DAY SIX - THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF ATTORNEY BLOOR COINCIDES WITH THE APPEARANCE OF THE HOTEL INVOICE FOR DRINKS

DAY SIX – Bloor can’t be summoned by telephone, by housekeeping or by a loud rapping, a gentle tapping at his chamber door in Room 247. He’s got himself barricaded in there. I think he’s so drug and drink addled out of his mind that he thinks they’re coming to evict him. The silly, stupid but still-snoring (sleep apnea) bastard!

 

Bloor’s got the high definition TV on full blast so he must be sleeping soundly or trying to cover up the sounds of some Gustav Klimt-like escapades with stray cat blues nubiles The last I saw him he was grappling and snappling with a bottle of Maker’s Mark neat with some good Netherlands gouda cheese..

 

I’m just now reading what was written about “the haircut” yesterday and it just won’t do. I can’t write one damn bit. It’s got me roundly depressed. The writers I like are F. Scott, R. Duke and QT. But if you read Zelda’s husband you’ll notice he’s got a lot of dialogue in there. Easy on the eyes. Easy to read. Easy to follow. Especially Gatsby in the car accident scene. Me. I don’t have a word of dialogue in the whole blog! It’s just this long scrawl with no point at all.

 

Well, I’ve got to follow my own advice, the stuff I feed to the boys, straighten up and fly right! No more downers: they came in with Nixon and never left. If the Kennedy’s had lived, this would be a different country now, better in fact. I’m not complaining, mind you. This is the best damn country they got: I know: I tried ‘em all.

 

We got a little unfinished business here at the hotel, I’m a little anxious about it. I like to plot out what I’m gonna do early in the morning. Talk it over with Bloor. Then take a little Heineken nap about 11 a.m. Then be “rejuvenated” about 1 p.m. Then another nap about 4 p.m. Then be “resuscitated” and fully respirated, about 7 p.m. after the Sun is down etc., etc. I’ve got simple tastes like any other man of the people. Six Florida grapefruit in the morning, two pots of Rukoki Gold Ugandan coffee with condensed Pet milk and Domino’s sugar, four eggs benedict, eight crispy strips of bacon, thirteen asparagus spears, three Maine lobsters, six English muffins with two sticks of Irish butter and one jar of Chiver’s “sweet, smooth” orange marmalade and one jar of Duerr’s blackcurrant preserve, a one-inch thick slice of Black Forest ham, five Santo Domingo (green, unpainted) oranges, a plate of organic green broccoli, Tazo Awake black tea and a little clear Coca-Cola-distilled Dasani water – nothing fancy here, boys. Maybe a little McIlhenny & Co. Tabasco Pepper sauce on the side. After all, I’m no marshmallow! Of course, here at the hotel, they bring it to you on a little white linen covered pushcart. The Chilean girl who brought it to me this morning was quite well-spoken and nice. She let me practice my Spanish on her. I said “good morning” (Buenos dias ), “how are you (polite)” (como esta usted) and “nice to meet you” (y mucho gusto). A little small-talk malarkey went a long way because she told me that her husband was American. Which I guess was her way of saying: I UNDERSTAND YOUR KIND OF CRAZY. Apparently, my reputation had preceded me. Once I had the food all out on the table, I signed for it on the little white paper and gave her a thirty percent tip (I always tip well because I know I can be difficult at times). She was a tall, pretty girl with her auburn hair pulled back off of her forehead. Her gold name tag said her name was “Isabella” (I hadn’t asked her “como te llamas”).

So I told Isabella “muchas gracias” and she pushed the cart with the squeaky wheel out of the room with a smile on her face. After she had left, I noticed that there was a single orange flower in a white spindly vase with water in it. And it made me smile.

 

The boys is generally good to me but they got a lot to learn about “real life.” I’m writing this here blog so’s when I’m dead and they lower me into the bone orchard with a heavy duty crane my son or daughter will be able to read it and glean a little bit about who I was and what I have to impart to them.

 

 

DAY THREE - INTRODUCTION TO AN ATTORNEY YOU HAVE MET BEFORE IN OTHER STORIES: YAEL BLOOR

DAY THREE –  Now you’ve really gone and done it. Jerry Saltz shit-canned your sorry ass on Facebook yesterday for being a Wise Guy. I really felt bad about it until I was into me cups. Luckily for me, my brilliant Jewish attorney Yael Bloor, advanced me enough cash (ten thousand U.S. dollars) so I could pay my $100,000.00 bond and be immediately released from that Satanic hellhole of a revolving door they call the Miami Dade County Downtown Detention & Public Recreation Center at 19 W. Flagler St. in Miami. I don’t know which story to tell you first. I am dripping sweat water beads from me forehead because of the heat and blood dripping from my wrists from where they handcuffed and sneakily Shanghaied me yesterday in the bright promising pick-the-gold-from-the-streets below.

     It was a truly dreadful day, though temperate weather-wise, start to finish, one that will live in infamy, so let me begin in chronological order so as not to confuse myself unnecessarily, I had had a little bout of Montezuma’s revenge yesterday morning, not just because those insolent, barbarous, callous and inhumane Miami-Dade Gestapo suddenly and unexpectedly clapped my hands in pinching-bruising uncomfortable stainless steel handcuffs, but because I had eaten only a slice of Buddy’s Pepperoni Pizza, popcorn and Tanqueray 10 gin, lime and tonic water for dinner the night before. Yael and I really tied one at the ‘ol hotel! But it seems there were a few specious, unsubstantiated and unspecified complaints about high-decibel squealing pig noises, M-80 explosions, firecracker-sulphuric-aftermath smells and burnt papers of unknown origins and general out-of-control hellfire-club-like dissipation, because the hotel’s management quite adamantly, unexpectedly and explicitly asked us to move to other rooms lower down in the signature Hilton hotel.

     I think I have celiac. (more on this later, inre: precious bodily functions).

     When those male and female mulatto officers first stifled my artistic hands in slave-irons, I had a sudden and overarching desire to visit the water closet. Now, Gentile Reader, I’d like you to believe that this is indeed the first time that I have been arrested in my life, but the truth is, it isn’t, so the fact that those ham-fisted “peace officers” (a bit rough-handed for “peace officers” if you ask me, in a BAD S&M kinda way, as if they had washed their hands since birth with Lava, and a smelly, industrial-grade kind of smelly, perfumey Lava at that) hastily put me under arrest and began to frog-march me out of the building, it wasn’t the kind of encounter that would normally trigger such an immediate and gut-piercing intestinal desire to find the nearest porcelain Polynesian god. And the last thing I wanted to do was resemble Rubends Nigel Cruickshank* (that is what the good and honorable Attorney Bloor says is the civil lawsuit-filing, no good, old geezer of a Jamaican jerk-off’s name from yesterday’s interlopations is). *Actually, that desiccated old leaky shitter of a flying pig chazzer of a prick, being Afro-Caribbean-Creole, has about three names and thirteen aliases and to write them all out here in this brief, unexpurgated, abridged and condensed daily summary of a no-bones blog would be to take up nearly half the space on the Internet, so I give you the three names I took with me, and which will be duly added to my “shit list” (Tricky Dick’s not the only one who gets to have an “enemies list”!) to be dealt with later by my Purple Gang of Fighting Forces for Good in Detroit, once additional earnest monies have been extended to THEM WHO KNOW WHO THE FUCK THEY ARE AND WHY THE FUCK THEY ARE in cash for previous business enterprises that have until now, not come completely to pass, and therefore have not been fully funded in terms of monetary reciprocation, hence the need for me to be gallivanting, joyriding and lollygagging around the streets of Miami in a Chrysler convertible (the same one that Iggy Pop shills for, that Stooge), rather than the mean Gratiot Streets of the Motor City. In a way, it’s like Groundhog Day, The Feng Shui Incident (what my computer correct-O-type tried to call: “The Feng Shit Incident,” those dirty no-good, Bill Gates-loving, Microsoft 7-making bastards! - NOT as my smart and dignified attorney Yael Bloor has couched it for our upcoming legal proceedings in official court documents – the police call it something else, less dignified and literary-sounding). Needless to say, all this has precipitated the need for me to stay longer in this welcoming sunny wonderful wonderful wonderful splendifirous Miami Heat than we had originally planned on our six-day itinerary! My good and dutiful secretary Mrs. Sue McQueen-Ray intelligently booked us into the Conrad for just over $100 per night. Of course, those evil, muckraking and incorrigible folks at Expedia, who spoke to Mrs. McQueen-Ray on the telephone prior to our trip, promised US (I was on the other end of the line as an aural witness) that Attorney Bloor and I’s rooms were deluxe executive suites overlooking Miami Beach more or less and containing a “spa” in each of the rooms. Well they have more like a smallish tub with non-functioning waterjets than a proper spa, something someone who is fully six-foot-three and two-hundred eighty-five pounds slim such as myself can barely fit into! (Mr. Bloor and I are not in the same room – we are not thirteen anymore). Of course, when we got there, I was careful to ask the front-desk clerk, a beautiful slim, nubile, 20-ish well-spoken mulatto girl whose father is originally from Vega Baja, Puerto Rico, if there was indeed a “Jacuzzi,” in the parlance of our Italian friends, in the room? Conrad Hotel Front Desk Deputy Assistant to the Assistant Head Clerk Xiomara Rivera de Conchita Marinez Guadelupe Orfelina-Peguero-Gonzalez de Ruiz answered: “No, sir. There are no spas in any of the rooms here.” Ha! So there you have it. Lied to again by the Indefatigable Malicious Forces (IMF) of the all-knowing Big Brother multinational conglomerates who have ruled the roost since the Great Humunculush Bush II first cheated his way into office in 2001 and are at this very moment running roughshod over the “American Dream” as we once knew it when Jimmy Cliff sang about it in “Viet Nam.” As “Caribbean James” likes to croon: “the American Dream/She not what she seem.” All Rights Reserved. ASCAP. BMI. EMI. BVI. LTD.

“When the Big 13 Corporations
Get you in litigation, you need pro-tec-tion
From most High Jah Rastafari

Mount Zion I and in Rome!”

     Let’s go back to Jerry, if I talk any more about those cocksuckers (not including Xiomara) at the Conrad Hilton Hotel in Miami I’m going to spoil my fleeting good spirits and ruin the joyless life of equanimity that we all share in (until someone starts fucking with our Che). Long story short, let’s just say that “The Hotel,” the party of the second part and soon to be “Defendants” say they/it have/has “no prior knowledge” about a promise of a spa in the deluxe suites at the Conrad Hilton Hotel Miami through Expedia. Yours truly your hero being the Party of The First Part and soon-to-be “Complainant” and deserving of all the munificent positive cash flow potential nuisance-suit legal bonanzas that are due and fitting to such hero according to the Honorable Court System of Southeastern Florida, as presented to the Right and Honorable Harvey Ruvin, Clerk of the Court, Miami-Dade County, Florida.

     An old business associate of mine, Dr. Richard “Slick Rick” Mengele, originally from Montreal, not the one you are thinking of, a younger, different and more Edward G. Robinson-looking type character, who found out late in life that he was Jewish after always stating that “Hitler had some good ideas, too,” but later became strangely silent on the subject, used to always say that: “Nobody ever sues because they haven’t been wronged.” So we’re going to get the jump on these bastards before they sue us first! At least that’s what Attorney Bloor says. Apparently, he does his best work when he is NOT on the defensive. The Conrad Hilton Miami Beach, aka “The Defendants” were willing to “comp” Attorney Bloor and myself with different suites, higher up in the hotel, with bigger tubs, more powerful waterjets in said tubs and stainless steel and glass futuristic showers (that leak incidentally), but CHMB said that they could not extend the bargain basement rate that Expedia, in its lying, cheating backstabbing over-the-Internet form of thievery quoted us on longer than those previously-agreed-to six days – when they would change to a comparable, in-season, more favorable to The House (if you get my drift) price. Once the spa complaint had been registered to the HBIC, that flitting, airy and repugnant fairy-fag of a Puerto Rican cleft anus asshole of a motherscunt (is there any other kind of Puerto Rican male?) Hotel Manager, he who shall remain nameless until justifiable subpoenas are served upon the ruthless, conniving double-dealing shyster-con-artists of a pretend service industry “professionals” who are running this pyramid scheme of a hotel when court documents are actually filed in the proper judicial venue of Mr. Bloor’s choosing. When that scamming Nigerian-East Indian man for Expedia who claimed that his name was “Juan Carlos” (when he was probably “Pradeep” in a elegant gutter in Calcutta) confirmed our reservations I was careful to specifically ask “him,” that cross-dressing no good guttersnipe of a merry prankster pendejo how big the spa was “he” said it was a “Le Tigre 47-jet, two-pump, two-person” (occupancy) spa. And then King Juan Carlos (if that really was his name) gave me a jumble of letters and numbers that a talented court reporter couldn’t have recorded accurately. King Juan Carlos said that he had penciled us in for the deluxe suites at the Conrad Hilton Miami Beach complete with working Le Tigre spa fully two months  prior to our arrival here by the Bay of Biscayne (it is near the same place where that as-good as-they-get Wop Giuseppe Zangara tried to shoot F.D.R., as he was driving one-handed down Tamiami Trail in a black Model-T jotting down a new Constitution for Haiti as he smoked a Cuban cigar on February 15, 1933.

     I get the distinct impression, and Attorney Bloor has assured me that I am NOT WRONG in this presupposition, that the Conrad Hilton Hotel Miami Beach no longer wants neither me, nor Attorney Bloor to stay BEYOND the six days that we had originally locked in, through the good graces of my American Express Black Card, prior to our arrival here in dirty, dingy, downtrodden and generally gray and ugly, Colombian/Haitian/Cuban-dominated Miami Beach (“no hablo ingles/Yankee go home” is the mission statement proudly displayed and in-your-face flauted on the front sliding glass doors of this four-star signature Hilton Hotel). It is simply BEYOND BELIEF. TRUTH is stranger than fiction you read about it every day. I will add, that Attorney Bloor and I will do exactly as CON-RADICAL HILTON have assiduously instructed us to do and leave at our appointed late check-out time within six days as scheduled, but let’s just say that before we leave here there will have been some unforeseen Michael Keaton-type “Pacific Heights”-style, hypercoristic covert “misfortunes’ visited upon our humble and respective hotel rooms! We shall pull a full Johnny Depp on them, those stinking, conniving, cheating, lying CON-RADICAL HILTON bastards! And when we gracefully, silently and stealthily exit these shabby, no account, gray, nondescript, depraved, grief-sticken Native American burial grounds of a false-pleasure resort, backstairs-working-only facilities LONG BEFORE any such Hurricane Andrew-like devastations have occurred – and IF it is alleged that there has been some MAJOR DESTRUCTION AND HELL-FIRE FURY VISITED UPON the rooms formerly occupied by Attorney Bloor, Esq. and I – LONG BEFORE some unknown-to-us contraventions alleged to have happened to the coincidentally same DIRTY, FILTHY DESPICABLE HOTEL ROOMS that we once reluctantly inhabited in the most peace-loving and B’ahai-like way and BEFORE we have fully “absconded” from the abandoned conquistador city new moon hours before such immanent, serendipitous and purely-by-chance catastrophic, unpredictable Acts From the Loving Hands of God – let’s just say that if you attempt to use any of this blog against me in ANY Court of Law, not only will I sue you for copyright infringement AND WIN, I will deny that ANY WORD of it is TRUE and that there was in point of fact ABSOLUTELY NO “malice aforethought” or whatever Attorney Bloor assures me that I did not officially do, when it comes to future court presentations, mock dry runs, sample-jury empanelling statistics and other legal prevarications and necessary upstanding citizen-type behaviors and tics.

     Now I am in such a black hell godless Mohammad of a mood about this Conrad Hilton Miami business (what would the real Conrad Hilton {(cryogenically-preserved and suddenly resuscitated for front desk duty) do? Comp us the rooms at the same price as we had previously negotiated at is what! The hotel has The Holy And One True Bible and Conrad Hilton’s best-selling book: “I’ve Never Cheated Anyone” in the lamp table drawers of the rooms we are in – I’ve just glanced at the novel, but I wouldn’t doubt him – Conrad Hilton The Man Himself that is}. Quite frankly, I don’t know if I am of fit mind and body to extend the olive branch of peace to my good Facebook friend of five (5) years (whom I have never actually met in real life outside of my lousy cyber life) Jerry Saltz. Let me just say, by way of preamble, that the following words are intended in the spirit of Internet socialistic media brotherhood and not meant to be an indictment of any short, balding Jewish people or their pale, insubstantial, “brains-are-showing” and paltry New York City metropolitan-area lives.