I’ve been hitting Xanax 20 MG over the past week, commonly known as brain erasers, writing whatever comes to mind in my voice, it’s lazy writing. John Cheever spent his life writing short stories.
Cheevers wrote about the suburbs where he lived. He wrote about the spiritual emptiness of life in suburban America with irony and humor that toned down the darkness of his work.
His daughter, Susan Cheever said,
none of us expected accuracy from my father. He made his living by making up stories.
Cheever’s kids saw him more like Pinocchio than a father figure.
As a writer, I’m a fucking pig, plagiarizing if I feel like it and lying to boot.
The way I explain why I haven't accomplished a fucking thing as a writer is using the Peter Principle.
People rise to a level of respective incompetence and are stuck there till they die.
It’s 1130 AM, I’m sitting in bed, where I spend ninety percent of my time, I can—
walk the dogs,
watch the travesty Netflix,
cook some curry,
have a drink,
down some Tramadol,
or write.
I’m nuts on films based on great literature, anything by Tennessee Williams, and others— Short Cuts by Raymond Carver, The Cider House Rules by John Irving, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey, Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, and The Green Mile by Steven King, to name a few.
Instead, Netflix bombards viewers with action films because it’s what their audience wants, loves, and where the bucks are in the movie industry, shit like— Transformers, Mission Impossible, Top Gun, John Wick, and so on.
Comparing the plot and script of Mission Impossible to Lolita is like comparing a comic book to Shakespeare.
If a film grosses zillions is it a good film? The answer is no, most film critics write harsh reviews on action films. Bob Jefchak, a reviewer from some rag, somewhere, wrote the following review on RoboCop—
Don’t watch this under ANY circumstance; unless you’re black-out drunk or baked out of your skull because those are the ONLY two ways you will ever enjoy this ungodly junk pile.
I don't know about you but I think that's the God Damndest review I've read in a long time.
Recently ganja and kratom were legalized in Thailand, the only country in Asia to do so.
Weed doesn’t work for me, it brings me down not up. Beer and Tramadol work better.
Kratom is a tropical evergreen tree grown throughout Asia, here’s what Wikipedia says about the high—
At low doses, kratom produces euphoric effects comparable to coca. At higher doses kratom produces opioid-like effects. The onset of effects typically begins within five to ten minutes and lasts for two to five hours. Some anecdotal reports describe increased work capacity, alertness, talkativeness, sociability, increased sexual desire, positive mood, and euphoria.
Comparable to cocaine, positive mood, aphrodisiac— Jesus, give me some.
The Mayo Clinic, the king of yellow journalism when it comes to mind-altering substances, including booze, which I consider to be mind-numbing, says—
…researchers who have studied kratom think its side effects and safety problems more than offset any potential benefits. poison control centers in the United States received about 1,800 reports involving use of kratom from 2011 through 2017, including reports of death. About half of these exposures resulted in serious negative outcomes such as seizures and high blood pressure.
1,800 reports of negative effects from poison control centers around the world between 2011 and 2017, six years. 1800 is 0.00000025% of the world population, big deal Mayo Clinic, hey Chicken Little, the mutha fucking sky is falling.
Let’s see what the Mayo Clinic says about booze.
Moderate alcohol use for healthy adults generally means up to one drink a day for women and two drinks a day for men.
Why would gender decide if a person can have one or two drinks a day?
Say a woman weighs 245 pounds, and a man weighs 150 pounds, the outcome would be that the fat girl gets two drinks a day, and the skinny guy can have one.
Insurance companies, doctors, clinics, hospitals, big Pharma, are holding hands, playing Ring Around the Rosie, feeding off each other to maximize their bottom lines. Particularly in America
England has a deft scheme going as well, Brits get free medical care but are hit with a 30 to 45% tax rate needed to fund the UK healthcare plan.
Most British rich, rock stars and guys like Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Airlines, leave England and become citizens in countries with lower tax brackets.
Branson lives on and owns Necker Island in the British Virgin Islands, if he pays taxes at all it's surely a pittance.
The super-rich hire Greek and Jewish CPAs, experts at accounting voodoo who shuffle books so their clients don't pay a dime in tax.
The upper middle class, and middle class are the only ones paying taxes in America.
There’s a dark underworld hidden within what we perceive as the normalcy of daily life, a conglomerate of demons who will do anything for a buck.
The worst things imaginable can be bought, dreadful things, snuff films, 10-year-old virgins, elephant tusks, slaves, contract killings, a video of someone shiting in a pie, you name it.
In that Xanax has depleted what grey matter I have left and I'm storyless, here’s a slice of a story I wrote ten years ago.
I lived in Israel from 1978 to 1982, as a goy or non-Jew, so the rules were different for me, the country is beau coup ethnocentric.
Towards the end of my stay in Israel, I was in Tel Aviv, walking the byways, doing nothing. An Israeli policewoman tickets me for jaywalking so I tear up the ticket, throw the bits into the air, and respectfully say to her,
fuck off bitch.
Wrong move, in no time I was sitting in a cell.
I had an Israeli soldier girlfriend, we saw each other on and off when she was on furlough. I call Yael on the jail phone, telling giving her my old man's number in New York, Victor Lucowski, who was a bookmaker and had mob connections, one of whom was Jewish, a guy named Bill Rose.
Bill Rose calls an Israeli mob pal, Zeev Rosenstein, who intercedes somehow, with someone, so I was promptly released from jail. All charges, a shit load, were dropped on the condition I leave Israel and never come back. Face it, Israel doesn't have much use for goys.
That morning, after a night in jail, I catch a bus to the Port of Haifa, buying a one-way ticket on a ferry to Athens.
The primary function of Greek ferries is transporting trucks across the Mediterranean Sea carrying goods from Europe to Africa and back.
Euro truck drivers are the sleaziest fuckers on earth, noxious from not bathing, spending their time in the ferry lounges, getting drunk on Ouzo, smoking heavy, gambling on backgammon, and hitting on hippy backpackers, men or women.
At 5AM the ferry docks at the Port of Piraeus, Athens.
Walking around Athens, there's a loose and free feeling you don't get in Israel, you can blame it on the Arabs I guess, but Isreal is wrapped really tight. Greek men move about, doing what they do, without a care in the world. Living in the minute, savoring one thing at a time.
On the other hand, Greek women are difficult to figure out, inward, dressed in black with serious looks on their faces. More intelligent than Greek men.
Hungry, I go to an outdoor cafe, ordering, fried eggs, greek caviar known as Taramasalata, a delicious pink fishy humous, yogurt, Greek coffee known as Briki, and a shot of Ouzo.
After brunch, I roam the Athens byways, enjoying getting lost. I see Malena Mercouri sitting alone in a cafe and I sit at an empty table near her.
Mercouri, a chain smoker still looks good at sixty— a political activist and winner of the Cannes Film Festival best actress award for the film Never on Sunday, just one of her many thespian accolades.
Appearing forlorn she looks at me suggesting,
join me for a drink darling.
She was a professor of Hellenic culture, I tried to steer the conversation to the weather, or rock n roll music. With a serious look on her face, she says to me,
Did you know I’m petitioning the European Union to make Athens the cultural center of Europe, not thinking really, I say,
Paris would be better, it’s the artistic center of Europe. Looking angry she says,
you're a nobody, fuck off little boy!
Standing she pours what's left of her retsina in my face, walking into the street crowd and disappearing.
That evening I catch the ferry to Corfu, arriving at 9AM.
Quickly finding a cafe to eat, already addicted to Greek food.
It's no wonder every city in Europe and America has a Greek restaurant.
Eating like mad I take a break, starting up a conversation with a middle-aged Greek man, telling him about my encounter with Malena Mercouri. He laughs and says,
forget it, the bitch has the biggest ego in Greece. Hey, I need someone to care for my goats, feed them and give them water. There’s a place you can stay overlooking the sea, and I'll pay you a stipend.
It was a godsend, I was broke again.
Backpacker traveling during the seventies was different from the lot of today’s digital nomads, who have credit cards, stay in decent hotels and drink lattes at Starbucks— I was broke half the time, and didn't have a credit card for backup, forced to do under the table blackwork to survive.
The shack on the hill was made of black rock, cave-like and damp inside, with a cot, a table, and a chair.
It loved the baby goats or kids, who sprung about in the most humorous and intriguing matter.
I spoiled the kids, feeding them sugar cubes and carrots.
The bull goats were a different story, I learned to treat them with respect, moving cautiously around them.
On the beach there was a commune of German hippies living in tents, nudists who lived free, smoking hashish, taking acid, and screwing freely.
Pink Floyd, Bob Marley, and Procol Harum blared from their ghetto blasters at all hours.
Soon I was partying with the German freaks, enjoying the feeling of getting naked with them and the marvelous drugs they had.
Occasionally I'd get laid on the beach or in the water, getting it on with a golden-haired Frau, sex was spontaneous with them
Finally, the beach commune was waited by the Hellenic cops. The Greek farmers in the area were offended by nudism, and the cops found assorted drugs stashed in tents and under rocks.
The Party was over, I missed the baby goats, and never saw the German hippies again.
I had no idea what I was arrested for, the police didn't find drugs on me.
My lawyer was a fat, bald public defender who didn’t speak a word of English.
After a ten-minute trial, I was sentenced to a year in jail, not knowing why because I didn't understand Greek. The dicks transported me, fettered in leg and arm cuffs to a prison in Viros, resembling a medieval dungeon.
I survived the grey misery by laying in my bunk and astral projecting for days at a time, spending more time in the heavens than the black hole.
In six months I was released. Again I couldn't tell you why, the trial and jail time was a blur to me.
After doing the calculus, I figured the traveling drug and sex fest through Israel and Greece was like a tattoo.
Something nobody could take away from you.
One of your best. I wish it had a part two.
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