I think it’s safe to say that career criminals view the world differently from law-abiding citizens. They’ll excuse – and even advocate – the behavior that lands them in places like the Manhattan Detention Center. But one take on machismo I learned during my incarceration really struck me as odd. Allow me to share.
Somewhere around midway through the marathon 20 hour intake process, a group of us reprobates were sent from intake up to medical, where we’re weighed, pee and blood-tested, and have our blood pressure taken. In fact, a few guys didn’t want to submit to the blood test until they discovered that refusal carried incarceration in iso, which means you never leave your cell and can’t use the phone.
While awaiting my turn to see a doctor of Caribbean descent whose accent was so strong I had difficulty understanding his questions, one inmate observed out loud that he used to think that all men who crossed their legs while sitting were gay. But in fact, he knows a few guys who do just that (though not tightly), who aren’t. To this declaration, another of my compadres disagreed. By him, any guy who crosses his legs in any manner while sitting sucks cock. Case closed. At this revelation, I a) shook my head to myself…and b) made sure to never cross my legs in the slam. And there were several times while reading in our unit’s open area, when I began to do just that and then caught myself before being labeled homosexual. Continue Reading
Suffice it to say that I am currently stuck smack dab in the jaws of a two front legal dilemma – faced with the real prospect of serving time in prison. So the question might arise as to how I reacted after being sprung from the Tombs – and what is my current mental condition. I’m amazed at how well I’m taking the strain.
The threat of serving prison time is nothing new to me. I’ve been living in federal limbo for five years on that front. People freaked out when they read the Daily News feature in October of 2016 thinking I’d just been apprehended. But that was in fact very old news. The feds raided me on July 29, 2013 and I still await sentencing on that charge. With respect to the specter of incarceration, I view my week in the Manhattan Detention Center as an orientation of sorts. Whatever the future holds, I’m not going anywhere as bad as the Tombs. And that’s an odd comfort. I’ve survived the initial trial by fire. Continue Reading
Back when I went to Camp All America (basically a summer session of New York Military Academy) showering and shitting were done completely out in the open. Thirty eight kids shared two shower heads and three toilets with absolutely no partition or privacy. So one might ask “Is that what it’s like in the joint?”
Well…I’m glad to say that times have changed. Figuring (and rightly so in my opinion) that such public displays might breed homosexuality and/or violence, inmates are afforded their privacy while shitting and showering. I’ve already indicated that in The tombs, each man has his own cell complete with a sink and toilet. So I won’t repeat except to say when it came time for a sit-down, you were free to stay as long as you wanted with nobody checking on you unless they chose to peer through the window on your cell door. Continue Reading
One thing I wondered about as the specter of jail or prison time loomed over my head for the past 5 years, was whether I’d be able to get enough sleep when and if I went in. I figured that 8 uninterrupted hours of quiet time was a fantasy I wouldn’t even bother to entertain. And as it turned out, I was dead on. Despite, I did not exit my incarceration sleep-deprived. But since, I sleep no longer than four hours at a time – owing to what my body is apparently still used to from being locked up.
In theory, 9 PM to 5 AM when almost all inmates are locked in would be that 8 hours of quiet time. But that’s not exactly how it worked. At 9, we without immediate job duties were confined to our cells. But several of the inmates remained outside sweeping, mopping and moving tables and chairs each night. That racket continued for at least an hour after lock-in time. Additionally, guys would shout out to each other from the confines of their cells so effectively, relative quiet didn’t really begin until after 10 PM. Continue Reading
While conducting a little email intercourse (of the verbal variety) with a “friend” yesterday, she let me know that on advice of somebody or other, she would not be associating with me until after the next court date pursuant to my current nightmare. Owing to her precarious position concerning the custody of her child, she felt that action prudent. I get that – except that at some point, she moved a drug-addled junky girlfriend into her apartment who no doubt shot up on the premises while the child wasn’t looking. Inconsistency notwithstanding…not a huge problem. It’s not like I’m in love.
But the exchange got me to thinking. This girl is one of a company of women who walked away scot-free under the current legal initiative. She was in the trenches doing what the girls do and for reasons only the New York DA could tell you, went unprosecuted. I surmise the assumption is that those who own or run a business in the escort realm are the masterminds who would manipulate simple-minded worker bees who if the bosses weren’t around availing the girls of the opportunity to ply their wares, wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing. Continue Reading
In a previous entry, I claimed to be the only white boy in my unit while locked up in The Tombs. That’s not exactly true. For the first three days of my visit, there was another caucasian along with me. Crackhead Charlie (what I called him for obvious reasons) was a piece of work all right. A tile layer by trade (when he was employed), Charlie spent most of his time (by his own admission) either stealing or smoking crack. No fewer than 30 times had he been in and out of custody thanks to his constant illegal activity and addiction to the rock.
At 49 years of age and close to medically obese, Charlie wasn’t really a tough guy. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t sound off if he fucking felt like it – a reality which got him into trouble when his mouth flew out of control. As a person with an inquiring mind, I questioned Charley about the worst place he was ever locked up. His answer was Rikers, where after saying something sassy to a crip, he awakened to a severe beating dished out by no fewer than 8 of the offended inmate’s brothers. Continue Reading
As I ponder my current dire circumstances, certain ironies and hypocrisies associated with my condition rear their ugly heads. Without revealing too much, I can convey to my readership that I am currently being prosecuted pursuant to an initiative which has been in the works for many months and possibly even years. As proof of that supposition, I offer part of the prosecution discovery package which cites an email I sent in April of 2015.
And what that means is the District Attorney under whose watch this case commenced is one ERIC SCHNEIDERMAN. Mr. Schneiderman is no longer our state’s DA because he recently resigned after it was alleged by no fewer than 3 of his previous girlfriends that during the act of sexual intercourse, he spit in their faces and in one case told a dark-skinned Indian girlfriend that she was his “brown slave.” Continue Reading
One of the few light moments associated with my one week incarceration came courtesy of a public defender who when questioned by my cousin (a suburban career woman) “What’s it like inside The Tombs,” he fairly exploded “They’re barbarians and animals!” This from a guy whose job it is to defend the accused!
Ok! So that’s his take on the population based on years of clients he’s represented on the state’s tab. But he’s never spent a week inside. One of the first questions I asked after getting locked up was “Doesn’t anybody white commit crimes in New York? What the fuck?” This of course met with applause from my new friends of color all of whom cited racial profiling as the reason what seemed like 95% of the inmates were black or hispanic (mostly Dominican and Puerto Rican). Continue Reading
As evidenced by the smorgasbord of prison shows on television, inquiring minds want to know what prison (or jail) life is really like. While I wouldn’t claim to know the system at all levels throughout the various jurisdictions, I can certainly illuminate and enlighten when it comes to county (and specifically New York County) jail. In the coming posts, I’ll be doing just that…describing what life is really like on the inside. First up, prisoner cuisine.
The day in Tombs life begins at 5 AM when the breakfast cart rolls in and anybody who wants to get up can chow down. I should mention that from 9 PM to 5 AM, all prisoners except those performing specific jobs for which they’re hired are locked into their cells. You can turn on the light and read all night. Or you can jerk off to your heart’s content. But whatever…you do it locked into your crappy little space. Continue Reading
Just after 9 PM lock-in last night, my cell door crashes open and a corrections officer appears in the opening. “Mersey! Grab your blanket, tans, and sheets. You’re going home.”
“Can I return Upper 19’s books before I go? I want to do the right thing,” ask I. He doesn’t give a crap about that. So I simply place them on the card table next to my cell where for the past 6 days a group of Puerto Ricans has been playing some unidentifiable card game at 120 decibels. Continue Reading
I can’t imagine that anybody remembers this place now…but about 15 years ago, there was a very successful Korean outcall which called itself DREAMHOUSE. Dreamhouse was notable for a few reasons. First and foremost, it was the first Korean outcall to use real pictures in their ads.
At the time, the boss was going through ad reps like club girls goes through guys. Which is to say that every week she was trying out a new one. This of course caused major wars between the two advertising agencies who fed the Village Voice somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 – 80 k per week….not to mention among ad guys whether it was with a rep from the same or competing agency.
When it was my turn to come to the plate, I was determined to stop the revolving door. “One week of ads with me and they’d know they found the right guy,” was my hope. With camera in hand, I rode the #6 to Grand Central…the #7 to Jackson Heights/74th Street…the GG to Grand Street…and then hoofed the last half mile to a private row house behind the old Panamerican Hotel in Maspeth, Queens. Continue Reading
On numerous occasions, I’ve met girls in this business who’ve bragged “I could write a book” – meaning their bizarre experiences would be so fascinating that if ghost-written by a professional, the narration would be of great interest to the general reading public. Exercising my altruistic affirmative action initiative (or maybe I was just looking to get laid), I’ve responded with “write me something halfway decent and I’ll help you get it published” only to discover that the girl was completely full of crap. Only once in 20 years did somebody call my bluff and actually deliver something worthy.
The author’s name is Brianna, a superbusty feature dancer who once graced the pages of Score and Gent…in between working as a buck private escort for the bitch she summarily defecates on in this sordid jewel. The following is that effort, a long and entertaining piece about her trials and tribulations slaving for a gross-out owner who I can tell you first hand…was no walk in the park.
I don’t have the original as submitted – and having reread the article in its entirety – can tell that the first 500 words are ghostwritten. But after that, it’s all Brianna. And some of it is pretty fucking entertaining. Her story was inserted as the first feature in April 2002’s Escort Magazine – along with her photo on the cover – and brought what Brianna described as an “overwhelming response.”
I have a theory with which I think most people would agree. If when you meet a girl (or guy) and want to familiarize yourself with his or her essence, there’s a foolproof way to do that. Pose this question: “Describe to me one of the top ten days of your life.” The answer will provide insight hours and days of hanging out just might not! I don’t have a list of my top ten days on hand or in my mind. But reading a baseball book this morning in which 150 major leaguers describe their one most meaningful hit, I remembered one I’ll share today.
It was the summer of 1963. As usual, mom had prescribed for me one of her “meaningful” summers (as in no coed camps where all I do is try to feel up girls). In later years, those summers involved canoe trips, bicycle excursions and the like. But this summer was sports camp. Camp All America was its name. But it wasn’t exactly all about sports. It was about discipline (of which I didn’t have a lot) as well. Predictably, this institution was located in Croton, New York on the campus of New York Military Academy (where our president went to school). The day started with calisthenics on the quad. Then a shitty breakfast in the mess hall – segueing into an hour and a half of cleaning up our bunks for inspection military style. I assume you’re getting the picture. Continue Reading
I know I’ve told this story before but indulge me. One of my first assignments when I went to work for Action magazine was to harangue the paper’s Asian customers for their ad money. This was not an easy or enjoyable task. The girls didn’t know me. And they sure didn’t want to pay their bills. As such, they didn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat when I arrived.
The cold shoulder treatment lasted for literally a year or two until one day, the girls showed me a long haired wig which I donned and then broke into a heavy metal swagger to gales of laughter. That broke the ice and thereafter, their eyes met mine when I stopped by. I was in the club.
I mention this today because in my new life as volunteer, I find many of the people I serve are little Asian ladies who like the girls who gave me their ad money, aren’t prone to acknowledging my existence. They live in Chinatown, speak no English, and for all intents and purposes shield themselves from any American culture with a surprising vigilance. But when it comes to lining up at every pantry they can find near their neighborhood, they do find themselves – for better or worse – mixing with Americans. Continue Reading
It must have been 25 or more years ago that one day I decided to ride down to the Staten Island Ferry…take the boat…and explore what New York City’s orphan boro had to offer. With virtually no plan, I simply ascended from the ferry to the first major street…turned right…and pedaled. Soon I found a path to the water and what I can honestly say was a road surrounded by near wilderness. Breaks in the brush and foliage provided fishing spots for the kind of people our president wants to keep out of the country. Continue Reading
Popsicle (my father) was part of The Greatest Generation. That’s right. He was in the navy for The Big One – WWII! But he never shipped out. Daddy was the band leader on a base out in Brooklyn. Thus the joke “Daddy fought the war on the BMT,” the train that ran to the base. Regardless, after my parents’ divorce, I found a lot of old, dusty navy electronics down in the basement which the old man had obviously somehow commandeered during his service.
Most of it was high tech stuff like oscilloscopes and other even more unrecognizable apparatus. But mixed in all the electronics of the day was this big-ass/battleship gray/hundred pound metal box with a huge multi-band dial. The behemoth looked like it might be a radio…so I brought it upstairs to check the monster out. And sure enough, one of the bands was AM. I had myself a “new” high tech radio. Continue Reading
While I had the dubious opportunity of playing behind many of the recording artists who provided the background music for my tween and teen years long after their careers peaked, there weren’t a whole lot of real blues guys I ever got to meet. JOHNNY WINTER came to jam with the band I joined after exiting graduate school. And I was once introduced to DOCTOR JOHN (if you want to call him blues) at a record company office. But otherwise I mostly picked in blues anonymity. But there was one guy I knew well before he became the stuff of legend.
Dorian Burton (not the guy I just mentioned) was a journeyman songwriter in the old school Broadway style who you might mistake for Little Richard. He crashed in a shitty rooming house and basically lived to drink liquor, smoke weed, write songs and suck cock (not necessarily in that order). Notwithstanding his subsistence lifestyle, Dorian had had a few hits and thus, publishers would answer their phones when he called – and wannabe songwriters wanted to write with him for his connections – if not his talent. I was one of them. Despite the fact that there were about four of us who competed for Dorian’s time, nobody got jealous – as he was so difficult to write with. We all understood that working with Dorian daily would have been madness. Continue Reading
Mired in an 850 page small print paperback chronicling the history of the USA from 1812 through 1848, I’m reminded that if you stick a project out to the end (ya know…like actually reading the entire book), a reward generally awaits. That reward came in the form of a story about a supreme siren by the name of MARGARET O’NEALE.
Margaret (who preferred the name Peggy) was one of those ladies who every man wanted to mount – a fact of which she was well aware. And as barmaid at a Washington hotel – and with a husband away at sea for 4 years, Peggy had a slew of lovers – all gentlemen of station and renown. When the hubby died (some said he committed suicide owing to his depression concerning his wife’s affairs), Peggy quickly married JOHN EATON (one of the aforementioned gentlemen) who became ANDREW JACKSON’S Secretary of War. Continue Reading
Here’s a question for today: What’s the difference between an escort and a regular girl (beyond the obvious…like the former sells sex and the latter doesn’t)? I found out last Saturday at the soup kitchen. Angie (who I’ve mentioned before) is a salt-of-the-earth Korean American girl you could take home to mom eight days a week and twice on Sunday. She’s cute, warm, friendly and all that good stuff. Everybody loves Angie. Except the corporation which took over the sneaker publication for which she used to work. They laid her off after the changeover.
I can’t imagine that Angie was anything but an exemplary employee. Why they would nuke her only they know. While we were cleaning the men’s bathroom (not an appetizing job – especially for a girl), Angie apprised me of this sad reality. “So you’re getting unemployment, right? That should be a decent amount of money to tide you over,” I offered assuming she was. Her answer? “No. I don’t feel right taking that money.” Continue Reading
Of all the poor decisions an aspiring party girl could make, entering the world of loop pornography rates among the worst. Flatbackin’ is something a woman can pretty much put in her past once she stops. But performing in just one porn loop is a mistake that can chase a girl for the rest of her life!
Picture the scene. A dude falls for a pretty girl and is ready to say “I do.” Then one of his friends says “Hey! I saw your girl sucking three cocks at the same time on an internet video!” And that’s all she wrote with most guys. The bubble bursts when he finds the video and the girl wonders how she was so stupid. For a thousand quick dollars, she’s effectively ruined her life. Now if somebody says “Hey! Your girl was an escort”…a girl can deny deny deny and there’s no proof. But with a porn loop? You get the idea. Continue Reading
Today, I’m happy to announce that all’s well that ends well on the new computer front. I am the proud owner of a mid-2010 model iMac, purchased for a mere $200 on Craigslist from a French lawyer who lives on the Upper East Side. It’s a curious deal that a man of my means with so few expenses would do anything but buy a brand new unit. But that’s besides the point. Back in 2002, I did buy a brand new Mac. It was very expensive and ultimately, a poor decision. The machine lasted but five years and has been since followed by two used units purchased at 1/3 the price, both of which performed much more admirably than the new joint.
As we all know, purchasing a new computer presents a set of challenges associated with replacing software (hopefully free or cheap) that is often old but superior to the new versions. Such was my issue with respect to Photoshop and Garageband. I do not like or want the new versions having seen and tested both. Could I somehow load my new computer with that old software? And would my spanking new Mac High Sierra OS even support the old programs? Continue Reading
Somebody asked me a funny question recently: “How many jobs have you been fired from versus how many have you quit?” And as I was thinking, what I recalled most was two jobs from which I was never officially fired – but lost because of phone messages I left for the boss. I figure that’s more of a unique circumstance.
The first came courtesy of THE BELMONTS, a shitty musical gig which I never liked in the first place. I initially met Warren (the counterfeit Belmont who ran the group’s business) through JOEY DEE, yet another moldy oldie I worked for who lived just down the street from Warren in (guess where) the Bronx. Joe was off and Warren needing a bass player, asked if he could borrow me for a night. Warren didn’t work as much as Joe…but he paid better. So sooner than later, I left Joe for the Belmonts. Now when I say “paid better” I’m talking $50 or $75 a job versus $100 (in 1985 dollars). Not exactly union scale – if you get my drift. Continue Reading
July 28th, 2013 was a warm summer day with seemingly no significance. Having recently shed the yolk of selling Village Voice and Backpage ads, semi-retirement for me meant a quick ride to and dip in the Asser Levy pool, and then a longer ride down the East River bikeway for a stop in Chinatown – or maybe to the ferry for a boat ride to Staten. Such was my carefree life.
Then 9 AM the next day, everything changed. A knock at the door. “Who’s there?” asked I innocently. The particulars of the ensuing conversation I won’t detail here. But within a few minutes, I knew the feds had seized most of my money and I was in serious trouble.
Guys who read this blog can only access the last 30 published posts. But I have saved in a file the other two or three thousand. And I have what I published on July 28th, 2013 just hours before the boom fell. Here it is…the last piece I wrote before the day of reckoning.Continue Reading
I know that if you keep an open and inquisitive mind, you can learn something new everyday. And I’m all down for learning. But recently, my mind is aching from all the goddamned learning! It all started when I was recently gifted with a fancy camera. One small problem, though. In point-and-shoot/automatic mode, it doesn’t take photos that are even as good as the $150 jobby I’ve owned for years.
With a little research (and asking questions of my cousin, a professional photographer), it became apparent that my problem lay in the powerful flash on the gift. It creates horrible shadows when I shoot indoors. And so…before I knew it, I was learning about shutter speeds, apertures, focal lengths, depths of field, flash exposures, and similar technical stuff of which I was more or less aware before. I just didn’t much need to worry about it. My knowledge of photoshop took care of all of that – until I owned a camera with a harsh flash. Then I needed to study. Continue Reading
Years ago, an at-the-time advertiser called to say that one of her employees was a reality star. This kind of thing happens more often than you’d think. A girl shakes her booty in a rap video…opens an instagram account…and applies for employment on a reality show or two and before you know it, she’s almost famous. That fame may provide the girl with a sizable income. But as often as not, it doesn’t – and she’ll end up doin’ the flatbackin’ thing – as the pursuit of all this fame demands makeup, hair-do’s and often surgery to perpetuate the mythology.
So anyway…I google this girl’s real name and after finding clips from a VH1 reality show and her Instgaram account (which has four figures worth of followers), come to discover an article from a newspaper saying she’s dating J.R. SMITH, then of the New York Knicks. Too tickled, I just had to ask her “J.R. Smith. Really? He seems like such a huge party boy!” Continue Reading
By the time I’d left Action magazine and struck out on my own as a one man advertising agency, most of the reprobates and shitheads I suffered at Action were long gone. I’m not a New York city landlord and thus, could evict anyone I wanted from my list of clients. Which was something I did often and with impunity. But back when I was an employee and just beginning in the adult ad world, company policy dictated that I had to court some of the most reprehensible human beings I’d ever met.
Very likely number one on that list was a supreme asshole who called himself Darren. A good-looking and fast-talking Italian (I believe) from Brooklyn, Darren prided himself on delivering girls from the Midwest to his horny customers, the great majority of whom he enticed through his ad in Action. Generating most of his business from the magazine did not prevent him from jeopardizing his standing at the firm by running a large and extended tab for his ads. And I was the guy stuck with the job of hounding this deadbeat for his money. It was a thankless and harrowing task I absolutely hated! Continue Reading
On this Memorial Day, I think back to my youth and specifically 1970, while a junior in college and facing the reality that I might well become cannon fodder half way around the world fighting a war that progressively appeared to be less and less worthy of an American risking his life. And while I wasn’t super vigilant about burning ROTC buildings and such in protest, I had a sneaking suspicion that Richard Nixon was up to no good and the entire war effort was misguided.
Still, I empathized with the other side and their point of view however deluded. And MERLE HAGGARD was the guy who impressed me most as the spokesperson for the “love it or leave it” ethos. It was just the purity of his sentiment that touched me. Redneck notwithstanding, his bluesy “Fightin’ Side of Me” caught my ear. ERIC CLAPTON and his merry band of hippies were surely my idols. But Merle and his leg-draggin’ guitar player turned my head around. Scoffing at country musicians and their message was pure folly for an aspiring artist. In my mind, there was no doubt they were for real! Continue Reading
Just last night, my family (such as it is) got together for a reunion. With me in New York, one cousin constantly traveling, the other in Westchester, and my brother in Florida, this is something that happens only on rare occasions. And really, it only happened yesterday because my brother attended his 50th college reunion in New England this weekend and corralled the family while he was up north.
My mother had a funny line about my brother and his propensity to not pick up checks after they’d dined together. She’d say “Your brother has a glue pot in his pocket.” This as it happened, changed drastically in the last 20 years of her life at which point she essentially depended on her two sons to keep her in the lifestyle to which she was seemingly born into (oy)! But that’s besides the point. Continue Reading
Pornography, never the last word in philosophy or erudition, has recently descended to previously unattained depths. All that stuff about stepbrothers and stepdads? Yuk! And how about cuckold films? Who watches that shit? But in the muck and mire, I found one laughable and another just too titillating trend!
The first set is on a site called Blue Pill men. I needn’t elaborate. These dudes are like 80! And they pay twenty something nubiles to do them though clearly, the girls aren’t enjoying themselves. Any semblance of enthusiasm for their work sailed from the stormy shores a long time back. The goils are obviously in it for the money and nothing else! Which makes the entire presentation that much more entertaining. It’s kind of like PLAN 9 FROM OUTER SPACE. It’s so bad it’s good. Continue Reading
Just recently, I got into a meaningless shmassle with a dumbbell I really should not have contacted in the first place. My altruistic attempt to convince her to get back with an old boyfriend backfired like you wouldn’t believe! Shame on me for thinking that somebody as dysfunctional and dim as she would understand where I was going with the solicitation. It was beyond her comprehension that I would be looking out for somebody besides myself – the sure sign of a narcissist first class.
In fact, the girl harbors resentment for me due to one insignificant event (in my mind anyway). At a crucial point, I contacted her suggesting that I become a customer. A certain media event had temporarily rendered me a pariah in another realm and I was in need of some companionship. During our texting activity, I sent the message “You’re the best” to which any normal person would have answered either “Thank you” or “Next to you.” But how would a full-of-herself narcissist respond? Predictably, she texted “I know,” as I’m sure she fondled her own body parts in self-approval. Continue Reading
Back two careers ago when I ground out a subsistence living in the music business, there were several tasks I would and could perform to pay the rent. Playing guitar and/or bass, arranging for strings, horns and voices, and production and songwriting were all in my money-making repertoire. So it should come as no surprise that these talents (presumptively speaking) led me into the jingle world – the world of writing, performing, arranging and producing the music you hear behind the spots you see on tv.
Unknown to many music fans, some people have earned vast fortunes in the jingle business with virtually nobody knowing who they are. Fame may have eluded them but fortune certainly did not! Forty years ago, the singers who sang dumb shit like “Things go Better With Coke” could bank hundreds of thousands of dollars from that one gig alone thanks to the incredible deal their union had negotiated with the television networks. And while the actual writers got fucked (that’s been changed in recent years), the musicians did fairly well – as did the production house from whence the music came. Continue Reading
Excuse me, but do we live in the United States or Great Britain? Everywhere I turn, it’s news about the fucking royals. Who gives a crap? Ok! Prince William is kind of a cool guy. He served in Afghanistan as a British soldier (though I can’t imagine they let him get in harm’s way). And his mother was Diana, whose death was an unfortunate tragedy built out of the very hoopla that surrounds events like the fucking royal wedding.
And then there’s MEGHAN MARKLE, not an especially beautiful woman. Mind you, I have nothing against her. I just don’t see her as anything extraoridnary. She’s not really all that sexy…or built…or facially stunning…or appealing. She’s just a regular girl. I mean…if I saw her in a lineup at a you-know-what, I’m quite confident there would be others I’d choose over Meghan. And how’s about her mundane family drama? It is of no interest nor concern to me. Why am I hearing about it on the real news? Continue Reading
For as long as I can remember, there’s been a myth going around about people starving in America. Don’t believe the hype – at least as far as Manhattan island goes. As a veteran volunteer of many different places, I can tell you beyond equivocation that the amount of food available free-of-charge to anyone who wants it is staggering. And if you think that the places that dispense this food are hurting for funds (like you might see in “The Last O.G.”), I got news.
Readily available at the Meatloaf Kitchen is a fold out map exhibiting no fewer than 140 locations in Manhattan alone where the hungry can eat for free (and 15 or so more where the 60+ crew can eat for a buck or two with their similarly aged homies). Let’s take Meatloaf as an example. Every Saturday, attendees are served a 1/4 pound of meatloaf along with salad, beans, a vegetable, all the bread they can eat and a cupcake. If that isn’t enough, they can reboot upstairs and do it all again as many times as they want. And if they can’t eat all that food in one sitting, they can haul the plate to the take-out table and have it bagged up for the road. Indeed, a few people go around and around half a dozen times and walk off with bags and pounds of food. But wait. That ain’t it! We also feature a pantry line which will often offer 3 pound pouches of tuna, big boxes of cereal, a pound of oatmeal or rice, and apples, pears and oranges. Continue Reading
Volunteering may not offer any monetary rewards. But that doesn’t mean the work can’t provide some other benefits. Ya know…like the joy of helping people who are down on their luck? Not buyin’ that? Well, how’s about the free food? And of course, there’s the thrill of meeting other volunteers who can be anywhere from near indigents right on up (or down depending on your perspective) to serious earners working high-powered jobs.
At this point, my experience and expertise (and the woman who runs the joint) has put whatever groups come in under my charge. Last week, we had two sets of 8th graders – one from a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. And the other from yet another private school in Millville, Pennsylvania (the sticks). You can guess who did a better job (Hint: it wasn’t the super rich kids from Greenwich.) Continue Reading
Over the 8 plus years this blog has been in existence, most of the big players in the escort website game ran ads with me. As such, I dealt with either the principals or the first mates of most of those enterprises in the course of publishing this site. So one day maybe a year and a half into my ordeal with the feds, one of the aforementioned bosses calls me up to pitch a plan in which I would sell a package deal of secondary sites to all my Korean advertisers.
At the time, I had somewhere around 13 inches of federal dick up my ass and hadn’t sold any advertising for any outfit other than my own (this site) for over a year. There was no way I was gonna sell that crap. Even in my hey day, I’d have probably turned the guy down given that all the sites in his package were from the b-list. Still, the guy was determined. Continue Reading
Right after New York State Attorney General ERIC SCHNEIDERMAN put the wood to SOMAD ADVERTISING, a colleague of mine told me that the very same man busted a clumsy move at the local gym on a ho he was running ads for. According to my friend, the chance meeting was not in the context of a trick soliciting a whore. Just an awkward coincidence.
That story did not change my opinion of a man about whom I didn’t really have one in the first place. But I did object to his prosecution of Somad. All those accusations of money laundering and profit sharing with the agencies for whom they ran advertising seemed like a stretch. I’ll tell y’all one thing about the relationship between Somad and the ho’s who used their advertising agency. The ho’s were the abusers – certainly not the staff at Somad. Many of the clients were just downright awful to deal with!
Although there’s a significant portion of the female bar-hopping crew who will back up on a guy to “see what he’s workin’ with,” there’s a time and a place for everything. And MARIA FERNANDEZ MORA is living proof. A Fox newscaster by trade, she was covering hispanic fans at a bar who at the outset were emblematic of the out-of-their-minds soccer fans we’ve come to know and love (or abhor).
But when one of the boys got a little too touchy-feely, the senorita (or senora – don’t really know) was not having it! Wanna see a bunch of wacky soccer dudes calm down in a fucking nanosecond? Watch as Maria turns around and starts pounding the offender with her Fox mike. Too fucking funny. Maybe that shit plays in the world of vanilla – but not so much south of the border – as Maria demonstrates in no uncertain terms. Times up for that mother fucker. Word! Check it out!
The time had finally come. Running OS X 10.8.5 just wasn’t gonna work anymore. I had to upgrade. Sites were telling me “We no longer support this OS. You must upgrade.” Anybody who’s ever turned on a computer knows these processes never go off without a hitch. Or ten. And so I’d delayed and delayed until yesterday when a tech-savvy volunteer at the church convinced me it was time.
So I backed everything up and downloaded the new operating system. After about an hour, I was ready for the bad news. First, I thought I’d lost Photoshop. And Garageband! But in a few minutes I found both and it seemed all was well. Just one problem. I couldn’t get into this blog’s dashboard! Round and round went the ball as I waited to see the window appear. Continue Reading
PORNHUB, the world’s leading porn site, has an interesting feature I just discovered. A la Billboard Magazine and their Top 100 pop hits, “the hub” features a most-viewed porn star list. As you might imagine, STORMY DANIELS is #1. Unfortunately (or fortunately), none features THE DONALD as her costar.
None of this is as noteworthy as the distinct paucity of dark-skinned porn stars featured on the list. In fact, a black girl doesn’t appear until #18. Or I should say a woman with some black blood, as MORIAH MILLS is clearly blasian and not very dark-skinned. By the time we get to #100, just 4 Afro-Americans (or at least somewhat so) appear in this group of elite performers. And one of them is actually MANDINGO (yes, the list is not gender specific. It just goes by the number of views of the stars’ videos). And really, the only dark-skinned porn star in that top 100 is Mandingo. Continue Reading
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