Fit a Camel Through the Eye of a Needle

 

I doubt if you've noticed, but, I haven’t posted a story for a month. Instead, I’ve been busy dicking around with depression, a real motha fucker.

This verse from Stadler Brothers tune, Flowers on the Wall, references depression inanely,

Countin' flowers on the wall

That don't bother me at all

Playin' solitaire 'til dawn with a deck of 51

Smokin' cigarettes and watchin' Captain Kangaroo.

Now don't tell me, I've nothin' to do?

Day after day I tried working but felt vapid, thinking,

maybe the parties over.

Many world literary lions have suffered writer’s block or depression— Hunter S Thompson, Toni Morrison, Leon Tolstoy, Virginia Wolf— a few of the many.

There are 2 writers who've eluded writer's block over the years— Saint Peter, and Charles Bukowski. Saint Peter had God and the Angels writing through him vicariously— Buk’s holy spirit was beer.

I ain’t got much bacon, so writing’s it. Without it I’m jejune and bloodless.

Thank God for modern pharmaceutics, the psychotropic goodies have beat the blues down for now. Will I have take the pills forever? God, I hope not. 

I have a pal who grows pot and shrooms, and he swears psychedelic mushrooms will cure the blues. But, the last time I ate shrooms I felt like an insect with amped up antennae. 

I’m good for a couple beers in the evening while watching Netflix.

This is a touchy subject, but, I don’t like kids, God bless em.  

I do love dogs though, they don’t talk back and aren’t smart asses. I have 11.

I suppose everybody should have a kid, if you’ve got the bread, it costs millions to raise the little shits. 

Then, you give em all you got and when they hit adolescence they hate you anyway. 

I’ve been meditating, what a fuckin bitch, try it. 

I lay in bed, because I don’t have a decent chair. Thai furniture is made with less leg space because Thais are shorter than Europeans. 

So I lay there, breathing through my nose, trying to keep my mind from wondering, hoping to get somewhere, face to face with Ganesha maybe, the pot bellied god with a elephant trunk, who’s the lord of success, knowledge and wealth, none of which I have.

Do you like Putin? Funny hey? I posted a pic of Vlad on Facebook in the image of Hitler, and the Facebook put me in jail. 

I just can’t put it together, is Facebook protecting Vlad’s image? Would they put me in the joint if I posted a picture of Hitler or Stalin? 

What the fuck is Putin thinking, the heart ship he seeds? I think his head’s full of grandiose Russian Federation voodoo, having been brainwashed by his old man who was Stalin's cook. 

Vlad deserves the Bulgarian Umbrella treatment, the same  poison pokes he authorizes for errant Russian journalist. 

As for American politics I prefer to stay mum, cause you're gonna piss someone off no matter what you say.

I feel removed from the U.S. political scene living in Thailand— whether Biden or Trump is reelected, the same fuck show is gonna come down— and a plate of veggie Pad Thai will still be 75 cents in Siam.

Farangs or foreigners in Thailand can't become citizens, and, are considered visitors as long as they're here.

I’ve lived here 20 years and have to renew my visa every year. 

Thai people are super sweet so the bullshit is worth it.

In the film Hangover II, parts filmed here, the scene where Phil, Stu, and Alan wake up on hangover morning was shoot in Chinatown, Bangkok, a super place for steamed tea duck with noodles. 

Chinatown is a few square meters— Chinamen there own  townhouses they run businesses out of— selling cloth, monk paraphernalia, noodle soup, gold, and so on.

According to Credit Suisse, Thailand has the largest wealth gap in the world, the richest 1% control 67% of the country’s wealth. 

It breaks my heart seeing the hustles poor Thais are forced into, being hookers of course, selling pork balls, chicken and rice, Pad Thai or cold coffee from portable stands on burning hot streets.

How does it feel to have deep pockets? Maybe they worry about life like the rest of us because no-one escapes illness.

Yet, The rich appear pretentious, like they live in a rich folks vacuum of their own creation, overlooking what Jesus said in Matthew 19:24 

I'll say it again-it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!

Radiate Everything You Are

I'm radiating everything I am, so what?

Some months ago Thailand legalized ganja. There are a couple of things at play here— the underage and those under 5 feet tall can’t smoke, and you can’t smoke in public. 

We get fabulous weed here now, but Thai Stick hasn't surfaced. 

Sometime in the 80s a girlfriend and I went to a Taj Mahal concert in  Cleveland. At the stadium, we park the car, walk to the trunk, and lit up some Thai Stick. I inhale and fall to my knees. 

Thailand, the fleshpot of Asia, orbs to boot— Soi Cowboy, Soi Twilight, Patong, and Nana Plaza. 

You can go for a health massage, 200 Baht, and before you know it the masseuse is coming down on you. 

For dried-in-the-wool insane sex go to New York, the Anvil Bar, where barking mad boy-on-boy sex is happening.

I’ve been watching the Netflix series, The Andy Warhol Diaries, a gay-as-gay can-be series. 

Andy was the hardest-working-kid in show business. I like all of his work but am not interested in looking at cocks and rectums.

Bangkok dumps raw sewerage into the Gulf of Thailand and the currents carry the shit to Pattaya Shore, nobody swims at Beach Road beach, it's toxic, although, you can find safe places to swim in Jomtien and off Ko Lon Island.

It's no secret that worldwide municipalities dump processed fecal matter into to streams, rivers, lakes, and oceans.

It's asshat Man at it again, everything He touches turns to shit.  

I don’t think I’ll be around to see the end— maybe you will. 

The Angel smyphonia roars as the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse ride through Cloud 9.

I'm on my way to Pattaya on Thai Lion Air, it’s wonderful, wonderful, the Thais sitting straight in place, showing off their fine posture with their masks on, but don't ask for a drop of water or a peanut from the stews because you won't be able to take your face out of that fucking mask to eat or drink.

Welcome to Asia, hallelujah, 

the Chinaman won the war, and the propaganda minister was awarded The Order of National Glory or 國光勳章, the country's highest honor. 

America owes the Chinaman 6956100000 Yuan, 6956100000元 in the Chinaman's head.

Xiānshēng Chinaman counting every 元, down to the last jaio. 

Boiled Potatoes & Red Ants

 

 

Henry and Lucia wake up on the 10th floor of La Concha Hotel, the tallest building in Key West. Henry’s excited saying, 

Tennessee Williams slept here, in room 1024, maybe penning The Night of the Iguana, here, I’ve got chicken skin, baby. 

Ground control to Major Tom, Hello Henry, Lucia here, the bug guys are going to take the tent off our house by noon, let's eat breakfast at Pepe’s Cafe

They walk to Pepe’s.

Pepe’s gay Cuban, and he loves Lucia,

darling you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, I’m queer and I want you. Will it be Cubano food kids? 

Yeah, pulled pork, black beans wrapped in a tortilla, a bowl of rice pudding, and coffee.

Pepe pours 3 shots of Cuban rum and Lucia says, 

how's your liver, Chica?  

When the love couple gets home they're shocked to see that their house has disappeared, the cops and the firemen are there, and the bug guys have fled. 

Neighbors, Layla and Zeigred, new immigrants from Slovakia, explain what they saw, 

Yah, yah, she evaporated alright, yah gone in a green cloud. 

A fireman walks up to Henry and Lucia giving his account, 

when we got here there was a burnt area where your house was, forensic's gathering samples of the scorched patch, we’ll let you know.

Last month before the disappearance, a friend, a Skin medicine man known as Red Horn, spent the weekend with Henry and Lucia, drinking tequila and sitting in the sauna for hours, preachifying that their land was spooked with evil spirits.  

Red Horn would set up a pow-wow in the backyard to purify the land, but the couple worried the Native dancing would kill the lawn.

Page 3

Forget About William Burroughs, Already.

I’ve written commentaries on most cool modern writers on the lost blog, The Headbangers Ball, including Hemingway.

Earnest Hemingway grew up in Oak Park, Illinois, his father Everest  P. was a  physician, and his mother Grace a piano teacher. 

They were well-respected and loved by most in Oak Park, a conservative community that Frank Lloyd Wright said, 

so many churches for so many good people to go to. 

Hemingway's mother was a known performer and violin player in Oak Park, and she taught her son to play the cello despite his hesitance to learn— though later in life admitting the music lessons contributed to his writing style, why the fuck would that be? 

Hunting, peppering deer, wild birds, squirrels, and possums with shotguns was the name of the game for Earnest and his old man, they blew the shit outta anything coming down the pike. 

The Hemingway family always had food on the table, and plenty often feeding the neighbors.

Some thought Martians had a part in the disappearance of the Lucowski bungalow, one was Chester Bicep, mayor of Key West.

Unbeknown to the press, Mayor Bicep had reported the Lucowski happening to the Air Force and The National Security Association.

Some say  Martians de-materialized and transported the Lucownki house to Mars for a museum exhibit they call, 

Earthbound Humans are Odd.

I’m convinced Martians are as real as you or I, waiting for the right time to show their faces. 

I’m all eyes and ears when it comes to the Martians, they can come and go, colonize, have sex, or dance with humans up to them, but, don't ask me to get out of bed. 

Extraterrestrials eat essential carbs and protein— boiled potatoes, and red ants.

In the end, I’m convinced Martians didn’t bury the Lucowski house in a sinkhole. There's a simple explanation, a Chinaman sucked it through the center of the earth using a hollowed-out bamboo shoot like a straw.

I Need a Bit, 10 Pages Maybe

Where were we? Henry and Lucia puff on the same cigarette, a Sherman, passing it back and forth and drinking pale cream sherry. 

Henry sits on the loveseat in the bedroom wearing a bra and panties, Lucia kneels towards him and mouths his cock till he cums in her mouth, then says,

your esperma taste like salt, and floury chlorine, bebe.

The phone rings, 

Its publisher Marvin Flick, 

I need a bit, 10 pages maybe, you choose,

Marvin, give me 24 hours, you’re gonna love it. 

Henry lights a pre-rolled, LSD droplet, 

puffing and looking at his computer until the words come. 

Page 2 The Official William Burroughs Tour,

There's a pair of figure skates hung on a nail in the 

sanctuary.

As the reverend pees he looks at a kid next to him, who's pissing as well. Finished, they shake their cocks and pull their zippers up. The reverend asks,

do you like beer kid? 

In the refectory beer garden, they drink mungs of German Beer, and the loaded kid recites poetry,    

I was the shadow on the window pane.

I was the smudge and whine of missed times in the reflected sky.

The water under the lavender horizon’s polluted.

Your good kid, but what's in it for you? 

The kid says,

not a goddamn thang, Doc.

Don't use our Lord's name in vain, kid. 

In the film Drugstore Cowboy with Matt Dillion, a film about wannabe junkies and raw youth, William Burroughs plays Tom the Priest, notably saying,

Narcotics have been systematically scapegoated and demonized.

I predict in the near future right-wingers will use drug hysteria as a pretext to set up an international police apparatus.

I have nowhere else to go. There is no demand in the priesthood for elderly drug addicts.

Let's cast our minds back to the William's famous blackout shot.

On the night of September 6, 1951, William was in the living room of their bungalow with Joan, and their young kids, Billy, and Julie drinking mescal with Bill Sr.'s friend Pepe Riveraz, a lawyer.

William had a lifelong obsession with guns, there was a loaded Colt 45 on the coffee table in front of him. He considered himself a sharpshooter saying to Pepe,

I've become quite a competent shot over the years, Pepe!

Vollmer's long-time speed addiction had caused her to behave blank-mindedly and zombie-like. William tells her,

Joan, pick up a glass, walk 3 meters, and face me, put the glass on your head, and by all means keep still.

His friend Pepe didn’t take William’s actions seriously, thinking he was just playing, but Burroughs was no practical joker.

William picks up the Colt 45, aiming it at the glass balancing on Joan's head, enacting the famous archer's tale from the book William Tell.

The vibrations in the living room were odious. Sadly Joan Vollmer has a bored look on her face, showing no reaction. One can only guess what Joan was feeling and thinking at the time—  was she wondering if William was kidding? Was she loaded and unaware? Or did she have a death wish?

Tragically, he fires hitting her in the forehead and she drops dead on the spot.

Throughout the heart-rendering scene, Billing and Julie were playing on the living room floor. How much of the bloody scenario did 3-year-old Billy apprehend? Perhaps he felt a dark bolt of energy rush through the room and his body, then understanding, something bad just happened to his Mother.

William Burroughs escaped the hard-edged arm of justice because he was in Mexico and his friend Pepe Rivera arranged for him to pay the judges off. Billy and Julie were sent to live with Burrough's rich grandparents in Kansas City.

Burroughs moved to Lawrence, Kansas in 1981, encouraged by close friend, literary agent, and short-time lover James

Grauerholz. 

They settled in a small bungalow located at 1927 Learnard Avenue. 

Just a couple years after their arrival, Grauerholz says of William, 

he became the genis loci, the prevailing spirit of the Lawrence, counter-culture.

Accounts of Burroughs’s time in Lawrence suggest he approached life there as a local, sharing his small home with 3 cats, maintaining a garden, and could often be seen walking with his cane to the local store. 

He even built an Organe box in the garden, a six-sided box constructed of alternating layers of organic materials to attract the energy and metallic materials and radiate the energy toward the center of the box. 

Patients would sit inside the accumulator and absorb orgone energy through their skin and lungs. The accumulator had a healthy effect on blood and body tissue by improving the flow of life energy and by releasing energy blocks.

So after reading about Orgone boxes, Henry and Lucia build one in the backyard and get in. After sitting for 40 minutes in the box they get out, showering with Henry, Lucia says,

Let's get back in the box, I was a few seconds shy of a major orgasmo.

It Was 4 AM wHen I PaniCked.

 

I think it was 4 AM when I panicked. I was in bed looking up, and Lucia’s laying next to me, when I realize yesterday’s story, Super Bowl I Will be Televized was dead from the neck up.  

I deleted the story here, on Twitter, and on Tweet Deck. 

Super Bowl I Will be Televized, Part 2

The last prize goes to Briana for her high-octane and dangerous halftime show. The bit was an accident waiting to happen, Briana and her dancers were laced on their platforms with thin metal wires and bubble gum. 

The words, if there were any, to her songs were unintelligible, she sang with a lisp, even falling asleep at times. 

Her show was so lousy that Rupert Murdoch refused to sign her check.  

Jenifer Lopez's halftime show last year was better, she has the biggest ass on or off the pitch.

As for the game, 2 teams were playing, one from the east and the other from the midwest.

Team east dominated the first half and the midwest dominated the second.

As the 4th quarter ticked down, it was too late for the east to do anything, the midwest had them in a chokehold. 

Another issue was, players and even refs were slipping all over the field throughout the game like they were playing on a hockey rink.

Everybody knows the refs were paid off by the Hunt family, Clark Hunt, and Tavia the lit-up cowgirl, making out like 7th graders when things went their way, Tavia says to Clark, 

the game isn’t just about winning, or love, it’s about champagne, Lear Jets, Lamborghinis, money, and God. 

Dunkin Donut Ben Affleck hawking Buenelos and coffee, fucking up at first and then on a roll, reaching out to the next in line. 

Henry and Lucia marvel at the ball player's moves, likening them to ballet, Lucia comments that, 

el grande culos turn me on, half the players are gay.

Baby, there's a new ho on the block, the NFL, they're holding and don't wanna share, it's a travesty, the NFL, picketed by beggars demanding squatters' rights for the homeless. 

The ads for the USFL games are enticing, only 8 weeks away, I'm hooked already, I'll sign up. 

USFL players move the same way the NFL guys do, dancing during celebrations, belly down on the end zone turf, and paddling imaginary bodyboards into the Gulf of Mexico.

After the game, Henry and Lucia shower and go to the beach, just bringing money.

At Dog Beach, they sit in chairs watching the swimmers, and the ski boats, long surfboards, and canoes in the horizon.  

Eating peanuts they’re harassed by seagulls so they cross Beach Road to the Moon Dog Cafe where they take a booth, Henry tells Lucia, 

seagulls are like stealth rats.

Remember our pet woodpecker, Pedro? 

The bartender writes down the order as Henry says, 

we’ll have raw clams, oysters, bbg'ed octopus, shredded lettuce, lime, garlic, and olive oil,

and to drink, folks? 

rum cocas, of course,

I’ll place your order with the raw chef and then make your drinks.

Jimmy, mixes coca paste, mint leaf, soda, and brown sugar and pours it into a pitcher. 

The rerun of Super Bowl I’s playing on the overhead TV, Ray Charles sings America the Beautiful, America's Black Alternative Anthem. 

Here's what they say,

Oh, beautiful for halcyon skies for amber waves of grain.

For purple mountain majesties above the enameled plain, America, America, God shed His grace on thee, till souls wax fair as earth and air and music-hearted sea.

One Way to Cortorro, Amigo

Back in the 80s, Henry and Lucia were living in Key West. One day their phone rang, and it was Lucia’s mother who says, 

Chica, I’m dying, you need to get here pronto, 

sí Madre, I'll be there soon.

Henry books a flight to Havana on Aero Mexico departing in the afternoon.

They drive their Vespa scooter to Key West International Airport, park, then roll their suitcase to the checkout counter, and pay by credit card. 

There's an hour to blow, at Jungle Cafe they drink cafecitos and eat buñuelos, imported from Cuba. 

In a few minutes, Aero Mexico’s flight 243's announced, and they board. 

After taking off they fly for 30 minutes and land at Jose Marti International Airport.

At Cubano Customs they show their passports, getting through without a hitch. 

Outside at Arrival, they walk to a sitting taxi, an old 54 Chevy. Lucia tells the driver in Spanish, 

Chico take us to the Vapor Inn. 

At the inn they pay the driver in dollars, get out of the car and walk to the front desk, pay again, and go to their room.

The room's nice, with antique furniture and a window view of a grotto covered with gardenias and roses. Lucia calls her brother Miguel, 

were’s mama staying? 

Hospital Navos, here’s the number. 

Lucia calls her mother in room 167, she answers, speaking Spanish,  

darling bebé, I’ve missed you, good news, good news, my cancer is in remission and in stage 4, bring Henry to the plantation. 

Oh, great news mama, we'll take a taxi to the plantation. 

Lucia's mama Maria lives in a commune on a sugarcane plantation outside of Cortorro.

The couple goes shopping at State Run Store #13, buying paper bags full of essentials— dried black beans, rice, canned pork, loaves of white bread, beer, and a sack of coffee beans.

Back in their room, they pack the supplies in canvas bags and go out to a waiting taxi,

one way to Cortorro, amigo.

They go south on E 117, driving for 45 minutes then reach the  Orthia Castro Commune where they meet Lucia's brother, Pedro and walk to mama’s small wooden house. 

Inside, Lucia packs away the provisions and Pedro says, 

mama will be home tomorrow.

We sit in the living room, sipping hot cubacristo and rum, Pedro says, 

tomorrow you’ll be expected to work in the cane fields, this is a socialist commune. 

At sun up Henry and Lucia ride on the back of a Russian tractor. 

In no time they’re pruning cane plants with hooked knives, cutting off side shoots and leaves. 

Henry cuts his hand, so, he and Lucia walk to mama’s house, collect their shit then make their way to the highway, catching a taxi back to the Vapor Inn.

After showering and taking a nap, they go to the El Tropico Disco, ordering Rum Cocas at the bar, specialty drinks mixed with coca oil, rum, and quinine. 

They turn, holding their drinks, watching hot Latins gyrate pelvically, north and south. Henry who has his arm around Lucia says, 

the Latins sure can move, white people are stiff, it’s as though they have a corn cob up their ass. Chinese are the same, they have a Longan up theirs.

Estas muy loco, Henry, sometimes you need to keep your thoughts to yourself, the bar is filled with Latinos, burro,

you should feel guilty for skipping out on chores at the Orthia Castro Commune, you can’t be depended on Lucia. 

Let’s dance darling, 

the couple’s glued to the present, feeling on fire as they dance. Lucia’s bra and pantyless in a knit skirt, moving like a snake on the dance floor dress, seductively, where every male eye in the place is on her.  

By midnight Cinderella and her bo are tired so they catch a taxi to the Vapor Inn, lay in bed, and pass a 1/5 of  Trader Vic’s Chocolate Liqueur back and forth, then swallow a cup of shrooms from the commune, feeling like they can raise their arms and reach up to the moon, pulling themselves up into the galaxy. 

When life is good, it's good anywhere, even in Cuba.