The Abortionist's Nightmare

The dream invaded him night after draining night...

The crowd roared with applause then rose in standing ovation. The two performers bowed deeply, smiling in the life-giving adulation. They knew it was not them, it was what they created together that was important. It had been a long, rocky journey to this point, fraught with danger and disaster other acts failed to avoid. Do I deserve this? How good are we really? Am I an over-praised imposter?

Like a child struggling to walk, one must persevere in faith it will happen. Many are the voices along the way but the feeling is unmistakably good. It's like being in a boat, surrendering to the river's flow, trusting where it will take you, and bathing in the peace of it. When the journey ends one thing is clear above all else: to have taken any other course would have been sheer madness, betrayal, suicide.

They needed the means to live outside society. Only there could they breathe life into their act. It takes a knowing belief to ask to have more. Doing the right thing brought success and success was the right thing to do. To say, "I am not worthy" is to create a self-fulfilling prophesy. Most of all was the sense of freedom, of limitless love, and the eternal satisfaction of having made the right choices. It was the feeling of life for which every life yearned.

It was the dream of this feeling that owned the nights for Oliver. Only for him, it was a nightmare, trying to suppress the dream he'd aborted.

"No! NO! Tell me I did not do that!"

It was like a never-ending film, laying in wait to continue every time he closed his exhausted eyes.

A critic wrote: What's wonderful about this pair of comedians is not only their perfect timing and pleasant air of innocence, but the friendship between the two we know exists even when times get rough and exasperation rises to the surface. "Another fine mess you've got me into!" This catch phrase lingers in our consciousness because we know it comes from love was well as real frustration we all get from time to time with one another. They are but helpless to stick together. We wish to be in their world.

Losing the act made life an impractical hell for Oliver. What ate at him most was he'd done it in the name of practicality. Forced to live within society's confines boxed his soul in dire daily death. His heart drowned in the tears of a lost existence, perpetually tormented by living under the basest of beasts who rule the daily underworld. There he was to spend the rest of his days trapped in unspoken ignominy; to whom could he speak of his unproven dream?

It's true: Ollie had been a true believer. This was the fact he most sought to hide, the deathly desperate shame he hoped to bury. Safe in the stupid world, none dare question him as a bum. No, his fear was to be called talented, professional, and a star. More than once it occurred to him the irony of his once having craved to the bottom of his soul to be ascribed those precious things. He even based his marriage to his wife that none of those traits were within him: a contract of mutual deceit.

Ollie was attacked by the urchins who now surrounded him. Unhappy with their own lives - failures feigning freedom - they'd demand he "pick himself up" and "quit moping." (In an act of unusual defiance, Ollie once grabbed a mop when told to quit moping. When asked what he was doing he replied, "You told me to quit mopping but I'm doing it anyway!" The confused look on his tormenter's face brought back a long forgotten satisfied feeling. Ollie was truly feeling his old self when he then made a fake apology for not knowing how to spell.)

But worst of all was the sickening, frightening, shattered feeling in the pit of his stomach lurking around every corner. No matter what small victory he might achieve to bring a rare smile, the dark clouds overhead reminded him in crestfallen doom of his perpetual predicament, re-breaking his heart. Finding the resources to forgive himself was a constant battle. The killing chores that paid the rent made him cry out in pain when praised in selfish ignorance. In the end, Ollie was left with only one gaping question:

"What is left to do to make amends?"

End Of The Line

It's been seven years since I fucked up with Emily. I can live off the echoes of her memory no more. Near as I can tell, she has gone on the run, supposedly from me, believing I don't adore and respect my most favorite person in the world (in this I was deceptive). But were I to die tomorrow (in sweet mercy) she would find she'd still be running. Only then will she understand.

Without her friendship and support I am nothing. I am helpless to stop the erosion of my health. I can pretend to be living no more. Needs are needs.

The world has become one big concentration camp. With glee, they are warming up the ovens - only this time there will be no quick, merciful death. The poor, the weak, and the elderly will be first to die in slow motion terror. Worked to death, worried to death, withered to death. All this will be done in the name of God, and God will be silent.

Seeing this horror, one by one each group will line up next for extermination. They too will stay silent to the end, vainly hoping to be spared. In huddled masses they will listen to the screams. Truth has won battles but never the war. In great satisfaction, it will be seen the liars cannot pray their way off their crosses as they falsely believed. Only then will they know the value of truth.

Once the dead have removed themselves we will be free. Until that time there is nothing more to say. Only our Maker can prevent our wholesale self-annihilation at this point. We will all be asked where we stood in the time of darkness. Be prepared to have a good answer, that is the only thing left for which to live.

Perspectives (Photo Essay Dream)

Yes, this is a picture of an actual supporter of President Caligula.
Can you feel her wisdom?

"When man stops raping his soul he'll stop raping the world - and not before."

- American Indian proverb

We reached a crossroads in the last century: to choose between greed or freedom. If we are to be judged by our fruits our choice was the wrong one. Everything this century is angrier: our songs, our words, our politics. Rage is taking over. Has making the right decision ever made you mad?

With the air of a century past

The fallen leaves on the garden.

- Basho

Perhaps if we look deeper, underneath, and into the hidden corners we see something different. The strands of time are like a flowing river. Try to dam the flow and you'll drown in the rising waters. Try to alter its path to your own ends and the strain will consume you over time. In the end, the river can only be released to flow as Nature intended. But the perspective of many is that if Nature wins, we lose. How very faithless.

Inverted picture, reflection up top

That soon they will die

Is unknown

To the chirping cicadas.

- Basho

I too feel the rage, a nightmare to live at the mercy of messianic monsters. Agents of cruelty armed with snarling lies and forked tongues dream of a false future that can never be. This makes them angry. They must find someone to blame, destroying lives in the name of justice. They must hide their bad decisions, crushing dissent in the name of security. They must blame their victims or see themselves as the monsters they are. What happens when the Nazi killers become Nazis?

Even if the cherry blossoms bloom

Ours is a world of suffering

- Issa

"I'm saying to you I'm hurting, I'm in pain, and see no hope."

What of my own monstrosity? I too wish to blame others for my own tragic self-betrayal. I spout plausible answers, I leave out inconvenient facts, I get patted on the back in false justification. And yet my life remains the same. We ache to rip off our masks because we can't breathe inside them. We ache to keep them on because we fear we won't be loved when exposed. Nature makes it simple in the end. Those who choose to breathe will survive, those who choose not to will die. Only the truth can set us free.

Click here to see the entire set.

Mecum Maseratis, Dallas 2016

The Maserati gods were smiling upon me at the last Mecum auction. A very rare 4.9 liter 1969 Ghibli spyder along with a 1975 Bora were both up for sale. What a painful time to be poor. The Ghibli was the star of the show with an estimated price of around a million. The market for these Spyders is climbing but they usually go for a fraction of that price. The engine must be the difference in this case.









While the Ghibli had had a first class restoration done on it the Bora was a bit tired with some wear and tear showing on the interior. I thought the $160,000 reserve price was way optimistic. $125,000 would have been a good price for that car. I saw Wayne Carini put a Bora up for auction and he overpriced it too. People just don't appreciate them and that's fine with me. Keep my fake hope alive!









Of course, there were some other fine examples present. Those who will recall the early days of Miami Vice will remember Crockett drove a Ferrari Daytona (it was fake). Here we have the real deal, will probably fetch around three quarters of a million.





"It's a doozy!" That phrase came from the great Duesenberg line of cars. Pictures don't so this car justice. Just blows you away in person, absolute work of art.



This Aston Martin Vulcan is a glorious beast. Only 24 to be built with a price tag of 2.3 million.



This Lincoln Limo really killed me. I'd have a blast with this car, something straight out of The Godfather. Car was a steal far as I was concerned.







The cost of buying a classic supercar does not end with the purchase. The maintenance on these high-strung creations comes with a steep bill and is one reason why you see so many low mileage examples running around even years later. Here's an invoice detailing some of the work done on the Bora. These kinds of costs are typical.



To find out how the auction went for the two Masers, see the videos below.






Click here to see the entire photo collection

The Abortionist Responds

Dear Stan,

I got your letter. I'm not sure what you're trying to do. The act is gone and can't be recreated. The person I was before no longer exists. Life goes on. You don't need me.

Many people have crazy dreams when they are young. They want to be artists or engineers and other unworkable ideas that get in their heads. You need to get passed that stage and join the grown up world. I have obligations and responsibilities. I cannot support myself walking on the clouds of fanciful dreams. We were never going to become famous.

During the act it was always perform, perform, perform! What pressure! What if the funny stops? How do I know I can keep up my end? Is that fair to you that you should have to carry me? I believe I was doing you a favor when I aborted. Yes, you should be thanking me for giving you a head start in the right direction instead of keep heading down the road of wishful thinking.

Also, for some reason, soon after the act broke I started gaining weight and am unable to stop it. It plagues me to this day. Just imagine how awful it would be for me to be on stage after ballooning like this! They say something in my physiology changed. More proof I was right to quit.

I am married now and have devoted my life to God. We are conservative Christians. I don't believe God wants us walking around in this evil world laughing amid so much misery. I read a scripture on that one time. It's better we sit in sackcloth and ashes and repent. Life is very hard and difficult and bitter! This certainly serves the world much better than two guys clowning around on stage.

I won't say I don't miss you at times. Sometimes the old impulses start coming through (and very ill-timed!). I have learned to ignore them as God wants me to. I'm sorry you keep living in the past. I still remember what you said to me at the end, that I wasn't just quitting the act, I was quitting on life. I think you can see with this letter that's not true. The wife and I will pray for you.

God Bless,

Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Hardy