Saturday, July 27, 2013

Existing in New York City: As the World Burns

Foto by tgw, New York City, 2013
Say Goodbye to: John Graves, a Texas writer, a good friend of my family, whose book Goodbye to a River is not only a Texas classic but to me one of the best books I've ever read. John Graves, 92, American author (Goodbye to a River).
Say Goodbye to: "Whizzer" White, one of the nations leading football running backs back in the 1950s for Arizona State.  When I was a kid, I was a big fan of the Border Conference because Hardin-Simmons University in my hometown was a member of that conference.  I recall many a game in which HSU and Arizona State tangled over the years.  Whizzer White was Arizona State's first-ever All-American.  At this time, too, Hardin-Simmons had one of the nation's leading passers in John "Model T" Ford.  Wilford "Whizzer" White, 84, American football player, father of Danny White, suspected heart attack.
Sitting in This Ovenish Heat Thinking (Actually Written During a Sizzling Heatwave)
I'm sitting here in Billionaire Heaven (New York City) surrounded by hi-rise luxury apartment buildings all air-conditioned with their huge central air units grinding away, chewing up power off the taxed-to-the-max electrical power grid while the temperature is sweltering up in the high nineties, feeling like it's 120 on the street.  I've been contemplating what the hell we would do were there suddenly no longer any electricity.

I'm currently reading an amazing set of books by Van Wyck Brooks about life in 19th-Century New York City when there was no electricity; when horses were the means of transportation (and horse shit filled the streets); when there were swine and rats and wild dogs and stray cats roaming the streets; when the streets mostly weren't paved and those that were were paved with cobblestones (imagine the racket); when there was no sewer system and the gutters held the sewage as it simmered there until a gully washer came and canaled it out into either the Hudson River or the East River; when in the summer it was steamy muggy hot as Holy Hell and in the winter it was bitter cold like the Arctic; when there was no air-conditioning only open windows (if you lived in the front of a building there was the fetid air coming in from the street; if you lived in the back of a building there was the noisy-neighbor and stale-aired airshaft); when stoves were heated by wood or coal, the kitchen stove staying burning no matter the season; when there were no electric lights only gaslight, oil lamps or candlelight.  Think of that.  Yet, people adjusted to these extremes, a lot of our founding White fathers living long gouty lives (Jefferson, Franklin, Madison lived into their 80s; John Adams lived to 90; Washington in his seventies).

Want to Read Something Frivolous, Maddening, and Asinine About the Blow-job Queen?  
You, of course, know who I mean.  The blow-job queen who went from sucking old speckled-dicked Slick Willie Clinton's much abused and dipped-in-ugly-beauties'-mouths-and-vaginas dick and then letting old Bill bang her with an illegal Cuban cigar to a freaky stardom.  Only in New York City could such a rise (like the rising of old Slick Willie's prick) happen.  This dick-sucking phenom went from sulking behind closed doors in her cum-stained dresses to become, according to this old New York Mag fluff piece, a gad-about-town celebrity who has a free-ticket-ride to the most chummy of Manhattan social events and top restaurants (where her new fans send her bottles of champagne or pieces of pie) and she has a public relations bimbo gloating over her.  Damn, I'm about to puke writing this, upchucking my innards as I write about reading this now 12-year-old published drivel, this hairy piece of vaginally dripping fluff written by a New York Mag entertain-the-dumbasses writer.

I readily admit that sexual scandal is one way to gain great celebrity and business success.  There are too many examples throughout history for me not to reach such a conclusion.  One of my wives  explained to me one afternoon when after a great session of unbridled around-the-world sex she demanded I buy her a new wardrobe on the grounds, as she put it, that all women no matter their class or station in life are prostitutes.  As such, they, she went on with further explanation, have an inner urge to seduce through wiles and innuendos any male who they know for sure is ranking them up and down in terms of sexual availability.  Monica Lewinsky, as a young prostitute, was fully aware that she was being so measured up for sexual dalliances by the handsome roving-eyed President of the USA, Slick Willie Clinton.  The wily young Monica took advantage of that awareness to lure old Willie into first innocently sneaking kisses and feelies at state affairs to finally capping it all off with allowing herself to get fucked with one of Willie's prize illegal Cuban cigars in the Oval Office.  Willie got caught when sweet Monica couldn't keep this affair under her belt and spilled the mixture of vaginal fluids and semen beans to who she thought was a dear close closed-mouthed friend.

Here in New York City at the present time, we have two brothers in sexual scandal promiscuousness running for office, Eliott Spitzer, a cheating fucker of hot call girls, and Anthony "the Weenie" Weiner whose problem is he can't overcome his psychopathic masturbational urges to sex twitter and text with willing women he meets via those social media on the Internet and through sexual conversations with these gals spills his seed on the floors in front of his ever-active laptops.  Elliott Spitzer is fawning much regret over his cheating past and he's humbling his rich self pathetically in public and so far for old Elliott it's working; he's leading his opponent in his contest for city comptroller.  Weenie trying the same pathetic tactics begged to be made mayor of this wormy apple and, by golly, he was leading in the polls over an otherwise limpwristed pack of candidates until revelations started exposing the Weenie as not being cured of his psychopathic masturbational habits and in fact still twittering and texting his sexual intents to women all over the East Coast, recently confessing his continuing sins with his poor sacred wife (who I think is a very pretty lady) by his side to embarrassingly listen as her jack-off husband confesses his further sins [I have since writing this been enlightened as to who Mrs. Weenie is.  She was Hillary Clinton's dickgirl (and who knows what else), plus her father is big in the Muslim Brotherhood].  As a result of Weenie's new revelations, he has lost the faith of New York City's dumbass voters and has slipped in the mayor's race way behind out-of-the-closet Lesbian and Adam and Steve married person Christine Quinn [who also for years has had her nose buried up Michael Bloomberg's filthy ass].

Ah sex.  Such a pleasurable sin.  And most of us, men and women, can't resist its itching urges when we get them.  It is the original sin and most male-dominated religions blame its originality on women.  And most religions are so male-dominated; yet, most religions would go bankrupt without women.  I like Paul Gauguin know that virtue exists but like he said that doesn't mean I like it.  Virtue is a concocted moral placed on us by historical men who claimed they were without sin, which means they abstained from sex.  Do you believe that?  I never have.  Look at the recent revelations against the so-called abstaining priests (bishops on up to cardinals) in the Catholic church.  Turns out nearly every one of them are either boy buggers or girl rapists.  Maybe that proves SEX is the demon that resides in man and woman.  To me, sex is simply, as Philip Wylie said, to take our minds off the fact that surely we will die.  Through sex, at least we keep the human race surviving.  Besides, there's nothing better than good consensual sex.  In all my marriages, it wasn't sex that broke us up; in fact, if they were only based on sex (true love) they would have survived.

for The Daily Growler

That closed-mouthed friend started figuring up her own future bucks intake especially after she had the evidence, the cum-stained dress.  Personal appearances on teevee and future book deals began dancing like sugar-plum fairies across the wide spaces of her mind.   

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