifestyle.

I lean more towards the unconventional side. I like the loners, the crackpots, the geeks, the pervs and the unambitious. They seem to have the best stories. The conventional life is nice, but it’s uninspiring. I tried it, and found myself unsatisfied. We all have to grow old and die so why not do it on our own terms?

Bringing them together tells me one thing: none of us are ever truly satisfied. My older friends admire and envy the perceived lack of responsibility my newer friends have, while my newer friends envy the perceived stability of my older friends with their wives and careers. As always, true happiness seems to exist in the middle, if at all. Perhaps when all is said and done, all any of us are truly left with are our hopes, desires and, if we’re lucky, a full house on a Friday night.

Grace

I’ve been practicing moving objects with my mind. Don’t laugh, I’m serious. It can be done. The human mind is capable of things that we can only imagine. I believe moving objects is only one of the many powers we can perform with our minds.

I wish I could write to you that I would use this power for good, but I’d be lying. No, more than likely I’d use it to retrieve items across the room from me to save myself having to get up, give the cats a good scare as they start to scratch the furniture or toss random motorcycle-driving pricks from their bikes.

I don’t like assholes. I particularly don’t like assholes on motorcycles. There are different kinds of motorcycle assholes, from the weekend warrior who pushes insurance five days a week before mounting up on his bike that is the size of a small car and hitting the highway, to the shit-for-brains with the skull cap, leather attire, Harley Davidson, and gay-groomed goatee. However, it is the crotch-rocket sons of bitches that really annoy me. You know these assholes: the shitheels who have to compensate for having a small dick or no dick by zipping and zooming 100 miles an hour up the road. Their bikes are atrocious blurs on the highway, their attitudes are arrogant and their women, skanky muff midgets looking for a meaningful commitment of some kind from a dickless clown. One of many pathetic groups of people currently inhabiting the planet.

I’m driving this past weekend when three of these mental cases go speeding by at what must be 100 mph. There I am, enjoying the tranquility of a beautiful day, listening to something nice on the radio, when suddenly the day is broken by a horde of hunchbacked nimrods. That was the moment I realized if I had the power to move objects with my mind, I could have tossed every one of those worthless freaks into oncoming traffic or onto the median to lie convulsing in their own uselessness. If nothing else, it would have been humorous to see these purveyors of speed come face to face with the reality of what top speeds can do to the human bone structure.

Then again, maybe I was just irritable. Jan had called me earlier in the day to invite me to an art exhibit for a friend of hers. Now, I don’t pretend to get wet over paintings or drawings, but Jan likes to draw – she’s good, in fact – and I appreciate her fondness for it even if we’re destined never to agree about Jackson Pollock. I think the guy is an overrated hack, and she defends him without fail. I’ve had beer-induced vomiting sessions that have put to shame any random act of violence Pollock put to canvas. In fact, maybe I should buy a canvas and vomit on it. I’ll be the toast of the art world.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no contempt for anyone who express themselves. I appreciate those who can take the fires within them and set fire to the outside world. My only complaint is do they have to be such assholes about it? There’s not an “artist” I’ve met yet who doesn’t take him/herself way too seriously, as if the fucking planet rotates on its axis simply for their well-coiffed asses. Give me a break.

Which brings me to this friend of Jan. He’s a halfwit named Andy. Andy throws random colors together and calls it art. Other people also consider it art – experts supposedly – hence this exhibit.

This isn’t the first time I’ve met him. I once spent a long night with Jan and a group of people she knows, Andy being among them. Typical twenty-something drifters, educated and capable, but unsure of what direction they want to go in. It was hard to get an idea about the other people of the group because this Andy prick talk exclusively about himself all night, and was allowed to continue doing so.  It was nauseating. At least for me. Everybody else loved listening to the son of a bitch go on about himself. I thought they were going to have a circle jerk. Needless to say, he wasn’t high on my list of people to see. I only went because the opportunity to see Jan was available. I had not seen her in weeks so, needless to say, it was nice to hear from her.

Jan said she would meet me there. She doesn’t live far from the joint and she could bike there. Jan doesn’t own a car, she rides a bike everywhere. She’s really into the whole biking experience. The bike does fit her, I have to admit. I couldn’t imagine seeing her in a car. It would seem unreal.

She has mentioned on several occasions I should get a bike. I brush it off. I haven’t been partial to a bike since I was a kid. Once I experienced good old American steel, I was a done deal. It’s impossible for me to be content with a bike when the 1953 Muntz Jet still exists.

Jan is already inside when I arrive. There’s a collection of hipsters and yuppies milling around, throwing out fifty dollar words about the paintings. I step up to one, a mass of colors all going willy nilly. I stand there for a solid five minutes trying to see what I’m missing in this mess. The answer never comes. It’s just paint thrown together randomly as far as I can tell. It may make perfect sense to the creator, but it lacks the communication skills needed to ensnare me.

Beer and wine is being served. I grab a beer and continue walking around, looking for Jan. It isn’t until I hear Andy talking about himself to a group of people that I see her. I have to pause. She looks beautiful, resplendent in a casual dress with only a light amount of attention needed to her make-up and hair. She is truly a beautiful woman. Unfortunately, it’s also apparent that she’s made the mistake of falling for this dickweed. I can tell by the way she looks at him. I’ve seen women look at me like that before. It’s the look of a woman in love with a man who has fed her a steady diet of bullshit for months. I thought Jan was above bullshit. She could do better than ten Andy’s put together. Whatever. She has her lessons to learn as we all do.

I grab another beer and continue around the place, checking out the paintings and the yuppie chicks with their short skirts. I make eyes at them, who cares? Not me. I’m stuck in a cold, emotionless place where intellect is supposed to be the priority, but it comes off as more of a commodity. There’s no denying a woman’s legs however, they are warm and alive. They could make this night bearable for all. In fact, I believe there’s more art in the subtle glances of women than in any painting ever conceived. My only true wish is that when I leave this Earth, let me be between the legs of a passionate woman.  Sure, it’s not exactly romantic for her, you know, some guy biting the dust with his cock still inside of her, but what a way to go for the man, right? A man could feel like he had lived a good life if he ended it with a lay.

After all, that’s what men truly pursue in this life anyway. I’ve said it before, everything else in a man’s life is merely a chess move to getting laid. The jobs we work, the people we seek and the things we say, it’s all to get laid. Men are truly incorrigible creatures.

“How do you like the paintings?” a female voice asks.

I turn. It’s a woman, mid-to-late twenties. I’d bet late twenties due to the miles around her eyes. Regardless, she’s very attractive. She’s an Asian woman (I find out later her mother is Korean and her father American). There is class to her, from her clothes to the way she moves to the way she speaks. I figure it out right away, she is no idiot. I must be cautious in what I do or say, else I’m liable to be thrown out of this joint.

My father would disapprove of her immediately. He was a kid when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and he fought in Korea. He understood the cultural differences between the Asian people, but he ultimately regarded them as the same. He always told me the “slants” were the great threat. He told me that Europeans were too pussy to be much of a threat and the Middle East would never get over its fear of progress to pose a considerable challenge. It would be the Asian countries, he warned, who would eventually join together to destroy the Western world. My father told me these things repeatedly. Perhaps that explains why I dig Asian women the most. Anything to piss off that rotting, steaming, pile of bones is human progress.

“The paintings…..uh….I’m going to come clean with you, uh, what’s your name?” I ask her.

“Grace.”

“Grace. That’s a nice name.”

“Thanks. What’s yours?”

“My name is Tobias.”

“Tobias. That’s an interesting name.”

“Thanks. It comes from a Hebrew word that means ‘God is Good’. I guess my parents were having a leap of faith.”

“Grace also has a religious background.”

“That’s true. Perhaps we are God’s chosen,” I say, obviously joking.

“I doubt that,” she says and finishes off her glass of wine.

“Why? I would think it would make more sense for God’s chosen to be hardly recognizable instead of these pompous asses waltzing around here claiming to be in touch with God.”

“That could be possible, but I’d have to believe in a God first.”

“I see. No love for the higher power then?”

“Not based on what I’ve seen, no. If there is a higher power, its apathy does not make it instantly embraceable.”

“Perhaps, but I happen to believe its apathy is what makes it a higher power.”

“Are you here with someone?” she asks.

I glance across the room to see Jan following closely on Andy’s heels. Pathetic. I turn back to Grace.

“No.”

Moe

I was prepared for a quiet night at home. I made some dinner, listened to some Sinatra, had a few bottles of beer on ice as I sat down to relax.

The phone rang. It was my friend, Moe. Moe’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years. True story: Moe’s father was a big Three Stooges fan, hence Moe’s name. After Moe was born his father tried like hell to knock up his wife with two more sons he could name Larry and Curly, but the old bastard was shooting blanks. Moe was an only child. His father never got over the disappointment.

Moe wants me to go with him to see some band playing downtown. One of these new prissy-ass bands who sing songs that don’t sound as if they’ve been lived in. That’s the problem with music these days: it’s all about image. To hell with soul and passion. As long as you look and sound good, that’s all that matters. I think it’s a damn shame that we live in a time where someone like Howlin’ Wolf would have no place if he were alive today even though he could outperform any of these mussy-haired, suburban, isolated fools. It doesn’t even have to be The Wolf. Replace him with a hundred other legends from the period and you’d be hard-pressed to figure how they would be received warmly by the current crop of humans. Americans have lost their taste. Some would argue we never had it to begin with, but 50,000,000 Elvis Fans Can’t Be Wrong.

Moe convinces me to meet him by offering to buy me drinks. It strikes me a s a good deal. I figure at the very least, I’ll be so tight I can’t understand what the vintage store zombies are singing on stage, sparing me their self-important bullshit.

Moe meets me at a small bar down the street from the club where this band is playing. Again, Moe is a good guy. Unfortunately, he’s not dealing with aging very well, hence the going out to see new bands, hanging out with young people who haven’t experienced half the things he has, and the clothes he’s wearing.

“Jesus Christ,” I say upon seeing him. “When the fuck did you join the Jonas Brothers?”

“Ah, shut up, you bastard. Don’t blame me because you’re out of touch with the world.”

“I’m happy to be out of touch with this corrupt world. You on the other hand, you embrace it. It shows the level of corruption within yourself, you rancid prick. At least I accept who I am. Now buy me a drink, asshole.”

“Yeah, sure. You know, you’re one angry son of a bitch.”

“Tell the bartender to make it a double.”

We have a few drinks, catch up. Moe has recently finalized his second divorce. He can’t keep his paws off young women long enough to stay married. If he had any money, his wives would have bled him dry.

We make it down to the club. Mostly dingy hipsters living day to day. The band is called Pocket of Posies or some bullshit like that. The singer/guitar player sounds like he’s on the verge of crying every song. It makes me sick. I sit at the bar and drink playing Eddie Cochran songs in my head, trying to block out the outside noise. The bartender’s a good guy. He doesn’t let me go dry.

“What’s an old guy like you doing here?” he asks with a smile.

“I’m showing you young punks how it’s done. Now keep my glass filled.”

“You know who you look like?”

“Your daddy?”

“Haha. No. You look like that actor, Lance Henriksen. “

“Never heard of him.”

I look into the crowd near the stage. Moe sticks out like a sore thumb. I shake my head. Some are destined to always be out of step. I have to hand it to him though, he’s got a nice racket going with the young chicks. I see a couple of women flirting with him. No telling what line of bullshit he feeds them. They probably think he’s this charming eccentric with a huge crank. Some old fool they can mess around with until they get a little older and have to become serious while assholes like Moe and myself continue to flounder.

I look at my watch. It’s late, I’m bored. I go ahead and pay my tab, unwilling to wait for Moe to return. I motion to him that I’m leaving. He just waves back. He’s engrossed in conversation with a woman whose hair is multi-colored.

I step outside. It’s unseasonably cool and I’m not dressed properly. Fortunately, there’s a bar I frequent not too far from where I parked. I go inside. The place is dead. Just a couple of guys at the end of ther bar watching a baseball game. The bartender’s name is Chris. Good kid. Married young because his girlfriend got knocked up. Works at night, goes to school during the day. I can respect that.

I should have just gone home. I’m starving for a little Eddic Cochran now that he’s been playing in my noodle all evening. Now that I’m here I may as well order a beer, which I do. Chris brings the beer. He walks off without a word. Looks like he has a lot on his mind. I toss a few extra bucks in his tip jar. The volume on the TV is low and the noise from the street is drowned out by the silence of the bar. It feels good to be alone. I may do this for the rest of my life.

Body Shop

The little bastard that I was involved in the auto accident the other day: it turns out he wasn’t a liar. Glory glory hallelujah! Score one for the human spirit. His old man did have insurance on that car he was driving, therefore covering the repairs to my car in full.

I got up earlier than usual this morning in order to drop my car at the body shop. I usually never get up before 10, but I thought it would be a good idea to get in early and let them start working on it. It wasn’t easy though. I put away one too many glasses of wine the last night. I woke up heavy and drifting.  I had a hell of a good time though. It’s always easier to put up with the morning after when the night was so good to you.

Stepping out my front door, I noticed some guy standing near my place with a dog. Just standing there. He began to walk away when he saw me. I never saw the guy before. Not many people live around here. I would have seen this guy before. Something about him bugged me. I drove up the road a couple of miles before turning around. I didn’t feel good about the guy.

I drove past my place. I didn’t see him or the dog. It was him I was concerned about, not the safety of my home. Being a paranoid son of a bitch is good in these days and times. Between the complex home security system, the intricate array of booby traps and multiple locks, anyone who does find their way inside more than likely won’t make their way out.

I have to live this way. No choice. Humans are born thieves. My domicile is my kingdom. I refuse to let its treasures fall into the hands of the banal. Plus, there is the manuscript I must protect at all costs. Until it is ready to share with the world, it cannot be seen.  It may be the path to salvation for us all. And don’t kid yourselves that there are not some wormy bastards out there whose goal is to deprive us of our personal salvation. These bootlicking megalomaniacs have one agenda: to keep your mind, body and soul enslaved.

Despite my nervousness over the guy with the dog, I continued to the body shop. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being followed. I kept an eye in my mirrors looking for something or someone suspicious. I took some side streets, roundabouts, upside downs, loop the loops until I felt better. I also swallowed a stinger to calm my nerves.

The body shop was a pain in the ass to find. Some dirt road hell hole surrounded by the smell of road kill. That’s what I get for letting the insurance company pick the joint. I step in the place and I’m met by some crew-cutted mongoloid. He doesn’t like the look of me. That makes two of us, asshole.

They were supposed to have a rental car waiting for me. Turns out the bastards had not done a thing. This means I had to wait in this freezing, redneck-infested shithole until they could send someone to pick me up.

Fortunately they’ve got donuts and coffee. I pour a cup. One bite of the donut tells me they’ve been out too long.I toss it in the trash.

Strangely enough, there’s a hot little Mexican number sitting behind the front desk. She’s out of place here. So am I. Maybe we have a future together. I make a little small talk with her. She’s friendly, but uninterested. Finally I give up and sit down in the nearest chair. She gets up a couple of times. Nice legs, decent butt.

It’s not easy approaching women with this face. First of all, I’m aging. Time has been kind for so long, but even it eventually runs out on you. Second, the perpetual scowl doesn’t help matters. Sure, I can turn it off when I need to, but it always comes back.  Women don’t like anger. They want a man devoid of all emotions. Women make the best fascists.

I’ve got a brother. Some goody two shoes shitheel with a wife, the kid, the house, church on Sundays. A follower. He tells me I should get married. I’m getting too old to be chasing ass and living day-to-day, he tells me. I tell him to stuff up his ass and keep his advice. It wasn’t so long ago before he found the wife, the kid and Jesus that he was trying to fuck anything that moves. Just because he couldn’t keep up, don’t blame it on me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking marriage. I was married once. It’s good for some people. Most people though, they’re not wired for marriage. The concept of fucking one person isn’t satisfying enough for most of us. It’s nice to experience someone new occasionally. Most humans are degenerates and pleasure seekers. It’s against their nature to deprive themselves, even if that something is destructive.

I’ve got another brother. He’s some junkie asshole currently sweating it out in some down South prison. Used to be a good-looking kid before the drugs. They did him in fast.He started stealing for his fix. He tried to steal from me once. I beat the shit out of him and left him in the street. It wasn’t difficult; he couldn’t have weighed more than 120 lbs.

His pleasure was destructive, but you couldn’t deprive him of it. That’s what these pricks in high places don’t understand. You can lock these people up over and over again, but they’re going to seek their pleasure. And if their destiny is simply to be a junkie motherfucker with a short life span, so be it. Why do we have to save everybody anyway? I believe you make your bed and lie in it. Nature will take care of the rest.

I step outside for a smoke. My head is killing me. There’s now two other cats inside in the waiting area. One is a redneck with a mouth that never closes. Son of a bitch looks like he’s in a trance. Probably is. I’ll read a story about this punk in a couple of weeks that’s he’s gone ape shit and started capping everybody he works with.

The other guy is some kind of cop. You can tell despite him being dressed in civilian clothes because the arrogant bastard is still wearing his badge and his gun on his hip. He looks at me a couple of times with his fingers touching his gun. He probably thinks I’m a communist or he wants to fuck me. Probably both. Any asshole who acts as tough as this guy has to have a secret fetish for cock.

The rental car guy finally arrives and drives me back to the office to do the paperwork. He can’t provide an answer why the car wasn’t waiting for me, despite my strong insistence for answers. Another useless turd. I realize I’m more irritable than usual. I should have slept in. No logical person should be up this early. How you working stiffs do it, I’ll never know.

I finally get everything handled and I’m on my way home. I stop for some breakfast and some real coffee. The waitress flirts with me. She’s over the hill and dumb as a bag of hammers, but she’s got nice tits. I tell her to call me sometime. Any woman who takes the time to flirt with me deserves whatever I can give.

The television is on. The President, politicians and pundits all trying to assure us that everything’s okay. I smile to myself. Everything is not okay. A price will have to be paid for the arrogance, greed and stupidity of this country. No empire lasts forever. The sooner we realize that, the sooner we can all drag the powerful from their homes and prove once and for all that power, in any form, is fleeting.

I leave a nice tip and head for home. Maybe if I’m lucky the waitress will call me. I don’t remember her name. I should remember it. It was on the name tag over her tits that I kept staring at like some adolescent boy.

Approaching home I see the same asshole with the dog walking on the street. He’s walking the opposite direction. I don’t think he saw me in this car. I park and quickly make my way to the front door and enter. I peer out the blinds. I don’t see him or the dog.  Who the fuck is this guy?

Maybe I should calm down. I’m just being paranoid. It’s just some douchebag walking his dog. I used to have a dog. His name was King. I used to take him for walks on the beach with the wife. She didn’t realize the dog walks were an excuse to get away from her. When we split, she kept the dog. The last I heard it died. It was hit by a car. Probably trying to get away from her crazy ass. King was a good dog.

No More Fools

I’m tired of holidays. I’m tired of days dictating how we act or dress. I had several assholes on St. Patrick’s Day read me the riot act because I wasn’t wearing green. Who cares? St. Patrick’s day began as an Irish religious holiday. Now it’s a day when a collection of pasty-faced assholes wear green, swear they’re Irish and drink until they vomit their lower intestines. I don’t need dead saints or green in order to have an excuse to drink until I vomit my lower intestines, okay?. I’m an American. It can be an overcast day outside and that’s reason enough for me.

Easter is another one. Another religious holiday that actually celebrates the death of Christ because supposedly he rose from the grave a few days later and ascended into heaven. One thing I never did get, you know besides that whole rising from the dead thing, is why the cat moved the stone blocking the tomb. Couldn’t he have just walked through the rock? I mean, you’re about to ascend to heaven, I feel certain you can pass through solid rock.

Personally I think Jesus was a prankster. He rose from the dead and moved the stone so everyone in the town would come to see what had happened and would be greeted by the lovely smell of those unfortunate enough not to be the son of God and therefore were still rotting, stinking and dead in the crypt. That Jesus, what a guy. And another thing about that rising from the grave bit: If someone were to do that today, I think I’d be more concerned whether or not they were going to eat my brain. To hell with worship, I’m aiming for its’ head.

So Easter celebrates the death and resurrection of Christ. Yet, when I was a kid, the only thing we did on Easter was search for painted eggs that were supposedly hidden by a giant bunny rabbit. Talk about weird. I think we need to do a little digging into the history of the cat who came up with this idea because I’m pretty sure a hallucinogenic of some kind was involved. If I see a giant fucking rabbit hiding painted eggs, I’m going to assume someone slipped something in my drink. Holy shit!

What’s another one…..Valentine’s Day. A day when pig-grunting idiotic men and women are reminded to treat their mates with love and affection. I don’t need February 14th to incite me to take a woman I have passion for out to dinner or buy her flowers or be kind to her. I do that anyway because I have genuine respect for the person in question……or I’m trying to get laid. I don’t need to be reminded to express respect for someone or that I need to get laid. I’m reminded of that every day.

However, there is perhaps no day that annoys the piss out of me more than April Fool’s Day. The day when a million assholes make shit up for the sole purpose of telling you what you probably already know – it’s April Fool’s Day. No shit, Sherlock. Did you really need to waste 15 minutes of my time with a load of bullshit simply so you could tell me what day it is and then giggle like a fucking elementary school student?

What did me in yesterday was a collection of news items and emails from acquaintances that all contained information that was, for the most part, believable. Not to mention quite interesting. To be violently reminded after processing this information that it was in fact an April Fool’s Day joke was very disparaging for me.

Perhaps it left me upset because I suddenly realized that the only good news these days seems to be fake news. We’re living in a world where every day is April Fools. What is real? Does anyone know? We are continually lied to and deceived by our media, our elected officials and our fellow citizens for the express purpose of achieving power over something or someone or for simply cheap amusement. The end result is it’s difficult to tell where fact and fiction truly reside in our world.

Even I’m guilty of this. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you: “Oh, Tobias isn’t anything in person like his blog.” So, you see, I’m obviously as full of shit as the rest of them. I can’t or won’t express myself honestly in person; I prefer to let this collection of words do it for me. It begs you the reader to ask the question, who is this person? Is he everything he writes or simply a figment of his own mind? It’s a pertinent question, I assure you.

It’s like the story about the boy who cried wolf. Now I don’t even flinch when I read or watch a news story or listen to a politician or a bystander tell me how bad it is. It means nothing to me. I immediately assume the opposite of what they say. Every event that occurs, I think several other events were involved to make it happen. There is no official story that I don’t question the validity of. If someone apologizes for an affront, it’s only to gain sympathy and trust so they can do it again. Americans don’t care about justice anymore. All they need is an apology and they’re coming in their pants.  Sue me, but I believe everyone has a selfish motivation behind everything they do or say. I’m not falling for the prank anymore. I know at some point they will chuckle and say “April Fool’s Day”.

Take 9/11 for example. The day it happened, I immediately began to question everything that the news and government reported. Since then they tell me terrorists want to kill me and rape my domestic animals so I assume the reality is there are only a handful of nutballs that are puffed up to appear to be bigger threats than they actually are in order that we become consumed with that so that we don’t pay attention to how we’re being spiritually, physically and mentally dismantled on a daily basis by our supposed protectors so that they may continue their dominance over us.

Questioning everything you see and hear is not always a pleasant way to live, but what choice do we have in this world of April Fools pranksters? How do you get a child to sleep? You read it a story. How do you keep the same child happy? Continue reading it the same story every night. I’m tired of the same story and I’m no child. Therefore, I dismiss the same story and even dismiss the sleep because I hunger to be awake and see the world for what it really is. And that’s no joke.

Manco’s Movie Reviews: Rear Window

I love movies. I watch movies in my spare time, and, believe me, I’ve got a lot of spare time. The writing experts say write what you know. I know a few movies so I’m going to write about them. If you don’t like it, you know what nearest tailpipe you can start sucking.

Today’s selection is Rear Window. This movie was released in 1954 and was directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Maybe you’ve heard of him. For some reason an asshat thought a remake of this movie, made for television no less, would be a good idea. That travesty starred Christopher Reeve (taking advantage that the actor was now wheelchair-bound) and Darryl Hannah (taking advantage that the actress didn’t have a pot to piss in by that point in her career). Despite the existence of the remake starring a crippled Superman and a Mermaid, the original continues to stand strong and is considered to be one of Hitchcock’s greatest films. It is currently at #48 in the AFI 100.

Jimmy Stewart is a favorite of mine. He’s one of the few actors who can improve any movie he’s in, even if the film he’s in overall is a big steaming pile of crap. Fortunately, Rear Window is a great movie starring Jimmy Stewart.

Jimmy plays this photographer laid up in a wheelchair in his apartment recovering from a broken leg. He lives in this great little Greenwich Village apartment. In fact the apartment and the surrounding apartments and courtyard is like a character itself. It adds a great ambiance to the movie and fills one with the romanticism for New York that only exists in those old movies.

Jimmy is bored shitless sitting around his apartment all day. In order to pass the time he spies on his neighbors. Among them are a gorgeous young dancer, a lonely woman, a songwriter, and a few married couples, including a salesman who’s an older version of Perry Mason. He’s married to this bedridden wife who nags at him noon to midnight. The other two couples are a newlywed couple who spend half the movie between the sheets with the blinds drawn and another married couple who sleep on the damn fire escape with a nosy dog. I never understood why those crazy bastards sleep on the fire escape. I bet you wouldn’t see some shit like that these days in New York. You’re liable to wake up missing half your face.

It’s not all bad for Jimmy. He receives daily visits from a home care nurse. Unfortunately the nurse looks like Thelma Ritter. She massages him, hooks him up with food and bends his fucking ear about marrying his old lady. As if men don’t hear enough of that shit. However, Jimmy’s girlfriend happens to be the beautiful, mesmerizing, tantalizing Grace Kelly. With the exception of Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, I don’t think an actress has ever looked as gorgeous on screen than Kelly in Rear Window.

It makes you wonder what’s in Jimmy’s eggs every morning as the story unfolds and you learn that Jimmy isn’t quite content with Grace as his girlfriend. She’s uptown and classy while he’s Greenwich Village and day-to-day. In fact, that’s the only part of the story that doesn’t do it for me. It’s a stretch to believe that a woman who owns a fashion magazine would fall for a freelance photographer. Jimmy’s character travels around the world to hot spots taking photos of exciting and dangerous events. I’m not sure where he found time to woo the beauty queen.

Jimmy begins to suspect Perry Mason is up to something after he witnesses him making several trips late at night carrying a large case with him each time. His suspicions are heightened once he realizes the nagging, bedridden wife is gone. As Jimmy, Grace and Thelma watch the continued activities [Perry Mason cleaning a knife and handsaw, having moving men haul a large packing crate away], they come to the conclusion that Perry was nagged one too many times and put the bitch down.

Jimmy contacts an old army buddy, now a cop, and relays the evidence to him. His buddy’s name is Doyle [A.K.A. Useless Piece of Shit. Seriously, this guy is a clear example of someone who doesn't take his job seriously until the final reel] and his half-ass investigation turns up that the nagging wife is in the country based on a postcard to her husband [Case Solved! Good job, Doyle. Useless bastard].

Doyle is pretty convincing though and the others realize they may have been wrong about Perry Mason. After all, he was once a lawyer. A damn good lawyer too. The bastard never lost a case. I always hoped that prosecutor would turn up evidence that Perry had helped get a murderer or rapist off the hook. That would have dented that smug asshole. How’s it feel to be wrong, Perry? Perry Mason and Matlock: what a couple of assholes.

Jimmy and Grace attempt to go back to being normal when the night is interrupted by a scream. Turns out the nosy dog belonging to the fire escape sleepwalkers has been found dead. Jimmy, being the keen guy he is, you know being a photographer and all that, notices the only cat who didn’t come to the window to check on the commotion was Perry Mason. That cinches it: Perry Mason killed the dog because it posed a threat to him.

They decide they have to get Perry out of his apartment so Grace can snoop around. Jimmy would do it, but, you know, the bum leg and all. Jimmy calls Perry Mason and leads him to believe that he knows all about Perry’s nefarious dealings and the fate of his wife. In order to get him out of the apartment he sets up a phony meeting with Perry at a bar down the street. This will give Grace and Stella who just couldn’t stay away an opportunity to find out what the dog came close to finding. The idea is that Perry Mason buried something in the courtyard outside and the dog must have been trying to dig it up. Therefore the dog had to die.

Perry Mason scurries from the apartment, but Grace and Kelly find nothing buried in the flower patch. This is where Grace goes nuts. She decides to climb the fire escape and break into Perry Mason’s apartment. She obviously doesn’t realize who she’s dealing with. Stella and Jimmy are powerless to stop her, instead forced to watch from Jimmy’s window as she goes through the apartment looking for clues.

As luck would have it, Perry returns to the apartment before Grace can exit. Jimmy frantically phones the police, neglecting to tell them it’s Perry Mason who is about to murder his girlfriend. There’s no way the police would believe that Perry Mason would murder anyone.

Perry confronts Grace in the apartment and is about to do some major damage when the police show up literally minutes after Jimmy called them. Now, I don’t want to see Perry mess up Grace, but come on, the police arrive minutes after a call? When has this ever happened, particularly in a city the size of New York, in the Village no less? Nevertheless, the police arrive, saving Grace’s ass. As Jimmy and Stella watch, Grace signals to them with her finger. On it is the ring of Perry’s wife. Unfortunately, Perry notices this and now realizes that Jimmy Stewart is plotting his destruction.

The police take Grace away. Stella leaves to go bail the princess out. This leaves Jimmy all alone. It’s him and Perry in a battle of wits. Perry wastes no time. He saunters right on over to Jimmy’s apartment building and up to his apartment. Jimmy, unable to adequately defend himself, turns off the lights and can only find a camera flash to use against the hulking figure of Perry Mason who intends to teach Jimmy Stewart a lesson. After all, Jimmy didn’t know what it was like to have a nagging wife. He had a fashion princess and his own personal nurse.

Grace, Stella and the police led by Doyle’s worthless ass arrive back in time to see Perry Mason attempting to push Jimmy Stewart out of the window. The police subdue Perry but not before Jimmy falls from the window. Lucky for him, a few cops break his fall, saving his life. Days later, it’s all over. Jimmy is resting, now with two broken legs from the fall. However, he is not alone. Grace sits quietly by, probably contemplating how difficult would it be for the crippled son of a bitch to give her a thrill.

And that’s the end. All in all, a great film and one of my favorites. The direction by Hitch is fantastic, the performances spectacular, and the set memorable. If you haven’t seen this timeless classic, you owe yourself a favor.