A question that should be asked of every United States Senator, under oath — “If the NRA demanded it, would you give a blow-job to a donkey?”

Obviously a willingness to suck donkey dick for money does not disqualify a person from serving in the United States Senate, but shouldn’t this willingness be a matter of public record?



Very Enjoyable Reading

Who says the short story is dead? I gave this collection of fourteen stories a try, although I hadn’t read any “western” fiction since Lonesome Dove. Mr. Fonvielle does the genre proud with realism, stark situations and conflict, and endings that often are not what you’d expect. His characters often speak in crisp Victorian language that reminded me of several John Wayne movies. In fact, I think the dialogue is my favorite part of the collection. But don’t misunderstand: he depicts frontier living with its lawlessness, whores, brutality, saloons, scalpings, and the rest, so it’s not for the fainthearted. The stories vary in length from just 2-3 pages up to 20-30. I was disappointed when I got to the end. Give it a look.

An Amazon customer review which you can see here.



. . . in New Orleans, at the magical home of my friends Adrienne Parks and Bill Bowman. It’s a vast and comfortable mansion in the Garden District, filled with good vibes and wondrous art. Before now, only lucky friends got to experience the place, but Adrienne and Bill are making it available as a bed and breakfast destination for one and all. You’ll find that a stay there will rank among the high points of your trip to The Crescent City — as it always has for me!

Book it here.



Probably the best thing you can say about Django Unchained is that it’s almost impossible to say anything about it at all. It’s an utterly incoherent work of art, aesthetically, conceptually, emotionally.

What’s odd about it is that it has a kind of cellular structure — it’s component parts work on their own terms while you’re experiencing them. One cell sparks interesting intellectual thoughts about the place of slavery in American history. Another cell arouses the sort of emotions we associate with intense and unapologetic melodrama. Yet another cell connects us with the exhilaration of a brilliant goof on generic clichés.


The only thing I can think of to compare it with is a Joseph Cornell box, whose juxtaposition of discrete, disjointed sections somehow adds up to an aesthetic whole.

Is it important?  Is it profound?  Is it ultimately satisfying or meaningful?  I really don’t know.  All I can say is that it’s fascinating, that it’s of its time, that it took a lot of courage and eccentric genius to create.  Compared to the sort of rote junk Hollywood is programmed to turn out these days, it’s a miraculous anomaly.