TODAY FROM AMERICA:
POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN CALIFORNIA:
Spring has fully enveloped the foothills. There was a break in the warming weather during SWAC’s visit last week and the temperatures turned briefly back to winter cold. I know co-incidence is not causation but sometimes it makes me feel better to believe it is.
Gained a new story; During the World Baseball Championships at Pac Bell Park, Bill Gates (the original) mentioned that he spent 30 years as a baseball umpire working his way up to Major League Rookie League Umpire before leaving for less socially responsible endeavors such as law and politics.
I am looking forward to spending a week at my sister’s place in Mendocino.
JOEY’S NEW MYSTERY NOVEL:
ENTER THE DRAGON
Sam Spade: “I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble.”
I hate motorcycles almost as much as I hate riding on the back of one. Nevertheless I climbed on to the large Harley and embraced my leather-clad tattooed lady from behind. As we roared off I dealt with my fear by clutching her tightly as close to her breasts as decency allowed, closing my eyes and replaying in my mind the morning’s exploration of Mavis’ jungle – meeting wide-eyed cobras and shriveling before the black depths of the tigers mouth.
She dropped me off at Eleventh and Folsom about a block from the automobile Smog Check shop I intended to visit. I watched her drive off in the general direction on downtown.
Eleventh and Folsom is the center of one of the City’s seedier night-club venues where ownership of the various clubs often mysteriously change from month to month. It is also the site of the legendary Folsom Street Fair where once a year one can observe leather clad nearly naked men and a few woman copulate on the sidewalks.
I walked down Eleventh to the shop. I was not concerned about what I would do when I get there since I already decided I would do whatever it took to assure that my visit failed. I did however wrestle with how I would explain my lack of progress to the Tons of Fun if they called this evening. I settled on the expedient of not answering the phone.
There was a small sign posted on the building identifying it as an official smog check testing station. Two large garage doors opened into a dark interior. I entered the building a few feet and waited for my eyes to adjust. I had no intention of going further inside. I wanted to leave myself room to run, just in case I met up with someone with an attitude similar to the Blimp Brothers.
I saw two men who appeared to work there standing next to an automobile lift. There were no cars in the place. I deduced they worked on automobiles because they were dressed in overalls and covered in greasy grime from their boots to the tips of their heads. I could not make out their ethnic group through the grime. I guessed they were either Latinos or Asians or perhaps even aliens from out of space. Standing in the shadows they appeared mostly as dark blobs.
Asked, “Do either of you know where I can find Matt Holland?” That seemed direct enough to elicit an answer in the negative enabling me to leave and go back home, hang out for a while, maybe take a nap and then call Mavis to give her the bad news and invite her over for the evening.
Neither answered for a while, but both stared at me. Finally one said, “Owner return Half Hour.” Obviously english was not his first language. Which language was his first I had no idea. “OK,” I said. “I will come back.”
I turned saw a pizza place across the street. Decided I was hungry and needed to replenish the energy I had expended during the mornings romp with Mavis. Turned back and said, “I’m going to get a pizza.” I noticed one of the employees disappearing through a door along one side of the garage. I guessed it opened into either an office or the bathroom.
While devouring a slice of pepperoni pizza and downing a coke, I saw a late model silver-blue automobile enter the garage. Since it was a late model, I assumed it was not a customer. I left the pizza joint, walked across the street and into the garage. An older asian man was speaking with the two workers. He turned when I entered, approached me and without offering a greeting or hand shake said, “You are asking about Mr. Holland?” I had barely answered in the affirmative before he continued, “Just a moment, I will return shortly,” and he abruptly turned and went through same door the worker had gone through previously.
I cooled my heels and passed on an embarrassed smile to the employees. They did not respond. After about ten minutes of this I became annoyed and started to walk toward the door the older gentlemen had disappeared into. I stopped when two automobiles screeched to a halt by the garage entrance. One was a silver Mercedes and the other a black Lexis. Three young men got out of the Mercedes and two exited the Lexus.
They stood together in a bunch staring at me. They were dressed somewhat alike. Dark trousers, four of them wearing plain white tee-shirts and one, who looked to be about 16 years old, in a black tee with “Iron Maiden” graphics emblazoned on it. Three of the others wore dark windbreakers over their tees. Except for the teenager they all appeared to be in their early twenties save for the individual who appeared to be the leader. He seemed to be in his late 30’s, sporting a pencil thin mustache. He wore a sport jacket over his tee that now that I looked closer appeared to be silk and not the cotton worn by the others.
“Fucking Mavis,” I thought not for the first time, as the same torrent of sweat I experienced upon meeting the Two Jolly Fat Boys yesterday inundated my clothing. I however clenched my sphincter determined to not shit my pants today. I stupidly left no way to run. At least there were no guns evident and they had not begun to slap me around–yet.
The older one walked up to me and stared into my eyes for what seemed to me was an inordinate amount of time and intensity for someone who I had not yet met.
He then said, in a voice that was strangely gravelly and high-pitched at the same time, “Who are you and what’s your interest in Holland?”
A. What “Occupy” is all about and what it really wants:
Due to popular demand, (actually, only one person requested the omitted sections of the previous chapter of “Enter the Dragon,”) I have decided to include it here. While you may think that the request of one person is not a ringing endorsement. Nevertheless, when one extrapolates the readership of T&T to say the entire population of the US, one would have about 15 million people clamoring for it. Of course, that would mean probably up to 250 million who did not give a shit and 30 million were disgusted at the very thought of reading it.
I have chosen to place it here toward the end of this issue of T&T because most of you will not read this far and those who may be offended by its prurience, infantile obsessions and mediocrity, I imagine, would have given up by now anyway.
Chapter Seven, the missing portion:
By the time I had mounted the steps up to the sleeping platform, she had already removed her boots and was unbuckling her belt. Uncertain whether I should embrace her so that we could passionately strip each other of our clothing and fall into bed like they do in the movies, I hesitated. Since I was already mostly naked, it felt somewhat unfair. So I just stood there like an old salami in the butchers window. Having nothing better to do, I shifted my weight from foot to foot while I watched.
She was wearing a slip like top similar to the one she wore yesterday except today it was a deep rose color. Bikini panties of the same color as her top revealed more than they concealed. I still was disappointed, however. I expected or at least hoped for thongs.
Her leather pants were pretty tight so she struggled, pulling first on one side and then the other to maneuver them over her hips and buttocks. Despite her skinny frame and relatively modest breasts her hips and ass were fuller than I imagined.
The tattoo jungle theme continued along her legs. It extended less down her left leg then her right which gave her the appearance of wearing a tight bias cut dress.
Her bending over to push the pants down to her ankles decided for me that it was time to move in. I approached her with my arms extended, fingers itching to caress almost any part of her body. Without looking up at me she forestalled my amorous approach by grabbing on to my outstretched hand in order to balance herself while she pulled her pants over her feet and tossed them into the corner. That accomplished, she stood up facing me and said, “Take off those horrid ugly shorts.”
I did and we fell on to the bed.
I decided to begin at the center of things, with her navel, which as I lifted lifted her shirt appeared to form an eddy or a whirlpool in the middle of a lake around which several tropical animals loitered, drinking the water or looking about for predators. Behind them the jungle foliage rose with tiny brightly colored birds and arboreal mammals shyly peeking out. As I approached the swelling curves of the breasts, I noticed the coils of a snake circling the left one. I lifted the shirt and traced with my lips the coils until they ended at the nipple balanced like the rattle on a rattlesnake. “Oh, that must have hurt,” I thought until oblivion replaced thought as I greedily satisfied my oral fixation, an artifact of, I suppose, my mother’s objection to breast feeding. While so occupied, I continued to push up the slip up toward her shoulder exposing more of the snake.
“Holy shit,” I squealed as I jumped up on my knees. There at her shoulder rose the head of a cobra with giant eyes staring directly at the nipple I was just so happily caressing with my lips.
“You have a fucking snake staring at me.”
“Oh, that’s just Roger.”
“Roger! You have a tattooed snake with a name?”
“You’ll get used to it.”
And so I did.
The remainder of the morning was spent in an orgasm competition that she won 5 to 2. At least I assume her screaming and calling on the deity represented what it was intended to represent. With men one has some physical evidence that something just happened that was delightful even if they can not precisely recall how it felt. With woman you have to take their word for it.
In between bouts, during that period of self-congratulation, itchy guilt and incipient resentment when spent participants grope and pat each other to demonstrate a continuing connection even though all they really want is to be left alone, I obsessed on things that still bothered me. Like the lie about the black-eye. Who was directing the Tweedledee and Tweedledum and why? What the fuck was this all about anyway? But, at about the time I began to feel the stirrings urging me to prepare for the next bout, I dismissed them all convinced that I was not going to follow-up on anything anyway.
By about noon, having thoroughly and repeatedly explored each others ventral cavities, I turned her over searching for new opportunities for adventure. The jungle labyrinth continued in even greater profusion, rising up her neck and disappearing into her hair. Complex scenes of various perspectives and festooned with multicolored birds and reptiles and sinuous slinking mammals entwined with the overwhelmingly green foliage covered her back.
The jungle rose on to the mounds of he buttocks like a devouring fungus forming itself into a aboreous cave about her dorsal cleft growing darker as one penetrated deeper into it. A few iridescent eyes peeking out from the foliage. At its deepest and darkest point the glistening eyes of a tiger stared out at me, its mouth open with fangs like a half-open portcullis guarding the castle entrance.
“What the fuck,” I said jumping up and shriveling. “You’re nuts.”
“Oh that” she responded.
“Yes That. I suppose it’s got a name too.”
“No,” she laughed, “Mark the artist said ‘anyone can have the rest of you but your ass is mine.’
OK, I admit I was speechless at her response, also disgusted and disinclined to proceed further. Said, “look I have things to do” and turned and tromped off toward the bathroom. She jumped up and followed. Said, “you’re going to visit Mark’s shop?”
I had forgotten all about my promise. One I had no intention of keeping. Said, “Yeah,” anyway.
She followed me into the shower. Final score six to three. I still lost.
Decided I was experiencing the next best thing to love: hopeless obsession, terminal stupidity and lust. I felt I probably would do anything and everything for her despite the tattoos – except for anything too painful – OK, I admit, probably even a little bit of pain or even the threat of it would have given me second thoughts about my commitment.
“The treasure captured outside Europe by undisguised looting, enslavement and murder, floated back to the mother-country and were there turned into capital.”
— Marx, Capital, Vol. 1 Ch. 32.
1. Population growth:
(Hockey stick graphs like this, in biology, usually signify the imminent death of the organism.)