Perils of blogging

Blogging is risky business. My last post — about the possibility of an afterlifewas suddenly slapped with a ‘This post is bullshit’ tag. By what or by whom I don’t know. It’s disconcerting to say the least, you feel like you’re walking — or typing — on eggshells. 

There’s a lot worse than walking on eggshells, of course. Like walking barefoot on hot coals, which I think is practiced by certain religions. Or walking barefoot on broken glass. There was quite a bit of walking on broken glass in those old cowboy movie barroom brawls but they were never barefoot. I never saw one cowboy movie where a dude walked barefoot into a barroom brawl. Most of them even died with their boots on. That’s what I’d like to do — it’s more manly than dying in bedroom slippers, or what would be worse, those slip-proof socks they give you in hospital.

I saw a barefoot barroom fight in Florida. One of those coastal town bars where no shoes are required. I remember a Snowbird from Montreal who came down to Florida just to get his feet warm ended up with bloody feet. Nasty business.

That was Florida in the Miami Vice 1980s — great and grisly. My wife had a high paying job as a risk analyst for multi-national companies doing business in dangerous countries, and I was a lowly writer for the Miami Herald.

I was a pretty good reporter, but a classic example of Hunter S. Thompson’s definition of a journalist — a “fuckoff and a misfit.” That fit the Bill all right. It’s a miracle to me that my wife stayed with me for thirty years. Until she left the planet to be with the Silver Surfer.

Which explains why I now live alone on a meager fixed income in a hovel in the Lower Hudson Valley with a cat and half a dozen ghosts, not to mention half a dozen spirits contained in bottles labeled gin, rum, vodka, scotch, bourbon, cognac and a couple of others I can’t remember. All of which are getting more expensive every day.

But I manage to get by. I have enough money left over for French baguettes, Brie cheese and caviar. Brie spread on crunchy French bread topped with caviar and accompanied by a vodka martini with green olives. Delicious. And a Brandy Alexander for desert.

When I want a real meal I go to McDonalds and get a Big Mac and those skinny extra salty French fries — still the best fast food meal in the business.

But I digress, where was I? Oh, yes, the risks of blogging and — holy crap! There it is. See what I mean! Right out of the  blue like that. This is diabolical. I must get to the bottom of it. This evening I will convene a meeting of the six ghosts and seek their advice on this matter. Five o’clock sharp. A wide variety of beverages will be served. Proper attire required. No shoes, no service.

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From Hollywood to Hell


I was going to rehash an article tonight on a Hollywood scandal that happened back in the 1950s about movie star Lana Turner’s 14-year-old daughter stabbing Lana’s gangster boyfriend Johnny Stompanato to death when he threatened to kill her mother. It would have started like this:

SAVAGE FLASHBACK — April 4, 1958

The night Lana Turner’s boyfriend got it in the gut


Movie star’s 14-year-old daughter stuck him with a knife

Lana Turner had been dating ex-Marine Johnny Stompanato for about a year. Johnny Stomp, as he was known, was an enforcer for gangster Mickey Cohen. It was a violent relationship from the start, blah blah blah…

But then I realized who the hell cares? A waste of words and time, just another meaningless distraction from the heartbreak and aching loneliness of everyday life — little children with terminal illnesses who will never have a chance at life, young soldiers dying in sacrificial wars engineered by cowardly politicians in the name of oil or strategic positioning so generals whose lifeblood is war and death can kill some more, the lives lost every day to the covid virus that is merciless and unrelenting no matter what the hell we do to try and stop it, the lonely young men and woman, teenagers, people in the prime of their lives killing themselves because the isolation becomes unbearable, the innocent people in shopping malls and places of worship slaughtered by hate-filled maniacs with weapons of war — and while all this rages to write an article about a Hollywood scandal is an insult to the suffering of so many people in towns and cities around the world.

A Christian blogger I connected with today speculated that during those three lost days between Jesus Christ’s crucifixion and his resurrection, he descended into hell and conquered the devil.

I beg to differ. The bastard ain’t dead.

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