A FAKER'S FABLE

Once there was a girl who wanted to be Whole. By which I do not mean in her body or demeanor, which were pleasing and pleasant, but in knowledge. She realized she did not Know all she should and had no idea of what she should read, hear and see to help her attain her goal. She thought about this quite deeply, being a rather precise girl. College taught her enough to attain her career, but to learn Arts she needed specialized knowledge, taught by Artists. But how was she to attain it? She thought and she thought. Then one morning as she passed her mirror she got an idea. She could lure young men to teach her what she wanted to Know, using her pleasing and pleasant demeanor. One for each Art would be enough. Say three or four. One for Literature, one for music, and one for painting and sculpture. She could even attract a brainless good-looking hulk to act as arm candy for a sham boyfriend. After all, she reflected, she can carry on a decent conversation and looks fairly good. Lead them on, and just give in enough to get what what I want, she thought. With her goal well established in her mind she set out to find some suckers-er, teachers (though suckers is the right word, I do not want to offend anybody. Not even fellow suckers. After all, whom do you think is writing this?
She claimed to come from Florida and spent a lot of time in Philadelphia. She took some classes at Columbia, which is where I met here. She came over to my bookstand and Used Her Demeanor to get me to recommend books. It got to the point where I was lending her volumes from my personal library, so attracted was I by her Looks and Personality. I do not know if it worked on the other Artists, but it worked on me.
From the beginning she sustained an Air Of Mystery. Now that I look back it probably meant she didn't want to get caught. I never learned her last name, where she worked, or her address, and she was very reticent to give out personal information. Although she had a cell phone she never spoke on it, instead using it for texting. Even her mother had to text her, but her mother would get calls back. To give the devil her due, I only saw her talk on the phone once, and that was for a few seconds. She would vanish for several days, usually over weekends, and claim that it was for work. If she thought I was that stupid, why would she want my help? I stockpiled some books for her and suggested we meet at a cafe close to us both, as she had now moved fairly close to me. To get her to agree to even this was a struggle, but I think she saw she would have to make some concessions to achieve her goal. She would only spend an hour with me, and that was grudgingly given. Sometimes I would ask her if she'd like to go to dinner, or to a concert or movie, and she'd claim she didn't have the time. While I didn't believe her I'd go along, not wanting to lose what I had. Which was probably why she chose me. Somebody more sure of himself would have told her to go to hell.
Finally she applied the straw that broke the camel's back. When I said one day that I didn't like feeling I was there just as a book supplier she told me that's what I was, and she respected my knowledge and liked me, but sort of said she had "friends" to help her with other things and a sort of boyfriend whom, I guess, had learned not to make too many demands.
Two weeks later the crack appeared. She came by claiming her phone was broken and she was too sick to make our date, but thanks for the books and she'd reschedule. When I tried her phone some fifteen minutes later it worked. Smoke started to come out of my ears since after a while even an idiot should be able to see what was going on.
The next day I tried to reschedule and was told she'd be busy all week. I angrily replied that nobody's so busy they can't slot in an hour for a friend.
Finally the Artist decided to stop masquerading as a doormat. I texted her goodbye and when she asked where I was going I said I was walking out. I didn't consider her a friend, didn't like being used and would rather be by myself than be used. This evolved into an almost daylong series of texts which one call would have made superfluous. You can't show emotion on a text, as was proven when she said she was texting me to see if I was all right. Nope, I said, we were fighting. We finally got together, and she told me she was moving to Philly. She'd keep in touch by looking up my blogs (which she'd only do if she didn't have to leave her E-mail address. Anything to keep somebody from finding her0
I wasn't certain about the Philly move. I never saw her except when I saw her, if you catch my drift, and she never looked at my blogs. Never texted me either. I finally and against my better judgment, texted her and got the usual BS that she'd be in NY in a couple of weeks and see me then.
Yesterday I was on my stand when somebody came over and purchased a lot of paperbacks. They asked me to pick out some SF and some CDs for next week. Seems they're a medical person living on 109th and Amsterdam, about where she lived. This' the type of stuff she'd have bought. Picking up a phone and telling somebody to do this for her is something she's fully capable of. After all, her puppet cut its strings, right? I'm gonna subtly question this person if they show up next week, and if they are indeed doing this for her I'm going to tell them if she needs anything from me she can damn well call me and make plans to see me. Thw worm's got teeth!

SCIENCE OF ORGASM-New books makes sex boring

Outside of a couple of ex-girlfriends, this reviewer has found nothing that can stop or even slow up the human sex drive. Until now. Put together by the trio of Komisaruk, Beyer-Flores and Whipple by Johns Hopkins University Press, this book teems with passages such as "the oxytocin is maximally released at least one minute. Or try this line-"Orgasm is affected by particular agonists and antagonists. To which this reviewer says-do me, mama!
There are a few mildly tittilating passages and some photos, but the passages are overshadowed by the science and the photos are of skeletal structure. While the book has achieved kudos from members of Columbia University, the Kinsey Institute and the 16th Surgeon General of the United States, this reviewer recommends those old stained Playboys one keeps in the bathroom. If you're reading this for stimulation, purchase Sports Illustrateds Swimsuit Issue ASDAP.

DEAR OLD DAD

I walked away and I'm so glad
I never apologized or made up
With dear old dad

He swatted my dreams like a pesky fly
sat stone faced while I went and cried
Gay boys write po-ems, rhyme and poetry
Hit me a homer and we'll see

I was playin' music, had any girl I saw
Still my old man's comments ripped open a sore
I told the old bastard to go off and die
When he did I didn't even cry

I walked away and I'm so glad
I never apologized or made up
With dear old dad

I HEAR VOICES

I hear voices
Unseen ghosts call my name
-Steve-
I know it's not Her
Because She calls me Steven
And I wonder
-What did I do wrong this time-
Coz' nobody calls me Steven
Not even my mother
And there's something about my full name
That makes me think of ruler-armed nuns
And I'm not even Catholic

SONG FOR YOU

You're the daughter of Satan
Mephistoles' spawn
You lie to keep me waitin'
Daughter of the Golden Dawn

666 men have named you
Alstair Crowley's Beast
Amoral men have made you
A succubus and a priest

I lie in bed I'm not sleepin'
I'm waiting for the day
Try to stop myself weeping
Demon spawn hear what I say

I WISH

I wish I had the will, he said
To end this mis'rable role
to take my sleep in the six foot deep
and miss the sonorous toll

Never to hear the lying words
of the woman I once knew
and have the hipsters all compete
haute coutere of the darkest hue

I fear some might never know
of my last opening
For if its not on a texting scroll
They will not know a thing

I CANNOT

I canNOT communicate with this typewriter
you call a telephone
No emotion in cold keys
You do not see frustration when you don't answer
Hate and hurt when I'm blown off
Pain when you can't see me for days
plucking not even an hour from your beebusy day
What I can do for you
Not you for me
Phone words- stone words
I cannot touch you
with still words

Distance mangles meaning
Over a brain boiling with feeling

RUNWAY BRIDES

Now that Chelsea Clinton's married it might be a good time to talk about divorce. I'm a rarity, an American male above thirty whose never been married. This in itself can be an interesting thing, as I found out in Berkeley. On nights when my friend had to work late at the lab she'd auction me off to lab mates whose great looks would insure them of a line of suitors in New York. When I asked one of these women about it I was told that all the men in San Francisco/Berkeley are either gay or married. (Is it any wonder that when I first saw Castro Street I thought of it as the world's largest drag strip?)
Serving papers on somebody can be hit or miss. Usually the intended recipient doesn't want the papers. This was especially true of one of Bergdorf's models, a cute brunette whose husband simply couldn't control her. They were separated but the divorce papers were still out, which meant our model was receiving all the benefits and none of the bad parts of marriage. Part of the reason the papers hadn't been served was that she was no longer living with her husband, and finding her at home wasn't easy. We were taking bets on how long this would continue.
Better Dresses was having a major runway show. Great catering, lots of A-line guests, and lots of eye candy, including our heroine. Most of the models had admirers presenting them with flowers once they got off. No sooner had our heroine stepped off the runway when an admirer handed her flowers and a note. Words were exchanged, and said model sat down heavily in a chair, alternately crying and cursing. Her husband found the one place she had to be, and justice, as well as the model, was serve

WHY THE ASIANS ARE TAKING OVER THE WORLD

Ten years ago I traveled to San Francisco to visit a friend. Three days on Greyhound made me realize the coiner of the phrase "tenderfoot" knew little of human anatomy. I arrived somewhat sore and sleepy about one thirty in the morning. Mentally doing handflips at the prospect of a nonmoving sleep I fell onto a couch and tumbled into sleep.
The next morning I was awakened by my hosts three year old daughter, who sat on the edge of the couch and asked "Do you read and write Chinese, Uncle Steven?"
Instantly notice the difference between an American and Asian child. An American child would have asked "who are you, m***er?" and perhaps whipped out a Glock. This child had never seen me before in her life. I could have been a murderer, a rapist or even a Republican. But she was polite enough to use the honorific Uncle, bestowed on an older person. When I told her I didn't, she told me she spoke and wrote both and was teaching her one year old brother.
While the Chinese maintain a polite distance between Occidentals and themselves they do anything but among themselves. The second day I was there my friend and I went to Embarcadero Center to see a movie. When I told her brother it was Joan Chen's "The Sent Down Girl" he angrily made a comment about Chen being an ABC. Puzzled, I asked what that meant. My friend told me it meant "American Born Chinese." Upon expressing further puzzlement my friend told me that I work near Columbia, I see them every day. Her brother added that they were "Americans with slanted eyes". His sister commented that they dress and act like Americans, not Chinese.
And as of today, anybody walking that epicenter of the hippie era, St. Marks between 2nd and 3rd Aves., are excused for thinking they're in the middle of Shanghai or the Asian Invasion. I believe only two of these stores aren't owned by Asians.
No, I'm not prejudiced. Just observant.

TWO GIRLS

Lest you think otherwise, just because you're born here doesn't necessarily mean you speak the English language as she is spoken, or even American. Just recently I had the privilege (?) of having two college age girlies in front of my stand, where for some fifteen minutes I heard nothing but "oh my god", "awesome" and "like" in various combinations. Unable to take any more obliteration of my mother tongue I leaned over the stand and asked the two if by any chance they were English students.
The comely blonde informed me she was an architecture student, to which all I could think was that the student body was in great shape (or hers was). When the second said she did indeed take English I looked at her and archly said-"as a second language?"

IT'S JUST ME

The black band tightens on my life
To the strains of the Zombies' "What More Can I Do"
What more can I do?
As loneliness crashes in on me
Like waves assaulting the shore
Phone and computer conspire
No messages from no one
You? Have mail?
Don't make me laugh
You? Have female?
Don't make me cry
Je'accuse friends of not calling
even when they don't
after they say they will
After all
It's just me