The Worst Album Covers Ever
Not long ago Ari sent me a link to a site that purported to list the most awful album covers of all time. I deejayed in college and later reviewed CDs for a magazine, and saw some horrifically bad covers, so I got curious whether I could find any of them out there in cyberspace. When I searched, I found that there were hundreds of sites devoted to the subject of bad album covers. In light of such overwhelming interest, I culled some of my favorites and today present for your enjoyment a collection of the worst album covers ever—with the usual BlackNotBlack twist. We start off with some plantation variety racial stereotyping:
It's hilarious that this is on the Columbia Masterworks label. Looks like master is in a spot of trouble.
Tragically, old Bones never made a follow-up record—the black face and white lips disguise was too effective, and he was beaten to death by a mob of redneck cops who thought he was smuggling powdered donuts.
Regarding the two covers above, yes, that's Maya Angelou at top doing a little hotfoot calypso there by the fire. On the Safari with Sabu cover note that the loincloth-clad tribesman is playing a three-thousand dollar kettle drum. They borrowed it from their friends over at the Philharmonic because the Darky Accessory Outlet was fresh out of bongos.
Jimmy Jenson gazes upon the idyllic scene before him, while holding a hatchet and a brown bag that could, were he inclined, transport the head he's planning to chop off.
How to overcome discouragement? Step 1—don't look at the album cover.
There's quite a bit going in both of the above
tours de force. First, regarding the Richard and Willie cover, I think the accepted spelling of "honky" is the one I just used, without an "e". Also, the woman administering the smoker is holding an American flag, which is a profound statement of some sort—I'm just not sure what. Lastly, the expression of anticipation on funky honkey's face suggests to me that once he goes black, he's never going back. Masterpiece two, by the immortal Tony Tee, is a perfect example of how our visual cues change over time. When the album was released the cover was probably considered a scene of devastating masculinity, a moment of such incandescent male power that it turned women to putty and made lesser men green with envy. Now it just looks gay.
In case you can't believe your eyes, this is indeed an album of demons speaking through people (very much like my god and mentor
Lord Pig sometimes speaks through me). There are subliminal messages on this record. Play it backwards and you can understand them—they call you a sucker for buying it. The kid on the cover is clearly possessed by the ancient demon Pickaninny.
Hmm, what do you suppose Francisco y Fernando are going to do when they get to the beach?
You gotta love a man in a uniform—even if it's a boy scout uniform.
Run run, is more like it.
Pretty much in the same vein as the previous few.
For those who thought Willie Nelson was once young and handsome, here's the proof his face always looked like a burlap sack. Also, the unfortunate album title sounds like what you do just before you start drinkin your own sperm.
Sensuous, indeed. But neither of them would allow you to touch their hair. Also, notice that the position at 9 o'clock on the sex wheel actually came from a Heimlich pamphlet.
Just for counterpoint, we have John and Yoko, who
would have allowed you touch their hair, forcing you to leap headfirst out the window instead.
Seriously though, we love John Lennon. Last but by no means least, we have a couple of favorites at left—Joyce (a Brazilian bossa singer, some of whose music I own) and the German singer Heino. All I can say is glasses are, will always be, and always have been, sexy. For some reason Heino, whose name really should be Gecko, makes me think of Frau Frabissina. I am deeply afraid of this woman.
Seriously though, we love Heino. BlackNotBlack does not endorse any of the views expressed by the album covers, and disavows any blah blah blah. For more terrible album art, try the links below:
rateyourmusic.com,
octanecreative.com,
coverbrowser.com
Last Night in Rio
I woke up the next afternoon before the sun went down. I'd made a choice after the beginning of the trip, and realized late parties would prevent any chance of appreciating Rio under the sun. I missed breakfasts, lunches, and all of the basics most people enjoy during daylight.
I opened the mini-fridge in the apartment, found only water, juice, and crackers—no beer. For once, I felt relief finding the fridge without beer. We had partied the past ten nights and early mornings. Time to slow down and soak in the city. The guys collected without many words until I asked if I missed anything after leaving the
esplanade the night before—no, wait, that morning, or . . . damn, head hurts. Where the fuck are my shades?
Wondering aloud what to do the last night of the trip, the boys handed it over to me. Your choice, Ari, lead the way. Step one—sandals, wallets, and keys. Step two—hand our room keys to the staff at the front desk with a casual nod and smile. Pointless to say good morning at sunset. Step three—quick stop at the store across the street to grab a big bottle of water for a walk to Copacabana. We'd already begun strolling downhill, so gravity narrated the rest of the tale for the evening.
Just stroll with the flow downhill, and we were pulled right back to our regular locations. We headed straight to the same terrace of the same restaurant, with the same professionals pulling out chairs and arranging a table for us. Don't recall what the other dudes ordered, but I asked the waiters for suggestions along the line of
mariscos, and dined on fruits of the sea I'd never seen, studied, nor dreamed. I thought about one last
caipirinha, but no need for that. Just beer,
sangría, and water sufficed.
A special peace settled on the streets and beach of Copacabana that evening. No hurry, I just wanted to soak it all in. Skipping dessert and coffee, we strolled across the street to our regular
baizharinha. I would hesitate to label us regulars, since we only visited the location for ten days and nights. The people offering service and the locals hanging out alongside made us feel like we were sharing a community living room.
Then the band appeared. Never noticed them setting up, only felt the drums and heard the guitar strings. I wondered aloud if someone had a good stereo in a taxi passing by. Then I wondered aloud if it was an
axè, or one of the other Brazilian genres I noticed in a local music paper. Then Doug asked why I always wonder aloud.
The rhythm, the melody, the tune, and the atmosphere all felt exactly like what I expected for a Rio experience. This was why we ran around the town in a taxi trying to hunt down the spots we discovered in every travel book, rumor, and website. All along we had no need to hunt for anything. We only had to wait patiently, take it easy, and Rio brought us what we wanted.
The bossa nova hippies played on, and we chatted with one of the dudes who was picking up cans for income. I asked if he could drink on the job, and he laughed. So I bought him a beer. The one musician who played some funky mix of bossa nova and reggae handed his guitar to the sound man. He walked right over to us and smacked hands with a snap and a knock. We stood stage left, so he probably had a good view of us kicking back and digging his music for real, something unique and forceful we'd never experienced, but which we knew waited for us in Rio.
Sabrina, our favorite waitress, laughed at us travelers trying to revel in the local cool. The soundman took the stage, and the locals began shouting out requests. The guy looked like a generic middle-class old guy who would fit in better on an American softball team. He fomented the emotion of the people as they all danced and sang along with the music of their lives. I had no idea if he played standards or modern hits of bossa nova or folk songs, but the people enjoyed the vibe, and we felt good.
But the musicians could not play forever, and we could not stay much longer. We had plane tickets and stupid jobs back home. We were travelers, picking out our clichés of choice. The band possibly moved down the beach to play for another crowd of revelers, or simply headed home. Sabrina sat down with us after the crowd left, and shared some details about her life. She lived alone, somewhere in the
favelas. All of her family lived back in the
nordeste, Northeast of Brazil. I forget what town or state she mentioned, but knew it must have been more remote than Recife or Salvador d'Bahia.
I expressed my emotions as best I could, and the boys encouraged me. I said no way, not cool. But these cats have a pact to indoctrinate new friends into their fold by pushing them into doing something out of the usual mode. Egan, Doug, and Steve built an Egyptian personhood of sorts while in school in Colorado. They choose hieroglyphs rather than Greek letters in order to differentiate themselves from the frats and sors—fish-eye-guy going like that. . .
Feeling bitter, I took the push and asked Sabrina out for a dance after she checked out of work that night. She told me she was only going home to sleep alone, so nothing was going to happen. Unhappy getting pushed into that corner spotlight, I wondered aloud for another round of beer. Nobody refused, so we enjoyed our last white sunrise in Rio. I'd traveled there looking for nothing less than an epiphany, a life changing experience in a legendary city, maybe meet a woman made of dreams.
I must admit I fell in love with one of the Finns we met on Copacabana the sunrise of Ash Wednesday. I moved to Helsinki the next year, and eventually met my Finnish family I had never had much contact with previously. The relationship did not work out, but my life in Helsinki goes on. I have my friends, family, and contact with the planet Earth I could never feel in California. I now have certified world citizenship. I demanded a life changing experience from Rio, and she delivered as promised. Blame it on Rio, baby—she can make it all dance.
Labels: brazil, copacabana, rio, travel
A Bright White Sunrise, Part 2
What Ari wrote in his post "Finally Scored Some Shades" is true. I threatened to kill the bloke from Southampton. I don’t normally threaten people’s lives—in fact, this was the only time that I can remember doing it. But this primitive character, who looked like he probably gutted sheep for a living, took such joy in dominating a prostitute that I thought he should experience a little domination too. What I told him exactly, was to look into my eyes and tell me if he thought what I next said was a joke. Then I explained to him that he was sixty seconds from the end of his life if he didn’t apologize to the woman. I asked him if he believed me. He said, “I believe you, mate.” And he apologized.
Thinking back on it, it was inevitable that I’d try to take a stand, however futile, against this particular niche of capitalism that makes whores of us all. And as with the boy who I lectured for pissing on another boy’s face, I don’t think the Southampton bloke learned anything. I sometimes ask myself if I really would have killed him. All I can say is that I meant what I told him. And in the midst of our standoff I whispered to Doug: "Do not step in no matter what happens." But as it all unfolded, the hooligan understood what was in my eyes, and he got the hell out of there. I never saw him again.
That morning of the bright white sunrise was my last Rio encounter with the Finns too—they were flying out the next day. But my friends and I had finally discovered the Copa kiosks, and they were our home now. Each had a particular character—some were social and some were for quiet reflection; some were international and some local, some had live music, and some were just for drinking the night away. The carnival was over, and hundreds of thousands had returned home. A hurricane had passed and the sun had returned to Rio. Storefronts that had been sealed with corrugated riot doors lifted to reveal beauty salons and butcher’s shops and stationery stores. The street where we were staying in Arpoador took on a pleasant neighborhood feel—no different from a block of midtown Manhattan.
Doug and I visited Corcovado—just the two of us. It was a sunny day, and the park was crowded. Scores of tourists were taking photographs of the famous statue Cristo Redentor. I wandered around and sought a shot that didn’t look as if it came directly from a postcard. A small cloud sped across the mountaintop and I saw dozens of cameras lowered as their owners paused, waiting for the sun to return. In that brief few seconds I raised my camera and made the shot at the top of this post. I have never seen another photo of Cristo Redentor like it.
Rio changed all our lives. We learned what it truly was to immerse ourselves in another culture, to buy airline tickets on a whim and just fly away. We have since visited—together or separately—places like Reykjavik, Budapest, Dublin, Puerto
Vallarta, Lisbon and many others. There have been countless adventures—Ari was once held hostage in a Budapest strip club; I once rode stormy seas smuggling two wild animals onto a tropical island. Ari and I actually did see the Finns again—six months later when we flew to Helsinki to meet them. Only a few months after that I moved to Guatemala and Ari left the United States too. But Doug’s story is probably more interesting than all ours.
Arriving as he did, days after his father's death, the trip was a chance to shed his entire bad history. He attacked Rio with an intensity that astounded me. He danced and drank with ferocity, laughed and joked like a madman, and everybody who met him loved him. He broke every rule of safety imaginable, from passing out overnight in a Rio gutter to scoring drugs from shifty street hustlers. He was invincible. He simply knew nothing bad would happen to him. After I moved to Guatemala I tried to get him to come and visit, stay for a few weeks or even months. But he could never quite manage it. And then a year later Steve passed word along to me—Doug had committed suicide.
We discussed why, and we all had opinions. I think his family drove him to it, and I think in the midst of all their negativity the invulnerability he felt in Rio was impossible to hold onto. But in the end it doesn’t matter what I think. Though god and country would have us believe otherwise, each person’s life is his or her own to do with as they wish. Only Doug knows the reasons for choosing to end his existence. But as a friend, I trusted him with my life, so it pretty much follows that I trust him with his own. I support his decision, even if I disagree with it.
There is a world in my mind where Doug still lives, and in that world, there is only one city—Rio de Janeiro. The same sun rises over and over, bright and white as burning acetylene, and "New Year's Day" is playing. The photographs I took, some of which are below, don't seem to originate from any terrestrial place, but rather from deep space. They are like fragments of interstellar static assembled to form images of events that occurred billions of years ago. And that’s how I’ll always remember Rio—as an instant in eternity, a flash from the other side of the universe, gone now save for a few shards of color so beautiful yet so weird it’s difficult to say whether they ever really existed. I guess that's how I'll remember Doug too.
Labels: brasil, brazil, copacabana, rio, travel
Don Imus, 50 Cent, & Good Old American Capitalism
I tried to wait until after our last couple of Rio posts were up, but I didn't quite make it. So I'm postponing the conclusion of that series, briefly, to discuss the Don Imus affair. I know—it makes me cringe too, but if it's any consolation, non-existent readers, I'm not writing about Don Imus per-se, but rather about the mass of pundits circling over his body—and one in particular.
Jason Whitlock, a columnist for the
Kansas City Star daily newspaper, recently published an editorial discussing Imus. Through the wonders of internet technology, I stumbled upon the piece and read it. I actually agree with Whitlock on several points, particularly those he makes about the relative importance of guys like Imus. But then he goes on to bash hip-hop culture. He says: "While we’re fixated on a bad joke cracked by an irrelevant, bad shock jock, I’m sure at least one of the marvelous young women on the Rutgers basketball team is somewhere snapping her fingers to the beat of 50 Cent’s or Snoop Dogg’s or Young Jeezy’s latest ode glorifying nappy-headed pimps and hos."
He goes on: "I ain’t saying Jesse, Al and Vivian are gold-diggas, but they don’t have the heart to mount a legitimate campaign against the real black-folk killas. It is us. At this time, we are our own worst enemies. We have allowed our youths to buy into a culture (hip hop) that has been perverted, corrupted and overtaken by prison culture. The music, attitude and behavior expressed in this culture is anti-black, anti-education, demeaning, self-destructive, pro-drug dealing and violent.
"Rather than confront this heinous enemy from within, we sit back and wait for someone like Imus to have a slip of the tongue and make the mistake of repeating the things we say about ourselves. It’s embarrassing. Dave Chappelle was offered $50 million to make racially insensitive jokes about black and white people on TV. He was hailed as a genius. Black comedians routinely crack jokes about white and black people, and we all laugh out loud.
"In the grand scheme, Don Imus is no threat to us in general and no threat to black women in particular. If his words are so powerful and so destructive and must be rebuked so forcefully, then what should we do about the idiot rappers on BET, MTV and every black-owned radio station in the country who use words much more powerful and much more destructive?
"I don’t listen or watch Imus’ show regularly. Has he at any point glorified selling crack cocaine to black women? Has he celebrated black men shooting each other randomly? Has he suggested in any way that it’s cool to be a baby-daddy rather than a husband and a parent? Does he tell his listeners that they’re suckers for pursuing education and that they’re selling out their race if they do? When Imus does any of that, call me and I’ll get upset. Until then, he is what he is — a washed-up shock jock who is very easy to ignore when you’re not looking to be made a victim."
There's more to the editorial, but you get the gist, I'm sure. I sent Whitlock a response at the
Star, which read as follows: "Good article, however like most protestations of this sort, it leaves out an important point. You discuss violent hip hop like it's a cancer. Hip hop is no cancer—it's a capitalist explosion. It's show business. Millions of dollars are funnelling into America's black community that wouldn't otherwise. That is America, and the game is: Get the money any way you can. I don't like this game, nor do I really understand its rules, but these rappers do. What does it matter to 50 Cent what happens in the black community? It's every man for himself, and that is the alpha and omega of American capitalism. How is destroying the capacity for free thought in the black community any different than chopping down a forest, or dumping mercury into a lake?
"The answer is it isn't. 50 Cent, in that way, is quintessentially American. He's about profit first. So all this raises the question of who is mired in primitive thought. You say it's 50 Cent, but he'd say it's you. Actually, he probably isn't smart enough to say much of anything, but you get my point. 50 Cent and other rappers behave like pure capitalists. Your editorial suggests that they shouldn't. If Fiddy took your advice and aimed for loftier pursuits, all he would be is a black man who has read many books but who can't get a table at Lutéce. I think he prefers the table at Lutéce."
I don't think the
Star will publish my response, or that Whitlock will ever see it. But I enjoyed banging it out, and since it only took me five minutes, it wasn't any great interruption of my daily routine. I think I raised a point you rarely hear in these types of discussions—that guys like 50 Cent actually
are playing by the rules. And guys like Whitlock (and Bill Cosby and others) are in denial. I don't particularly dig violent rap, but all it does is damage a resource, the same way other capitalist pursuits damage resources. It's supremely fucked-up, but under the American corporate system—which famed author and shareholder activist
Robert Monks once described as "a doom machine"—it's also squarely within the realm of what is normal.
Labels: 50 cent, don imus, jason whitlock, rutgers
Finally Scored Some Shades
Fortunately, Egan provided a few photos that hepled me recall which sunrise he meant. I recalled a few white sunrises, but I always need some decent sunglasses in order to enjoy the sunrise. Yeah, the photos provide proper detail how to enjoy local culture.
The bloke from Southampton turned to me after skipping a good scrap with either Doug or Egan. Shit, I have no clue what he tried to say, I just could not believe he sat down uninvited, then made a woman cry, then tried to drum up a scrap. In my experience, no redneck starts shit when they have equal numbers, let alone minus numbers with a working girl on the elbow. I started looking over my shoulder, certain the bloke had some mates behind our backs ready to fight. Well, bless Rio, because I saw nothing.
I walked around properly, which means I took my casual time investigating a good place to take a leak in public. After my visit to the water, I watched all the health enthusiasts joining the community on the beach.
Shit, they just woke up, I thought.
Shit, he's fucked up, their glances suggested.
I get back to the table, and Egan goes into Peace General mode. He adds some complexion to balance out the redness on the neck of the man from Southampton by smacking him on the gut: “You have 60 seconds to live the rest of your life if you do not apologize to her right now.”
Egan jabs him in the shoulder: “ You now have 55 seconds, if you do not apologize.”
Those who had stayed up so far into the morning laughed as much as remaining energy allowed. Egan kept making the idiot's belly and shoulder as pink as his neck. “You now have 45 seconds to apologize. What do you want to do? What the fuck do you want to do?”
I cannot remember if he actually apologized, or left. I simply remember a better vibe hit, so I could go to bed with a mellow conscience. And a young working girl could understand how to segment the market when customers get aggressive. Next morning, Doug and Egan tell me I missed something.
A Bright White Sunrise, Part 1
It’s all a little hazy in my memory, but I remember that the sound system at the kiosk we favored began playing "New Year’s Day." Ordinarily, that song wouldn’t encapsulate the joys of a night in Rio, but the apocalyptic message spoke to me. It said: “Enjoy yourself now because tomorrow may be too late.” So there I was dancing to U2 on the
esplanade in Rio, and other 24-hour party people were dancing as well, and somehow we merged into a large group. The newcomers were Finnish, and we chatted and got to know each other over beers and cigarettes. I didn’t smoke, but I did drink, and since I’d been rolling when we arrived at the beach, the beers made me pretty loopy.
When the summer sun rises in Rio the day instantly becomes scorching. It must have been 90 Fahrenheit by 8 a.m. Guanabara Bay had been fogged over earlier, and as the light came up the water steamed like the coriander soup served in local restaurants. The sky was pure white, as was the sun, the sand, and the façades of the Copa high rises. I’d never seen a pure white sunrise, and haven’t seen one since. I wanted the others to take notice. I cried, “Ladies and gentlemen—our Sun, a four-billion year-old nuclear explosion!”
My friends are nothing if not indulgent of my enthusiasms.
Doug and a Finnish lad named Sami decided to cool off. They traversed the wide beach, stripped off their clothes at the shoreline and dove into the bay. Meanwhile the rest of us compared notes about the samba parade, our lodgings, and what we had done during the week. The waiters at the kiosk kept rounds of Skol coming our way. The sound system blasted "Sandstorm" by Darude, who is Finnish. It seemed providential, so there was more dancing. Afterward, I went on a quick photo excursion and got the shot at the top of this post. Walking back I came across a kid standing on the edge of the
esplanade pissing. He was probably about ten. As I neared I saw that he was pissing on the face of another kid who had passed out on the sand below.
It was a devastating buzzkill—but as I said in an earlier
post, in Rio your ecstasy is always somehow tempered.
I went back to the kiosk and rejoined my friends. I had more beer. They chainsmoked more cigarettes. At some point, Doug and Sami returned from the water and Sami was naked. We stared at him, and he said simply, “The sea took my shorts.” Matter-of-fact, like the bay had a will and had made a conscious decision. Or like it had been decreed by the gods of Corcovado.
At this point, I should mention a little known fact about Rio: full nudity in public is prohibited. I know, I know—seems unlikely, considering that the country spawned Brazilian-cut bikinis and other fashion innovations barely deserving of the term ‘clothing’, but it’s true. The Avenida Atlantica is the main throughfare through Copacabana, which meant there were
substantial numbers of drivers getting eyefuls of Sami's white ass, and the early morning joggers and skaters seemed surprised, as well. The waiters flipped out. They cried, “No, no, no,” and, “Policia, policia, policia.” Sami wrapped a shirt around his waist. It didn’t really cover him (as you can see in the photo above), but as long as he remained seated it looked like he was at least wearing shorts, and that got the waiters to calm down. One of them was even kind enough to hose Sami clean.
One of the other Finns—Niko—suggested that perhaps the lost shorts would return. It made sense—the sea taketh and the sea giveth back. He sauntered down to the beach.
At some point either just before or just after this, an English bloke arrived at our table with a prostitute in tow. He and the girl just plopped down without an invitation. This fella looked like a coal miner—he was gigantic, ruddy, and ugly. If he was drunk at all he was sweating most of the effects away in the incredible heat. About then I felt a hand on my arm. The hand was encrusted with filth, and was attached to a kid begging for money. He was also severely beaten up. He had two black eyes and numerous scrapes. I reached for my cash when recognition dawned—this was the kid who’d been pissing off the
esplanade. I hadn’t gotten a good look at his face before, but it was him—same clothes, same hair, same kid.
Suddenly the whole situation was morally complex. I am the type who gives money if I have it. I consider it my obligation as a human being. And I don’t think about it beyond the concept of duty—which is to say, I don’t expect a reward in gratitude or karma, and I don’t feel any pride about my deeds. Giving what I don’t need is just what I do. But this was different somehow—so I said no. In
porteñol I told him, “I saw what you did to that other boy and I will never give you money. I will never give money to someone who does that.” And then I made certain nobody else at the table gave him money either, and I even made Ari explain to the kid why in Portuguese.
But I could see that the lesson was completely lost on him, and as he wandered off in search of other tourists I immediately
regretted my decision. Who was I to judge? I said as much to Doug: “Maybe the kid he pissed on is the same kid who gave him two black eyes. How the fuck do I know? I should have just given him some money.” Doug said something like, “An adult gave him those black eyes—trust me, I know what I’m talking about. You did right. He shouldn’t be pissing on kids’ faces and he needed to be told even if he didn’t listen.”
So we come full circle to the original question: What is Rio? And as the immortal Frankie Beverly once sang, it is joy and pain—but while we can immerse ourselves fully in the former, we can only bear mute witness to the latter. What does it mean? What lesson do we learn? The answer to those questions consists of another question: What kind of person are you?
I glanced bayward and noticed that Niko was headed back to us. It looked like he’d found Sami’s shorts, so at least the waiters wouldn’t give us any more grief. I was sitting with my back to the beach, so I didn’t actually see Niko approach. Everyone else was too busy socializing to notice him. When I sensed him drawing near I glanced over my shoulder again and discovered that he had not found Sami’s shorts—he had found a dead fish. It looked like it was once some kind of catfish, but now it was a reeking carcass, its head rotted to the bone, two ghastly black sockets where its eyes had been. As casually as you please, Niko said something like: “Didn’t find your shorts, Sami, but I brought you this.”
Sami rose from his chair and took the fish. The shirt he’d wrapped around his waist was gone. He placed the carcass over his cock like some horrible fig leaf and launched into a jig. I’m sorry to say I was too stunned through all this to take a photograph. Even the waiters looked too shocked to protest. These Finns really knew how to cut loose.
Again, things are mixed up in my memory, but sometime after this the English bloke—I do have a photo of him, just below—got hostile. He had been mean to his hooker all along, which did not sit well with us, but now he focused his attention on Doug. I probed the man, to find out what his problem might be, and he explained that he didn’t like blackfellas. He said that he’d never met one he liked and was willing to fight about it if we had something to say.
Doug rose wordlessly, walked the few steps to the beach and traced a square in the sand. It was about eight feet on a side. It was boxing ring or, if you prefer, a wrestling ring. When he was done he gestured to the English bloke with both hands: bring it on. I nudged the Englishman, “He’s waiting for you—go ahead.” And this giant coalminer-looking dude backed down, and not very gracefully. He sputtered, “Wot, 'e’d run bloody circles around me!” I didn’t bother to point out that running around in circles didn’t seem to be part of Doug’s agenda at the moment. Doug returned to the table and the Englishman nodded at him respectfully. “You’re alright, mate. Anyway, it wasn’t you I had a problem with—it was him.”
He was talking about me. I said, “I’ll beat your ass too—right now.”
And he said, “Well, it wasn’t you either, really, it was him.”
He was talking about Ari now. So I understood that this was some sort of test, some kind of barnyard confrontation to establish pecking order. I think the presence of the Finnish girls had something to do with his behavior. But what I didn’t understand was why he felt the need. He’d bought himself a woman—she was sitting right there next to him, a done deal, his for the taking, and she would do virtually anything he wished the moment he snapped his fingers. I was still rolling, so I was predisposed to see the good in this ogre, but that feeling was rapidly giving way to something else. I could almost hear Homer Simpson in my ear: "Urge to kill . . .
riiising."
Seriously though, we love John Lennon. Last but by no means least, we have a couple of favorites at left—Joyce (a Brazilian bossa singer, some of whose music I own) and the German singer Heino. All I can say is glasses are, will always be, and always have been, sexy. For some reason Heino, whose name really should be Gecko, makes me think of Frau Frabissina. I am deeply afraid of this woman.
