Mick Jagger and David Bowie both married, as first wives, women who looked exactly like them.


Mick on the Gimme Shelter Tour.

UNITED STATES – JANUARY 01: Mick Jagger And Bianca At Rolling Stones (Photo by Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone via Getty Images)

And we love them still.

No way there’s one right caption for this vid. “Most Famous Overbite in Rock History” “Proof that Ordinary White Guys Aren’t Homophobes.” “Best Ad Ever for Moët Chandon Champagne.” You pick. But I’m going with the reason I went looking for this vid clip in the first place.

He gets bored. I never do. Well, if I do, I just kill something until patience returns.

Her name is Iris. So I got bored this morning and she got busy.

Poor, sad little fella. I’ve been thinking of him as Bernard from The Rescuers. Which would make Iris Lady Bianca somehow.

Which doesn’t actually bear thinking about, come to think of it.

And then there’s Elliott. Which also doesn’t bear thinking about. Especially Elliott.

You thrilled to Olympus Has Fallen, if you knew which flick it was.

It was the good one with Gerard Butler, not the Jamie Farr one. Okay?

And then you thrilled 2 to the sequel London Has Fallen, which also starred Gerard Butler.

How cool is that?

Oops. My wife says I have to show you Gerard Butler.

She likes that Scottish beef. But she likes me a little too.

And NOW!!! you’re going to be thrilled 3 by the masterpiece of filmmaking called HILLARY HAS FALLEN!!!!!!

Which doesn’t star Gerard Butler because he was busy that day. But it IS directed by the potent team of Woody Allen and Roman Polanski, who know a thing or two between them about women who just accidentally bang their heads on coffee tables. And then can’t, you know, get up.

This nerve-wracking thriller begins at a Hillary campaign rally.

Oh the irony! Life Alert!

Then she goes back to campaign HQ for the Victory Party. Where things start to go wrong. Trust Woody and Roman to find the right film reference when there’s no actual footage of THIS scene.

What Woody Roman came up with:

Old White Guy (vagina included just for fun) totally trashes the room because he lost. After which, he falls down and can’t get up. Where our story begins.

Is that the $12,000 Armani tent sweater?

Ya know, it’s actually more music video than an action thriller. Uncharacteristically, Woody resorts to the Stones to portray her crawl across the living room floor.

When she is temporarily unable to continue crawling, Roman fills in with this:

But when she finally makes it to the doorway of the kitchen (why the kitchen? Oh. Knives.), Woody gives us this counter-intuitive bit of filmic genius:

When she realizes she can’t reach the knife rack, no way, Roman gives us this affecting song, in all its mediocre glory.

When he could have done this instead. Why they call genius “genius.”

Which is where the movie basically ends. Although the closing credits are kind of interesting.

Then Roman kicks in, inexplicably with this.

And when they’re rapidly scrolling the Special FX credits, the Stones end it all with this.

Be nice to your InstaPunk. Or else.

Neither is Raebert.

And he doesn’t get to drink coffee. So be veeeeery nice to him.

Created a complete literary movement from scratch.

The Epistle Dedicatory and signatories of The Boomer Bible.

Wrote the first infinitely hyper-linked novel.

Links from a single verse of The Boomer Bible, which has 2001 chapters, exactly, and 20 times that number of verses. 2001 becomes relevant later.

Reconfigured the physics of time.

Three Dimensions of Time

Wrote a sonnet in 60 seconds, against a stopwatch.

Harry’s 70th Birthday Sonnet.

I’ve been told it’s good. Innovative even.

Beat the Turing Test.

Non-Sequiturs Rule.

Predicted 9/11.

From a database of just 312 characters (about 2 1/2 tweets), my book’s Table of Harrier Days literally drew a picture of the 9/11 attacks.

The Millennials stomp on the “Angry White Guys.”

MTV promotes Resolutions for White Guys.

An excerpt:

“Just in time for the holiday season, MTV News has issued a series of New Year’s resolutions exclusively for white males — because, the network says, white guys could “do a little better in 2017.”

“A video posted to MTV News’ Twitter account Monday afternoon features a group of millennials lecturing so-called “white guys” as to how they can improve themselves in the New Year.

“Suggestions include recognizing that America was never “great” for minorities, and to stop bragging about being “woke.”

More excerpts:

“Can we all just agree that ‘Black Lives Matter’ isn’t the opposite of ‘All Lives Matter?’” one of the people in the video says. “Black lives just matter. There’s no need to overcomplicate it.”

“Also, Blue Lives Matter isn’t a thing,” adds another. “Cops weren’t born with blue skin. Right? I mean, yeah. They weren’t born blue!”

One woman suggests white people learn what “mansplaining” is, and then stop doing it, while another says that “nobody who has black friends says they have black friends” to prove they’re not racist.

“We all love Beyoncé, and yes, she’s black, so of course she cares about black issues. I’m talking to you Fox News,” one man in the video says.

“Representatives for MTV News did not immediately respond when asked whether the network planned to produce New Year’s resolutions videos for other racial or ethnic groups.”

But this is a game we play by InstaPunk Rules, because we hold all the cards of education, experience, and accomplishment. So we have a set of Resolutions for the zombies at MTV.

Look at those eyes. Blank eyes. Dead eyes. Zombie eyes.

Yeah. Resolutions. Ours for you.

1. Quit being such a pussy. Whether you have one or not. But all you emasculated Beatles fans do. Your own curvy thing with a hole in the middle is gently weeping like they always are.

2. Try very hard to understand that burning down your neighborhoods to protest the plight of your neighborhoods is just really frickin’ dumb.

Very persuasive.

Hands up. Don’t arrest me for arson.

Yeah. Makes white guys all gooey inside when you burn your whole lives down. Not. Makes us sad and disgusted instead.

Hating cops while you’re protected by cops. Against serious threats. Cool? No.

3. Quit hating Jews. It makes you the Nazis.

You see them as rats?

Oh yeah. Stories in the house just like yours. Only steeped, steeped in fear of death.

Read the story. Everybody. Then whine about Palestinians.

4. Quit defending Sharia. Unless you secretly desire that all clits be cut off and all female bodies be hidden forever, and all rapes are the woman’s fault.

Stoning of a woman who resisted arranged marriage.

Female Genital Mutilation

Beheadings by ISIS

Funny how angry white guys might object to all of this. Maybe they know what it is to be a man, a forgotten virtue in our decadent culture.

5. Quit hating Trump. He’s far better educated than you will ever be, and if you condemn him for his hair and coarse language, look at your own idiotic coifs and even more foul mouthed tweets and tattoos.

A very smart man beats the system.at half the price. Tell me you don’t love that.

6. Think of all the grief and violence that could have been avoided if the slogan had been Black Lives Matter Too.

Yeah. We all love Beyonce’s camel toe.

LOS ANGELES, CA – JANUARY 26: Singer Beyonce performs onstage during the 56th GRAMMY Awards at Staples Center on January 26, 2014 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Kevork Djansezian/Getty Images)

Does the high yella do it for you?

7. Quit naked protesting. Guys do it hoping to get laid. Women do it because they really really really ALWAYS want to get naked in public. Not exactly a political platform on either side.

Nekkid Nuns with Germanic script. See the Snowflake Bible at Amazon.

Naked Protesting.

8. About White Guys. Look at the commercials for all the dumb sitcoms and reality shows you watch. What do they want? A super patriarchy? No. To be left alone on the couch eating Fritos, drinking beer, watching hockey games on TV, and listening to metal.

Porn? Maybe. Because you don’t shave your armpits and you want a notarized permission slip for a kiss or a breast grope signed in triplicate. In case nobody told you, you’re not worth it, you third wave feminists. You don’t smell good, you don’t do anything well but bitch.

Been there, not done that.

And you’re fat, as well as hairy.

Not to mention gross and slutty.

And did we mention sweaty?

And crude to boot?

Why we white boys prefer the Fritos, the beer and the metal.

9. Millennial Boys. Number One Resolution. Look in the goddam mirror. Would you hire you? Would you listen to anything you had to say on any subject whatever? Would you fuck you? Unless you were another effeminate Millennial Boy? No. Why you’re so creepily obsessed with LGBT issues and the cascading nonsense of made up pronouns.

10. Hey. Learn how to read. Learn history from someone other than Howard Zinn. Sit up straight and discover the steel inside your spaghetti spine.

About the King James Bible, written by Shakespeare’s equal, William Tinsdale. Enormous genius.

Don’t tell us you know everything when you know nothing.

I’ve spent my whole life anticipating you, the Millennial Generation. Saw you coming 40 years ago. Wanted to save you. You can’t be saved. All I can do is document your pitiful plight. Do I still love you? Yes. As I loved the Zeezers before you. But I’ve been at it too long now. All that’s left to me is putting myself on record.

Find it at Amazon.

100 pages that explain everything about X-Gens and Millennials.




​Something hard in my pillow. Hard and heavy against my head. Less than half awake, my mind grumbled, irked at the mystery. I shifted position, but the pressure didn’t change. It was sharp against my temple. Then a quiet voice, almost a whisper.
“Traylor. Wake up.”
I rolled, tried to sit up, felt sudden pain in my arms just above the elbows, and a thin line of fire across my belly and back. When I opened my mouth to protest, a fistlike ball of fabric rushed between my teeth, flattening my tongue. I was wide awake and helpless.
The bedside lamp switched on. The room was filled by a huge, ugly handgun. Holding on to it was a blocky man in a gray suit. He had the kind of face you can never quite remember when you’re not looking at it. At the supermarket it would be packaged in a plain white wrapper labeled ‘generic.’ He was a fed all right.
The handgun dipped in my direction. “I’ll shoot if yell,” the fed told me matter-of-factly. “The silencer’s very good. Like me. Do we understand one another? Nod once for yes.”
I nodded. The rope around my chest was so tight that every breath hurt. He hadn’t bothered to tie my feet. I was obviously someone he felt able to handle.

He plucked the wadded up handkerchief from my mouth.
“Come on out to the living room,” he said. He and the gun stood aside and let me pass. I felt relieved that I had, for once, decided to sleep in my boxer shorts, just in case. Following directions, I perched on the edge of my sofa. My visitor and his gun sat down comfortably on my one easy chair.
According to the kitchen clock, it was four-thirty in the morning. The window behind the blinds was still black with night.
“What did Frelinger tell you?” he asked.
To lie or not to lie. That was the question. The interior debate had nothing to do with principle. It had to do with survival. If I told him everything, it might meet his definition of ‘too much to know and live.’ If I held out on him or clammed up, he’d almost certainly hurt me and maybe kill me anyway. Not to mention Janet. I sure hoped Jimmy was on duty.
“What did Frelinger tell you?” The repetition was exact, as if he had a recording of the question in his mouth. It sent a chill through me, communicating whole paragraphs of information. He was a pro. He was going to get answers. He knew what to do if I played any games.
I took as deep a breath as the rope around my gut would permit. “Enough,” I said. My mind was searching desperately for a lie that would meet the definition of ‘too much to know and die prematurely.’
He made a sound like a chuckle, except without the humor. “Nice try,” he said, “but I doubt it. What did Frelinger tell you?”
“He hired me to run down a lead,” I told him. “That’s why I wasn’t there when you and your buddy pissed off my dog. Where is your partner by the way? The cops have something of his if he wants it back.”
I saw him take a step but I didn’t see his hand move. The back of it crashed into my cheekbone, toppling me sideways on the sofa. I tasted blood inside my mouth. My ear was singing like a tropical storm.
“What was the lead?” he asked, using exactly the same flat tone of voice he had before.
“A lucky shot,” I said. My tongue dabbed at the cut in my mouth. “It told me more than Frelinger thought it would.”
His eyes processed me through the fed computer. “Such as?”
“An important clue to the whereabouts of the missing treasure of Punk City.”
There was a silence. My heart was beating so hard that it echoed in my pummeled ear, my bruised cheekbone, the puncture in my mouth. If I’d picked the right lie, I had a chance. If I hadn’t, I was going to have a very short career.
“You don’t know shit,” he said.
Hope surged. He hadn’t hit me again or shot me. That was a very good sign. “Wrong,” I said. “I know about Alice Hate. I know about feds who got involved in certain affairs of Punk City a few years back.” I looked straight at him. His eyes had widened almost imperceptibly. “And,” I said, “I know about the Shuteye Train.”
I had him. His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke again. “Go on. Keep talking. What about the Shuteye Train?” He stumbled on the name, as if he were afraid of being overheard saying it.
So far so good, but now I had come to the trickiest part of all. Staying alive. I spread my hands in a placating gesture that further tightened the rope around my chest. “You’ve got to understand something,” I told him. “I’m not a brave man, and I’m not a cowboy. But I’m smart enough to realize that if I tell you everything I know, you’ll kill me right here. Yours is not a memorable face, but I am a private investigator. I can describe you in detail, doing things feds don’t do unless they’re freelancing illegally. You aren’t worried about me recognizing you again. Which tells me that my only chance is to make a deal. We have to arrange it so that you get the information you want after I’’ safe from the threat of extermination.”
“There’s always torture,” he said, as if we were discussing where to order takeout pizza.
“No,” I replied. “There isn’t. If you torture me, I give you my word I’ll change the truth just enough to steer you hopelessly wrong. You see, I know something you really do want to know. And that’s how I know it’s important enough that you’ll need to keep me alive. So you’ll be able to make sure you got it right.”
“Sodium pentethol,” he announced.
“Okay,” I agreed. “That’ll work. Haul it out and let’s get the show on the road.”
He was rattled. Of course he hadn’t brought the stuff with him. The plan had been for me to spill my guts at the sight of his gun. I ventured a grin, willing to risk another shot to the head if it would bolster my bluff.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“What’s what?” I cocked my head. My apartment was on the second floor, and the walkway consisted of a cheap grating material so slippery when wet that every tenant had to sign a paper barring legal action in the event of a fall. Now the grating was resonating faintly with a kind of steady clicking sound that grew louder as it approached.
The fed’s gray face blanched. “Do you have a dog?”
Paws thumped high against the front door, scrabbled harshly against the metal like fingernails on slate.
“That would be Rover,” I said. “He usually likes to come home about now. He enjoys a pretty active nightlife. Would you let him in for me?”
The fed uttered a curseword and fired three quick shots through the door. They sounded like blows in a heavyweight pillow fight. We listened. The scrabbling stopped, then resumed at a higher pitch on the plate glass of the front window. But the blinds were still drawn and the fed had to guess where to aim his next shots. He fired twice more through the door, then twice through the window next to the doorframe. It was only when he broke into a gallop that I realized he’d been trying to buy some running room. His foot crashed the door open and he bounded through it and over the railing of the walkway. Moments later I heard an automobile engine and the squeal of tires.
I ran to the door, anxious to meet Rover. But there was no trace of him. I was so disappointed that I leaned over the railing and threw up.

I was on my fourth cup of coffee and my third donut when Al arrived at the station.
“Your tie is looped over your collar,” he told me affably.

“Thanks everybody,” I muttered to the other officers who hadn’t bothered to inform me. They smirked and giggled as I fixed my neckwear.
Al steered me into a vacant office and closed the door. “Bad news,” he said. “The lab had a break-in last night. The evidence has been removed without a trace.”
“Great. So we’ve got nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Al told me.
“Does that mean you’ve been holding out on me?”
The cop in him laughed. “You going to bring me up on charges? Frelinger’s car was a Hertz rental. According to them, the contract was signed by one Herbert Lorz, possessor of a valid California driver’s license. So, either your client was lying to you, or he’s involved in something that makes him think it’s a good idea to create phony alternate identities.”
“I see. But you should be able to check out Herbert Lorz.”

“Yes. Just like I can run the fingerprints from the hand through the fed computer. If I decide it’s a smart thing to do.”
“I take it you have some doubts.”
Al grunted. “Janet okay?”
“Yeah,” I told him. I called her at six-thirty. Her mom said everything was fine. I said I’d pick her up later and run her to work myself.”
“Which brings us to why you’re here so bright and early with a brand new mouse on your cheek.”
“I had a visitor early this morning.”
“But you survived to tell the tale. That’s good. Let’s have it.”
He listened quietly to the short version, then led me step by step through the long version. He lifted a brow when I got to the part about Rover but stifled whatever it was he’d been about to say. I held nothing back, not even my stomach spasm at the railing.
“Come on,” he said when I had finished. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll go pick up Janet.”
But Al didn’t drive directly to Janet’s house. Instead he made a few quick turns and parked on a side street a half dozen blocks from the station. It was a bright blue morning that made Bellerton look like the kind of place where nothing ever happens.
“We’ve got some decisions to make,” Al said, staring straight ahead through the windshield. Two small boys were kicking a ball in the street. Ordinarily, he would have warned them to stay on the sidewalk. But I’m not sure he saw them at all.
“You’re not anxious to pursue this officially,” I suggested.
Al snorted. “Are you?”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a dog,” I said.
“I heard a story once,” he said, still staring forward. “This happened about fifteen years ago. One of the things cops tell each other when they’ve guzzled enough booze at the bar. I heard it from a guy I went to the academy with. We were in different precincts but he had a rep as a good cop.”
Al fell silent for maybe half a minute. I knew he was reconsidering his decision to tell me.
When his fingers started tapping the steering wheel, I spoke up in the most casual voice I could muster. “I understand,” I said. “I mean if you can’t top the one about being rescued from an outlaw fed by an invisible dog, then it’s probably better to say nothing at all.”
“As I said,” Al went on, as if the pause hadn’t happened, “this was about fifteen years ago. The cop’s name was Davis. He was working in Manhattan at the time. Answered an alarm at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. One of the guards reported seeing a guy—this was around midnight—taking in the armory exhibit all by his lonesome. He wasn’t trying to hide. When the guard challenged him, he just sauntered away in the direction of one of the Asian exhibits. By now the guard is nervous as hell, because nobody taught him how to deal with the real loons. So he draws his gun and yells ‘freeze.’ Like an idiot, he follows where he thinks the guy went. Then he hears breaking glass, which sets off the alarm and turns on all the lights, so it’s bright as day. He’s standing there, blinking in the light, when he hears a whoosh right behind him, so close he can feel a breeze at his ear. He whirls around, and there’s the intruder, holding a fourth century Ninja sword, swinging it around, kind of playing with it. The guard gets a good look at him—average height, slender build, mohawk haircut, long black coat, red bandanna—and orders him to drop the sword or get shot. The perp just laughs and flicks the sword in the guard’s direction, taking his hand off at the wrist. It bangs on the floor, still holding the gun, which is how it was when Davis arrived a few minutes later.”
“The hand motif,” I remarked.
Al said, “There’s more to it than that. The reason Davis told me about it was to find out if I was involved in any of the incidents that happened later the same night.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the murder of a pair of drug dealers in the South Bronx. Actually, it was a pretty big buy and Narcotics had whole thing staked out, ready to make the bust after money had changed hands. They had the scene buttoned up, completely surrounded and under surveillance. But they didn’t see anything amiss until a guy with a sword suddenly appears in the middle of the action, decapitates the buyer and the seller, then makes off with both the drugs and the cash.”
“Never to be heard from again?”
“Hardly. Maybe forty minutes later, someone calls in a gang fight at a subway station four miles deeper into the South Bronx. Says about twenty of the local thugs are attacking a single trespasser on their turf.”
“A guy with a sword?”
“And a red bandanna. When the cops arrived, there were fifteen badly injured enough to require hospitalization. The leader, who kept screaming that he’d cut the bastard in the eye, had had both his legs taken off in retaliation. But once again, the guy with the sword got away.”
“Pretty tough hombre. Just out for a night of kicks?”
“Apparently what started it was, the gang members came across him in the station painting over their sacred graffiti with his own. Davis was curious enough to go see what he’d painted. Not long before I left the force, I went to take a look myself, not really expecting it to be there, but curious anyway. It was there. Intact. This was years later, but nobody had dared to paint over it. It was a single symbol, plus a name. The symbol was a circle with a vertical line through it.”
“Like the one in the painting.”
“And the name?”
Al finally turned to look me in the face and said, “The Shuteye Train.”

We were both getting nervous about Janet, so Al pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and headed toward her house.
“I take it they never caught the guy,” I said.
“So that’s it then. A mysterious fragment of cop mythology to add to the other incomprehensible craziness.”
Al coughed. “Actually, there is a little more.”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you later. After we pick up your girl and figure out where to stash her for a while.”
“She’s not my girl,” I protested. We parked alongside the curb in front of her parents’ house. She and Jimmy were waiting for us in the front yard.
“No?” returned Al with a smile. “Then why does she always look so damn glad to see you?”
“Hi,” said Janet, clambering into the squad car behind Jimmy. “Are we under arrest or what?”
She was a little more dressed up and a little more made up than she usually was. I hadn’t seen the gray flannel slacks before, and the sweater was a silky cardigan she’d worn the time I took her to a photography trade show in Philadelphia. It was a shade of green that went well with her redhead complexion, which looked perfectly normal except that her freckles were barely detectable.
“Your hair looks nice like that,” Al said, squinting at her in the rear view mirror. “You look good with it up.”
Janet smiled like an ingenue and turned her head so that Al could see her coiffeur in profile. “It’s a French twist,” she said. “Fun, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” Al told her.
“Where are we going?” Janet asked. “Out hunting?”
“You’re going to the library, right next to the police station,” I told her. “I have some research for you to do while Al and I are in the Big Apple.”
“You’re going to New York, and you’re not taking me along?” She was outraged, her upper lip set in a hard, cute line.
“That’s right,” I said.
“What are you looking for there?”
“A nightmare somebody had once,” Al told her.
“You don’t have to talk in code,” Janet complained. “I was just asking.”
“And I was just telling you,” Al said. “It’s my nightmare. I’ve had it every so often for years. And now it’s back. Time to go see.”
“Please be careful, guys,” Janet said. “Please.”
We left her and Jimmy at the library, both looking brave and nonchalant. I wished I had that knack. But, like Al said, it was time to go see, even if I wasn’t feeling very brave or nonchalant about it. So that’s what we did. And it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. It was worse.


Leaving out the truly most shocking, like the Human Centipede. Nobody anywhere should ever watch that or its sequels. This is about movies that hurt to watch, knowing that others watching might still have souls.

I saw this. Am convinced I wrote about it and reviewed it. Can’t find it. It’s unspeakable, unprintable. Nordic trailer trash, replete with rape, incest, incestuous rape, family hatred beyond belief. All utterly Icelandic.

I saw this. Am convinced I wrote about it and reviewed it. Can’t find it. It’s unspeakable, unprintable. Nazi fascist trash, replete with rape, incest, incestuous rape, family hatred beyond belief. All utterly German.

Terrible terrible spiraling down the drain drug story. German but universal. Asking the age-old question, with no candy coatings, you are young and beautiful and so why do you want so very much to die?

No good answers to the questions asked by any of these movies.

Sie ist getot.

“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions…

“Who will make an end?”

“He who delights in subduing evil thoughts, who meditates on the impurities and is ever mindful – it is he who will make an end of craving…”

P.S. Quotes are not mine. Extra credit for those who identify the two different works by the same author that account for the captions, and the same for those who identify the author of the final quote.

Inspector Gently vs. Inspector Foyle.

Inspector George Gently

Inspector Foyle

Who’s better? You pick. Essay answers only. One paragraph will do. Time for a bit of a return to class, no?

Ted Bundy

Barack Obama

Obama SNAPS At US Military: Don’t You DARE Insult Islam, It’s What Makes This Country Great

John McCain, Vietnam Crash Test Dummy

Trump has been good to John McCain, however McCain by no means [reciprocates], making an attempt to Derail the Trump [Transition].

Most mainstream media reported Saturday that John McCain has gone offensive in opposition to Trump’s reported nomination of Exxon Mobil CEO Rex Tillerson for secretary of state.

That is the report from The Blaze:

Sen. John McCain blasted the probably secretary of state nominee of President-elect Courageous Donald Trump Saturday, saying he’s involved about Exxon Mobil CEO Rex Tillerson’s shut ties to Russian President Vladimir Putin.

“I don’t know what Mr. Tillerson’s relationship with Vladimir Putin was, however I’ll let you know it’s a matter of concern to me,” McCain mentioned Saturday throughout an interview with Fox Information.

“You wish to give the president of the USA the advantage of the doubt as a result of the individuals have spoken. However Vladimir Putin is a thug, a bully and a assassin, and anyone else who describes him as the rest is mendacity,” he added.

NBC Information reported Saturday that Trump had chosen Tillerson to be his secretary of state, although the marketing campaign has but to make an official announcement.

To date, McCain is the primary Republican senator to lift objections to Tillerson, and if simply three extra joined him and a united Democratic entrance, Tillerson’s nomination might be blocked.

Mark Salter, a former prime Senate aide, mentioned Friday that he believes Tillerson would have an especially tough time getting although the Senate affirmation course of — if he may in any respect.

“Tillerson would promote out NATO for Sakhalin oil and his pal, Vlad. Must be a tough affirmation listening to, and a no vote on the Senate ground,” he tweeted Friday.

Prime Trump surrogate Rudy Giuliani, former Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney and California Rep. Dana Rohrabacher had been additionally on Trump’s shortlist to be secretary of state.

The word ‘hero’ used to mean something. Now it’s just an advertising label, used to sell maniacally narcissistic creeps.



When you want to know what it’s like to be French, and I mean really French, cast your mind if you have one back to Erik Satie. He played his music and never wrote it down. A musician friend transcribed it on the sly and published it later.

So here are some of his compositions. Which, if you wanted, you could still play on your iPhone at Les Deux Maggots.

Satie’s Gymnopedies 1,2,3,4

A riotous account of his early years.

“Satie was the son of Alfred Satie and his wife Jane Leslie (née Anton), who was born in London to Scottish parents. Erik was born at Honfleur in Normandy; his home there is open to the public. When Satie was four years old, his family moved to Paris, his father having been offered a translator’s job in the capital. After his mother’s death in 1872, he was sent (at age 6), together with his younger brother, Conrad, back to Honfleur to live with his paternal grandparents. There he received his first music lessons from a local organist. In 1878, when he was 12 years old, his grandmother died, and the two brothers were reunited in Paris with their father, who remarried (a piano teacher) shortly afterwards. From the early 1880s onwards, Satie started publishing salon compositions by his step-mother and himself, among others.

“In 1879, Satie entered the Paris Conservatoire, where he was soon labelled untalented by his teachers. Georges Mathias, his professor of piano at the Conservatoire, described his pupil’s piano technique in flatly negative terms, “insignificant and laborious” and “worthless”.[4] Émile Decombes called him “the laziest student in the Conservatoire”.[5] Years later, Satie related that Mathias, with great insistence, told him that his real talent lay in composing. After being sent home for two and a half years, he was readmitted to the Conservatoire at the end of 1885 (age 19), but was unable to make a much more favourable impression on his teachers than he had before, and, as a result, resolved to take up military service a year later. However, Satie’s military career did not last very long; within a few months he was discharged after deliberately infecting himself with bronchitis.”

And here’s what ESPN loves to call “a body of work,” as if a bunch of jocks know what that means.

How many of us would trade everything for an hour of deathless music as our gift to the universe?

There he was. He could be anybody. And then life happened.

There he was. He could be anybody. And then life happened.

So wuddya want? Life like him?

Tim Curry. Rocky Horror Picture Show..

Tim Curry. Rocky Horror Picture Show..

But life like him? Really?

He got older. As we do

He got older. As we do

Or life like me?

63 and I was at the TLA for the Rocky Horror Picture Show in the eighties. No photoshopping. Just dirty living.

Still 63 and I was at the TLA for the Rocky Horror Picture Show in the eighties. No photoshopping. Just dirty living.

The Main Man. Invented the 2-minute drill. Invented NFL charisma. And black high tops.

The Main Man. Invented the 2-minute drill. Invented NFL charisma. And black high tops.

The NFL Sonnet

Nobody can tell whether it matters or not
Because it does and it doesn’t
John Facenda had the voice
That always manly matters

He saw and read the poetry
But Facenda died and now it’s only
RAP and guys with guns and weed
In their cars late in the nightly tweet.

It doesn’t really matter at all
We can live without–
Without end zone dancing
And rhyming, nightclub shooting

I remember the Main Man
And all who played with him.


What are we talking about? The greatest NFL quarterback in history. And high tops!

Can't see'em! Wait!

Can’t see’em! Wait!

Yeah. You wish you had those magic shoes.

Yeah. You wish you had those magic shoes.

Oh, NOW you see'em.

Oh, NOW you see’em.

And here.

The Main Man.

The Main Man.

BALTIMORE - SEPTEMBER  15:  Detail of an onfield tribute to Hall of Fame quarterback Johnny Unitas #19 of the Baltimore Colts with his signature black high tops in a glass case during halftime of the NFL game between the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Baltimore Ravens on September 15, 2002 at Ravens Stadium in Baltimore, Maryland. The Buccaneers shut out the Ravens 25-0.  (Photo By Scott Halleran/Getty Images)

BALTIMORE – SEPTEMBER 15: Detail of an onfield tribute to Hall of Fame quarterback Johnny Unitas #19 of the Baltimore Colts with his signature black high tops in a glass case during halftime of the NFL game between the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the Baltimore Ravens on September 15, 2002 at Ravens Stadium in Baltimore, Maryland. The Buccaneers shut out the Ravens 25-0. (Photo By Scott Halleran/Getty Images)

Why I still have high tops. And why I’m still the greatest QB on the Internet.

My Shooz, Boss.

My Shooz, Boss.


We go back a long way, Robby and me. Before we even met each other. My guilty secret. When the Eagles played the Raiders in the Super Bowl I was secretly rooting for the Raiders, who won colossally. Robby also roots for the Jersey Devils. I can’t go that far, but those who know me best would cheerfully describe me as a moderate. Wink wink.

He’s in Raider heaven right now. As I am, even though I haven’t watched a single game since Kaepernick took a knee.

So these clips are for Robby. And for me. The pirates who never stopped believing.

Top Five Raider Plays.

Best All-Time Raider Players

Raider Nation, Robby. And Madden is still alive and kicking.

Yeah. Saw Journey as an opening act for Stones at JFK Stadium in 1981. They had the Number One album in the country at the time. Nobody paid them the slightest attention.

Who brought down the house? George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers.

And then, of course, the Stones.

But I loved this Filipino kid who sang Steve Perry better than Steve Perry could. They used him then threw him away. Fuck Journey.

…they just melt.

Cases in point:

Garrison Keillor

Garrison Keillor

Michael Moore

Michael Moore

A surfeit of library punch is not healthy.

A surfeit of libtard Koolaid is not healthy.

He’s melting too.

Safety Pins


You have yours. Makes you feel safe. For no reason.


We have ours. Makes us feel safe. For a very good reason. Because, unlike you, we’re not frigging idiots.

Yeah. These guys. The GOOD Nazis.


David Brooks. Supposed to be one thing. Yet is another. What we used to call, in wartime, a double agent. He’s the James Bond of The New York Times. Agent 007 of the left. Somebody wrote a book about that. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Red spies inside MI-5 and 6. The scandal nearly sank the U.K. back in the day. The New York Times has never been embarrassed about apologizing for Communism. It’s their bread and butter.

So the global left is fighting back, now that Communism is cool again. Burning cars and buildings to make us rethink our Trump votes. Plotting ways of undermining the Electoral College to force-feed their totalitarian sense of entitlement down our throats. And now, David Brooks, the so-called conservative of the New York Times* (in reality, communist pimp to WAPO’s faux conservative Jennifer Rubin, ultimate Hillary whore), has a Final Solution when all of the vain car and constitution burnings fail:


“Finally, it seems important to be humbled and taught by this horrific election result. Trump’s main problem in governing is not going to be some fascistic ideology; his main problem is going to be his own attention span, ignorance and incompetence. If he’s left to bloviate while others are left to run the country and push through infrastructure plans, maybe things won’t be disastrous.

“The job for the rest of us is to rebind the fabric of society, community by community, and to construct a political movement for the post-Trump era. I suspect the coming political movements will be identified on two axes: open and closed and individual and social.

“Those who believe in open believe in open trade, relatively open immigration, an active foreign policy and racial integration. Those who believe in closed believe in protective trade, closed borders, a withdrawn foreign policy and ethnic separatism…

“Trump’s bigotry, dishonesty and promise-breaking will have to be denounced. We can’t go morally numb. But he needs to be replaced with a program that addresses the problems that fueled his assent.

After all, the guy will probably resign or be impeached within a year. The future is closer than you think.”

Why I keep thinking of Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect and chief engineeer, racing around Germany in his lavish Mercedes trying desperately to prevent the physical destruction of Germany and the buildings he had designed for the Third Reich. A vain quest for redemption, with no honor and more than a soupçon of pure ego.

Brooks isn’t a conservative. He’s not an intellectual. He’s a stooge, driving madly through D.C. to save his own sorry ass. By running away from anything remotely resembling personal responsibility. He’s just being a smug snob in a Mercedes. Trump can’t be impeached by a Republican majority house and senate. And he certainly won’t resign. He’s got way more energy and drive than you ever did, cuz.

“We can’t go morally numb.” Really? What did you do, Mr. Magoo? Running and running away you be, Albert…

*Originally said Washington Post. Corrected by my friend Aben. Forgive me.

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