Alone

Kisses crept like lazy spiders

Across her neck

White as linen sheets

Blood flowed far beneath

A dead current

Television static filled her eyes

“Do what you want”, she said

While looking for the remote control

The Unlikely Adventures of Carlton Fitzroy, Man About Town: The Pirate Princess

Benigno and Carlton walked down the road, their hands jammed into the pockets of their coats, shoulders raised in an effort to fight the cold.

“Benigno, suppose you tell me how it is that you are not dead.  Last word I got was that you and Captain Snatchworthy were mauled by a Bengal tiger in the billiards room of the Raffles Hotel, Singapore.”

“Ahhhh, yes, it’s quite a story, Carlton.  You see I noticed the tiger’s tail sticking out from under the table as Snatchworthy was lining up his winning shot.  In an effort to disrupt his enevitable victory I stomped on the beast’s tail just as he hit the ball.”

“You don’t say!”

“I was so drunk I could hardly stand, but when the beast leapt toward me I…”

“Not now Benigno! Look there is the Tavern that I told you about! Dead ahead, mate!  Come, refreshment awaits!”

Carlton kicked the door open, one hand pointing to the sky and yelled:

“Barman! Two gin and tonics at the back table!” The pair made their way through the crowd of bargirls and their companions, to the back of the room.

At that moment they were noticed by a mysterious beauty of Swedish and Japanese descent.  Her eyes black as coal, her corset tied so snugly that the fruits of her womanhood threatened to break free at any moment.  She stood to approach the two when a piggish looking man with gravy on the front of his ill fitting suit grabbed her by the arm.

“Well, a beautiful flower from the East, blown in on an oriental breeze no doubt!  And what might your name be my dear?”

“Fuck off.” She said curtly as she pulled her arm away.

“Well my girl, you might be embarrassed to know that that phrase has a rather unsavory meaning in English.”

“I’m speaking English your gastropod, now be gone before you’re chasing your balls down the street!”

“Umm, yes, I think I will seek the company of a more well mannered lady for my evening’s company, good night.”  And the man receded into the smoky dark of the tavern.  With that she lifted herself from the bar and drifted silently toward Carlton and Benigno.  When she reached their table the gentlemen stood up and straightened their collars.  Carlton's face still covered with soil from what he supposed was Beningo's grave.

"Hello my lady!" Carlton said with much cheer.

He was greeted with a smack across the face so hard his tongue went numb and tears began to assemble themselves in his eyes.

"Usually, I recognize a woman who hits me that hard, but this time I am at quite a loss." he mumbled.

"You may not recognize my face, but perhaps you will recognize the name Norman Leibenstrasse!"

With that, Carlton froze.  "Ah ha he, yes, yes...ummm...how is old Norman these days?"  He said with nervous laughter dribbling from the sides of his mouth like the drool of a mental patient.  

"He's dead." She said calmly.

"Ah, yes well, well, you must give him my regards."  Carlton was now collecting his change from the table without looking down.  Unaware that he was dropping coins onto the floor.  Benigno, once again, was forced to calmly back toward the exit.

Just then Benigno felt a cold and foul smelling hand clap him on the shoulder.  He spun around to meet the woman from the last tavern and a few of her disorderly companions.

"You again!" Benigno said with shock and a touch of fear.

"Grizelda, you know these two gentlemen?" The mysterious bargirl asked.

"Yes, my Lady, they interrupted my anniversary party earlier this evening."

"Ahhhh so it was an anniversary was it?  Celebrating the day you escaped from the zoo? Carlton, said, trying to smile but his face now swelling quite badly.

"No, my first kiss." Said Grizelda.

"KISS! You don't mean to say that a man actually lent himself to the loathsome task of engaging your mouth with his own?  I find that prospect nauseating at best."

"No, Carlton." said the bargirl, "A 'kiss' is how they refer to the act of biting off a man's genitals as he sleeps.

Grizelda leaned in and lightly kissed Benigno on the ear giving a wink to Carlton.

"Grizelda! Enough of this.  Get these two idiots to the ship, we are sailing for the Island tonight!"  

"Hear that Benigno! Get your tanning oils ready we are going to the Islands!" Carlton mumbled one eye now swollen shut.  

"Oh I'm afraid you won't have any time for the beach Mr. Fitzroy." The girl said pressing her perfect form up against Carlton, caressing his swollen cheek.  "You see the sun never shines on Death Island." 

"We got our heads stuck in the pickle jar this time Fitzroy." Said Benigno.

"Indeed, Benigno, and worse yet, no gin and tonics."

How will our heros get out of this one? Stay tuned for the next installment!

The Unlikely Adventures of Carlton Fitzroy, Man About Town: Ladies Night

Carlton and Benigno skipped arm in arm down a well beaten path to the door of an inn, which looked to be full of merriment and young ladies .
"Here we are squire! Drinks and company await!" said Carlton with much fanfare.

Benigno opened the door for his friend, removing his hat and giving a deep bow. Carlton passed through the door with his head held high, Benigno right behind. Both of them however missing the brown paper sign tacked to the door with the words "Ladies Only" scratch across with an aged quill.

"Hi Ho ladies! A drink for me and my Spanish friend here! Gin and tonics might do the trick I should say!" Carlton threw his coat tails out as he perched himself upon the stool sliding a note across the splintering bar.

His hand almost reached the end of the plank when he felt the note curling up before his dainty fingers. Sliding his glance down his frilly sleeve he noticed a large bowie knife, newly sharpened and standing in the center of his bill. At this point it became impossible not to notice a rather rough looking lady, several teeth shy from a smile, glaring at him from only inches away.

"Who invited you to my party?" She whispered into Carlton's ear, Benigno now slowly edging toward the door.
"I did not realize an invitation was in order, madam." Carlton calmly replied.
"Can't you not see there is a party afoot? There be music, dancing, and general merriment abound, be there not!" Her voice now growing sharp. Her breath, a combination of whiskey and tooth decay singed our hero's mustache. Carlton allowed one eye to survey the room, the other firmly planted on the razor sharp knife pressing against his well manicured fingernail.

The collection of ladies was a motley crew indeed. They were clad in the sort of tattered rags that would embarrass a beggar. There were not enough teeth, eyes and limbs to be evenly distributed among the lot, and Benigno would be jealous of at least two of the mustaches.

"Ummm...you ladies do seem to be engaged in a gathering of some sort" Carlton's words now quivering with a degree of fear.
"OH? And what sort of gathering do ye think that may be, friend?" She said, turning her gaze to Benigno, now pressed against the door with his hand on the knob.
"Well! Let's see now!" Carlton was regaining his strength.
"Charm School reunion?"
"Christian housewives biweekly knitting circle?
"Oh! I've got it! Annual meeting of the Miss Countryside beauty pageant runners up!" Suddenly Carlton leapt to his feet smacking the knife from the hags hand. It whistled through the air and landed squarely between Benigno's legs.
"Go you fool!" Carlton yelled, and Benigo, regaining his composure, slid through the barely opened door, Carlton right behind. The two ran down the dirt path hats in hand.
"Know any other taverns in the area?" Benigno asked.
"Just one, but it's a little rough." said Carlton.

Tune in next time for the shocking conclusion.

Grimace: An Intimate Portrait

Walter Grimovskovich, better known as "Grimace", rose to super stardom in the 1970's and 80's by appearing in McDonald's restaurant television commercials. But it wasn't all glitz and glamor for this unusually talented performer.

He was originally cast by the McDonald's Corporation in November of 1971 shortly after leaving the Julliard School of Drama in New York City. Thinking this would be a short term gig to make some money before looking for more serious work, he signed a contract to appear in just three ads as the "Evil Grimace", a hideous character with four arms which he used to steal McDonald shakes and Coca-Colas from the children of McDonaldland.

When the contract was up Ray Kroc, CEO of the McDonald's Corporation, personally asked him to say on and continue the fine work that he had started. Grimovskovich grudgingly agreed but had definite ideas for the future of the character. He felt that the "Evil Grimace" lacked depth, and was a waste of his dramatic training. Also, the set of extra arms were causing pain and irritation to his sensitive purple skin. Kroc agreed, the arms were gone, and in 1972 "Grimace" was reintroduced as the lovable oaf we know him as today.

However, the whirlwind of fame and fortune throughout the 70's began to take its toll, and by the early 80's Grimovskovich was left with a $500 a day cocaine habit and three ex-wives. His weight ballooned from a slim 350 pounds to an amazing 600. He began to make embarrassing public appearances just to keep the money coming in. In January of 1985 Ronald McDonald and several of the Fry Guys intervened and told Grimovskovich that he needed help. He was not only destroying himself but taking all of the McDonladland characters with him.

He agreed to go into detox and within a few months he was back to his old self. Although Grimovskovich never made it to the big Broadway heights he had always longed for, he created something special. He is the heart and soul behind "Grimace", more than a fat, purple, milkshake guzzling blob, more than just a comic foil for Ronald McDonald, he became a true American legend.

The Unlikely Adventures of Carlton Fitzroy, Man About Town: The Return of Benigno Avocado Jr.

Carlton stood sadly at the grave of his beloved friend and confidant Benigno Avocado Jr. The heaviness of his heart caused the roses he carried in his ungloved hand to wilt.
He stood for several minutes pursing his lips then, finally, dissolving into a fit of hysterical grief, Carlton threw himself onto the moist Earth of the freshly dug grave of his late friend. He smeared the soil into his face and hair and screamed:
"Benigno! Benigno! You fiery Spanish bastard! How dare you leave me! How dare you taste the fruits of the afterlife before me! ME! Carlton Fitzroy! The man who gave you everything! Everything! Everyyyythhh..."
"Really Fitzroy, this is most displeasing, and that's my grave your mussing up old chap!", a spicey Spanish voice drifted over the tombstone. Carlton lifted his head, his face covered in soil, his hair standing on end like a specter.
"Benigno?"
"Yes."
"Benigno Avocado?"
"Yes."
"Benigno Avocado Junior?"
"YES you idiot! What are the chances that it is a different Benigno Avocado who knows you and is standing at the grave of Benigno Avocado Jr!"
"Oh! Yes, I get your meaning, umm.....fancy a drink?
"Let's go." Benigno said looking off to the horizon knowing that this would be the beginning of a new set of adventures.
The two walked arm in arm into the setting sun leaving the graves and sadness behind.

Tune in next week for the stunning conclusion!

ALIVE: A Book Review

I must say after reading Alive: The story of the Andes Survivors, I was totally satisfied. Peirs Paul Read's amazing account of the survivors of Uruguayan Air Force flight 157 from Montevideo on the 13th of October, 1972, was delicious. I could really sink my teeth into the juicy tale of horror that unfolded in the Andes that fall.

True, some of the descriptions of suffering are hard to swallow, and may leave a bad taste in your mouth, but in the end you will be wanting seconds.

I do wish Read would have stayed on course, and not excused himself from the table by chronicling the parents search in such depth. The sheer feast of drama, back at the plane, was like a cornucopia of human endurance. But I guess it helps you to digest the buffet of pain and suffering by cleansing your palate on some normality.

You could gorge yourself on the decent sized portions of heroism and sacrifice that were displayed on the mountain. Though most of the survivors were dishing up all they had, some were happy to sit back and be served a banquet of assistance. But in the end they all pulled together like the staff at a five star restaurant to make it through to the final course of this terrible meal.

It will tenderize your heart to see how, through the love of friends and family anything can be pulled out of the fire. All and all I have to say this was a great book, not too much sugar not too much spice, done to perfection in the oven of a great journalist. It will melt in your mouth. Bon appetit.

OMG! I Met Tom Cruise!

A word for word transcription of a conversation I had with Tom Cruise, the world famous actor, at a Hotel in Melbourne Australia on May 26th 2010.

TC: Mike Migliacci? Tom Cruise.

MM: Wow, Tom Cruise! Nice to meet you.

TC: No, no…no…no nice to meet YOU!

MM: Really?

TC: Yes. Don’t you think so?

MM: I don’t know, I’ve never met myself.

TC: Oh…but haven’t you?

MM: No. I have been in a perpetual state of knowing myself since birth.

TC: Yes, well you may think that, but in fact, it’s not true at all. You see, your cells are in a constant state of flux. Living, dying, regenerating… you are a totally new person all the time.

MM: Well, that may be, Tom, but still my life has a great deal of continuity. Not only on the biological scale, but historical as well. The past can't be changed, and it constantly informs the new person I “am” of the old person I “was”.

TC: Michael, that’s the most absurd thing I have ever heard. If the cells in your body are in constant flux, then certainly your brain cells are in flux, changing your understanding of who you are!

MM: Well not exactly, Tom. I mean, the cells themselves carry only genetic information, not life experiences. True there are chemicals in the brain that store sensory memory information, but they only work as a cohesive whole incorporating chemical reactions and billions of cells. The birth and death of an individual cell has no bearing on that, whatsoever.

TC: Oh I see…have you tried those crab cakes over there?

MM: No, not yet, but I was about to!

TC: Yeah, me too.

The End.

Der Fuhrermobile

Kraft durch Freude means "strength through joy" and was Adolph Hitler's pet project of making Germans into happy fighting machines by getting them out of the house and into the country in their very own Fuhrermobile.

An excited Adolph Hilter drew this picture in a restaurant in Munich in 1932, and presented it to Jakob Werlin, the head of Daimler-Benz.
Clearly, it went on to become the Volkswagen Beetle.

But really only the convertible beetle looked truly Hitleresque, I think.

Take a look at this picture:

Tears, Beers and Sad Luck Days

As I made my way up the steep driveway to the Mitre Hotel I almost rememberd the girl's name. The one hanging off my arm with hair in her eyes and smoke curling around her mouth, spilling her Corona... disgraceful.
I kick a can up to the front gate. It rattles for a moment but Uncle doesn't hear us.
"Uncle...hey Uncle." I said rocking the gate back and forth with my eyes closed. My lovely companion now at my feet, tossed gently on the filthy concrete.
Uncle comes shuffling out from behind a door. He pulls up his suspenders and yawns a wide, black, toothless yawn like a lion in some forgotten zoo. He stares for a moment through his swollen eyes "Ahhhhh..." he says.

"Two Tiger Beers" my eyes still closed. Uncle pushes them through the gate and falls backwards into his peeling imitation leather recliner, an empty birdcage at his feet. In a moment he is snoring again. There is the chatter of the bugs, a few far off laughs but other than that we're alone. At least I'm alone, my companion is asleep, her long fingernails curled around her phone. It's pink, like everything else.

I grab a three legged chair and balance myself against the crumbling pillar all peeling and dusty. Another time I might have seen this place when it was alive. When it rivaled the Raffles Hotel. Men in white turbans and white gloves parking cars. The yellow candle glow of a chandelier dripping down the walls like honey, socialites smoking cigarettes, and music coming from real live people.

Now the Uncle runs the place. Pushing warm canned beer through a rusty gate for two bucks a go. They say you can still stay here. But why would you? It has become a dumping ground for everything people want to get rid of. The main lobby and ballroom are filled with old matresses, waterlogged boardgames, broken plastic pistols that still spark, and books and magazines of every description. Not one worth reading. None of the stools at the bar match. Some covered in green slashed vinyl, another a wooden number from some pirate themed place on Boat Quay, and another and another, nothing matched.

Gotta hand it to this place though, it's still got charm. This ain't how I pictured my Sad Luck Days. I pictured a cold place, lonely and gray. Singapore is bright and sunny, friends around every corner. Except tonight. I stare at my companion, sprawled on the stairs...what was her name. I pick one of the beers off the ground and crack it. There his a huge bang. Uncle and the girl both wake with a start, and look back and forth in unison. She lays back down but Uncle is up, he is squinting his eyes and sniffing the air. Suddenly he jumps to his feet, slips into his mismatched bedroom slippers and starts opening the front gate.
"What is it? Hey, Uncle what is it!?"
He waddles off into the darkness. I look inside, the case of Tiger beer is sitting on the ground torn open like a fresh kill. Under the lip of the wound I can see a can or two just picking up the twitching fluorescents. Should I grab one?
Just then uncle comes running into the light holding a huge durian in his arms. The smell of the durian is strong, sweet and mysterious. Uncle holds it out for me to see. I get real close. It's covered in small sharp wooden spikes. The small, intricate valleys awash with ants, thousands of them. The whole surface of the fruit seems to be alive, twisting and growing in the old man's hands. It was beautiful.

The Way Of The Gun

Of all of Man's tools, I think the gun exemplifies humanity the best. The best of Man's faculties are represented equally and exquisitely in this, the most influential of his many gadgets.

One, craftsmanship, from the beginning state of the art engineering goes into each one of these delightful little treasures. They have to work with the precision of a watch, the reliability of a vehicle. After all a lot is riding on them, as they say there is nothing more useless than an empty gun. But this is not all together true. There is much art that goes into them as well. From the pistol in the picture to the M-16 they all have their own charm and the stamp of the designer. Some more utilitarian like a Volvo, some with a bit more flair, like a Ferrari.

Two, science. Both physics and chemistry are equally represented. Gunpowder, a mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate were found to burn so quickly nothing could contain the amount of heat and gas created when it burned. Making it perfect as a propellant or explosive. Also, the gun must be perfectly balanced to ensure that the bullet goes where the shooter intends. To aid in this a rifle was added to the inside of the barrel to allow the bullet to spin as it left the muzzle of the gun. The spinning effect caused the bullet to fly more strait and travel further, much like the spin put on a football.

Lastly, killing. Man's main preoccupation since the beginning of time. Killing is after all what we do best. It is our most efficient means of communication and the one thing we all pull together to achieve. Kindness, compassion, and charity are not Mankind's strong suit. After all when was the last time ten countries got together, spent 100 billion dollars and lost 60 million people doing something nice?

The Park

He was looking at my sheet over his glasses, blowing smoke out of his nose with a dying cigarette in his hand.
"Who you know?"
"Pat Migliaccio, sir."
"Don't call me sir, I ain't no fuckin' officer!" he barked, punching out his Marlboro in an overflowing green plastic ashtray.
"Pat Migliaccio." I repeated.
"Ummmm" he said, rubbing his chin for a moment and then making a few marks on my sheet.
"I'm putin' you with Monk and Buster today. You know how to line a softball field?" He asked without looking up.
"Not yet." I said.
"They'll show what to do."
A layer of smoke hung at eye level in the room. I glanced up at the 3-D picture of Jesus hanging over his desk and reached out to grab my sheet. He handed it to without looking up.
"Call me Joe G. Call me 'sir' again I'll be wipin' your ass off my boot."
"Understood." I said, beginning the tight toothed, upper tongue movement of the "S" sound before stopping myself.
"Meet those two idiots outside." He said, tossing another Marlboro into mouth and looking down at his lighter.
I pushed my way through the screen door to half-a-dozen green pick-up trucks and a peeling picnic table with a group of green t-shirted men standing around a Coca-Cola can.
"Leave 'im alone, he's havin' smoke." said the tall one with wraparound sunglasses and a thick gold chain. Everyone laughed.
"Yeah, he's takin' a break in there." Ha, ha, ha, rang the chorus.
They all laughed and looked at the Coca-Cola can with thick streams of smoke pouring out the mouth.
"What's goin' on?" I asked.
"We caught a bee in there, and Nicky tossed his smoke in there." One of them said and then pressed a cigarette up to his lips and pressed hard as he sucked in. He looked and spoke like a man short of breath.
"We're seein' how long he can take it."

"He Just Won't Sit Still Doctor!"

This is Howard Dully. At the age of 12 his father and step-mother decided that he should undergo a Transorbital or Prefrontal Lobotomy to help control his behavior. Since marrying Mr. Dully, the new Mrs. Dully had increasing trouble putting Howard to bed.

"He objects to going to bed but then sleeps well. He does a good deal of daydreaming and when asked about it says 'I don't know.' He turns the room's lights on when there is broad daylight outside."

The transorbital lobotomy is performed by slightly nudging the eyeball aside so an icepick can be pushed through the paper-like bone at the front of the skull, then into the frontal lobe of the brain. Once there the icepick is "jiggled" slightly destroying parts of the brain's frontal lobe that control behavior.

Ironically in Howard's case the parts of his brain destroyed by lobotomy were the ones that control critical thinking and impulse control, in turn making his condition worse. He was finally send to an institution so his father and step-mother could enjoy a quite evening at home.

There is a bright side to the story however. Because Howard was so young at the time of his lobotomy his brain was able to re-write new pathways around the damaged area, and today there are no physical signs of his having had been lobotomized. But as Howard explains it "It feels like there is a piece of my soul missing."

If a pill of Ritalin or a capsule of Zoloft looked like an icepick do you think people might think twice about using it to control the behavior of their children. Ummmm...probably not. There is much information out there on Howard Dully's experience. Please look him up and read about him. He is the only lobotomy patient to have had his brain scanned three dimensionally by high resolution MRI.

Beware The Animal Lover

Those who look into the dead eyes of an animal and see love have a fundamental misunderstanding of emotion. If the blind robotic movements of a cat are seen as genuine expressions of emotion, than the infinately more complex emotional responses of a human being must be too much to endure.

Of course I don't mean anyone who has and loves a dog is an emotionally dead automaton who could slash a child's throat without flinching. But anyone who I have ever known with an above average love for animals has had difficulty with human relationships.

They crave that tail wagging enthusiasm, that silent stroking and cuddling unobstructed by thoughts, words or any other higher brain function. Obedience, loyalty and dependence these things are seen as a sign of love to the emotionally crippled animal lover.

By the time Hitler's war in Europe was ending 25 million Russians had died. Six million Jews, Gypsies, political prisoners, homosexuals, and POWs had been systematically murdered in industrialized death camps. 32,000 Britons were killed by the indiscriminate bombing of London. Yet, Blondi, Hitler's loyal German Shepard stayed by his side until the end. He only ordered Blondi put to sleep hours before he and Eva Braun took their own lives.

For the record Hitler was also a non-smoking, non-drinking, vegetarian. I'll end here tonight.

The Extensions of Man

Marshall McLuhan described all media as an extension of man. Tools are extensions of our body, if you don't think so try hammering in a nail with your forehead. They allow us to do things our bodies can't do. In the same way media: writing, painting, photography, telecommunications, television, are extension of our mind.

These media carry our thoughts into a wider realm, a collective consciousness, a vast artificial memory system. Like the late and great Carl Sagan said, "Information has gone from DNA, to brains, to books." Well, we have gone far beyond books in the systematic collection of human thoughts.

We can immediately think of the internet as this system, but it is, in fact, much much wider and older than that. Media begins with the first cave paintings, the first written word, the first sculpture, the first photograph and so on. We dump the contents of our brains into a vast reservoir of ideas that is growing exponentially. The latest innovation, the internet, simply makes it easy for everyone to dump memories and thoughts into this reservoir, which was for so long reserved for the most privileged and learned of people.

What is the danger in collecting all this information and making it public? McLuhan calls it a Media Narcosis, a narcotic like numbing effect at being faced with ourselves in this fashion. A good example is Television. It is totally one way. You sit, the television preaches. You may say the internet is different, we all have the opportunity to contribute. True, but one kid sets his farts on fire and 2,250,400 of us watch it in silence.