My Little China Girl

What does it take to get some attention around here? In most households (and advertisements) pugs are always the cynosure of all eyes. Not here. When you have a hundred pound Deerhound, an aged beguiling Scottie, and the Bruce Lee of cats, pugs are not getting the respect they’re owed. (Not even from Autocorrect, which has twice insisted I meant to write pigs.)

My China Girl. Eloise.

Beautiful Her

The Salem Oak

One trunk and twelve surviving limbs.

Now I’ve got thirteen books out there, and most of you think it’s vanity. Time for me to tell you and everyone: it’s all one work. There is the trunk, and then there are the limbs, including the sawed off ones.

It’s the most ambitious unified writing project of the last hundred years. And I have mostly completed it before my death.

What is the trunk? Surprise. Not The Boomer Bible but Punk City. There was an idea called punk writing, a rebellion against nihilism and authors hiding behind their solecisms. I made up a writing movement that required dueling in the open.

Punk City was their story. The Boomer Bible was their scripture. And every single one of the books in my repertoire are offshoots of that scripture, from the most analytical to the most personal. Because all share the same objective and the same source. A mission to expose and ridicule the fatuities of the twentieth and now the twenty first centuries. Writers hide behind their narratives. They have an obligation to tell who they are and what they believe. Why this monumentally massive work.

Thirteen books. 3000 pages more or less. Every kind of focus and compass point. Humor, satire, science, music, art, literature, history, technology, physics, analysis, spoof, and personal revelation, the past, the future, the nature of life. But all originating in a few fictional square blocks in Punk City c. 1980. One work. Thirteen books from a single inspiration.

Now he’s just an old man, most limbs sheared.

I am the Salem Oak. 2017.

We are all from some place. Where are you from?

The price paid by White Privilege Writers

Funny how we keep hearing about the deaths of actors, 91, 92, sometimes 95. Must be old wise men. You know who all has died recently. Love to see their blank old eyes. They never were anybody. Must be a great empty way to live, pretending to be the ones who were somebody. When your own time comes, you still have your cheekbones.

Or maybe not. Poets die very young. In the twentieth century, the most talented writers teeeend to die quite young, are the ones who don’t live on and on like Michener and Herman Wouk to become tendentious bores.

Not to mention all the dirty minded Philip Roths of the world.  Takes a professional Manhattan masturbator to think a literary reject can be saved by contemplating the flushing of a shiksa toilet on the upper east side. Literature? No. Trash lives forever.

i asked my wife to do the math. Mostly, great poets die in their twenties. Great fiction writers die iin their forties and fifties. She’s got the who’s who and the when’s whens. Ask her. I can barely get off the couch.

Just a reminder. 2017 is 100 years later than 1917.

And our latest book is on sale at Amazon:

A world war all the European nations wanted, started by the assassination of a minor aristocrat, pursued by incompetent generals who thought they’d win in a week and then slew an entire generation of young men in a single blood-soaked trench called the Western Front. Who do you call? The Americans. Who had fought the first Modern War half a century before and knew how to win them. You need a Grant, a Sherman, a Pershing. Which we had. The point of Pershing’s spear was the Rainbow Division. My grandfather was a captain of infantry in one of the most illustrious regiments in the Rainbow Division. The 166th. This book consists of his letters home and his 1918 journal from the ghastliest front of the twentieth century.

Stones on Hurricanes

For those who believe hurricanes have meaning, can be personified, are somehow portentous.

For the MSM, whose sole desire is to promote panic.

For all the Deplorables who save lives because that’s their nature.

For all the ones who think they can somehow get away.

For the ones who are smarter than that. What will be will be.

How are they going to make out? Mostly fine.

You heard it here first.




Storms happen.

As a rule, we feel kind of protected here in South Jersey. No tornadoes raking houses into splinters and all that, no mudslides, no wildfires, no avalanches, no earthquakes. But the truth is, storms happen at intervals, even here. I’ve been through a bunch in my lifetime, and none of them had to do with climate change. Just weather being its usual irascible and wildly unpredictable self.

My first hurricane was Donna, back when hurricanes all had girl names. 1960. She snapped off trees, big ones, and tore away the power lines. We had to flee like refugees to grandparent homes where they also had murdered trees but retained electricity.

My next hurricane, some years later, was at sea, technically irrelevant here as I experienced it in the South Atlantic onboard an ocean liner which just barely survived. Her name was Beulah. The ship, when she finally reached harbor in New York, was a battered and rusted wreck. Want to experience a hurricane up close? Watch 30 foot waves toss an ocean liner around like a cork for eight hours, sitting on the floor while glass breaks and grand pianos moonwalk across a ballroom.

There was also Floyd, a weak sister of a hurricane who was mostly rain and pushed over trees by making the ground soggy. I remember strolling through the village of Greenwich during the eye and thinking Donna would have laughed at Floyd. Then there was Sandy, who butchered the shore but mostly gave us, you guessed it, rain.

Thing is, there’s more than one kind of storm. They don’t name the ones that come in the winter. Those they just give dates — the Blizzard of ’87 or suchlike — and your only documentation is anecdotal. 

I remember living in Philly in the 80s, and there was so much snow one year that whole rows of cars disappeared, and the few navigable streets were just narrow tunnels between snow banks.

Back in Jersey in the 90s, there was a freak ice storm that locked my MR2 in the driveway for two weeks, turned my Harley into a lovely ice sculpture, and took out the electricity for a week because ice kills power with a thousand tiny breaks in the lines, not a single downed electrical station. We camped in the living room, feeding wood into a small fireplace and eating cold food from cans.

A few years back we had a derecho, a dry hurricane that deprived us of electricity for five days. I sent my wife north and stayed with the dogs because somebody had to. First time I really believed I might die because of a storm. Temperatures were in the high nineties, the dogs were catatonic, and so, I concede, was I.

Storms happen. They happen all the time, even in what seem like the magically protected places. You can dream up conspiracy theories all you want, but the truth is, it’s just life on earth. It’s not change. It’s the rule. As the French say, “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”

Should I not be content? Nowhere to go.

So I’m being singled out for extermination. Not for nipples. For what I’ve done, written, and recorded. 30 years worth. They can’t wipe that away if you don’t let them. If you want to endorse me, buy my books. (Interesting. WordPress won’t make this obvious link live.. You know. Don’t let them look at the forbidden material.)

I did everything I could. It wasn’t enough obviously. Just enough to get me noticed, singled out, and shut down. Well, life is like that. 

So far, Amazon hasn’t caught on to what a threat I am. Three more books on the way.

“(P)articles of InstaPunk”. “All That’s Left of The Naked Woman.” And “InstaPunk on Matters Religious.”

i am content. All my life, I have given it my best shot. I will continue to do so. Until my last breath. But I can’t fight Big Brother without you. 

I’ve been fighting the lefty A’holes all my life. Growing tired. Time for you to do something maybe..





i guess I should be saying Who Cares? Facebook doesn’t like me showing nipples just as The City of Berkeley is determined to give women the right to be bare breasted and nippletastic. One of the pics they banned me for featured a news photograph, black barred to conceal (gasp) nipples, showing a feminist screaming for her right to be as naked as she wanted to be. Since I showed the censored news photo, I’m violating Facebook standards. Got it.

i’m banned for showing bare breasts, which are legal in New York and practically everywhere else in the U.S. 

But that’s not the real story. I’m being shut down and closed out at Facebook. And elsewhere. Told the story before. Predicted this. 

Go ahead. Try to access,, or me at Not happening. I’m a lifelong conservative. Want some irony?

The Phoenix SK Club. Libeled in the movie they made about Zuckerberg. He wanted to be a member of a Harvard final club. Didn’t get in. I was president of that club in 1973. Since then I have written a bunch of books and no longer care about money. At all. But some people never stop obsessing about laurels they can never have.

i can live without Facebook. Can you? 

Meet me here. We can still have fun.