The Waterfront Job, Pt 1

When you’re on fresh turf for the first time, you’re there to case the joint. Get the feel of the place. The lay of the land. You do not, repeat, not, go for the big prize on the first day.

I know this. Any pro knows this. Only the greenest kid gets greedy fingers his first time out. You can get burned, bad. Stumble sideways into all the worst sorts of games, snag your limbs in nasty traps, get your face on the wall in all the wrong ways.

Best to lay low, stay a shadow, make ‘em think your only interest is your bottle. Wait till you’ve got the info you need, so when you do see goods worth going for, you move in like a champ, no mysteries. No surprises. Clean and neat, in like you're Batman and dazzle everyone so they don't even think of resistance. But until then, you Bruce Wayne your way out the far side of anyone's memory.

I know this. Any pro knows this. Which is why I was biding my time, nursing my whiskey, keeping the bar stool warm and the bar wench happy. Just some dumpy watering hole anyway, a quick shelter from the foggy evening, nothing to see of any consequence, just some baboons and their painted harpy dames, chattering away with their daily drivel. It was going to be a long and quiet night.

And then she walked in. Long red dress, loose and tight in all the worst places. Dresden in low heels. The kind of haul a man sweats for.

The hyenas were circling before she even made it down to the main floor. Fools. Popped-collar kids fresh from Mamma’s teat. They didn’t stand a chance, somewhere in the back of their mind knew it, but thought strength in numbers would pull them through. The native tramps were trying to kill her off with snotty resentful stares, but their daggers bounced off as if unnoticed. Must’ve been her first time there, too, else they’d have thrown up fortifications in advance. This was going to get ugly fast.

She’d made it to the bar, the first drink was on the way, something by name, and in a pointy glass. Touch of class, this one. The first hyena moved in, and with a glance she had him cut in half at the waist, legs thrashing at the stools while his upper half still gasped for some witty comeback. As his buddies laughingly dragged off his leftovers, another one plopped himself down on her other side and proceeded to swallow air in an effort to appear larger. She had him charred to cinders in seconds, the ashes sifting off the chair and filthying up the floor. This time, no one bothered to come over and sweep him up.

This was going to end up a bloodbath. The indigent goons were licking their wounds, but it was only a matter of time before yet another douchebag wound himself up and went in. This gal could see them coming eight miles away, but they didn’t care. To them she had "Come hither" written all over her in eighteen different dialects of body language. So what the hell was she doing in this shithole? It was like Venus emerging from her half shell in the middle of the bayou. Unlike ome common succubus, she didn’t look to be gaining glee from any of this. Just sat there, sipping the martini and looking lonely. Doll, you could’ve shook that thing up in the comfort of your flat and saved everyone the agony.

I could've sat there all night, watching the chumps jump the trench and get cut down. Could've sat all night, enjoyed the booze, and the next day I'd have been none the worse off for it. But something was wrong with this scene, and it was up to me to get to the bottom of it. Or so I told myself.

Do not, repeat, not, go for the big prize on the first time. And yet, here I was, staring down the goddamned Hope diamond with the case wide open and the security guards out taking a leak. This way leads to destruction.

Fuck it. I went for it.
(to be continued)

Make Fast The Mizzen Mast

September 19th, if you didn't know, is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. I can only hope you had as much fun today as I did, teaching Indians to add "Yarrrr.." to the end of each sentence. Which is, of course, only the most elementary of piratespeak. To be more advanced you must get more imaginative.



All attempts to date to use my balls and bite down hard have met with extremely undesirable results. I'm chalking this one up to mistranslation.

Boing Boom Tschak

New science projects in the lab keep me cackling maniacally until well after dark, which unfortunately is cutting into my Internets time (unlike most of the blog scene, I don't get online at work.) So here's something to entertain, a hint of hymns hummed to my automata when the pesky humans aren't around.

Happy New Year!

I may not actually do much for the High Holy Days these days, but at least it gives me an excuse to post one of my favorite Hasidim pics.



Vive la France. Oh, and to Roissy, who claimed my SanFran link wasn't distasteful enough, you clearly didn't look around the site much. My personal favorite is the man in the top hat.

Brave New World

Roissy posts today on a street festival in Adams Morgan and believes it heralds the worthlessness of the neighborhood. Frankly I see it as just another way DC fails to live up to the standards set by other big cities. Scenester opinions aside, the District is not and never will be trendy and hip like New York. It is not happening and filled with excitement like LA. The eternal transplant population will never have the heritage and history of Philadelphia or Boston.

And, in this case, regardless of aspirations it will never attain the stultifying strangeness and frothing class denial of San Fransisco. For those of you who know better than to follow my links, an excerpt:

"On the way, we passed a giant purple head emerging from the ground."

Even little old Austin has a world-famous transvestite hobo. In return, DC has, what? Congress? Total bush league.

The Long Tail Fails You, or, A Tirade To Our Bulimic Heroine

Like it or not, the above comic, while cute, is bunk. The truth is, it really is a numbers game. A 30 year old dates anyone from 22-46? No, dear, that median age really does screw you, much more so than it does Stick-Figure Graphy Man. See, guys are out there for one of two things from women: a quick fuck (or series thereof) or a long-term relationship. Quick fuckers, depending on their desperation levels, are going to balance looks with easiness. So as youthful appearance fades, your suitors get skeezier and skeezier. That may keep you warm at night, but that path does not to happy marriage lead.

And the men looking for love? Serious relationships (successful ones, at least) lead to children. As women age, not only do their bodies lose their corporeal enticements, they also deteriorate in ways that lessen the chance for healthy offspring. This is basic biology; it's why men are attracted to young women in the first place. Banging a chick who can pop out kiddies is the survival of the species. And if you think you're going to pull a man by trying to deny his baser bestial instincts, you're crazy.

Men don't have this problem, and again, it's biological. Absent disease, men will spout sperm of viable volatility till the day they die. Older men if properly maintained retain both their physical attractions and the mating appeal of being able to provide and protect. That's why Makes-Graphs-On-Saturdays up there will be bending some intern into hot Reverse Polish action long after your jagged line-titties have draped into bezier curves. Throw yourself on the mercy of the Bell at your own peril.