WET WISDOM

When Scott Knapper's oldest son Rafe disappeared a few years back everyone just assumed he was on a bender. Stuff like that happens all the time. A kid calls in sick to work and nobody sees or hears from him for a week. Eventually he staggers back home a little worse for the wear and everyone knows not to ask too many questions.

But when Rafe took off he vaporized. I mean not even a trace. Nothing.

Old man Knapper, a real Posse Comitatus type, didn't see fit to call the police and a full six months passed before he got a postcard from a place called Northridge in California.

It turns out Rafe got himself a job in the movie business though he was vague as to exactly what kind of job it was. It was only later that one of the boys at The Gin Mill fessed to seeing a bit more than he cared to of the notorious prodigal son.

It seems Knapper junior, now going by the more memorable and percussive name "Knocker," had advanced a bit beyond the muffler and brake man we in Elmira had grown to rely upon to keep our trucks quiet and safe.

Amazing how a local boy could give up a good steady trade in order to try his luck in the uncertain world of The Arts. I can't say I ever sat through one of his films end to end but I've seen enough to realize that the kid has talent. And though I'm not what you'd call a connoisseur he seems to have a flare for those subtle intangible traits that give rise to what I've heard described as "inspired genius." 

I guess sometimes it pays to walk away from what you know and take a risk on what you hope for. 

At the last annual Adult Film Awards - the so called Golden Balls - Rafe Knocker won Best Supporting Actor for some movie that can only be streamed online. His dad showed me a tape of his acceptance where he tearfully thanked his parents and his priest for "making all this possible." Surprisingly (at least for me) he ended his speech with a beautiful quote from the Araveda Radaman, a twelfth century commentary on the Kama Sutra.

"To love is to lose and only through the renunciation of attachments and the abandonment of ego can a lover truly hope to be beloved."

Who knew crazy perverts could be so witty?

 

INARTISTIC ANATOMY

I don't know about you but I like a good chest.

And why not?

Life is short with ever diminishing pleasures so as long as there are still beautiful women out there eager to embellish the world with their bosom, I'm game for a nice 'ol unapologetic looky-loo.

 I'm a church-going, god-fearing humble servant of the gospel and I'm just trying to do the righteous thing. Our pastor leads a bible study group on Thursday nights and we just got through the Song of Solomon.

Interesting stuff.

Solomon 7:3 - "Your two breasts are like two fawns/twins of a gazelle."

And ...

Solomon 7:7 - Your stature is like a palm tree/And your breasts are like its clusters."

Go ahead ... look it up!

I hear from my friend Morris that in Hebrew it's even better.

 The good reverend explained that the verses are metaphors for a passionate love of god but even he knows that's a load of horse shit.  The bible is full of this NC-17 stuff.

In fact, if those pious custodians of The Word of the Lord would just level with us for once, maybe the pews wouldn't be so goddamned empty. 

But let's get back to the front.

When you come right down to it the whole thing is pretty comical. I mean after all, what's the big deal? I'm no Charles Darwin but why not eyebrows or elbows or toes or teeth? And why are nipples the ultimate taboo? A woman can be fine walking down the street half naked in a tank top and a mini skirt but so much as flash a glimmer of a blushing areola and all of a sudden you've gone too far. Even if you're wearing slacks, galoshes and a shearling overcoat, if those lactiferous ducts are seeing any sun you're offending public decency.  

It's all about deception, concealment and the unrealistic promise of more. Human nature can probably be accurately encapsulated by one's relationship to cleavage. Men who are indifferent are as good as dead and women who are modest and disapproving are probably extremely intelligent. 

Thank you dumb broads! 



 

WANNA BUY A BRIDGE?

Me ... on a good day

I suffer from what might be referred to in the taxonomy of the twenty-first century, a "learning disability." I'm neither dyslexic nor analphabetic nor dyscalculic or even dysgraphic. If anything my attention suffers a surfeit and my memory is as sharp as a sushi knife.

No, my problem exclusively relates to how I process information. I have a hard time believing anything anyone ever tells me. If this debility were recognized by the American Association of Pediatrics they would probably call it something like EFS.

Everyone is Full of Shit.

The first signs of EFS became manifest sometime during the Nixon administration. In those days folks tended to give our elected officials the benefit of the doubt. Nixon changed all that and this I believe is his true legacy. Forget China or the Environmental Protection Agency, the formation of OSHA or even Apollo 11 (which if you ask me, I think the moonwalk was staged), Nixon's gift to our great country was the legitimization of wholesale, guilt-free, voluntary confabulation.

No Nixon, no Facebook. No Nixon, no Fox News. No Nixon, no designated hitter rule.

If you don't like it, blame it on Nixon.

Not that this in and of itself is all bad. Quite the contrary. Imagine a world where you took everything at face value and where people traded in trust and good faith. Without lies there's no fiction and without fiction there's no Flintstones.

Or Breaking Bad.

Or Harps of Heaven.

So, as I look upon the horizon of a new year I am resolved and remain steadfast in my firm conviction that Everyone is Full of Shit.

Including me.