THE DISCOVERY OF THE REAL BLAIR WITCH

In 1999, the horror film "The Blair Witch Project" was introduced to theatre audiences. A year later, "Book Of Shadows: Blair Witch 2" was viewed by devoted fans. Both of these endeavors, although entertaining were not based in fact.
I recently was in the Deep South and encounted the scariest and most evil of creatures. Crawl back into hiding, Big Foot. Waddle into the deep water, Lock Ness Monster. In my upcoming story, I will share with the reader my terrifying face-to-face meeting with the hideous and vile "REAL BLAIR WITCH". Slithering from the bar-room gutters of Milwaukee, the disgusting and horrifying monster of folk tales emerged from the dank and putrid swamps of Louisiana and was discovered in a sleepy, little town 46 miles to the north of New Orleans. Be prepared to tremble with fear, gasp in disgust, and believe that such abominations exist.

"SO CLOSE" A SHORT STORY

"SO CLOSE"

I stood outside the church with my mother, stepfather, and tiny son. We were visiting Illinois to attend the high school graduation of my younger brother. I knew my dad would be there and after years of estrangement didn't have any idea how I would react.

I turned and spied him coming in my direction. My heart was pounding within my chest. For a split second he glanced at me, then immediately redirected his gaze elsewhere.

"There's your grandpa." I choked on the words I was whispering to my two-year-old son. The child in my arms showed no interest in what I was saying to him. My father walked past us, feigning oblivion to his first-born grandson and only daughter.

My mother started to go after her ex-husband. She was infuriated. He had slighted Steven and me. I stopped her immediately in her tracks. "Don't Momma. If he doesn't want to have anything to do with us, you can't make him." She began to argue, but by the look on my face dropped the matter.

We went inside the church and to our designated places. In an effort to distract myself from the pain I was experiencing, I looked over the program. People were noisily filing in. Above their footsteps and whispers, I thought I heard a familiar voice hiss in aggravation. I glanced up to see my father and his mother settling into the pew in front of where I sat. He, obviously, was perturbed with the seating arrangement. I thought the lump in my throat would cut off all breath.

It was a catholic school and so, before the actual commencement started, the priest officiating asked all in attendance to kneel and pray.

I made the sign of the cross and called on God to help me. I begged the Heavens to please let my daddy realize how much I was hurting. I pleaded with the Almighty to let me be forgiven.

My father sat back down, but I remained on my knees. He was inches away from me. I could smell the Old Spice. It was a scent I knew so well since childhood. I inhaled deeply and for a second, memories flooded my mind. Years fades away to times when we were happy. I was his little girl again and we were truly happy. How I adored him. And how he adored his "pretty eyes".

I caught my grandmother trying to sneak a peek at the baby and me. My dad abruptly pulled her close, gave her a scathing look, and angrily cursed under his breath. Immediately, she transfixed her gaze forward. I guess, like her son, she too was lost to me.

The organ played softly and words were spoken from the altar's pulpit. But, I was unable to listen to anything above the white-hot din pulsating within my skull.

He was so near. He was so close. I reached out and lightly touched his coat.

"Turn around Daddy. Please turn around," I whispered. He stiffened. "Please, Daddy turn around and look at me," I begged. I felt him become all the more rigid. Over and over, I beseeched him to acknowledge me, but it fell on deaf ears.

My sobs were uncontrollable. With each passing moment, they grew louder and regressed to childlike affectation. I was hysterical, at this point, and pleaded with my father to look my way, to see me. I cried and repeatedly asked him to forgive me, to love me again. I frantically clutched at his coat. He continued to remain steadfastly cold and totally unresponsive.

My mother attempted to comfort me, but I could not be solaced. Others tried to quiet me, but I would not listen. I may never have another chance to make contact and I had to do whatever I possibly could to try and reach him. He just had to care for me again.

The incoherent blubbering of my anguish and despair disrupted the graduation exercises. I felt myself being led from the church. Once outside, the bright rays of the sun stung my red and swollen eyes. The darkness of my heart was mocked by the beautiful glow of the cloudless morning.

I was despondent. I was alone. The void consuming every fiber of my being was palpable. I knew nothing would ever fill this emptiness.

He never turned around. He never looked my way or heard my heartache. He never forgave me. He was gone, never to return.

Many years later, I happened to see my daddy walking down the street. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. Then, just as quickly, he crossed to the other side of the block, turned, and hurried away. I'd like to think he remembered something and had to retrace his steps. But, in the three decades that have passed, since that chance occasion, I know he's long since forgotten this little girl and there is no going back. And yet, I will forever cherish when we were so close.

Miracle of miracles, my beloved father and I were finally reunited after a thirty-three year separation. I only had his company for a couple years before he passed away in July of 2001, but in that brief, wondrous time we were as we once had been doting father and devoted daughter and the closeness we shared was not even severed in his earthly departure. His spirit envelopes me in a paternal embrace, he hears my most minute whisper and every so often he tugs at my heart and never lets me forget I am forgiven and eternally remain his treasured little "pretty eyes".

"REETNINGS" A SHORT STORY IN CELEBRATION OF MOTHER'S DAY

"REETNINGS"

Does the name Rita McKinnon Olson ring a bell? I didn't think so. She never made the papers, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. She wasn't rich; she wasn't famous. She never enjoyed a moment in the limelight. Why on earth would the name mean anything to you? It certainly didn't ring a chord with me. Individuals like Rita just live out their lives to the best of their ability, never seeking, let alone expecting, recognition from others.

A native of Boston, Massachusetts, Rita lost her father George when she was young to the hands of a murderer. Although, given good reason to be bitter and resentful by this event, she remained an open, optimistic, and outgoing youngster.

Her mother Mary Edna nurtured and raised an exceptional child. Despite hardships that befell her in childhood, she was able to overcome all of these tragedies with an undefeatable resilient spirit.

She excelled in school, was high school valedictorian, and entered college at the age of sixteen. Her ambition was to become a writer and she pursued and mastered studies to this end in university. But, abruptly and to the amazement of all who knew her, before her education was finished and a career in journalism could be realized, she married Al Olson, a man she had met in her mid teens.

Their first baby died, along with her creative dreams and hopes for a degree. But, the marriage survived and finally, after five childless years, a son was born to the couple. In the years that followed, Rita and Al became the parents of eight additional children.

The promise of a better life and opportunity for each child and the guarantee of the best of educational advantages caused the family to move from the East coast across the country to California. In California anyone, for a nominal fee, could be taught and attain knowledge at excellent colleges and jobs were plentiful.

Rita was a wonderful mother, caring, doting, and always available with unconditional love for each of her children. She, obviously, was born for this maternal role.

As the children grew being an ever present Mom was less called for. Rita volunteered her time teaching catechism, visited and fed the ill in her parish, and, to her delight, was afforded the opportunity to head a small writing workshop in her community.

This classy lady gave her all to every endeavor she embraced in her life. She was a loyal and faithful wife for over forty years of marriage, watched her children mature and go out into the world-a doctor, a lawyer, a principal, a pilot to name a few. Each and every one successful in the fields they pursued. She welcomed a new generation of grandchildren and bestowed on them freely the true essence of herself-love.

Despite a long and hard fight, Rita lost her battle with breast cancer in the summer of 1984. She was sixty-three. Rita was buried in a quiet ceremony, mourned by those whose lives she touched with her warmth and generosity. She never made the papers, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. But, Rita McKinnon Olson changed my life in a most unexpected way and blessed me with the cherished gift of my life partner, her daughter Mary.

Did you ever hear of Gloria Subat Owen Leahy Koons? I'd bet you haven't. She too didn't achieve notoriety or fame. Although, she could be flashy and gregarious, the life of a party, she could also lapse into morbidity and depression, secluding herself from the world. Either way, it was of no consequence to others, or was it?

Born in New Orleans, Louisiana, Gloria was the last child born to Delta Fucich and Andrew Subat. She had two sisters and three brothers. The beautiful little girl was pampered and protected by her parents and older siblings. She did exceedingly well in school and extra curricular activities.

Her education was cut short before attending college, when she met and married Kenneth Owen, a prominent contractor. To the couple a son was born. But, the marriage floundered from the very start due to drinking and infidelities on the part of her husband. The young bride and mother took her small son, left the union, and got a divorce.

Always sheltered throughout her life, she was ill equipped to make it on her own, let alone raise a child. She and Kenneth rekindled their relationship and remarried. But, his destructive behavior hadn't changed and in fact grew far worse. His alcoholism was undeniable and soon into the second marriage he was accused of raping a young woman. Gloria immediately separated from him and soon after her divorce was finalized, Kenneth died of an alcohol related illness.

Gloria enjoyed the single life, while relatives cared for her young child. Then, when she was around thirty, she met the handsome and suave Captain Jeremiah Joseph Leahy III. They fell head over heels in love, married, and soon welcomed a daughter into the world. A son followed two years later.

Gloria and the children wanted for nothing materially and she enjoyed once again living the upper middle class lifestyle she knew so well growing up. But, to maintain this level of comfort and wealth, Jerry was forced to ship out a great deal of the time.

To the outside world the big house on Memphis Street and the well-respected family within personified the American Dream. But looks can be deceiving as we all know.

When the Captain was called away to different ports, Gloria too traveled. But the trips she made were psychotic journeys from reality. Tragically, the younger children were forced to join her on these excursions, as the older boy was, for the most part, away at school.

Manically driven, she would take the youngsters to this bar and that bar, on business she said. From this man to that man, all uncles she claimed. She knew no bounds when it came to having fun and little did she care what affect it had on the girl and boy in tow. Whether she did more than flirt and tease the male acquaintances she made in the lounges she frequented will never really be known, but what is fact is that on more than one occasion a drunk rebuffed suitor of the evening found his satisfaction on the top of a terrified little girl, her daughter.

The house stank, the rooms were filthy and cluttered with trash, the kids were dirty, hungry, and scared. In a darkened bedroom, Gloria either sobbed uncontrollably or lay with a vacant stare for hours to days. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. She did not hear the whimpers and pleas. The sick and frightened children weren't noticed. Again and again she was off and again her children were made to accompany her.

Her marriage dissolved, all possessions were lost. Her addictive and self-destructive behavior plagued each child in one way or another. Gloria fumbled through her remaining days with questionable sanity. Why would she continue to put herself into position after position of detriment and heartache?

In the fall of 1999, Gloria died. She never was famous or gained notoriety. Those aims were abandoned a long time before. Of her three children, only her youngest son attended his mother's service. Some matters just can't be rectified, some transgressions never repaired. I know. I cry and think of my mother often.

I clicked on the computer, entered the recovery chat-room, and typed in a couple words. Thus began my relationship with Mary. From the moment we connected, we talked incessantly online and then, by phone. And despite each of us being from the opposite coast, there was little distance between our views and feelings on most every subject. It was love at first type.

Acquainting ourselves with one another, our backgrounds were discussed and, of course, our families were mentioned. Mary began to tell me about her mother. But to my amazement, she really didn't need to because somehow I felt Rita's presence and seemed to know what her daughter was going to tell me before she did. I had the strong sense that Rita had guided me to her child and was pleased I was now in her life and she in mine.

I didn't want to appear completely crazy to my new friend. I was reluctant to say anything. When I finally did venture to tell Mary about what was occurring in relation to her mother's spirit and me, she didn't seem at all surprised.

"Sounds like a Reetning to me," she said. "What's that?" I inquired. "Since my mother's death she visits some of us from time to time. It's usually to teach a lesson or to give support." "Far fucking out," was all I could say.

Sadly, regrettable circumstances soon manifested without warning. Mary and I became estranged and lost touch with one another. The confusion and longing we felt was palpable. It served no purpose to express our feelings out-loud because the relationship seemed hopeless and lost to us both. Yet, throughout this painful separation, one thing remained valid. Our love was steadfast and true and Rita was in the wings watching and waiting patiently for our reunion to take place.

As fate and her mother would have it, Mary and I remarkably beat the odds and finally in the autumn of 1999 we started a life together in New York City. On one of our first outings as a couple, we went to St. Ignatius' for a chamber music performance. Mary joked, "My mother would be so proud. Here we are on our first real date and we are in a catholic church."

While waiting for the ensemble to begin we glanced at the program. "Oh my God," Mary exclaimed, "Reception to follow in McKinnon Hall. That's my mom's maiden name." We casually dismissed the coincidence without further comment as we heard those on stage readying their instruments.

"It's going to be a lovely concert, Rita," we then overheard the woman in the pew in front of us whisper. "I'm sure it will be, Rita," her companion replied. Mary and I gave each other a startled side glance. "I wonder what mom wants to tell us, she's working overtime tonight," Mary quietly said and then, the music began. Of course, we talked at length about all that happened that night and what it might mean afterwards, but when nothing was revealed it was forgotten.

Busily we readied ourselves for the trip to North Carolina to meet Mary's second grandbaby. It was Thanksgiving Day. Despite a conscientious effort on my part to shake the feelings, I felt an overwhelming need to contact my mother. "She probably won't even know who I am. She's so out of it from what I hear," I told Mary. Gloria's life, for many years now, only existed within the confines of her small bleak bedroom and the even darker imprisoning cell of her severe mental illnesses. The power of agoraphobia, depression, and psychosis had enveloped her and from its tight grasp she would never be free.

She hadn't recognized me when I visited her last and deteriorating body and mind was too unsettling for me to witness again. She was a shell of the woman I once knew and I even questioned if her soul still existed or had long ago departed. I had stayed away since and made no other contact with her. It was useless. But I could not get her off of my mind that day and with Mary's urging, I finally agreed to phone her.

On the third ring an unfamiliar woman's voice answered. "Hi. I'm trying to reach Gloria. This is her daughter Cherie." "Hello there. How are you? Your mother and I were just talking about you not a minute ago," this stranger said. She then went on to tell me that they were laughing over some of my antics when I was younger. "Your mother can tell a story better than anyone I know; she's hysterical." "My mother," I questioned incredulously, "My mother is able to speak coherently? Do you mean to tell me that she is well enough to talk?" "Absolutely," the woman responded, "She does have her weak moments, but otherwise is still a fiesty old Southern belle." I was dumbfounded to say the least. "Please let me speak to her".

My mind rushed back in time. Decades upon decades fell away upon hearing my mother's strong hello. She sounded vibrant. She sounded alive. She sounded sane and in touch with reality. I sat down and listened hungrily to all she was saying. She missed me. She wished she could see me. And she was so very happy I was with Mary. "Wait. How do you know about Mary," I asked in disbelief. "Of course I know Mary. What do you mean? She is wonderful and I'm so glad you and she are together. I'd really love to have some pictures of you two though". I couldn't believe what I was hearing on the other end of the line.

She began to sob uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry for all I did to you, Cherie. Everything is true. Don't ever doubt what you remember. I did all of those terrible things to you. I let all of those horrible things happen. It's all true. Believe it!" She was imploring me, "Can you ever forgive me? Please, I beg you to forgive me for all I have done. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she repeated over and over. "Momma, it's ok. It's ok. I promise." "But do you forgive me? Can you forgive me? Will you forgive me?" "Yes, Momma. Yes, I forgive you." "I love you with all of my heart, Cherie. You're my little girl and I'm so proud of you and what you have accomplished in your life and all you have overcome. I love you and cherish you more than you'll ever know. I love you. Always remember, I love you." I sensed she was getting tired and so, reluctantly brought our conversation to a close. "Hey, Momma tell me something. Who is that woman that answered the phone?" "Oh that's my angel, Cherie." "You mean your nurse. Don't you?" "No, no," she protested, "She is my angel!" "Well, ok then, let me talk to your angel, Momma. I love you."

The woman took the receiver back from my mother and said hello. "I can't believe the change in my mom. It's miraculous," I began, "Thank you so much for all you have done for her." "It's been my honor and priviledge to spend time with her. I'm the one who is thankful," she corrected. "Well, I am grateful nevertheless. She says you are her angel and I believe now that you are. By the way, what's your name?" "It's Rita. My name is Rita". I hung up the phone and went to Mary and held her tight.

"Your mother is with mine. It's unbelievable but fantastically true. She loves me and I love her and not only that, I forgive her. I really and truly think I do." For the first time in all of my life I felt what I imagined peace and serenity must feel like. I closed my eyes and whispered "thanks" to Rita.

Two days later as we drove in the North Carolina darkness a shooting star streaked across the sky. I shuddered as I felt something pass quickly through my entire being. In Texas my mother closed her eyes and drew her last breath.

In my absence, my mother's nurse was at the burial services to lend steadfast support to my disabled son. She never left his side. But, when we later looked through pictures of the ceremony, there was only a light shining next to him. No one was there. And even more astounding, when the family contacted the Home Health Care agency to pay for Rita's private nursing services, we were informed that no such person existed.

One day a few weeks following my mother's passing, I found myself brokenhearted and crying. Mary attempted to comfort me, but I could not be solaced. Finally, I blubbered in a childlike voice, "I don't want my momma to go to Hell for all the bad things she did to me. I'm so afraid she is going to burn in Hell. I don't want that. I don't want her to suffer." "Cherie," Mary soothed, "Do you think for a moment my mother would come to take her there? She's safe with her in Heaven. She's alright and at peace, Cherie because of your forgiveness and love."

At that instant, there was a "Reetning". Two spirits were affirming my dear Mary's reassuring words. I then knew beyond a shadow of doubt I had received the cherished gift of forgiveness and the peace and serenity it afforded. And I have Rita McKinnon Olson to thank. A woman who never made the paper, received a "significant award", or accomplished anything of what most would consider important. A woman I never met, but who along with my mother is with me now and forever more. And whose love and wisdom I pray I will always embrace and heed.

THIS STORY IS DEDICATED FIRST AND FOREMOST TO THE OLSON, HANSEN, LEAHY, AND SMITH FAMILIES. IT IS ALSO MY GIFT TO MARLENE LORRAINE WHO AS A SMALL TODDLER LOST HER MOTHER EDITH AGNES LORRAINE AND OFRA WRIGHT WHO AS A CHILD TEN YEARS OF AGE LOST HER MOTHER BELLA GOTMAN. FURTHERMORE, I WISH TO GIVE THIS PIECE OF MYSELF TO SANDRA BLAIR, MY DEAR FRIEND AND SOULMATE, WHO HAS SUFFERED THE MOST HORRIFIC OF TRAGEDIES THAT COULD BEFALL A MOTHER, WHEN A YEAR AGO ON MAY 6TH FELT FROM HER MATERNAL EMBRACE HER ONLY SON GABE WAS TAKEN IN AN INSTANT. I HONOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU THIS MOTHER'S DAY 2009.

STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED

HEY GENTILES READ ON

THE EXPLANATION OF THE CHASSSIDIC CHASUNAH FOR SHTIK HOLLZ SHLEMIEL. MEANING YOU DUMMY!






First, a shidduch or matchmaking occurred when Ofra realized her entire life was consumed by Facebook.

There were no families to meet, but her Motek Cherie a.k.a. Shiksa Bitch the Steel Matzoh has the privilege of announcing the occasion with a virtual vort or reception. The contract called a tenaim has been signed under duress, including water boarding.

Because Ofra the Kallah is so addicted to FB the Chatan, the tradition of not seeing each other for a week is impossible due to puter withdrawals. Thus, no Kabbalat Panin, Folks.

There is a Ashkenazi tradition that both mothers stand together and break a plate. The Shiksa Bitch will rip up a paper plate instead.

To speed things up and because Ofi likes to snack, there will be no Aliyah on Shabbat and no no no fasting.

Next is the bodeken, the veiling of the Kallah (bride) by the Chatan (groom). In this case, Ofra will be veiled in a warm towel heated in a Kosher microwave and draped lovingly on her painful neck.

The ceremony lasts 20-30 minutes, but Ofra’s will be 2-3 minutes tops including the kiddushin and nisuin.

Over a glass of Manischewitz or other cheap wine, Ofra will circle her Dell and type a blessing to her monitor and then her modem.

FB will then place an application of a huge, gigantic, burn your eyes out gaudy, diamond ring on the screen and the text beneath will say “Be sanctified (mekudeshet) to me with this picture of a ring according to the law of Bill Gates and Hewlett-Packard.

After the kiddushin is complete the ketuvah is read aloud. This is boring and will be skipped.

The nisuin then proceeds. The bride and groom stand beneath the chuppah, today it’s an umbrella, and recite the sheva brachos (7 blessings) in the presence of a minyam (if a prayer quorum can’t be found, neighbors, people off the street, or if desperate anyone’s dog or cat will suffice).

Then the wine is swigged down unless someone in the building swiped it.

The groom, with his right foot, smashes a glass. This will be symbolized by the piece of crap computer crashing to represent the destruction of technology.

The couple retire briefly to a completely private room, the cheder yichud (in other words the bathroom).

Then, a festive meal of pasta followed by a repetition of the sheva brakos. Of course, this will be omitted so the party can begin. Exuberant music from a bad ass boombox will blast and dancing will start.

Please note, you won’t hear “Here Comes The Bride” at this ceremony since Wagner the composer was a low-life Anti-Semite. What a Jerk!

So, throw buckets of Jordan Almonds at Ofi and FB and scream with joy “Mazaltov Mazaltov” NOT “Malatov” as in Cocktail or everyone will run for their lives thinking there is a bomb.


THE END
Oye Gevald

COME ONE COME ALL TO A WEDDING

VER VOLT DOS GEGLAIBT?
ES TUT MIR A GROISSEH HANOEH!

TO INVITE
ALL
OF

ABRAHAM’S KIDS, SHEKETZ, SHKOTZIN
&
THE INTERNET COMMUNITY

TO THE
ERUSIM and NISUIN
OF

KALLAH MISS OFRA TRIGERMAN WRIGHT
AND
CHATAN MISTER FACEBOOK

VEN AND VU ?
*THIS WILL BE A CASUAL , NO FRILLS AFFAIR SINCE KALLAH OFI IS A BROKE, ORPHAN, IMMIGRANT. IN LIEU OF GIFTS PUT LOTS OF GELD* IN HER PUSHKEH PLEASE !

RSVP

OFI and FACEBOOK SOON TO WED!!!

FORMAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE UPCOMING NUPTUALS OF MISS OFRA TRIGERMAN WRIGHT TO MISTER FACEBOOK FORTHCOMING.

WHAT A DEAL!!!

My dear friend Carole Murray is celebrating 29 years in the metaphysical field by offering an absolutely fantastic deal on her readings. From Monday, April 13th - Sunday, April 19th Carole is offering a 29 minute phone reading session for only $29.00. There is a limit of 2 per person. So, treat yourself, your friends and loved ones. As soon as you place your order with Paypal, Carole will contact you and schedule the time of your appointment. Be amazed by this truly gifted woman.
To learn more about Carole and her gift visit her site- ServingSpirits.com Look under the Reading Section Anniversary Special. Thanks so much.

"THE MONOGRAM" A SHORT STORY

"THE MONOGRAM"

The skinny, long haired, hippie chick leaned against the wall beneath the flashing lights of the ShoBar. She could not have been older than sixteen or seventeen. Bourbon Street was exceptionally crowded that night, but she felt totally alone. Her friends were late and if she hadn't been so desperate for their company and the promise of getting high, she'd have tried to slip in and catch her favorite dancer's show.

Drunks staggered past her making rude comments as they went. A couple young guys even stopped, walked over to where she was, and offered to buy her a drink for a threesome. She rebuffed their crude proposition. After cursing her, they too stumbled off.

Just when she decided she had waited long enough, a mountain of a man approached her. He gave her the once over, walked by, only to return a moment later. His voice was deep and haunting when he, initially, spoke. Her hackles went up. She had the feeling, that it wouldn't be advisable to blow this guy off with a flip comment. His looming presence over her attested to that. She was cordial, but showed no real interest in what he was saying, until he offered to take her into the strip joint.

He guided her to a table on the front row. The owner, emcee, and many of the patrons seemed to know this man. And before drinks could be ordered, a bottle of champagne was sent over to them. "It's on the house," the waitress said. Needless to say, the girl was impressed and wondered who her companion might be. But, his identity was really of no importance to her. What mattered more was the free flowing liquor and the show was about to start.

Rita came out on stage and began her act. The girl never tired of watching the tall blond slowly undressing before her. She was mesmerized by her every move. She felt herself getting sexually excited. She loved this entertainer, she loved this woman.

The man across from her appeared enthralled by what he was seeing too. He stared at the performance intensely.

The girl's attention was reluctantly diverted from the stage. She could not believe her eyes. The man had unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, and was stroking it. As Rita's gyrations intensified, so did his hand slide up and down his hardened shaft.

His face flushed, beads of sweat appeared on his brow, he moaned softly, and ejaculated upon the floor. Rita scooped up her costume and accouterments and disappeared behind the curtain.

"You stay here. I'll be right back," he commanded after righting his pants and composing himself. She sipped her drink and watched as he walked toward the restrooms and pay phone.

Upon exiting the men's room, he seemed upset. Or was it angry? He stopped and made a call. He slammed down the receiver, returned to where they were sitting and told her sternly, "Hurry up. We're leaving."

Once outside they walked to the corner. "Wait," he said. She thought he might have forgotten something in their quick departure from the bar.

Sirens were blaring in the distance, but were getting closer and louder by the second. The street was lit up with blinding flashing lights as police cruisers filled the block. More than a dozen officers stormed into the lounge the girl and the giant beside her had just left.

"What do you think is going on?" the girl questioned in alarm. "Shut up," he hissed. His concentration was fixated on what was transpiring and she knew not to utter another word.

Within minutes paddy wagons screeched to a halt in front of the establishment. Soon customers, dancers, staff, and the owner were led to the waiting vehicles in handcuffs. In all of the confusion, the girl failed to catch a glimpse of Rita.

She hoped that the woman, she cared so deeply for, had escaped what was obviously a raid. She hoped she was safe somewhere and not going to jail with the others. But, most of all, she wished she could have protected her in some way.

The crowd that had gathered dispersed and went about their business of getting loaded. The police were gone and the ShoBar's entrance was locked and chained. Strangely, the man at her side now appeared quite satisfied and smug. "Disgusting degenerates," she heard him snarl.

He turned back to the girl and smiled, "Come on, Baby. I really feel like having a good time. I've got some great shit back at my hotel. I'll bet you'd like to get stoned." Something didn't seem right, but the girl didn't feel free to turn down his offer.

They walked down Bourbon Street toward the place he was staying. She noticed more than a few street people showed an instant recognition of the man at her side. But, just as quickly they turned away never making eye contact. Again, she tried to dismiss the occurrence, just like she had at the bar. She was going to smoke some dope, maybe down a pill or two. Whoever this guy was, as long as he came through with what he promised, she dismissed her uneasiness.

He ushered her into the room. From the flask he produced, two drinks were poured. She looked about. Strangely, there was nothing to suggest he had ever been in this room, let alone was a guest staying there. No suitcase, no clothes hanging, no toiletries in the bathroom. For the first time since they met, when his presence made her uneasy and uncomfortable, she let herself think past instant gratification with booze and drugs. Something was wrong, terribly wrong and she knew she had to leave.

Naked on the bed, she lay beneath him. She had been too afraid to refuse his advances. He violently plunged into her over and over. Just went she thought she would die under his weight, he withdrew and holding his swollen penis, ejaculated upon her belly.

Too frightened to move an inch, she wondered what he had in store for her next. Slowly, he dipped his index finger into the sticky puddle of cum, and drew what appeared to be letters on the bare part of her stomach.

He wrote two initials with flair and flourish. He leaned back and seemed very pleased with himself. Then, he looked down on his prey and said in disgust, "Don't you ever forget who you have been with tonight, bitch. Now, get the fuck out of here. You make me sick."

The girl frantically got dressed and hurried to leave. As she turned the knob on the door and began to exit, he came up behind her and held it shut. "Don't you ever mention tonight to anyone. You understand?" he warned. She nodded. He glared at her. "You understand?" he said again more menacingly. "Yes, yes. I promise," she swore. With that, he roughly pushed her out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

She stood outside the hotel shaking uncontrollably. She knew she had to get away from there, but was immobilized with terror. Finally, she calmed herself down enough to venture towards Bourbon Street, where she hoped she could get lost in the anonymity of the crowds.

People she knew ignored her. Friends were aloof or downright hostile. She didn't know what she had done to cause them to act this way. She was called a "snitch", a "rat", a "fucking sell-out" when anyone would speak to her at all.

She sat by the fountain in Jackson Square. A couple hippies approached her. "We just want to know why you did it? Why did you turn on us? We thought we were family." "What do you mean?" she asked, "What did I do?" "You were with him. We saw you. You were with that prick and then, the Square was raided and a lot of people were busted. You turned on us. You betrayed us," they sneered. She tried to grasp what they were saying, the accusations they were making. It made no sense. "Who was I with? What prick? Please tell me," she begged. "Yeah. OK. Play dumb. But, you know you were with that mother fucker. You know you were with that son of a bitching creep."

She felt like someone had punched her in the stomach, the stomach he had painted his initials on in sperm.

No wonder he was recognized at the ShoBar. He had the place raided enough. No wonder people on the street knew who he was. He probably sent many of them to jail. Yes, it was in fact who her friends said it was who took her into the club, plied her with drinks, offered her drugs, and raped and defiled her. It was this same man, who gathered peace-loving individuals, who hurt no one, as they sat innocently in a park and saw fit to condemn them to jail on fabricated charges.

And although, decades have passed and the white slime is long washed away from that young girl's belly, today the woman remains indelibly marked by what happened that night at the hands of the sick, the evil, the chief prosecutor of New Orleans-J.G.

It has taken me over 40+ years to have the courage to tell this story and only because the perpetrator is dead. Monsters like him live on in the nightmares of his victims.

2 THUMBS & A BUTT PLUG UP FOR MILK!!!

I just finished viewing the dynamic story of Harvey Milk, who was assassinated in San Francisco in 1978. Watching the true account of this man's life and his contribution to the gay population and world in general took me back to the days I, personally, fought for the rights of my brothers and sisters in the Liberation Movement.
I suffered a broken jaw and loss of teeth among other injuries, when I was assaulted by three men following the march against Anita Bryant in New Orleans, while my peers on the West Coast and around this country were also being brutalized. I had been honored at the rally held in Jackson Square earlier that day by given the opportunity to speak briefly prior to an address being made by Leonard Malcovich, the first openly gay military officer.
So much has changed over the years and many take for granted the rights we enjoyed these days. But, I saw firsthand in the Deep South the raids, the arrests, the murders by police of individuals whose only so-called crime was being born lesbian and gay.
On this day, when Iowa has seen fit to uphold same-sex marriage, I wanted to take a moment to thank Harvey Milk and the other courageous pioneers who gave of themselves so we could be free to be.

"ANGELS IN HELL" A SHORT STORY

"ANGELS IN HELL"

"Can you believe, she thinks she is going to be interviewing us? Please!" I winked at Mary upon hanging up the receiver, "When will they ever learn?" "Yeah," my partner chuckled, "We are checking HER out, not the other way around." "Well, we have to meet her and the mutt in a little while, maybe even take him out for a quickie. It shouldn't take too long and hopefully, we'll click and get the business. Lord knows we could use another regular and the owner swears her baby is a cutie pie and sweet as sugar." Mary nodded in agreement.

Before the bell could even be rung, a viciously barking dog was scratching and clawing at the door. We jumped back simultaneously, hoping the wood separating us was sturdy enough to hold the now snarling beast behind it. "This may not be as easy as I thought," I whispered to Mary. She didn't argue. I think she was too scared to speak. "Look, the dog is probably just a little protective. The woman says he's a sweetie once he gets to know you." "Uh huh," Mary mumbled still frozen on the spot. "OK. Here goes," I said, pushing her forward with some effort. "Let's hope his bark IS worse than his bite." I, cautiously, rang the bell and grimaced.

It took what seemed like forever for the intercom to be answered. All the while our potential client was angrily growling from within. "Just a minute," we were told, "I'm coming. Let me put the baby on his leash." A loud commotion was going on inside the apartment now. Mary and I looked at each other apprehensively, not knowing what to expect. We opted to bolt, but by then we were stuck. The chain was sliding back. Locks were being turned. The door swung wide and a large, attractive, black woman greeted us. She had a cast up to her hip and was on crutches. Hopefully, "baby" didn't cause this injury.

"Come on in and make yourself at home," the woman welcomed, "I'll let you settle down and then, will get West. He is so excited and anxious to meet you." "Can't wait," I said in the cheeriest voice I could muster. I elbowed Mary. "Can't wait," she echoed, though not as enthusiastically.

Stacy hopped off to get what type of creature we couldn't help but imagine. We braced ourselves and hoped for the best or, at least, a swift and merciful death in his jaws.

Out bounded a massive animal heading in our direction. "Christ, it's a wolf," I gasped to my partner. By the sound of her rapid breathing and muffled scream, I had an inkling she shared in my appraisal. Moving closer to me, almost in my lap, as a matter of fact, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it so tightly the veins nearly popped. The dog stopped inches away from where we were sitting and glared at us. Thankfully, our sphincters held or it would have been an embarrassing first meeting.

"Isn't he adorable?" We heard his owner coo. "Absolutely precious," I reluctantly concurred. "Precious," Mary barely was able to mutter. She hadn't fainted after-all. Damn neither had I for that matter.

West ended up not being a wolf, but a huge, and I mean huge, German Shepard. "Thank God for small favors," I silently thought. He approached with hackles raised, gave our rigid bodies a thorough sniff, and although, he bared his teeth a couple times, left us both unscathed. Well, there was that little accident, but the bleeding stopped with pressure and I was sure Mary wouldn't be permanently scarred.

"I knew he would like you two. He is just a lamb." Stacy called from the kitchen, "Can I get you girls a drink?" Obviously, she wasn't suggesting liquor, but a little liquid anesthesia would have been handy in taking our stress level down a notch. Too bad we were sober and would remain clear thinking. "I've got the kettle on and could make us all some tea," our hostess offered. "Sounds good," I said politely, "But let me give you a hand."

I got up from the couch, prying my fingers from Mary's grip, and headed toward where Stacy teetered over the stove. West was at my heels. "Look at that. I think he is bonding with you already, Cherie." "Sure seems so," I agreed, hoping it wasn't his ploy to nip at my ankles. All this dogwalker needed was a severed Achilles tendon.

We all settled back on the sofa. Mary had a smile plastered on her face. To her credit, she, at least, was able to look cordial and at ease, and even managed to utter a word here and there. "Do I detect a Southern accent?" Stacy inquired. "Is it that noticeable?" I responded. "Sure is. You can beat it with a stick." "Well, I'm from Nawlins," I exaggerated my drawl. "And I'm from Southern California," Mary piped in. "I knew it, I knew it," Stacy grinned, "I've got folks from down yonder. Small world isn't it?" We nodded. "You know, the more I look at you, Cherie, I'll bet you're Creole. Am I right?" "You're on target again. I can't believe how perceptive you are," I fibbed. "Yes, I can see a tinge of black blood in you. Is it on your mother or father's side?" she asked. "My mother's," I lied through my teeth not missing a beat, "In fact, the family had a plantation. And, if I remember correctly, my great-great grandmother was a slave." Mary gave me an incredulous side-glance and pinch. I realized I had gone too far and it was time for me to shut up. But Stacy wanted all the details and for the next half hour or so, I went on and on with one fabrication after another. You'd have thought my ancestors and me were a chapter in "Roots" by the time I finished.

"I'll be back in a sec," Stacy excused herself, "I'm on diuretics and have to pee constantly." "Take your time. We'll get to know West better while you're gone," I offered. "Sounds good to me too," Mary chimed in.

We watched her hobble off and when she was sure Stacy was out of earshot, Mary started in on me. "Jesus Christ, Cherie I know we need money, but you just told that woman you were a Negro, Black, African American. Talk about pulling the race card. Are you crazy?" "Well, there's always a chance," I weakly began. "You're insane," Mary went on, "Not to mention this situation. Let's get the Hell out of here." "Aw, come on, Sweetpea it's not so bad. The lady's nice enough and West has calmed down and doesn't seem to be in attack mode anymore," I pointed out. "Right, it wasn't you he chomped," Mary said sarcastically. "Well, look he's trying to be friends now. He's sorry. Go on and give him a pet, Sweetie," I cajoled, quickly adding, "But remember, no sudden moves."

When our hostess finally returned, we figured we should start getting the show on the road. "Why don't Mary and I take West down for a spin around the corner?" I suggested. "That would be great and so thoughtful," she answered. We leashed up the brute and started out of the door. "I'll leave it open and when you get back we can talk money," she called to us. That sounded good.

Damn the dog had super canine strength. He almost yanked my arm out of its socket and I wondered if he was downing steroids with his Alpo. Mary fell behind, as he dragged me half-way down the block, only stopping momentarily to lunge at whatever unsuspecting pets came his way.

"Hey, give me a hand," I called back to Mary. "You seem to be doing alright by yourself, Dog Whore," she said upon catching up to us. "What do you mean? Dog Whore?" I asked a tad hurt. "Cherie, I can't believe you. Did you hear yourself? The bullshit you were shoveling was too fucking much." "Actually, I thought it was just enough," I quipped trying to be funny. But, she apparently was in no mood. She looked me in the eyes, then down at the giant fur ball, then eyeballed me again. "Do we really want to do this dog? Is it really worth the hassle?" Before I could answer, she continued, "I mean we've been up there for God only knows how long. We have yet to talk price. Instead, we are having tea and cookies with some lame woman, pun intended. She is obviously lonely and desperate to hear your tales of the old South. I'm surprised you didn't start humming a spiritual." "OK OK I did stretch the truth a little bit," I said defensively, "But I would be shocked if we didn't get this account." "Shocked!!! Who the fuck else would want to walk this spawn of Satan?" She then went on in a more subdued tone, "I know you've been doing this for quite some time. And I still have a lot to learn. But, I never imagined tripping through the cotton fields and risking being human tartare was part of the job description. Call me stupid." I decided not to follow the last suggestion. "Do I sense a bit of hostility, Mary?" "No, I'll leave that to West. He's far better at it then I could ever be. And I'd never want to offend you and have you report me to the NAACP."

"How'd it go? Was he good? He didn't tug did he?" "Just fine. He's a prince. There was no problem whatsoever," I answered, making a mental note to pick up some BenGay on my way home. I really think the prince dislocated my shoulder when he didn't tug. But better me than Mary. I dreaded more what she'd have in store for me once we left.

"Now, what is your rate per hour, girls?" "It starts at $10.00 for thirty minutes. And honestly I don't think the boy needs more than that," I informed her. Yes, it was cutting off my nose to spite my face financially, but I'd go broke buying linament if I had to do double time with the bruiser on a daily basis. And I had a sneaking suspicion Mary was going to be strolling only poodles and bichons from now on, leaving me to care for this monster on my own.

"That's more than fair. And since I'm laid up, it would be better for me to hire you for less time at the moment," Stacy concurred. "It's settled then. Just give us a ring and we'll be here with bells on," I smiled.

Things were finally drawing to a close. Mary was beginning to fidget beside me. I was so anxious to be leaving, I also began to squirm. Stacy sensed our uncomfortability but read it all wrong. "Oh my," she voiced concern, "You two are starting to sweat. It must have been hot as Hades outside. I'll get something cold for you to drink." "No! No!" We protested in unison, "Don't bother yourself. We'll be alright." Stacy leaned back, evidently relieved she didn't have to make another stab at precariously carrying a tray of beverages. But, could I leave well enough alone? Could I grab Mary and head for the nearest exit? Of course not!

"I'm sure I'll feel cooler if I just wear my tank top. This blouse is sweltering," I nonchalantly commented while slipping out of its sleeves. As the words were passing my lips, I knew I made a huge mistake. It went without saying, Mary was about to slap me silly for delaying us even a smidgen longer. And in addition, the air was thick with a terrible foreboding I just couldn't put a finger on.

Stacy cast her eyes to my left breast. "Is that a tattoo I see peeking," she inquired with interest. "Uh huh," I mumbled. And then, before I knew what came over me, I stood up, raised the tank top above my head and showed the woman my naked tits. I heard Mary gasp in horror. I heard Stacy gasp, but in God forbid, arousal. We were doomed. We'd never escape now. Even West was licking his chops.

"Cherie," Mary cried, "What are you doing?" I started to apologize profusely. Stacy interrupted, "You have nothing to be sorry for. That vine with roses is gorgeous," she observed a wee bit too closely. "Thanks so much. I'm glad you like it. I feel a little chilly now though." I grabbed my over shirt and threw it back on, glancing at my watch as I did. "Jesus, I can't believe how late it's gotten to be. We have another appointment with a Boston Terrier. It's been terrific and I'll wait to hear from you about when to begin walking West." I was babbling.

Mary and I jumped to our feet and started to move quickly across the room. A split second more and we would have made it. We would have been free.

"Not so fast," Stacy commanded in a booming tone, "I've got something I want you to see before you go." I hoped she didn't hear Mary and I groan. That never made for a good impression. We, reluctantly, turned around and lumbered back to the couch in defeat. "No. Follow me," Stacy said, leading us to what we didn't know.

We walked excruciatingly slowly behind the crippled woman. Yes, her leg was broken, but why should we suffer? I felt like the condemned, hesitatingly stumbling down the green mile. So far this interview had been a fate worse than death and it wasn't over yet.

She flicked on the light. Holy Mother of God! We were in her bedroom. Would this nightmare ever end. West menacingly blocked the doorway. We were stuck.

We stood there nervously trying to ready ourselves. But nothing could have prepared us for the sight we were about to see. Stacy, in a flash, was nude below the waist. "Look. Look my angels," she urged. Now she was calling us terms of endearment. Will it ever cease? I looked at Mary and she at me and then, we both bit the bullet and looked at Stacy. Across the mammoth canvas of her ass were two cherubs. That is, I think that's what they were supposed to be. The tat was nicely inked, but good Lord the cherubs were hideously distorted and deformed. They looked all bloated and stretched. It was a horrible sight, but like encountering a traffic accident, we couldn't turn away. Stacy chuckled and her jiggling cheeks made the winged creatures appear to be laughing mockingly at us. Mary later commented, "It makes me believe there are angels in Hell."

I don't know how long we stood there fixated on the celestialite. I don't even remember leaving the apartment. And, I certainly don't have any reason to explain why Mary didn't terminate our relationship once we were safe outside. But I do know, remember, and definitely have countless reasons why we never scooped that pooch's poop. I guess it all came down to one helluva interview.

DOGS IN THE CITY by HEATHER HALEY

Heather Haley, author of the upcoming book "Window Seat", has kindly sent us a poem. "Dogs In The City" is right on target and sure to make you smile. Give it a read under the comments of my story "Janis". I'm sure Heather would love feedback and can be contacted at http://www.heatherhaley.com/onelife. Let's give this new addition to our blog family warm support.

"JANIS" A SHORT STORY

"JANIS"

The New Orleans Pop Festival was this hippie's dream come true. I had all the dope I could possibly smoke. Uppers and downers were passed around like candy mints. And the music, the groovy non-stop music, blew my mind. I was in fucking nirvana.

"Fuck me, Baby and I'll get you backstage," a long-haired freak propositioned. "How do you plan on carrying that number off?" "With these," he replied, flashing two V.I.P. passes. It was worth the risk. I'd had sex for less that day.

"Well, whip it out, Brother. But, you better not be shitting me or I'll tie that dick of yours in a knot." "You want to do it here?" "Why the hell not? Everyone's too stoned to give a shit." He grabbed me up in his arms and I straddled his waist. With a couple of thrusts it was over. "OK, I met my side of the bargain. Get that thing of yours back in your jeans. It's payoff time."

"Here's some Purple Haze," he offered. "It's guaranteed to blow my mind, right?" I dropped the acid. Shit, I wouldn't even need a tab to be tripping, if he could get us past the Hells Angels guarding the stage's side entrance.

"Son Of A Bitch! You do have fucking pull after-all," I told the guy as we slid by security with a flash of his passes. "Come on, Babe. We've got people to meet. How'd you like to hand with the "Dead" while I take care of business?" "You mean the "Grateful Dead?" He nodded. "Far fucking out. Lead the way, Daddy."

I wondered if it would be cool to tell this guy I was really into chicks. I mean, I had screwed him after-all and didn't want to fuck things up now. But damn, there was too much pussy around me to resist. I'd say I was bi, and hopefully, he wouldn't freak out when I hit on a broad.

Not only was he laid back about my scene, but told me he got off on dicks every now and then. We could hang out and have a fucking orgy.

"Catch you in a few and then, we'll start cruising. I've got some deliveries to make." "Do your thing," I said, "The chicks around here don't seem to be going anywhere."

I met Patti Santos of "A Beautiful Day" and Grace Slick of "Jefferson Airplane". "You think I could score with them?" "Dunno," he shrugged, "I think they like it hard and long. But, I do know a singer, who'd let you scarf her up. Shit, she'd let anyone scarf her up, for that matter." "Where is she? I'm horny as a mother fucker."

He pointed to a scraggily haired, scanky looking female leaning against an amp. She was scratching her crotch with one hand and holding a bottle of Southern Comfort in the other. "Is that who I think it is?" "In the flesh," he answered, "And I'd bet you could drop to your knees and have at her in a flash. She, probably, wouldn't even know it was happening."

I looked back over at Janis, who was now hurling. I doubted any of my groupie friends had bragging rights on laying her. But, damn!!!

"Let me think about that one, Man," I said. "No hurry. She and "Big Brother" have a set to do next. Say the word and I'll do intros when they're through."

I watched her commanding presence on stage. She grinded and gyrated to the pounding beat. Her throaty voice screamed and reverberated through every fiber of my being. There was no one like Joplin. No one came close to her. She fucking rocked.

I flashed back to my earlier vision of the homely, bile spewing, drunk digging at her pubes. Her act was finishing up with the song "Down On Me". It had always been a favorite of mine and Janis' belting rendition that night was unfuckingbelievaable. The crowd was in a frenzy.

"Down On Me. Down On Me," I heard her screech the soulful lament into the mike. "Cant' go down on you," I sang to myself, "Baby, can't go down on you."

"She's heading our way, Sweetheart. You want to do her or not?" I glanced in the direction of Janis. "I'll pass. Shit, I couldn't eat her with your mouth." He laughed out loud, "Well, it was worth a try. Let's find something more appetizing for you to wrap your tongue around. It's not like there's no fresh meat here."

"Hey, what about Melanie? You think she's queer?" "You've got to check that out for yourself. But, I'd bet she doesn't have crabs or smells like puek." "Sounds delicious already. I'm starving," I told him as we wandered off passing Joplin on the way.

Just a few years later as I lay in bed in a dingy hotel with a hot broad from California our fuck session was interrupted by a call. The chick blanched and emitted a gasp before the uncontrollable sobs began. "My ex is dead. She's overdosed."

The world lost a treasure that day. She was a rare gem. I'll always regret that I didn't get it on with the diamond in the rough that was the infamous Janis Joplin.

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I want to wish Kathryn Morris a very happy birthday today. It's a big one but, take it from me, one only gets better with age.

"STANFORD" A SHORT STORY

"STANFORD"

I spotted Sarah and Stanford as they ventured out of their building for an early morning walk. What an odd couple!

The dog was a medium sized honey colored mutt, who strutted with a bold bravado. His mistress, a high power oil lobbyist, stood four foot ten, if that, and had to have weighed maybe fifty pounds more than her pooch. She appeared to be no older than a girl in her late teens, despite being thirty-something. Impeccably dressed, at all times, she was very prim and proper.

I'd been introduced to her and the dog at a friend's party. Nothing came of the meeting, but we remained nodding acquaintances.

I watched from about a half block away. The twosome began making the rounds of the neighborhood, stopping here and there for the dog to sniff or piss. Suddenly, Stanford yanked Sarah towards a pile of trash on the curbside. I thought his owner would go flying by the force of the tug. He must have eyed some prize. Maybe, it was a half-eaten bagel or a piece of pizza crust with his name on it. Something, sure as Hell, got his attention. His head was buried in the plastic bag and no amount of pulling on Sarah's part could get him to move away.

"Drop. Drop." I heard her scream sternly. But, her commands fell on deaf ears. Stanford was preoccupied. He was after a treasure and nothing was going to stop him before it was his. God, I hoped he wasn't after a rat or even worse, bum poop.

Sarah blanched. She looked as if she would faint on the spot. "No, Stanford. No!" She yelled, then quickly glanced around to see if anyone was near. I stepped into a doorway and continued spying on them.

The dog proudly lifted his blond head. Success! In his mouth was the trophy. I thought I'd lose it on the spot. It was a foot long dildo.

Needless to say, Sarah was mortified. She tried to cajole him into discarding it. When that didn't work she scolded him harshly. But, he stubbornly refused to listen. As a last resort, she wrapped a poop bag around her hand and attempted to pry the rubber phallus from his jaws. It was a losing battle.

I could only imagine what thoughts were running through her mind. She, probably, was wondering what neighbors would think encountering her and her sex toy toting companion.

I decided to be a Good Samaritan and try to help. "Hey, remember me? What's up?" I said approaching her. She looked as if I had caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. "Oh God, you startled me. It's Cherie, isn't it?" I smiled and nodded. She turned in the direction of her dog and, not meeting my eyes, awkwardly said, "Look at what Stanford's found. It's so revolting. And no matter what I do, he won't give it up." I stifled a laugh. I think that would have put Sarah over the edge.

She glanced at her watch. "What am I going to do? I have to hurry and get to my office for a meeting. But there's no way on earth I'm going into my building and face the doorman, concierge, and elevator operator with Stanford and that thing, that awful thing in his mouth. What if I run into tenants or members of the board? What will they think?"

"Take a breath, Sarah and let me try and get him to give it to me." I bent over and extended my hand towards the dog. He growled menacingly. "Well, that won't work," I said rising. His owner shook her head in defeat and moaned.

"Listen, you don't know me well, but under the circumstances, I think you are going to have to trust me on this one." The woman was eager for any suggestions. "Go and finish getting ready for work. I'll be walking him in the meantime. I'll meet you on the corner and you can give me your keys and apartment number. He'll eventually get tired of holding it and then, I'll get him upstairs." "You'd do that?" "No sweat. My morning's free. I don't have any clients to take out until noonish."

She looked as if I had given her a million dollars as she handed me the leash. "Leave me your number, please. I'll call you when I get home." "No problemo. And I'll give your keys back to the concierge once I get him home safely," I promised.

Sarah rushed back to her place leaving Stanford in my care. "OK, Buster, it's you and me now and I don't embarrass easily. I could give a rat's ass who sees me walking you with your new chew toy. Everyone around here knows I'm a dyke. If they think it's one of mine, so what!"

He pranced at my side for blocks with the play penis clenched between his teeth. We got more than a few double takes as we strolled down Broadway. People were either appalled or amused at the sight of us. It didn't matter. I had an idea.

We walked into Gray's Papaya and I ordered the "two for one" special. "Hold the sauerkraut and relish, please," I requested. The counterman glanced down at Stanford, then up at me. "You want that for here or to go?" He asked nonchalantly. "Make it to go." He rang up and handed me my purchase. As I turned to leave, he called out, "Hey Lady, I don't mean to be nosy, but can I ask you something?" "Why not?" "Well, I was looking at your dog and was wondering." "Yes," I droned. "Is he a Lab mix?" "Yup, he's definitely a retriever," I quipped and left.

Once outside I pulled Stanford over to the curb. "OK, I've had it, Mister. It's time to negotiate." I unwrapped my bribe. "Here, I'll give you a real tasty weenie for the nasty limp one you have." He eyeballed my tempting offer, cocked his head, and thought for a moment. I waved the hot dog past his nose. That's all it took. He couldn't resist. The dildo fell from his lips and bounced into the gutter. I yanked him out of its reach and bent down to give him my part of the bargain.

As my charge was nibbling on the hot dog, I heard, a few feet from me, a startled cry. I turned to see a poodle with Stanford's dildo in his mouth. The confused owner was beside herself with humiliation. I thought about coming to her assistance and offering her the extra weenie I had, but the ordeal with Stanford had worked up my appetite and so, I ate it instead.

After dropping Stanford off, I headed back to my apartment for a well-earned cup of coffee. People think the pet care business is an easy job, but it's dog-eat-dog. And to beat out the competition, you have to go to any length, in this case, twelve inches.

I talked to Sarah later that evening. She couldn't thank me enough. Needless to say, I had a new client. And had I not been so damn hungry, I might have been able to pencil in a certain poodle on the schedule too.

FUNNY WIENER DOG COURTESY OF www.ClipArtOf.com

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

I want to express my greatest wish to all of you for a Happy, Healthy, and Wealthy 2009. Like so many, I was surely glad to bid good riddance to 2008 and all the sorrow and pain, frustration and negativity that filled it's 365 days. Let's hope a better tomorrow begins today for us and those we hold dear. I love you.