Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The clearest description I have managed so far about my blog is that it is not about cats. In general, I find predators pretty predictable while prey on the other-hand, because they live in universes of anxiety, develop more textured personalities. I also have as a writer a deft hand when it comes to making matters worse, so of course , the already panicky are ready made for me. I will try to grow this blog into an assortment of laughs, because that is what my life has mostly taught me to do. I will use the famous people I have known to get your attention and then tell you small but many times wonderful things about them. I will never name the ones I say ugly things about but I hope you will guess who they are.

Month: May, 2016

The greatest Gonorrhea Story in Rock history

by Regis Boff

If you really want to understand why socialism never works it might be constructive to rehear Rock’s most legendary gonorrhea story. It is a tale of pestilence, deception, unbridled sexual sharing, and seductive people refusing to suffer alone.
The story begins ( as they all do) with a rock star drummer ringing me up early one “off” morning, half way through a very long American tour. He told me that it was time for me to make some calls to generate the most trusted medical mind in this country to stop the grotesquely unrelenting stinging in his genitals.”
This was not the only kind of thing I did on tour, but it was expected of me that I do it. So I got the best doctor I could find in Chicago and with a little cash and tickets, as inducement, got him to rush to the hotel to do the necessary blood tests. Test results in hand, I later showed up at his suite door with the news that he had contracted a nasty little Vietnamese variant of everybody’s least favorite infection, gonorrhea. He took the news like a true rock legend, opening a bottle of something, and with my encouragement began trying to reassemble a flow chart pinpointing which girl might have been the carrier of his misfortune. It is not uncommon for famous people to lose track of who they sleep with, even on one given night. It is, likewise, not infrequent for girls to work their way up through the forty or fifty odd crew members that daily put together these mammoth shows only to meet the band. Now multiply that by maybe thirty shows in thirty cities and, well, you can imagine virulent quotients.
So there I was sitting on the bed with the doctor on the phone when said artist conspiratorially sidles up to me, puts his arm over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Realize, Regis, this is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Those few words began one of the funniest days in my life and rock and roll history as he and I traced together a latticework of sexual activity that was truly breathtaking. He would think of a girl, then he would associate some member of the crew or the staff, or our lawyers, promoters and eventually even the other members of the band to her. By evening’s end, we (I), had called everyone with the bad news and told them all to show up in a particular room the next morning for their shots. Nobody was uninfected.
I called our doctor at home later that night and asked him if I should send a limo to help him cart all the needles and penicillin over to the hotel.
The suite filled right on time with the most miserable looking men you might have ever seen. There is a special fear that comes with shots and venereal disease. I knew that this rock star had lied about some of the connections, and a better man might have tried to wring some honesty from him, but he was still paralytic from the night before, so I figured, the Hell with it. I just could not hold onto this doctor for a lengthy cross-examination of a drunk.
The doctor had his best day ever as I paid him a lot to keep quiet. The bill itself was in the thousands. There was a picture taken with everyone, including the doctor, looking like a baseball team who had just lost the World Series, but it has been lost unless somebody who reads this might have it.
So, back to Socialism. You see, sharing never really works because somebody always wants more, and even if you did manage to share equally you would still get the clap.

The Machine

No wisdom has achieved the thrust required to escape the drag of the human atmosphere. This will be up to the machine.

The Who # 12 Their Money

Much of my career, such that it was, depended upon the reasoning that rock bands needed their money defended. It would be hard to argue that I was not good at it.
I watched ticket prices grow over the years. I can remember shouting arguments over raising The Who’s ticket price from sixteen to seventeen dollars, one dollar.
Thinking back on it now, we taxed the kids based on how much they loved art. And it was art.
There was also some formula involved that was always hard to describe. The pain of the price diminished as the size of the venue increased. It was almost as though the fans did not mind getting fucked as long as tons of others did too.
When The Who reached the point when they could play as many stadiums in each city as they wanted, the morality of ticket pricing utterly vanished and was replaced seamlessly with making certain that we did not cheat whole cities out of an opportunity to see them play.
Through it all, I remained loyal to their money.

Gay Men and Automobiles​

Women are always pretty, and auto mechanics never are. This is why trust is so important in picking both. I have found a new mechanic. He works the garage at the top of Main Street. His name is George.
Men can get through life with one best friend and a mechanic. A woman can’t be a man’s best friend, and neither can a dog. This may ruffle women and disappoint dogs, but that is just the way it is.
My last mechanic left me to return home to Egypt. His family was in line to the throne and four years ago he seemed to think the time was right to go back. One day he was just gone, I kept the tire gauge, the new owner said he left for me. I limped back to my Honda dealership, prodigal, apprehensive, and bruised.
Most men, deep down, wish women were more like cars. No man ever referred to his car as a “he,” always “she.” It makes me wonder if gay men refer to their cars as “he?” I will check Car and Driver Magazine for clarification on this.
My dad was not too much for giving me advice, but he made this point to me strictly and often growing up, he would say, “At fifty-thousand miles you must trade your car in for a new one.” He knew that ruin had been designed into every car. This mischief came from somewhere larger than him, and he wanted to protect me as best he could.
We boys, of the fifties and sixties, all had this kernel of truth stuffed into our pockets by our dads. I think it led inexorably to cars that lasted longer, but also, and sadly, to the high divorce rate of that era. We naturally applied the laws of our fathers to what we loved most, cars and women. Nobody really ever explained the difference to us. We forecasted the obsolescence of our marriages in exactly the same way we did for our cars.
It is not an accident that as the automobile became more reliable and lasted longer, our marriages began to last as well. Cars and marriages are not complicated if you understand their warranties, that 100,000 miles is just the beginning for a car and your mechanic, and a twentieth anniversary in a marriage is simply an occasion to break out humor that only you two can understand.

Beside another Man to Pee

I know that standing beside another man to pee is awkward to me.
Am I then an odious symbol of guy gender oppression just like Mr. Obama says?
What if someone with a floating gender felt she and he were missing something awesome because of the restrictive men’s based urine brotherhood to which I belong?
Should I be embarrassed if someone, with a women’s appearance, stood beside me peeing, even though she thought she was a man?
Why would that person’s self-image be more important than what I see with my eyes? My mind flat lines.
If I walked up to a gorgeous girl on the street and demanded she believe I looked like George Clooney would she be obliged to take my word for it? If this is true, then I am all in.

West Virginia

Bernie Sanders’s recent win in West Virginia against Hillary Clinton confirm that the children of the chronically misguided are gaining momentum.

Finding a Place to Age

Gender is for the young. Young people are sexy, and you must have a gender to be appealing. Old people stretch their potential for sexiness well beyond its inherent elasticity, particularly in America. ( Just a note, my grammar checker pointed out to me that “old people” was politically incorrect language, and I was grateful for that because it made my point).
It occurred to me it was “incorrect” because the app thought “old” makes people feel bad.
Apparently swinging bathroom doors wide open is the right and a first step to relieving gender confusion. I’m on board with this. I do think to find a place to age is important as well.I don’t think toilets will solve this problem.

Looming Whiteness

I like Mr.Trump for a variety of reasons, but the looming one for me is that he allows me to feel OK with my whiteness. We whites are not villains although we serve that purpose in the psyches of people working their way through lives which can start out unfairly. That’s fine as far as it goes; we can take it and we should. Eventually, another color will supersede us, and we will bemoan the unfairness of that, as Vonnegut says, “So it goes.”
People will always defend what they have worked to achieve or what they have inherited by chance. That is, at least in part, what makes us human. The dithering, time wasting hypotheses of socialism only works for insects. They are children’s fantasies. Just ask the 100 million dead Stalin communists or the millions of “Bernie millennials” that will be shoved aside by Hillary.
To be fair white people have ruled long, both with distinction and disgrace, but this will not last forever. America is spinning us inexorably towards new colors. Those races will fight it out for supremacy, as they should.
It is not so wise to continue spending so much time trying to get white people to accept the blame for everything. At a certain point, we will turn a deaf ear and go about our business of being “white.” Enter Mr. Trump.

At the Very Least

At the very least Trump has done America the service of firing all the right Republicans.

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