Saturday, March 31, 2007


Not since Bobby Kennedy cracked wise with J.Edgar have we seen such a fucking hilarious AG. Alberto and staff just have to walk into a room and ...well come on people turn those frowns upside down. Laughter is the best medicine. His body language and timing are impeccable. And check out that omnipresent little smirk. No matter what he sez it comes out funny. "I find that the Geneva Convention is quaint." "Torture? That's not torture?" "Did I say that?" This guy cracks me up!
In these dark days of the passivity epidemic that's sweeping America AG A.G. is a breath of fresh air. He cares. He's our liar...I mean lawyer. Neighbors erecting a chainlink fence six inches from your propane tanks? Chase Bank changing your PIN # without asking? Back ended by a UPS truck? Call Al. Or if you can't get through, call one of the many U.S. attorneys working for him...I mean you. I don't know what the big deal is over firing some dead weight in the office. From everything I've heard the pink slips went out because these guys weren't doing their jobs. Democrats on the take? Democrats on the junket tip? Democrats cleaning chandeliers, having partys, renovating country houses, hiring drivers, getting massages, making dirty phone calls to congressional pages...all on the .GOV teat? And what do these U.S. Doctors of Juris Prudence do? They investigate some poor Republican for insider trading or outing a CIA agent. Carl Rove may be able to rap, but no one's got it over Gonzales for laugh out loud material. If he leaves government he'll always have a career in stand up. He's funny 'cause he's real. Did I say that?

Sunday, March 25, 2007


Photo: Mariana Rothen


OSSS 1998

Saturday, March 24, 2007


I believe adults should be able to discuss any subject, no matter how disgusting or wrong. One of my favorite people to discuss all subjects under the sun with, is little bro Duke. A couple of days ago I recieved an early morning phone call from Duke stating that he had pulled out his shoulder and his dog Etta had died. Not being able to ski, nor work (he's a timber framer) and coming home to an empty house, he realized it was time to descend from the Maine backwoods and do the family thing for a couple of days.
So we found ourselves sitting on the picnic table, snow melting around us, burning bowls and downing Dos Xs, as the afternoon sun reminded us that winter was finally over. No subject is off limits with Duke and I. We covered all members of the family and quite a few episodes of South Park before we got down to the nitty gritty. "I've never even seen a porno movie." Duke confided "But now that I've got that computer....Christ!" A turkey buzzard flew across the sun, casting a giant shadow across the lawn. Duke continued: "The two girl thing I can watch all day long, but I really have no interest in watching a bunch of guys screw some girl. It may be a homophobic thing. I don't know. But I'd rather see a girl giving a blowjob to a monkey. That would be interesting."
This is where I put the Dr. MeMO hat on. "So what you're saying is you're more interested in beastiality than seeing a swordsman unsheath the saber?" He pondered this. "No. I just think it would be more interesting . I'm not into beastiality." No need to get defensive. I had to admit I had no desire to see this, but was intrigued as to why my little brother would. The winters are long and hard in Maine. "What would be the camera's perspective?" I queried. "I'd like to see the monkey's expression." Duke said, opening another beer. Eventually the conversation drifted into other, less controversial areas and we went down to Bird's for happy hour. I think Duke has become desensitized to porn so quickly that he's searching for a bigger kick. Just a theory. Eventually I think I convinced him that these things have consequences. "Think of the monkey." I implored. He nodded solemnly, "But it would be interesting..." he muttered. He's leaving back for Maine this morning and all i can think of is a monkey grimacing as some girl gives him......

Thursday, March 22, 2007


I'd heard about these devices for some time. It was said they could tell the temperature (both inside and out), predict the weather with an acute sensitivity to any fluctuaton in vaginometric pressure, and with a little practice one could tap into the fickled ups and downs of Dow Jones, pick win, place and show at the local track and, best of all, the vaginometer could show you who's calling before you even pick up the phone! I hadda have one. I typed in my Visa card number **********293, SS# 112-89-4567, date of birth 08/21/72, mother's maiden name- Jennings, and hit BUY.
Every morning I ran out to the mailbox...only to remember I didn't have a mailbox. Duh! If I had a vaginometer I would have known that. Then, one day after work I spotted a small brown box sitting on the snow bank near my front door. This had to be IT! I carefully unwrapped the package. It was wrapped in bubble wrap and dry ice. I thin wispy cloud lifted as I gently parted the delicate flaps of the box. It was smaller than I thought it would be. Slowly my fingers plunged into the moist, dark cardboard cavity. It kinda looked like a SWATCH with a couple of bright colored wires attached. I was soooooo excited I could barely read the installation instructions. Hum? Where the hell did you attach this thing?

Well, It's been a week since I recieved my Vaginometer. After a lot of trial and error I think I've finally got it figured. There's still a few bugs I haven't ironed out. It does say AC on it which I'm sure stands for Alister Cooke and there was a couple of curly grey hairs in the box....more proof positive. I've tried attaching it to different body parts and I think I've figured that one out. It humms softly, which is not at all unpleasant. The temperature outside is 30 degrees. The temperature inside is 36 degrees. It's supposed to rain tonight, Haliburtin stock is a going to go up. Donald's Daisy will come in 2nd in the 5th @ Belmont. Hold on the phone's ringing....damn that feels good. Sorry....unavailable.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


The first sign I had of my new neighbors was the dozen or so vehicles pulled into snow banks and mud trenches carved in front of the schoolhouse. I had sold the property over a year ago and up until now it had been occupied by a bunch of Polish construction workers. They were quiet, neat and kept to themselves. Now the work van was gone, replaced by bed frames, scrap metal and a diminutive ferris wheel placed just so, punctuating the chaos. A Hollywood set crew couldn't have done a better job at portraying instant Cletusville. I felt the old Schoolhouse's pain.
A few days later i got a phone message from another trailor hick living back on one of the exstention roads. "You seen that mess in the corner?" he asked my machine. "We all have to call the town." BEEP! I'd just started to recuperate from my Game Park fight. Now I had to go after the mouth breathers down the road? I decided to go down for a better look. A pot bellied guy dressed like one of those cavemen in the Geico commercial welcomed me with a sneer and spread out arms, as if to say "What the fuck are you looking at?" In fact that's exactly what he did say. "Just checking out your...." I almost said mess "...your cars." I said with a smile. "I'm your neighbor." This disarmed him a little. I think he was expecting a welcome wagon basket of take out menus and potpourie. He told me how the phone message neighbor threatened him and how he was not one to be threatened and.... I started to glaze over and made some excuse and split. This ain't exactly Wysteria Lane.
The next day I went out to my car and found three, count 'em THREE business cards stuck in my car window. Card #1- I Droped a youn G man Here last night from Hilllsale apt 1 at 12:45 am owes comp. $35. Card #2- I expect you to call cab compani between 12 pm and 2 pm on 3-4-07 about payment. Card #3- I have your plate #. I will go to police If payment iz not made. I called the cab co. and they told me they dropped a kid off at my place and he said I was his brother and he was going in the back door to get the money. The cabbie waited for 15 minutes then started writing. If he had banged on my door I probably would have shot him. I followed fresh tracks in the snow around the back of my house and over the chainlink fence. i didn't bother to cross the fence.
I'm not saying it was my new neighbors who stiffed the cab, but while I was talking to the caveman two greasey haired, sullen, saggy assed youth were standing in the background. I know you shouldn't judge a book so to speak, but these kids looked just like I did at their age. Trouble. It could be the ATV maniacs behind me on a late night drug run. Either way. In the meantime all my doors are locked and all my guns are loaded. Welcome to neighborhood. Stop by anytime for coffee and some chit chat.

Monday, March 19, 2007


I'm a creature of habit. I get up roughly at the same time every morning, open the woodstove, take a leak, start the coffee, turn on the radio, check email, drink coffee, listen to NPR, take a shower, get dressed, load up the woodstove, feed Paris and Nicole, start the car, pull out the driveway and head for Stone Ridge. Map Quest Old Glen Wild road in Glen Wild and Atwood road in Stone Ridge you'll see my route. Old Glen Wild road turns into Church Rd. as I pass Jimmy Wild's well drilling and head across Glen Wild road. I blast past Dave Capachioni's place, where he sells honey and take the back way into Mountaindale. The radio is still tuned to NPR and just as I climb the hill out of Mountaindale and wind down into Ellenville, the death report comes on. Who ever got killed by car bombs or any other nefarious device in Iraq or Afghanistan the previous night is matter of factly reported to me at this juncture in my commute. It's gotten so i can't drive this road at any time of day without thinking about death.
You can be as philosophical as you want about life but that only works if you're still breathing. If you're dead the conversation ends rather abruptly.
Rt. 52 leads to Rt. 209 and about this time I switch off NPR and go over to WKRZ. This station plays an eclectic mix of blues and Lezbo singer/songwriter fare. I sing along off key. I head north on 209 past Dunkin Dounuts and the old Shrade knife works factory, past the prison and up the hill to Kerhonkson. I curse the school buses and half asleep old timers putting along, hurrying (for God knows what reason) to get to the job site. I reach Stone Ridge a little after 8am and stop for another cup of coffee and a muffin at Bodacious Bagels. They know me so well they have the coffee (with a little half and half) and muffin ready to go before i can say blueberry. I blow my horn at Claude Osterhoudt feeding his angus beef and five minutes later pull in front of the job. No IEDs or suicide bombers in my path.
When I was coming up in the late Sixties the evening news was filled with flag draped coffins and pissed off hipppies. They read the names of the dead and I can still remember that rancid smell of urine and blood at the VA hospital when we went down to visit cousin Steve. I felt connected to that war. My friends went and fought. Some got shot up. Some died from Agent Orange or just got so damaged they changed forever. I got lucky and avoided the whole mess. But while it was going on I felt we were at war and when it was over I felt a great sense of relief. This war is different. 10, 20, 50, 100 US or Iraqi or Afghan citizens blow up every morning at that same spot in Mountaindale and I barely notice anymore. I doubt if I'll even blink when it's over.

Friday, March 16, 2007


Recently the language police have been very busy. Across the country city councils have been outlawing the use of the N word. There's one thing I want to say in response to this: WHAT THE FUCK, NIGGERS? Don't get me wrong. I'm not a big fan of gratuitous use of this word, but with my rather limited vocabulary I feel it is important to have all the verbal colors in my palette available. Say there's one big nigger of a snowstorm brewing off the northeast coast and and all us niggers are scambling around buying milk and bread and twinkies for the little niggers and checking that the old niggers driveways are plowed out and that nigger of a car will start and we've got beer and smokes and candles and batteries in case the nigger electric goes out.....how would I even talk about this event without the use of the n word? I sure hope those niggers plow the road this time.
Now I'll be the first to admit that sometimes government interference can help. An earlier daylight savings time is kinda nice and the double shot of taxing cigarettes up to $8 a pack and banning smoking cigs in bars has helped the air and even cured me of bumming loosies. I propose we take it one step further. Instead of banning the n word lets reapply to something everyday.....something kinda worthless...like say- cigarettes. A one letter change turns this word into nigarettes. This helps on both fronts, retaining the shock value of an ugly word and helping people with an unhealthy habit. "Gimme a pack of nigarettes. Can I bum a nigar? Here let me light your nig." Eventually smoking and the use of the n word will cease entirely. Just a thought. Now I have to go to the store before that snow storm hits, buy milk, bread and one last pack of fags before the letter change.

Saturday, March 10, 2007


Thursday, March 08, 2007


Just got home from the eye doc. My glaucoma is much worse. More nerve damage in the right eye. This has put me into a funk, so instead driving the hour to work I've decided to stay home, write a little blog, chop a little wood, and up my eye medication. In the words of Towelie- "Wanna get high?"
Junie Bogart called me last night to let me know that his old man Vic Vogelin is making the CBS evening news tonight, with the story of the letters he found in a burned out fox hole on Iwo Jima, and his attempt to return them to the dead soldier's relatives in Japan. Junie's father Vic is one of my old man Dick's best friends. My grandfather Wray basically raised Vic after his own father dropped the ball. Since i was a tiny sprout I've watched Vic and Dick square off in a kind of human version of "dominant buck". Vic's is squat and powerful, and even at 80 is in pretty good health. Dick, on the other hand is tall, and physically falling apart. Dick is stoic. Vic tells you about every ache, pain and hemorroid he's had since the 70's. They are the perfect odd couple pair.
My old man just got out of the hospital (again) for an operation on his back. They found a golf ball sized cyst on his spine. The operation was a success, but now that the cyst has been removed his shoulder hurts again. It's been one thing after another for him. Ever since my mom whipped cancer, the old man has been crumbling. Because of his stoicism it's hard to tell just how ill he is. For this info I rely I my sister Mrs. Budinski, (who as of late has had her own health issues). She had a turd the size of an oak log lodged up there and it took some very powerful drugs and an overnight on the floor of the ER to send it down river. I don't think she'll mind me telling you that. She says the old man is very grumpy, but feeling better.
Well, I guess that's about it for my family medical problems for today. Be sure to watch Vic on the evening news tonight. I hope he wears his signature fleece vest and doesn't talk about any of his hemorriods. I have to go take my eye medicine. Oh, and in case anyone was wondering my vagina is doing fine.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007


Anyone who sez watching TV is a waste of time just isn't putting in the time it takes to get the total overview. On Saturday night Comedy Central aired five episodes in a row of South Park. These five were billed as the "Most Quoted." Of the five my favorite of all time is the "Towelie" episode. The show features the pot smoking, public spokesman for towels and their usage- Towelie. In a high stoner whine he warns the populace to not "forget your towel". And as the citizen ponders this seemingly out of the blue admonition Towelie whines "Wanna get high?" Then he lights one up and his big white eyes turn amber. I swallowed my tongue.
But as funny as this shit is, nothing compares to the news. In hushed, respectful tones, this evening a "newsperson" informed me of a practice growing in popularity across America. It is called a Purity Ball. With all the trappings of a wedding, a beefy young dad gathers his young daughters in cheezy formal wear around him. They hug. They gaze into each other's eyes. They dance. The girls are kinda hot, in a middle American pedophile way. Hair is piled up and makeup is "tastefully" slathered on. Dad is proud. The girls are dewy eyed. Then they sit down at the table, push the angel food cake to the side, and fill out what looks like a dance card. In a way it is. The girls are promising Daddy they will stay "pure" until marraige. They're filling out virgin contracts. Only daddy gets to dance with Jeannie Sue. Jimmie Bob must wait. Then without warning, a statistic flashes across the screen. "88% fail in their attempt to stay chaste." I swallow my tongue...again.
I also heard something about federal funding for these abstinence orgies. This kind of stuff is wrong on so many levels i don't know where to begin. Do these guys know that forcing their kids into becoming contract breakers right out of the box (so to speak) only aggravates those pulsating hormones? Everything eventually goes dewey and there ain't nothing daddy can do. To the 12% that pull it off Kudos, but they'd probably have gone that route without the Ball. If any of my friends with young daughters have one of these shindigs planned, well you know where to send the invite.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

WORKING FOR THE WOMAN (no names have been changed to protect the innocent)

Driving back from Woodstock, where i've just checked the kitchen cabinets for my current client ( on a Sunday no less), I started to think about just who i'd been working for for the past 15 years. Almost all of my "bosses" have been women, and some pretty intertesting ones to boot. Here's the short list:

Candace Bieneke , E81st and 5th Ave.- the only female head of a major Manhattan law firm. Husband- Rick Bieneke (Bieneke library at Yale, most of Martha's Vineyard, S&H Green Stamps. He worked for Candace). This job took over a year to renovate the two floor apartment. Candace definitely wore the pants, but the Jamaican housekeeper Ellen raised the kids. Rick stayed out the way.

Jane Rosenthal, The Dakota 72nd and CPW- Movie producer of such films as Wag the Dog. Husband- Craig Hatkoff (investment banker) President Clinton once came to visit, as did Bobby DeNiro. He said to call him Bobby. I didn't talk to the president, but did inscribe the underside of a floor board- "Bill Clinton stood here." I'll bet it's still there.

Cynthia Carter, Bank St, West Village- Housewife, mom and overall nice person. Husband- Graydon Carter (Editor in Chief Vanity Faire magazine). I knew they were getting a divorce way before Page Six. We carpenters are sworn to secrecy on such matters. Cynthia's better off.

Tatiana Namath, The Dakota- I don't know what she did. Husband Joe Namath ( NY Jets Iconic quarterback of the Sixties). We built their young daughter's bunk beds, designed by an architect. A ship would have been cheaper. When they broke up, Tatiana took everything, even the mantle. The bunk beds remained behind.

Connie Chung, The Dakota- TV personality. Husband Maury Povich (also TV personality). I fixed their floor under the radiator, as their hyperactive kid handed me sharp tools, while the housekeeper took a much needed cigarette break. I never met either of the them.

Catherine Zeta Jones, E75th & CPW- MOVIE STAR. Husband Michael Douglas (movie star). They wanted me to butcher an expensive antique cabinet so their new flat screen Tv would fit. I could've stole any number of Oscars, the complete itinerary of their upcoming wedding, and Ms. Z-J's NY Health and Raquette Club ID. Once again I upheld the carpenter's code and left empty handed. I cried when I cut into that antique.

Patricia Clyne, Stone Ridge, NY- Since I'm currently employed by her I can't say much. Husband- Jim Webber. Jim and I both know who the boss is.


Now that one of the only two Black chicks have been kicked off The Bad Girls Club, for clocking Amy, (because the beeotch wouldn't help carry some stuff down to the beach), I feel sorry for the only remaining sister, Lei-Lei. What the fuck were these producers thinking when they made this cast so blonde heavy? And, while we're on the subject, why is it the sweetest, most well adjusted female in the cast is a titty dancer? Not that there aren't a few stable strippers out there, but....the praying, smiley, talking to mom every night on the phone- Lei-Lei, is working on sainthood. Can she be a plant? I haven't seen her strip yet.
Now that the blackout drunk Ripsi and the mean streetfighter Ty are gone it leaves us with the 3 boring blonde bimbos, the sad Amy and the train wreck Zara. Has anyone noticed that Zara is most likely coping junk? No one sleeps that much. Take it from me. I have some experience in this arena. I feel parental towards these girls. I know like the Star Trek prime directive, we aren't suppose to interfere with the natives, but Christ! I thought this experience was suppose to help these young ladies with anger management and overt racist issues? Where's Dr. MeMo when we need him?
I'm assuming now that Ty is gone another sister will replace her. If another blonde walks in the door i swear I'm going to stop watching. That is, unless it's one of those peroxide bitches from The Real Orange County Housewives. That I would support whole heartedly. Meoooooow! I'm trying to keep my temper regarding all this, but FUCK, one minute I want to hug and cuddle these chicks and the next......well lets just say some of these girls need a stern talking to and maybe a good spanking. I'm going to call my mom. Maybe she has some advice.

Saturday, March 03, 2007


Friday, March 02, 2007


Thursday, March 01, 2007



Finally, after the boomers, Gen. X, Y, Y not, and Gen. next, the media has dubbed this last batch of selfish fucks, the ME generation. I would have learned more about this bunch of youth, but I was too busy doing whatever it is I do, to pay much attention. The label says it all. Only in America can we even afford to name our generations. Do you think 18 year old Somalis hanging out at the local internet cafe with their i-pods and Aks are given a sense of generational identity? If anything the 8 year old Somalis are looking at them like the old timer's days are numbered. Move over mutherfucker. No time to even give you a name. Ack- ack-ack.
It's typical that a society now ruled by Boomers (the most selfish and self absorbed generation of all time) would look through it's rose colored glasses and think the youth is more narcisistic than its own flabby ass. If, in fact this latest crop of sprouts is a little too concerned with their own well being, who do we blame? Once again, I blame the parents. Except for a brief period in the 70's when that meany Jimmy Carter made us turn down the thermostat and drive at 55 mph, America has been on a post-Vietnam era sleigh ride. The ups and downs have been negligible, but obsession over coddling and catering to one's kids has remained epidemic and cuts across all economic strata. The poorest slack jawed, mouthbreather will still max out the Visa for her little darlin's new sneakers and cell phone.
Is it any wonder that a cuntry at war (yet with no draft) spawns a generation of Paris Hiltonabes and Party Monsters. We ask nothing of our youth, and then are alarmed and surprised that they give nothing back. Of course there are exceptions- giving, mature, selfless individuals who want to make this world a better place........excuse me I was just distracted by a porno pop-up. What was I saying? Anyways, my point is this, I'll put up my selfishness any day against that of the kids coming up. Vietnam, Panama, Granada, The Falklands (I feel my new Argentine friend's pain also) and now THE GLOBAL WAR ON TERROR. Through it all I never bothered to save tin foil or wrap a big ball of string or even warm up the car properly in the morning. I'm a little young to be a boomer. Plus I hate those Dockers. If this is Gen. ME, I want to be Gen. ME 2. In words of our new presidential candidate Barak OBono "Ask not what you can do for your cuntry. Ask what the prime rate is and how much you can borrow." Spend baby. Social Security ain't gonna last forever.