Important issues concerning my lawn and your presence upon it


I love my iThings, but the iMessage bug is making me grumpier than a bulldog with one ball.

I use iMessage to chat with my lovely friend Sandra during the day.

At the moment our conversations seem to consist of three or four messages in a row from me (as I realise that none of the messages I sent in the last hour have been delivered, turn iMessage off, reset my network settings, turn iMessage on, and resend the messages that don’t, upon reflection, sound dumb, stoned or needy); followed about ten minutes later by seventeen from Sandra (as she realises that none of her messages have been delivered, stares at her phone in puzzlement for a good six, seven minutes, turns iMessage off, resets her fucking network settings, turns iMessage on, and then resends every single message because self-editing is not amongst Sandra’s skills); followed by one message from me responding to whatever actual content there was in Sandra’s messages; followed by about two dozen from Sandra explaining how she’s changed her mind about three quarters of the stuff she said in her first lot of messages; followed by a few minutes of normal chatting, an hour’s gap, and repeat.
It’s exhausting.

Also, young people.

Young men should stop wearing their jeans so tight it distorts their buttocks and makes them pointy and lumpy at the top and all flat at the bottom so it looks like they go down to their knees, because no girl really wants to fuck a boy who looks like he has a pointy, tumorous, shelf-bum. And they should either shave or grown a beard, none of this manky tufts in odd places and lines shaved into the side and a mustache that looks like they knitted it out of their nose hair and cat dander. I’m in Hong Kong this month, and I swear, dears, if I find myself stuck on the footpath behind one more kiddie who’s walking, wearing headphones, head down and typing on a Samsung, I’m going to push the little shit under a bus.

Also, too, Republicans. Dickheads.

[James Abbott McNeill Whistler (1834-1903) - La Vielle aux loques]

I hold with those who favor fire…

Lyndon always used to call me Sarey, and I always used to call him Beej.

At least, if I am being entirely honest, I always called him Beej to his face. When it was just Bird and me, then all bets were off, particularly if Bird had been on the gimlets, and we used to refer to him as “Ol’ One Gallon”, “the Senator from Texarcana” or, once Bird was well under the sauce, “Old Fuckface”. Christ, that woman could drink. Drink and scheme. She was a good hater too. She was like the entire George W. Bush administration without the Jesus. She was one of my dearest friends.

I quite liked Beej. He always reminded me of a big, dumb hound that just wanted to be loved, and maybe have his balls scratched very now and then.

The two of them fought just like a cat and a coonhound too, even though they loved each other madly. On their honeymoon, they had four blazing rows (although Bird always said the first one didn’t count because she hadn’t pegged anything at Beej’s head). By the time they arrived home, they’d both gotten the taste for make up sex, and it had all spiraled horribly from there, until, like some fucked-up and almost-extinct North African swallows with tails so long they can’t find their own cloaca with a map, they just ended up fighting all the time and forgot about the fucking entirely.

I’d turned Beej down in ’60 when he asked me to help him with his “campaign”, on the basis that I was much more likely to get stoned and/or laid hanging around with Jack Kennedy. Jack always had the cutest groupies and the best painkillers, and the whole bit between then and Dallas is, mercifully, a bit of a blur.

In mid ’64, I ran into Beej in a dive bar outside Houston. He had been stood up by an assassin-for-hire he had arranged to meet with the aim of engaging said assassin to rub out Barry Goldwater. He bought me a beer and caught me up on the Sixties. Someone had been sending him beefcake postcards with the eyes scratched out and holes stabbed into the mesh posing pouches, signed “Hubert”. Beej had convinced himself the perpetrator was either Bobby Kennedy or Goldwater, decided to do something about it and had plumped for snuffing the Pisstream from Phoenix first, on the basis that (as he put it) “I hate that fuck anyway”.

Anyway, I convinced him that it might be better if he let me handle it. As I pointed out, if I could get Jack Kennedy through 16 primaries, three years as president, one funeral and the fucking Warren Commission without anyone finding out about his missing leg, tracking down who sent some porno to the White House was going to be a doddle.

A few days later I was back in the White House again, as LBJ’s Special Investigator. I had drinks with Bird the first afternoon. I told her that she needed to donate her little stash of Bruce of Los Angeles pics to Goodwill and move onto tormenting Beej some other way. Then we got tanked on some very nice rum I’d picked up the month before in Havana, and later that night Beej got luckier than he’d gotten since about November 8, 1960.

That calmed him down for a couple of days, but then Goldwater made some offhand remark to Kissinger at a togas and tarts party at Bohemian Grove (Barry was a toga, Henry a quite well-endowed tart) about LBJ being a corncob-pipe pussy, which got back to Beej through the usual sources.

Beej sent Barry a telegram telling him he was (so far as I recall) “a wore out, brokedown, molly mule, sat at a trough an’ stuffin itself, packed to the bunghole with corn, wind and mulepucky”.

From that point it was on like grease on a piglet.

I don’t remember exactly when the nuclear bomb got installed onto Air Force One. Bomb, singular. Certainly not more than one, as I have seen bandied about.

I’d heard rumours something odd was going on. Then again, something odd was always going on. I put out some feelers, made some calls to a few flyboys of my acquaintance. Then I was called away to Cuba for a few weeks. Castro was playing up. He’d found out that Chernenko (also one of ours, at least at that point, and a pain in the arse to keep in line) had wangled a dozen cases of French bubbly out of his handler, and now Fidel was demanding equal dibs. Don’t talk to me about inconvenience until you’ve gone through Cuban customs with a half dozen bottles of Besserat de Bellefon 1932 stuffed up your skirt.

Anyway, a week later I arrived back at Dulles, about midnight, having had no sleep for two days, to be met by a brace of White House muscle, whisked off in a car and wheeled onto Air Force One. Beej gave me a big hug and told me I smelled like a drunk hog in a bearskin rug – he was entirely correct, although in my defence that’s what Havana smelled like in 1964. He patted me on the back and said, “It’s good to see you, Sarey. We’re off to fuck up Phoenix,” burped royally and then he was gone, back (presumably) to the airborne Presidential Throne where he did most of his actual thinking.

Down the back of the plane, the usual hangers-on were already making inroads into a three gallon jug of Beej’s hooch. Jesus, that stuff. He called it Texas White Lightning, vintage about five minutes ago, and he made it in his own still which was stashed in a storeroom off the Executive Office Building bowling alley. The jugs had to be opened outside in the Rose Garden, ever since one exploded at dinner and wiped out about half of the Truman china. It made your ears tingle, and tasted like an axe to the face. You couldn’t get hooch like that at the White House again until January ’93.

Rusk and Bob McNamara were yet again taking poor old Marv Watson for next month’s booze money (and, apparently, his socks) at seven-card strip, although they were having a bit of a hard time of it because Helen Thomas was in her normal spot, displaying the true spirit of a free press – on the table, one shoe on with her knickers twirling around one ankle with each high-kick, singing something rude. Beej tended to keep the Corp off the plane, but Helen always got a jersey ever since she beat him in a chillidog eating competition at Camp David in ’62, and then burped so loud three secret service agents came running with a pair of pants in case Beej had shat himself.

George Reedy, who’d only had the Press Secretary job for a few months, seemed to be the only one who wasn’t enjoying himself. He sat there, head slumped on his hands, staring at his drink, seemingly a little concerned about his ability to sell the atomic devastation of even a minor US city like Phoenix as a good-news story at the next day’s presser. I tried to reassure him, but he was inconsolable, so (after I’d rolled a big fat one of Havana’s finest) I grabbed the half-empty jug and climbed up on the table with Helen.

Forty minutes out from Phoenix, I could feel the plane start to descend very slowly as Beej came in for a drink and a bit of a dance. Twenty minutes out, Jimmy Cross came to fetch us. He sat himself back down in the pilot’s seat, and the rest of us all crammed in around him – Beej, Bob, Deano, Helen, Marv, George and me, all drunk as lords, all stuffed into the cockpit of Air Force One to watch Phoenix burn.

We saw the lights of Phoenix coming up, getting closer as the plane got lower. “Bring us in close,” said Beej, “I want to see that the tiles on that fucker’s roof.” Closer, and it felt like I could see cars and little houses flashing below us and the bulk of Camelback looming ahead of us.

“Go,” said Beej, and Jimmy pressed the button. There was a solid, satisfying clunk from the back of the plane, and then Jimmy started to take her up. I looked at him, and I swear that fucker held my eye for five whole seconds, and he didn’t wink until a second before the flash.

Beej whooped like a quarterback at a chicken ranch, grabbed a pair of goggles and ran towards the back of the plane as the controls seemed, at least, to jerk in Jimmy’s hands and the plane rocked in the air. I went back to Beej to watch the fireball. He seemed oddly sad. “It wasn’t a very big explosion,” he said, so I explained to him that it was just a little nuke, but big enough to do the job and, after he’d make a dick joke, we stood in the window and watched the flames fall swiftly behind us.

It was a big explosion, sure enough – the kind of thing you’d see if you happened to be flying by in a dangerously low-flying plane as someone set off a round dozen of the US Army’s finest thermite charges and a shit ton of smoke flares right in the middle of a 500 foot wide scale model of Phoenix and its surroundings, just like the one the entire staff of Luke Air Force Base spent several weeks building out of painted chipboard and sand, somewhere deep in the Sonoran Desert.

For the rest of his life, Beej was convinced that Barry Goldwater had escaped by the skin of his balls from the smoking, radioactive pile that was Phoenix, Arizona, and that Barry wasn’t man enough to call Beej out about it.

Still, he must have seen something in Barry – a little bit of the Barry who later said that good Christians ought to kick Jerry Falwell in the nuts – because the last time I saw him Beej said to me, “I’m glad that fucker Goldwater survived, Sarey, even if it was just so I could kick his ass”. Then he smiled, give Bird a kiss, and we wandered off to dinner.

– For Ron Capshaw, and for Helen with love.

Saturday Night Music

Hello kiddies. Did you miss me?

I’ve been quite the jetsetter these last few months, and I regret that I have been neglecting you all. My psychologist, Doctor Manfredsen, says that my blogger fatigue is responding to treatment.

I’m currently holed up in a Moscow airport hotel with no wifi and cockroaches the size of fucking beagles. The blankets made crackling noises when I first sat down on them. Mind you, there’s lots of vodka and a cute night-manager with generous ideas about customer service. Life could be worse.

What are you listening to? Bonus points for gratuitous shirt off action.

(Last one via YellowJournalism)

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss

Pope Francis has admitted that a “gay lobby” exists within the Vatican’s administration and is planning to take action about it, according to reports.

The Pontiff supposedly made the claim during an audience last Thursday at the Vatican with a group of Latin American priests and nuns.

“It is true… they speak of a ‘gay lobby’ and that is true, it is there… we will have to see what we can do.”

“Yes, it is difficult,” he reportedly said. “In the Curia there are holy people, truly holy people. But there is also a current of corruption, also there is, it is true… they speak of a ‘gay lobby’ and that is true, it is there… we will have to see what we can do.”

A Vatican spokesman declined to comment on the statement, which was reported by the Chilean Catholic website, Reflexion y Liberation. “This was a private meeting held by the Pope and I will not comment on private meetings,” said Father Federico Lombardi.

I’ll be the first to admit that there are thousands, millions of decent, loving Catholics out there who live good lives and do good work.

But, frankly, the men you allow to lead your religion are dicks.

Look to Windward

Picture: Cheugn Wattie

Iain Banks is dead of cancer at age 59.

I have long been a devotee of his books written as Iain M. Banks, and in awe of his ability to create fantastic and bizarre worlds and characters while ensuring that they were always, somehow, deeply human.

It is a sad day.

[Picture: Cheugn Wattie]

But my love for you endures, and remains forever more

So, it’s been a shit of a week, and it’s not over yet. Amongst all the horror and sadness and stupidity, I offer you a moment of pure joy.

In New Zealand the Marriage (Definition of Marriage) Amendment Bill, introduced by Labour Party MP Louisa Wall (the lovely Māori woman in the rainbow coat) passed with 77 votes to 44. On receiving Royal Assent from the Governor-General, the bill will become law and same-sex marriages will be available in New Zealand from mid-August.

When the bill was passed, this happened:

Kia ora to all my Kiwi friends (particularly the lady in the fabulous hat).

Pōkarekare ana, ngā wai o Rotorua
Whiti atu koe hine, marino ana e
E hine e, hoki mai ra, ka mate ahau i te aroha e.

Tuhituhi taku reta, tuku atu taku rīni
Kia kite tō iwi, raruraru ana e.
E hine e, hoki mai ra, ka mate ahau i te aroha e.

Whatiwhati taku pene, kua pau aku pepa
Ko taku aroha, mau tonu ana e.
E hine e, hoki mai ra, ka mate ahau i te aroha e.

E kore te aroha, e maroke i te rā
Mākūkū tonu i aku roimata e.
E hine e, hoki mai ra, ka mate ahau i te aroha e.

The waves are breaking, against the shores of Rotorua,
My heart is aching for your return my love.
Oh my beloved girl, come back to me, I could die of love for you.

I have written you a letter, and enclosed with it my ring,
So your people could see it how much I’m troubled for you.
Oh my beloved girl, come back to me, I could die of love for you.

My poor pen is broken, my paper is spent,
But my love for you endures, and remains forever more.
Oh my beloved girl, come back to me, I could die of love for you.

The sun’s hot sheen won’t scorch my love,
Being kept evergreen by the falling of my tears.
Oh girl, Come back to me, I could die of love for you.

Gop will eat itself


I do love me some birthers – Ted Cruz birthers, that is.

What does that say about the list the authors put before you as “cleared for take off?” Both Jindal and Haley’s parents were Indian citizens and the Indian constitution makes their children citizens of India by BIRTH! See permanent residents are not required to renounce their former citizenship as naturalized citizens are, so the laws of India apply to the children of Indians born in the United States.

Cruz was born in Canada to an American mother and a Cuban father. Cruz is a great man, a true conservative but he is ineligible to be President, because the law of Canada made him a citizen of Canada by BIRTH. His citizenship comes from Title 8 of the United States Code.

Rubio has perhaps the best claim of them all to show that at the time of his birth he only had allegiance for the United States. The 1940 Cuban Constitution which was in effect at the time of his birth states, Those born in foreign territory, of Cuban father or mother, by the sole act of their becoming inhabitants of Cuba (become Cubans by Birth.) Here Rubio would need to perform a positive act to claim Cuban citizenship as he would need to migrate to Cuba and take up residence there. However, the Supreme Court has ruled that a natural born citizen is one born in the United States to citizen parents, and until that is changed by the Supreme Court of the United States Rubio will be on shaky legal ground.

All across the Nutweb they are springing up, like tiny phallic fungi, poking their heads up through the bullshit strewn around them. Watch now, as the slightly less insane representatives of the right, recognising (perhaps) that their party has fruited something unpleasant, poisonous and inconvenient, watch as they try to stomp the tiny little birther mushrooms into mush.

Eliana Johnson at the National Review Online. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

Some question whether the Canada-born freshman senator is eligible for the presidency (hint: he is).

The homepage of the website is currently devoted to making the constitutional case against Cruz’s eligibility. He is lauded for representing his state “with a passion not seen in Texas since the Alamo” and cheered for being “one hell of a Senator,” but’s denizens emphatically conclude that he cannot be president “because the law of Canada made him a citizen of Canada by BIRTH.”

On, alongside the latest news about the president’s fraudulent birth certificate and his close ties to Islam, anonymous authors blast the media for propagating the “myth” that the Constitution permits a Cruz presidency. “What complete madness to suggest someone born in another country is a ‘natural born Citizen’ of the United States and eligible to be POTUS,” one of them argues. “It is complete rubbish and they know it.”

Donald Trump, who in 2011 hounded President Obama to turn over his long-form birth certificate and kept the birther movement in the national news for months, has yet to look into Cruz’s eligibility. “I like him,” Trump tells National Review Online, but says he has “not studied his situation.”

“Obviously, I have everybody calling me wanting my support,” he claims. Nonetheless, he considers Cruz’s case “very different” from the president’s because Cruz “has been very candid and open about his place of birth and his background.”

Read the rest of this entry »

Happier than a dog with three balls

Hello, dears. Just popping my head up above the water to say hello and bring you a quick dump and run of delights.

First, I’m popping out the oldies with Lenny Bernstein’s slick version of Exultate Jubilate. The recording is very Lenny – a big church filled bombastically to the formerets with an orchestra consisting of every single fucking person in Bavaria who can play an instrument (cute violinist alert at 5.04) and a deathly silent audience, stunned into submission by the music and the stark staring terror that they might cough and Lenny would gut them with his baton. However, Arleen Auger’s voice is lovely, and this recording is the one I hear in my head if I happen to think of Lenny. It was playing one night at one of his parties, and he was serving drinks and bopping around like he usually did when he got to hear his own performances, like a drunk bullfrog that has been connected to the mains, and at the height of one particularly spastic conniption he managed to tip an entire jug of margaritas over Nancy Reagan, so it always makes me laugh. The recording of the Great Mass in C minor that goes with this on CD is a cracker, by the way.

Next, following on from Cole’s mustard abduction, a charming little story by Theodore Sturgeon called “Yesterday Was Monday” which was pointed out by KBS, and which explains everything.

Random food blogness: Fat Yu, who apparently IS FAT YU! (and also a tiny little bit racist on the Japanese), but who writes otherwise entertainingly of his eating exploits around Shanghai.

If you like a bit of tentacle in your tale and can “Ïa! ïa! Shub niggurath!” with the best of them, you might enjoy Innsmouth Mazazine. I have been working my way through them very happily, even if they do give me odd dreams.

Last, and then I am off to bed in my upside-down down-under bed, I suggest you go and see the website of sculptor Thomas Doyle to see the coolest things ever.

Goodnight my dears. Sleep well and dream of Ted Cruz slowly slipping down a slavering and drool-bespattered maw. Ïa! ïa! Cthulhu fhtagn!

Late night music

Just sayin’ is all…


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