Lazy Sunday: Pic Post

Fuck it, I'm phoning it in for this article, because that's been my general state of mind this entire weekend (more on that later). So here's some pics I found around the web that I ... find... interesting, along with my comments.

Fuck my editors.

Ok, here's the first pic - Chinese commandos are preparing for the Beijing Olympics next week. Obviously China's preparing to counter terrorists with tiny machine guns and circus-like shenanigans.

Up next, why the Iraqis are failing miserably at taking over their own country's security. Hey Ahmed, you're supposed to stand BEHIND the weapon.

Next is a pic taken shortly after a tornado ravaged a Kansas country side. Don't worry, that couch in the lower right hand corner is four-wheel drive.

Lastly, what Wilford Brimley's been up to between tapings of Life Insurance commercials. Note the two kids in the background looking on in complete mortification. Baby's got back.

Short Fiction: Turn Key Operation

Jim has said on more than one occasion how proud he is of this piece of work, and we're inclined to agree. This short fiction was inspired by a television show he had watched last summer about the booming (no pun intended) tourist industry in Israel, and he took it and ran. It originally ran on his myspace.com blog back in June of 2007. And we're running it here because it's Jim's day off and he doesn't feel like being cooped up in the office in front of his computer. -ed.

At 11:00 pm it would’ve looked like any bar in New York City, with its bright orange neon lighted sign, the patrons out front smoking, chatting idly on a Friday night. Only this wasn’t New York City, this was Tel Aviv, and these weren’t trendy New Yorkers, but Israelis, Greek tourists, employees from the near by British Consulate, what have you.

I bought the bar five years ago from an army buddy who was getting out of Israel. He lost his son in a bus bombing that summer, and since then didn’t have the heart to keep up the nightlife lifestyle. He sold it to me, totally turn key, for a song. I was happy to have something to invest my time in since leaving the IDF.

It needed a lot of work; the floors were scuffed and horrible to look at, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment. There was a small stage towards the back, but the amplifiers were blown out and there was only one tv in the whole place, directly over the bar. I won’t even start on the condition of the bathrooms.

So I spent three weeks, every day, for about fourteen hours a day remodeling the place to my specifications. It took my entire life savings, over forty thousand dollars to get the place the way I wanted it. I put in plasma screen tvs, bought new speakers, new fixtures, hired some new staff, restocked the liquor, bought some new signs and renamed the place from Koffa’s to The Ocean.

And it was a good name because we were in essence right on the ocean. There was a tiny strip of other clubs and bars along the water, and mine now faced out so that during the middle of the day the place was nice and airy, and at night there was a gentle breeze that would blow in through the front double doors. It was literally paradise.

That was until tonight.

It’s 02:00 am now, and the paramedics, army personnel, police, everyone has finally left. The front of the building is black, the cars across the street are black, the ground is wet. At first it was an oily slick of hot blood and body parts, now it’s with water from fire hoses. The lieutenant responding to the scene explained to me that it would take a while to get a guy with a flatbed wrecker out here to get the cars, so it’d be likely morning before the charred automotive remains would be off the street. He suggested that I get home and get some rest if I wasn’t going to get checked out at a hospital. And then he told me that I should probably put my gun away.

I hadn’t even noticed it, until he mentioned it. I had been clutching a Berretta that I kept behind the bar in my right hand the whole time, the whole hour. My hand was numb, my arm throbbed, my face coated in a filth that consisted of blood, dirt and tears. I tucked the gun into my waist band and walked back inside.

There had been over two hundred people inside the bar when the bomb had gone off. I had been behind the bar, pouring a Bombay Sapphire Gin into a martini glass and flirting with a young American girl, much to my girlfriend Sara’s distaste. I remember pouring the drink, turning to see Sara standing at the other end of the bar, holding her waitress tray, a few empty glasses, apron tied tight around her slender hips. She was shooting lightening into my eyes and I shrugged sheepishly, grinning at her.

She was beautiful, long black hair, 5’6, slender body. During the reconstruction of the bar she had come in in the middle of the day to ask about tabling on weekend nights, she was 19 at the time, I was 27, and I was in love with her.

We dated off and on, mostly on, seldom off. We were always hot for each other, and we would do the most absurd things to make each other jealous. I’d flirt with the young tourists, she’d allow herself to be pawed by the male patrons to get better tips. But even when we were off, I’d always walk her to her apartment at the end of the night. And if we were on, I’d follow her up.

So here I am, standing there, holding a bottle of gin looking at her. She simply shakes her head and walks on over. She leans across the bar and puts her face to mine and tells me that I’m a dirty old man. She’s 24 now, I’m 32, and she pushes her fingers into my receding hair line, and grabs a hold of my short black curls. I smack her lightly on her cheek and tell her that I always knew she loved dirty old men. She smiles sweetly, turns, and struts off back towards the front of the bar where there’s more tables that need tending to.

At about that time, things seem to happen in a lurch, like your DVD is on the fritz. I put the bottle of gin down on the back bar, and turn to look out the big picture windows at the crowd outside. It’s a typical Friday night, the place is an orgy of young faces, laughing, singing, drinking. There’s not a bad seed in the crowd, no one here looking for a fight or to prove themselves a man. It’s mostly tourists and youngsters from the nearby hotel resorts. I let myself smile.

I approach the register to swipe the young blonde’s credit card, when I notice my doorman, Ari stand up from his stool and walk towards someone on the sidewalk. It’s something in his walk, his approach that makes me stop in the middle of what would be an uninterrupted credit card transaction. I stand watching him, and see where his eyes are staring at. I hired Ari on a recommendation from a friend who’s still working in the Mosad, he told me Ari knew his shit, and was looking for some laid back weekend work. I had no problem hiring him. He’s bald, 6’3 and two hundred and sixty pounds, he fills out a black t shirt like a typical bouncer, only unlike a typical bouncer he carries a degree in five different disciplines of martial arts and is the fore most expert in Israeli Krav Magna.

Ari walks up to a small skinny sickly guy in a brown coat. His hair is wet and combed to the side of his head. From where I’m standing at the bar, which is about twenty-five yards from the scene outside, I can see the whites of his eyes. I can see his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat. And just as I’m getting the thought into my head that there’s something very wrong with this, the coat puffs out, like he’s got an air compressor under it. It balloons out from his body and tears. I smell cordite and burning, there’s a flash and what feels like my skull ripping open.

I come to on my back, covered in glass and booze. The bar is on fire, I can feel a rumbling slowly fading under my back, against my spine. I wasn’t out long, maybe half a second. I try to roll over to get on my feet but nothing in my body is responding to the commands from my brain. So I dumbly lay on my back, looking at the far ceiling from between my bent legs.

Sound comes back like you’re turning up the volume on the tv after putting it all the way down. It’s a slow build, first there’s the screams and moans. And then there’s the sound of feet moving. There’s furniture being tipped over, so on.

Finally my body goes into motion. I feel like I’m watching it more than participating. But I feel this need to do something, and then the shockwave rips through my body and brain: Sara. She was right by the door when the bomb went off, oh Jesus.

I turn over and feel every inch of my body reject the notion of moving, but I fight through it, pure adrenaline running through my veins. It’s not anger, but a sense of need. Like being under water and needing air, and fighting to break through to the surface. As I turn over, I’m looking at the Berretta, my nose almost touching the grip as it sits under the register as if it was oblivious to the bombing. I snatch it and push myself up on the bar.

There’s a fog, everything’s wet, people are lying on the ground withering, twisting. Some aren’t moving at all. Some don’t have all their parts. On a far table that’s still standing upright there’s a hand with a wedding ring on it.

The whole front of the building is blown inwards. Paper is all over the place, the floors black and shiny. Cars across the street black, glass everywhere. I clear the bar, clutching the gun and wade through the living Hell all around me. I try not to step on anyone but it’s hard to tell. Ceiling tiles hanging down, insulation on fire, little fires all over the place. I slip and fall down, my hand comes back up red.

Bodies are literally piled on top of each other and it’s hard to tell who’s who and who’s still alive and who isn’t. I call out her name, my voice is hoarse and strained. I can barely hear over the ringing and the people screaming. There’s soldiers outside with Galils and Uzis looking around in a cover pattern. An ambulance is already out front, stretchers already on the ground, people being haphazardly rolled on to their backs and lifted. Fuck a neck brace at this point.

I call her name again, and still nothing. For some reason I’m comfortable accepting that she’s dead. My rationale is that at least she didn’t suffer, hopefully. Hopefully she was close enough to the bomber to be obliterated and isn’t lying under a pile of bodies suffocating and bleeding. God it’s so hot.

Finally there’s a tug at my pant leg and I look down. I see her face, half of it. Her mouth is caked in black, and a rope of spit is between her two lips as she’s trying to talk, maybe say my name. I drop to my knees and grab her up, cradling her head in my arms.

I don’t remember crying, I don’t remember saying anything, just holding and squeezing. Sara’s body is half black, burnt. Her right side is blacked out completely. No hair on her head, just tufts on the left side. Her ear is missing, her eye is shut, mouth doesn’t even look like a mouth, just a twisted wound.

Her right leg is missing, a bloody stump slowly lifting and falling. I shake a little, and she clutches to my chest with a bloody paw. She shudders in my arms, like a gentle cough and her grip gets tighter. God, just hold on, please stay, please.

I lift my head and do as I was taught in the army. I call for a medic, I scream for a medic. I can’t find my voice, it’s buried under all the bodies and debris. I start to cry then, or maybe I’ve been crying all along. I just need someone to help me, help her. The anger then starts to build as she starts to fade.

Finally, a young medic in white runs over and grabs her from me. He pushes me aside and I try to get back to her, get closer to her. I want to tell her I’m not letting her go, I’m not leaving. I can’t find the strength, and I watch them drag her outside, her stump of a leg waving good bye as her head lulls backwards, her burnt face looking up at the young medic in white.

I would later find out that she died on the way to the hospital.

I received a check for two-point-eight million dollars in insurance coverage, and decided that it would be better to just move away. I could relate then to my friend who left Israel after losing his boy. Who wants to own a bar caked in blood?

A Fortune Awaits Who Ever Can Tell Me Who's More Racist:

Old griseled white man Clint Eastwood, or Perpetually cranky, Knicks floor seat season ticket holder, Spike Lee.

The two acclaimed directors started mouthing off to each other over Lee's comments that Eastwood failed to place a single black actor into either one of his recent World War Two epics "Flag of Our Fathers" and "Letters From Iwo Jima."

To this, Eastwood plainly called Lee "nuts" and told him to "Shut his face."

And to that... Lee explained to the media that Eastwood was not his father and they were currently not standing on a plantation.

See, why do some people have to take it to that level? I'm not just talking about blacks, I'm talking about everyone. Because everyone does it, even we white folks are just as guilty of pulling the (reverse) race card as a black guy, Asian lady, Mexican chulo, whatever.

Anytime there's a disagreement between two people of opposite skin color, one (usually whoever's on the losing side of things) will immdiately pull the race card and throw it down like an NFL ref with a yellow flag.

An example I had the pleasure to overhear a few years ago on a Manhattan-bound Q train:

"I don't know what you're talking about dude, she's not that hot," said a white guy to his black friend.

"Why don't you think she's hot? It's because she's black, right?" Said the black friend.

"Or.. it could be because she's fifty pounds overweight and has bad skin?"

"You're saying black skin is bad skin?"

"No, I'm saying that pock marks and flakes make bad skin..."

And yet, this poor white guy couldn't win! Everything he said was being bent back around to make him look like a racist. In public.

And that's a heavy weapon to be able to weild, because no one, black or white or yellow or brown or green, likes to be a racist. ...no wait, let me rephrase that: People don't like to be thought of as racist.

It's because individually, we all are racist and revel in it. I am, you are, your sister is, and most likely the girl behind the cash register at the GAP is too. We all pass judgement on people based on appearances alone.

Take that girl at the GAP register there. I bet she swipes at least 100 credit cards in her four hour shift. For however many she swipes that come back over their limit and rejected, I almost guarentee she thinks the card owner is a deadbeat scum bag.

I'll tell you this much: I've had credit cards turned down more than once, and it's a shitty feeling to have someone come back to you like "oh hey, do you have another card, this one's rejected." And when they say it, it feels like all the people in the place you're at all collectively took a breath at the same time, so everyone heard what was said to you. It doesn't make you a bad person, just slightly irresponsible.

But back to the subject of racism: Who's the bigger racist, Clint or Spike? Clint left out black people from two of his films (though I'm sure they were filled with plenty of fucking yellow-fisted nips), and told a celebrated black director to shut the fuck up. But Lee couldn't take being told by a man, like a man, to shut the fuck up and had to make the ordeal racial in nature. No one was even thinking about racism until Lee had to bring into the conversation a plantation. Then everyone saw it as a black/white thing. A struggle of oppressed power. Here's another black man being held down by an old white man, someone will think.

The real racist is the media. And I understand that's very cliche for me to say and blame, but it's true. They blew this whole thing so far out of proporting that it's almost dispicable. So what if a white guy who's won a crap ton of Oscars tells a revolutionary black director to shut up? Spike's comments were way out from left field in the first place. I'm sure there were many brave black soldiers on the island of Iwo Jima but the story wasn't about them. It was about... Marines raising a flag and fighting for America.

Being in the military, I know, that there's no such thing as color when your life is on the line. The only thing you're thinking about when shit hits the fan is if the guy next to you is qualified or not.

For Once, A Post Not About My Roommate

Yesterday I was at the mall, by myself.

I like going to the mall by myself because when I do go by myself, I'm like a special forces soldier; I know my objective, I know the location of the target, I'm in, I'm out, and no one's the wiser. It's like I was never there, no bullshitting around, no staring at the cute chick that works at the hair salon, ... I just do what I got to do, all the while skirting the ridiculous grunge-emo kids in black parachute pants and Insane Clown Posse hockey jerseys and the sexual predator-esque T-Mobile kiosk salesman.

No, I'm not going to "just buy" that over priced fucking Blackberry wannabe, to return it tomorrow... and everyone knows T-Mobile is the shittiest of the big-three networks. I mean, I have AT&T, so I would know all about shitty phone networks, bro.

Anyway, so I'm in the mall looking for a birthday present for a, uh, friend, and a copy of Capote's "Breakfast At Tiffany's" for the roommate to hopefully inject some culture into his Volcom covered skull (granted I said I wasn't going to post anything about the roommate, but... well fuck it, there it is.).

So I make my purchases at Barnes and Noble, and then cruise over to Best Buy to browse cds and dvds, make a few selections (first season of [adult swim]'s "Frisky Dingo" which is probably the most genius show that network has ever made) and then head to the register. What was interesting about all of this was that for the first time since I can remember I had actual paper money in my wallet.

My roommate paid his portion of the bills in plain old-school-ass cash. So here I had like, 100 bucks in my wallet in various denominations: 20s, 10s, 5s... I felt as if I was playing Monopoly.

The point I'm trying to make is that, in order for me to cash out from Best Buy, all I would have to do is simply hand the correct amount of bills to the overweight blue-clad cashier and be about the business of getting an Orange Julius.

But what was hampering me was the fact that some dude, someone's dad I presume, was trying to purchase a Nintendo Wii with his credit card, and could not maneuver the little card-swipey thingie at the register.

C'mon man, I know you're old, but shit, those little machines have been around since like, 1998, if not before that. You mean to tell me, that in the last ten or more years you haven't had to fucking navigate one of these things often enough to understand that you swipe your card as indicated by the little fucking picture of the card on the top of the slide, and then when prompted, enter whatever information they want - WITH THE FUCKING PEN, YOU JAGOFF - not your fat fucking finger or ... coke nail or whatever you're jabbing at the screen with, and then sign.

I mean, even my dad... my pot-smoking, anti-technological, hippie father can figure out e-Bay. Seriously.

This ... Mayor of Doucheberg... swiped his card about eleven-hundred times before realizing it wasn't being read. Then he flipped it a few times, tried it that way, so on, until he got the right combination. Then when asked to enter is PIN or whatever, he just started punching the screen with his finger, over and over again, while giving plaintive glances to the non-pulsed cashier who clearly was only thinking of his upcoming 15 minute break so he could stand in line in front of me at the fucking Orange Julius. After struggling to enter whatever had to be entered, the cashier, still off in Oz forgot to click something on his end of things, ... fuck people, you do this shit all day everyday! Get your head in the fucking game, Kevin!

Or... Hank! Or... whatever!

So now this guy, who's created a line longer than that of which one would have to stand in to get Hannah Montana tix is told by the cashier to sign in the box.

"What box?"

"The box on the screen," says the helpful cashier.

"What screen?" And the man paws at the bag which contains his fucking Wii. The cashier leans over and touches the box. "Oh, what do I sign it with?"

HOLY FUCK DUDE! Are you serious?! Are you kidding me! ...

By now I'm sighing like Al Gore debating G-Dub back in 2000; my eyes can't roll harder. I look back at the people behind me in line, and no one seems to have a problem standing there, being held up by someone else's ineptitude.

Fucking cattle.

Finally the guy realizes there's a little electronic pen tethered to the box. Audibly expresses his discovery, and scribbles. He scurries away, not realizing he came *this close* to getting his spinal chord removed like I'm Scorpion from Mortal Kombat.

I reach the front of the line, pull out the cash that my roommate gave me for his share of the bills, and it should be mentioned that since it was the first time I've paid actual cash for an item in a while, I did fuck it up. The total came out to $41.98, so I gave the guy $41 even, and just stood there, looking at him. Conversely, he stared there looking at me, waiting for the extra dollar. When I asked him what was wrong, he kinda just looked at me like I was full on retarded and just lifted the wad of bills for me to see and count.

My thing is that, unlike an XBox 360, I'm not backwards compatible. I'm always moving forward.

Like a shark. A Special Forces Shark.

Best Of: September 2007.

Yes I'm fully aware that it's... pretentious (and perhaps lazy) to post some of your own work and call it a "best of". It's also compounded that it's only a few months old. But when I was re-reading this, I thought to myself "Jesus, this is good. I wish I could write an article like this every time..." So here, now, is a re-issue if you will, of an article called "Sunday Morning Thunder" off my old myspace.com blog. It originally ran on September 23, 2007, shortly before I would leave for boot camp.

I hope you enjoy.


I'm woken up from a strange dream this morning by the buzzing of my cell phone on my desk. The dream I was having involved a family trip to Washington DC where I was sitting in on some White House Tour and President George W. Bush showed up and spoke to us. He was wearing super casual clothes, but nothing that I would be too surprised in seeing him in. Not like he was wearing a mustard stained SPAM t shirt and little blue running shorts with flip-flops.

Anyway, in the dream I confront G-Dub about the shitty condition our country is in, and when I look into his eyes, I see that he's got the mind of a child. He has this unknowing innocence behind his eyes, and instantly takes on a "I know you are, but what am I" disposition when I bring up how I've been unemployed for two months and how for every tank of gas I buy, two soldiers die in Iraq.

Then I wake up, to the sound of my phone buzzing.

I crawl out of bed, grab my phone and flip it open. I yawn and say hello.

"Hey Jim, it's your dad!" Says a muffeled version of my father's unmistakable voice backed by what sounds like highway traffic. I figure he's broken down someplace.

"No kidding..." I say back and sit myself down in my computer chair, turning on my laptop, wishing it were a coffee machine.

"You wanna see something pretty fuckin' cool?" He yells. I pause, wondering in my mind what could be so "fuckin' cool" this early on a Sunday. At that point too I look at my cable box and see it's 9 am. I think to myself it'd better be a dead body.

"I guess..." I say instead.

"I'm on the South Street Bridge over the turnpike, get down here, bring your camera too!" And he disconnects. So I pull on a pair of jeans, a t shirt, grab my keys, sunglasses, gun, camera, and throw my M67 field jacket on and ride down. My father's parked his motorcycle along the side of the bridge and is standing looking down at the turnpike in his black leather jacket and sunglasses.

I jog up to him and look over the edge at the rushing cars. I look up at him he smiles at me.

"What the hell am I doing here?"

"Any minute now, there's going to be roughly two thousand motorcycles heading towards Augusta for the Vietnam Memorial Ride, it's going to be awesome!" He says, excitably. I nod along, and scratch my head. I rushed down here for this?

Dad goes on to report to me that he watched about fifty bikes head south just a few minutes after he called me and got some video on his camera. He tries to show it to me, but the batteries are dead and he curses. He tells me he's going to run down to the corner store and buy some batteries and he'll be right back.

I'm left alone on the bridge looking down at the passing cars early on a Sunday morning, crap still in my eyes, etc. I let out a yawn and wonder how long it'll be before some one passing over the bridge calls the cops because they think there's a jumper about to off himself. A visit from the local gestapos of Biddeford would pretty much fuck up my morning, and I look around nervously, feeling very conspicuous. A glance to my right and I see a guy about my dad's age approaching with a coffee cup and an American flag over his shoulder.

It turns out his name is Curt and he lives in one of the houses on the other side of the bridge. He hangs his flag over the side of the bridge and then goes on to explain to me that he wanted to hang a rather large banner that said "The Maine Turnpike Authority Has No Class" in reference to the MTA making the bikers pay the toll to ride up to Augusta today and not giving them a free pass. We chat idly about the volume of bikes and motorists passing by are already honking at the Stars and Stripes hanging off the bridge.

Soon my dad returns and he shows both Curt and I the video of the bikes. He's right when he says it's impressive. An endless caravan of motorcycles traveling southbound pass under him. There's no sound on his camera, so there's no throaty rumble, but none-the-less we're stunned.

So the waiting begins.

We three stand by the flag and wave to supportive patriotic motorists who flick their lights and honk their horns at us. A few good natured truckers blast their air horns. This fills me with a strange sense of pride I'm unfamiliar with. Maybe three out of every five cars toots their horn, gives a peace sign or some how acknowledges our presence on the bridge with the flag. It probably helps the situation that I'm adorned in an OD-Green jacket, which people seem to more freely associate with a protester than a military member. I stop and think about the sense of irony the whole idea envokes.

It's not the politics or the war or even the troops people are supporting, I come to think as I stand on the over pass. It's the idea of America; the American Dream is still strong in most people despite the black eye lady liberty has been sporting the past few years. People see the colors and don't think about our international status or a wayward and corrupt administration. They don't think about how our freedoms are slowly being witteled away by the closest thing to a totalitarian regime our nation has ever had. They see red white and blue and instantly stand behind those colors. I don't think they're thinking of Ground Zero or 9/11 or the war on terror. I think they're thinking about how we as Americans are all brothers and sisters under one flag, one idea.

We sit and talk, we three, for the next two and a half hours. We're all wondering if maybe the bikers took Rt 1 instead. I call my mom to see if she can use the computer to find anything out, and flirt with the idea of sending her out to bring us Dunkin' Donuts while we wait.

By now a few other people have arrived on the bridge, each has a different story to tell. Collectively we all stand by the flag and wave to honking cars. Mom calls me back and says she has a webcam feed from the Kennebunk exit and it shows what she says as "thousands" of motorcycles heading up the road. I pass the word to everyone and we all wait.

By noon, we can see them coming over the southern horizon, two powder blue Crown Victorias with blue lights flashing leading a tightly formed group of about ten police motorcycles from different departments with lights and sirens, leading a never ending cavalcade of iron horses booming, gut shaking exhaust sounds on parade. Chrome and black paint, a real-life manifestation of Eric Burden lyrics in two-by-two formation, pumping their fists towards us, saluting their flag, honking their horns. Leather-clad modern day nomadic barbarians in search of the next village to raze.

We all stand silently, maybe passing a comment between the person next to us, but mostly rigid with the awesome sight of so much machinery in formation. A classless idea showing much more than solidarity and confederation. Total unification for the common good, not protesting or revolting against any establishment, but just simply saying "here we are, and this is why we're here."

Their messages gets across to us on the bridge loud and clear.

I spend most of the time getting pictures and videos (if not up by the time you're reading this, they will be shortly. The video will be in my "my video" section, pics in the "random things..." folder. After about fifteen minutes the stragglers have passed and we all depart silently. I climb on to the back of my dad's bike and he gives me a lift down to the other side of the bridge, some 200 feet where I parked my truck. Curt breaks down the flag, but I still feel the surge under my skin regardless.