Scandals of the Privileged Few...Novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 10!

Danny glanced out the side window of the aircraft – whistled in response to the breathtaking panoramic view of the Desert Oasis that stretched out below for miles into the distance – then gulped down the heel of his thirsty-quenching beer as he fastened the clip on his seat belt.

As the 727 began its quick descent, Danny’s thoughts were flooded with a myriad of fond memories from the past which were triggered whenever he casually reflected on his brief stint as a “fly boy” (flight attendant) in the employ of one of the mid-size airlines which boasted a specialty niche in the travel industry.

The Boeing aircraft – one of several planes he was trained on – was a nifty little jet which housed a rear exit (with a sturdy drop-down stairwell) in the tail wing.

“So cool,” Danny muttered to himself as he scanned the friendly skies in search of approaching aircraft.

When the news broke that overworked air controllers were carelessly falling asleep in the tower while on duty, savvy world travelers were inclined to keep a watchful eye out for potential airline disasters.

It was a sign of the times, really.

The DC10 was his least-favorite carrier back then.

Talk about a barge!

The cabin – with extra seats across the width of her wide belly – wasn’t exactly staff-friendly either.

Attendants often ran their asses off whenever they were assigned a trip on one to foreign destinations.

Danny chuckled to himself when he recalled one of the dumb jokes that started circulating for a brief time with the stews, baggage-handlers, and travel agents on the heels of a couple of fatal accidents which tragically occurred on take-off and during landing.

How can you tell which one of the pilots in the cafeteria flies the DC 10?

He’s the guy who eats his dessert, first!

Ba-dump!

At this juncture, Danny’s thoughts drifted to a few hilarious madcap nights, which nearly ended up in disaster, were it not for the invisible hand of God guiding him out of harm’s way.

Although Danny was basically a practicing Christian, he was light-years away from the tireless holy-rollers around the country thumping their bibles and predicting doomsday.

It was useless to try to recruit and rescue souls, until the so-called sinners developed enough spiritually to be capable of perceiving the light.

'Even God attempted to enlighten his prophets about that basic reality beyond the sacred veil on this earthly coil," Danny preached to his friends almost daily.

For example, when Moses strode up on the Mount, he pleaded with God to appear before him.

In response, the Lord informed Moses that it was not possible for a sentient being to gaze into the face of God.

Mere mortals, who inhabited fleshy earth-bound bodies, were ill-equipped (lacked the wherewithal) to comprehend simplistic ideas on the lofty concepts of the Almighty God.

Moses was instructed to go behind a rock, and gaze on the all-powerful Lord from behind, once he passed by.

Danny was of the firm belief that once a man became enlightened, his spirit would subsequently vibrate on a higher level of  spiritual “being-ness” – and thus - be capable of merging with the light of God.

Part of this philosophy – or outlook – stemmed from Danny’s studies on the teachings of the great teachers who once walked the face of the earth.

In fact, Danny theorized as to why very little was known about Jesus until his early thirties.

If the truth be known, Christ was a prophet who strode the streets in the Far East , studying the sacred teachings of all the great masters before he was ready to fulfill God’s prophecy.

One has only to dissect some of the philosophies he preached in his lectures to determine that many of his ideas and beliefs stemmed from basic Buddhist principles.

Danny was a seeker (a pursuer of truth) who observed a widely-held Buddhist view that each of us is like a drop (a pearl of wisdom) in the ocean (known as the God “consciousness”).

In fact, Danny – among others – often argued that God was not a wizened old man who allegedly sat atop a mountain passing judgment on sinners below.

It all boiled down to faith.

Danny was fortunate in that regard, for starters.

For instance, on one uplifting occasion a few years ago, Danny was blessed with - what he described  - as a  “visitation”.

The astounding experience was not only inspiring, but bootstrapped up his spiritual beliefs, at a time when they were at low ebb.

The “miracle” included a healthy respect for intelligent design, the creator, and the all-encompassing idea of evolution itself.

One night, Danny was resting peacefully on his bed – when suddenly – a mystical light descended from the heavens.

Within seconds, Danny became awestruck as three distinct figures – each outlined in a dazzling bright light – began to hover overhead.

“You are blessed,” the middle “entity” telepathically communicated to Danny, as a ghostly hand gestured towards his heart.

Just as Danny was about to ask a question, the other-worldly entities vanished into thin air.

The next day, Danny was honored with a confirmation, in the event he was under the impression that the “vision” was not real.

In fact, the morning after the “miracle”, Danny casually strolled into a used-book store after an “inner voice’ instructed him to do so.

Within minutes he was drawn to a book bin where a thin publication literally screamed out at him.

“Buy me!”

When Danny scooped it up, and quickly thumbed through its crisp slightly-yellowed pages, he suddenly spied an image of the “Holy Spirit” that was strikingly similar to the vision that appeared before him the night before.

In an underlying caption - the author noted that the distinctive “brilliant light” that edged the heavenly entities in the rendering - was a sign of the “Trinity”.

A shiver ran up and down his spine.

“Fasten up your seat belts, please, Ladies and Gentleman,” an announcement rang out from the loud speaker, as Danny was jolted back to the present moment in full control of all his faculties.

When he looked up to acknowledge a flight attendant who was strolling down the aisle, he was amazed to find himself gazing on the features of a clean-cut airline employee who looked the spitting image of a pal by the name of  Doug.

Danny found himself musing over the fact that - in spite of toiling on a handful of flights each week – Danny and Doug never ended up on the same flight over a six-month period.

Till one cool day in December, that is!

Because the route was slated to start in Ottawa, connect in Toronto, and fly on to Vancouver later that night, Doug and Danny saw a golden opportunity to catch up on all the class scuttlebutt.

For this reason, the two high-spirited employees – still on probation – made a pact to bar-hop at a slew of raucous French nightclubs across the river from their Hotel in Hull (Quebec).

After a frenzied evening of boogeying and partying-heartily - and taking the plunge with couple of sexy French-Canadian studs out for an adventurous dalliance or two - the madcap pub crawlers ended up causing quite a ruckus.

On a least one hairy occasion, Doug’s big mouth nearly landed them in trouble, with the proud boisterous locals, too.

For some inexplicable reason, the charismatic young boozer got the notion in his head - that one slang term the frenchies were inclined to utter up in a guttural fashion now-and-then out-of-the-blue - was the one to shout out in a moment of profound jubilation whenever a rush of adrenalin (on the heels of a potent shot or two being downed usually) overtook mind, body, and soul.

But, it wasn’t until Doug spat out – Tabernacle - in a delightfully gutsy low register during a round of brewskies – that he got viciously scolded by all the French patrons for tossing it out with wicked abandon.

Unfortunately - contrary to what he first thought – the word was a sacred one not to be bandied about, he learned later from the locals.

“I thought it was like yelling – far fucking out!” – Danny cried out in his defense as forty-or-so French-Canadians starting pelting him with chick peas at a raunchy run-down blues club.

“Don’t take the name of God in vain, heh Dude!”

By the stroke of midnight, the party boys were so shit-faced that they ended up in a flap over directions, as they tried to slip back into the Hotel without being spied by the straight-laced crew members on the same scheduled flight still creeping about at that ungodly hour.

Uh-huh.

At one point, they literally howled at the moon.

Until a lone Canadian Mountie on horseback, in a formal red uniform, came around the bend and admonished the tipsy twosome for not finding their way home sooner.

Dropping into a deep slumber wasn’t a difficult task - but groaning to life the next morning was a long headache-filled one - that cast a pall on the normally-delightful cruise out to the local airport.

Doug and Danny breathed a sigh of relief when the plane’s doors were finally sealed shut and the 747 – packed to near capacity – rolled down the runway without incident.

They were half-way expecting a supervisor to surprise them with an impromptu visit on that leg of the trip - to check their appearance (and likewise) - test the lads on their knowledge of emergency procedures.

Gotcha!

Shortly before take off in Toronto, an ambush did occur, however.

During the pre-flight rush, a middle-aged boss strolled up out-of-the-blue and greeted them with a pleasant smile, a firm handshake, a reminder that he was there to quiz them on their knowledge of emergency procedures once the craft was in flight and out-of-harm’s way in Toronto.

OMG!

Danny recalled that he flipped out a manual from class that frightful morn - and in between drink and pillow drops to passengers early on in the flight - tried to “cram” some of the important life-saving information he’d undoubtedly be queried about.

Fortunately, by the time “Iggie” got ‘round to Doug, he’d already gulped down a piping-hot cup of java.

So, the middle-aged European and was relaxed, and in an easy-going mood.

At the end of the interview, the amiable gent gave him a nod of approval, so that Danny was saved the drama of waiting for a notice critiquing his overall performance to arrive in the mail box.

“You passed with flying colors,” he chuckled.

“No pun intended!”

Later, Danny was shocked to hear from Doug that his breath smelled like a brewery.

“Whew,” Doug lamented, as he gently pushed Danny away.

“Your breath stinks to high heaven, Daniel. Didn’t Iggie say anything about it,” he teased his pal.

“No, not a word,” Danny shot back, as a cold sweat broke over his entire body.

“I meant to buy a miniature bottle of mint mouthwash to tuck in my breast pocket, so I could take a swig now-and-then during the shift home.”

“But,’ he winked at Doug,”If you recall, you were so damn anxious to get across the river to Hull to prowl for French hunks, that there wasn’t any time.”

“How did you do when Iggie grilled you,” Doug interjected, anxious to steer the conversation in another direction.

Doug loathed the thought of being indiscreet in the workplace where a thousand-or-so prying eyes were at-the-ready to pass judgment or turn you in to management for conduct unfitting any fly boy worth his weight in gold.

Indeed!

Doug let out a little squeal.

“Oh, that old Queen."

For starters, he smells like Old Spice. Eugh!   I think he had the hots for me, too. Twice, he casually put his hand on my knee! And, we mostly talked about the fact I was a lonely prairie kid raised in Calgary.”

That was so annoying to Doug.

Once you revealed that you were single, the wolves would circle and pester incessantly.

“Why aren’t you hitched? You’d be quite a catch, after all,” he shoot back, as a gleam in his own eye signaled a keen interest in jumping in-the-sack.

“I always tell people – “I haven’t met the right person” – and it drives them batty,” he cackled.

“I’d rather jerk off with a copy of “Frat Boys”, than engage in any hanky-panky wimps like that!”

“Iggie is a dirty old horn dog, alright” Danny chuckled, as he twisted a peel of lime and affixed it to the top of a frosted glass filled with ice and about to be transformed into a gin and tonic in about two-seconds-flat.

“Golly, Canucks are real boozers, aren’t they? It’s only 11 o’clock in the morning. Talk about taking a bite of the dog that bit ‘ya

“I’d like a drinkie-pooh, too,” Doug quipped back.

“But, you know me. A couple of drinks, and I’m loose-as-a- goose!”

“You and John Boy Walton!”

They both let out a roar, as a couple of guests turned their way, with a look of scorn on their faces.

“Time to get ram-rod straight, dude!”

Unfortunately, Danny’s stint as a flying “waiter” in the sky didn’t pan out in the end.

Talk about a fashion faux pas!

Danny’s illustrious career as a Flight Attendant went by way of the dumper when he made a gross error in judgment at the crack of dawn one pretty autumn morning in Vancouver.

After a sleeping in past the alarm, Danny was forced to hastily maneuver a shower, and then scramble to toss on his two-tone Uniform with all the accessories intact.

That fateful day, Danny was on “Airport Duty”.

Flight attendants on probation were often required to show up at the airport for four hours and wait the shift out in the event there was a no-show due to commuter traffic, last-minute illness, or what-have-you.

When the shuttle roared up to the terminal gate, Danny hopped out quickly, and took a glance at his elegant timepiece.

Right on the dot!

But, what was that he spied peering up at him, from the polished marble tile at his feet?

OMG!

Danny was in such a rush, that he snatched up a pair of white athletic sock, tossed on the floor the night before after returning home exhausted from the gym.

Since day one, Danny had been a perfect role model, for all the other young hunks coming up through the ranks.

Every day – without fail – Danny managed to show up for work on time with his uniform freshly-pressed, and matched up to perfection, with a pair of shiny black shoes and inky-black socks.

Talk about a fashion faux pas!

White socks teamed with black shoes and black dress slacks were a definite “no no”.

Would anyone spy the fashion fiasco?

On many occasions, Dave Letterman has strolled across the stage of the Ed Sullivan Theatre, sporting white socks and black shoes.

But, Dave can get away with it.

Why?

Because Dave owns the production company – lock, stock, and barrel – that’s why.

Even still, any Fashion Editor will tell ‘ya – the style disaster is strictly taboo!

Danny plunked himself down and scrutinized his reflection in a huge glass panel partition across form him

Uh-huh.

No matter how he sat – this way or that – the socks screamed out from the between the keenly-pressed black slacks and highly-polished stylish black shoes.

As Danny attempted adjustments, he managed to end up feeling like a bodacious bimbo anxiously pulling the edge of her skirt down, with the bald-faced hope that the hem might magically stretch lower to the edge of the knees.

As Danny pondered the dilemma, it happened.

Fate descended on him like shitload of bricks from the great beyond.

At the tail end of long line of passengers disembarking from an airplane about fifty feet away, Danny – OMG - spotted a slightly overweight forty-something bottle blond in a company uniform.

Just as Danny did a double-take – uh-huh – he couldn’t help but notice she was proudly sporting a Supervisor’s Badge pinned to her jacket over one big sloppy boob hidden beneath.

Damn!

Before Danny could ski-daddle behind a partition in the hall, she caught sight of the dastardly socks!

Before he could say – Fashion Police – the eagle-eyed broad was giving him the once-over.

Actually, he thought she was going to scream bloody murder, as she hauled ass in his direction.

“You’re wearing white socks, young man,” she scolded loudly, as couple-of-hundred eyes pierced the air in their direction, and each-and-every-one reacted in a dozen-or-so embarrassing ways.

“According to the manual, you’re out of uniform, too.” she added with a tinge of annoyance in her voice, as she sidled up, and tore a pad of paper and ballpoint pen out of her side pocket to take notes.

Here questions were quick, straightforward, and to the point.

“What’s your name? Employee number? How long have you been working at the airline? What, you’re still on probation? Whatever possessed you?”

And, so forth, and so on.

“Officious bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Nice day for ducks,” Danny joked, as he turned and glanced out the window at the light rain which was now spraying the lower mainland, ever-so-gently.

When Danny attempted to brush off the incident as a simple oversight, his attitude really got her goat.

The petty old bitch was out for blood, alright.

Yeah, he knew what she needed.

A mercy fuck – or at a minimum – a swift kick in the ass.

Oh, she was a two-bagger, alright.

Ten brewskies, at least.

You know the score, don’t you?

Seasoned dudes on the prowl rate broads out-to-trot on a precise sliding scale.

For instance, one mediocre-looking plain Jane may be worth jumping into the sack with, once you’ve downed three beers.

A coyote?

Ten brewskies - chug-a-lugged - with a shot of tequila tossed in for good measure.

That should give rise to a beefy boner or two.

Watch it, though, dudes.

Too much booze and your “Johnson” might not roar to attention as usual, if ‘ya get my drift!

But, to the task at hand.

Poor Danny, as hard as he tried (he was normally a great schmoozer with the ability to win and influence people with his charismatic studly persona), he couldn’t get the mouthy broad to back down or even fire a warning shot off his bow.

In so many words, she promised to run his sorry ass over the coals, and toss his dick to the dogs in an afterthought.

Danny was forced to take serious measures.

In a nutshell, he beat her to the punch, by filing his complaint against her pronto!

Oh, how he tactfully ranted about her lack of professionalism – and reluctance to offer up help to an innocent new hire on probation – in dire need of a little compassion and understanding.

And, the way she “dressed-down” an airline employee in full view of the public, displayed not only a shocking lack of discretion but a disturbing lack of leadership skills in the final analysis.

In a nutshell, he made mince meat of the gal, you betcha!

Sure enough, on the day of the hearing, the shamed Flight Attendant was shown the door.

And, at long last, the shocking socks drama – which by now had erupted into a scandal of epic proportions – finally drew to a ceremonious close.

Then, shortly after Danny was thanked for bringing the issue to the Airline’s attention, Mr. Bortelli – the head of personnel – summoned him to the airline concierge desk for some inexplicable reason.

Instinctively, Danny just knew what was next on the Airline’s agenda, on Christmas Eve.

When he approached the rinky-dink Christmas display, he spied Bortelli right-off-the-bat, striding his way.

“Mr. Schonemann, this way,” Bortelli cried out with a tinge of pomp and circumstance, as he ushered Danny into a small alcove near the entrance-way to Gate No. 8.

Once the niceties were performed – without even the luxury of the privacy of an office – a queasy feeling welled up inside his nervous stomach.

“I’ll use the words of the immortal Donald Trump,” Bortelli started slyly, with a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

“You’re fired.”

At this point, Danny had a flash of wicked inspiration.

Should he seize the day or let sleeping dogs ly?

“What the heck!”

“You can’t fire me” he shouted back, as he jumped up from his chair and tore off his sissy red airline jacket, and tossed it at a startled Bortelli.

“Because I quit – yesterday!”

Yup.

He beat Bortelli and those CP Air assholes to the punch!

Then, he turned on his heel, and started to stroll out the door, when a light bulb went off inside of his head.

Danny stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, and then quipped over his shoulder.

“I don’t need no stinking airline!”

With that final retort, he was gone, free of the shackles that bound him for the past six months.

Oh well, if he ever became a terrorist, at least he knew his aircraft tippy-top to bottom, alright!

A cheer went up from bystanders who had gathered silently behind him as the drama unfolded with Bortelli (his back being to the glass door, after all) and even offers flooded in

“Heh, bud! I want to buy you’re pretty little ass a brewskie,” one toothy construction worker chortled to Danny, as he blushed in response to all the unadulterated outpouring of love flowing in his direction.

Seems that Danny struck a chord – kind of like that character in Network – who said in a pivotal arc in the scripted material:

“We’re made as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore.”

Nor would Danny – and judging by the reactions all around – or the teaming masses.

And, there was a plus side, too.

One well-dressed businessman stridently approached him with an offer in hand.

“Now that you’re out of a job, you may need an inexpensive rental to hide out in, ‘til you get back on your feet. I have an apartment you can house-sit while I am overseas working on a project for the next 6 months.”

“Deal,” cried out Danny without hesitation.

The man flipped out a card, and scribbled his address on the back.

“I’ll expect you for dinner at 8 tonight,” he grinned.

He stared down at the scrawl.

Stone Canyon Trail.

Sounded kind of country, he chuckled to himself with a bit of a twang in his voice.

Hee Haw

__________________________________________________



When Danny tooled up in front of the stately looking Villa in his renovated 1967 Red Mustang, he double-checked the address.

Heck, he felt like pinching himself.

Could it be that he was dreaming?

If so, how would Carl Jung have interpreted the lush inviting images that beckoned from all around?

Meanwhile, a handful of exquisite Cypress trees whispered in a warm breeze, as they hugged an inky midnight blue sky, which framed a silvery moon hanging eerily low on the horizon near an unidentified constellation which winked at him now-and-then.

At first, Danny got the impression that the Villa was a single upscale dwelling, but upon closer scrutiny, he spied three distinct brass plates along a retaining wall which identified a trio of distinct suites with separate entrances.

What was that?

For a brief moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, peering out from behind a slightly-drawn curtain at a 2nd storey window.

A little shiver ran up his spine.

And, a rush of cold air caused the wet strands of his spikey “do” to stand on end for a second.

An unexpected hoot of an owl jarred him back to his senses.

Curiously, there weren’t any parking signs at the curb designating the hours or stipulating any restrictions.

So, he left his snazzy sports car where he had crept to a halt, and proceeded to stroll over and ring Maximillian’s doorbell.

Chimes – similar to the those from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” rang out and took Danny by surprise - as they echoed in the approaching darkness.

An expensive-looking gauze curtain was nudged aside – at which point – Danny caught sight of a gorgeous Russian Wolf Hound prancing excitedly up-and-down a well-appointed entrance way graced with a smattering of tasteful prints hanging in eye-catching gilded frames.

The door swung wide open, as Maximilian stepped over the thresh-hold, and extended a warm welcome his way.

“Did you find the street okay,” the dapper gent wondered aloud, as he led Danny down the long hall into a sprawling step-down living room beautifully decorated with an eclectic mix of furnishings artfully placed about the gothically-inspired sitting room.

“Say, would you care for a glass of  Inglenook courtesy of  Francis Ford Coppola?”

“The director of ‘Apocalypse Now’ just purchased the prestigious label from the Wine Group as part of his plan to restore the company to its former glory in wine making circles,” added Max (he preferred the less formal nickname) with a tinge of pride in his voice.

“I went to school with Francis. Great filmmaker. Old school,” he underscored, as he toasted his pal.

Coppola’s property – the Rubicon Estate in Napa Valley – is situated on the Inglenook estate which was established back in 1879, he elaborated.

“Here, have a glass of Sunset Blush,” the tall dark stranger urged, as he reached for a pricey cigar from its resting place on a mantel above the fireplace on a far wall.

“Care for a stogie,” he asked, as he held out a box brimming full.

“No, I don’t smoke - well – not cigars,” grinned Danny, as he started to relax into the moment.

Who was this dude, he found himself wondering, to himself.

Money didn’t appear to be a problem. And, his taste was pretty up-to-snuff, too.

If Maximilian sensed that Danny was somewhat awestruck, he never let on.

As far as Max was concerned, they were now friends, as thick as thieves.

There was something about this guy that spoke volumes.

Suddenly, Danny noticed a toy replica of a military helicopter on display on top of the grand piano.

“Do you collect toys,” Danny quizzed the mysterious stranger.

“No. I am under contract with a certain agency – which I am not at liberty to discuss – which turns out real life-size ones for the U.S. Government,” he noted, in what Danny perceived as a half-whisper.

Upon closer scrutiny, it was evident to Danny that the craft featured some intriguing full-tilt features.

“Yes, pretty high-tech. Very special. Costly, too. It was a shame we recently lost one overseas,” he slyly teased.

Danny’s curiosity was aroused!

“How’s that, Sir?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Daniel found himself snapping his heels together and saluting Max.

“Yes, Sir.”

At this juncture, both cracked up and headed for the couch with copter in hand.

“I suppose you saw the news reports on the Navy Seals’ stealth raid on Osama bin Laden a few weeks ago?”

“Who didn’t! It was all over the broadcast news day and night 24/7.”

“Then, you probably know that one of the high-tech copters became disabled, and that the seals were forced to firebomb the top-secret aircraft before they exited the compound.”

‘You designed that???” Danny reacted in shock, as he just about lost a big one in his designer jeans.

Holy shit!

Was he the real McCoy, or just putting me on,” Danny wondered to himself.

As they were involved in a spirited conversation about some of the details, Max proceeded to snatch up a pen and ink rendition of the craft from inside a hidden compartment on the side of his antique desk in the study just off the living-room.

“Most folks think it was simply a souped-up Black Hawk.”

Wow!

Danny was familiar with a few of the special design features which were the intellectual property of a shadow corporation allegedly in league with Uncle Sam.

“Not only can they evade radar, but they can hover over targets without so much as uttering up a peep, or even a tell-tale whir, eh Max?”

“Daniel, you’re on top of it, aren’t ya? But, there is something more intriguing about the copter that few in their wildest dreams could ever imagine.”

“I’ll bite,” Daniel kidded, all ears.

“What comes to mind when I say the number 51,” Max teased, as he lifted a second bottle of chilled wine from the silver ice bucket and topped Danny’s fluted antique glass with it.

51?

That number rang a bell. In fact, Danny recalled seeing it in print somewhere recently.

Then – of course – it hit him like a lightning bolt.

Unless his memory failed him, he recently clicked on a link at the Alexa web site, where it was posted as one of the top trending topics that afternoon on the Internet.

“Area 51?”

“You’re getting warmer, Danny. Put on your thinking cap. Word association. Helicopter. Stealth. High technology. Area 51.”

Whoosh!

As he raked his brain for clues, he felt dizzy – and overwhelmed – as images flashed through his little grey matter.

Then, in moment of inspiration, he was elevated to a peaceful state.

But, what was the connection?

“What would you think if I told you that we designed a super stealth helicopter - that was crafted with metals and alloys non-existent on this planet – and driven by technology lifted from an alien spaceship?

Danny’s eyes went wide.

“I’d say, pure Science Fiction,” Danny shot back.

Area 51 was purportedly a remote location in the desert where an alien spaceship crashed way back in the fifties.

Conspiracy theorists have accused the government of – not only withholding information about the facts surrounding a crash at Area 51 – but also keeping an alien being (or two)  in their custody!

Max then enlightened Danny about the fact that he had two brothers.

“One works at the military base at area 51, while the other is a Navy Seal, who was on the clandestine mission to murder Osama bin Laden.”

“Murder? They said Osama drew a gun, so they were forced to shoot him,” Danny shouted back angrily, in a knee-jerk reaction.

“The Navy Seals were ordered to assassinate him on sight in no uncertain terms. The “means will justify the ends”. Those were the President’s words verbatim.”

“How do you know that for sure? It’s so wild, so cowboy,” scoffed Danny.

“My brother obeyed the directive for the ‘Obama’ Mission to a “t”. With the exception of one curious detail,” Max sneered, as he swilled the wine in his glass for a second or two for effect.

Boy, Max was such a drama queen!

“What detail was that?”

“He saved the President’s order. He didn’t destroy it as usual. It’ been tucked away in a safe deposit box in Washington. In fact, the evidence is yearning to erupt on the horizon. Well, sometime before the next election, at least."

Scandals...of the Privileged Few! A Novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 8!

Brad counted the crisp bills fresh out of the ATM, double-checked the total, and then handed over the wad of cash to the gruff heavily tattooed street urchin.

After taking a brief whiff of the pungent green stuff, he strode toward his 1975 Corvette Stingray purring at the curb, tucked the plastic baggie into a leather pouch, and proceeded to slip it into the side-pocket of his trendy Abercrombie & Fitch windbreaker.

Thwack!

Suddenly, out-of-the-blue, Brad was struck from behind, and found himself propelled face-forward into the cracked pavement below with a nasty thud.

“DEA,” he heard a man bark out.

“You’re under arrest for possession of marijuana,” were the last words he heard before he briefly lost consciousness.

Moments later - it seemed like an eternity - Brad found himself spitting out blood as two darkly-clad males roughly pulled his aching limp body up to a standing position next to what appeared-to-be an unmarked police car.

As Brad struggled to get his wits about him, one of the surly males snatched his wallet out of his back pocket and proceeded to thumb through it for ID, as another swiftly and expertly frisked his body.

“So, are you some kind of pot-head,” one of the undercover officers grilled Brad, as he shoved the baggie of grass he’d confiscated into his now-bloody face.

“Naw,” Brad started to reply, before he was interrupted.

"Or,  you’re a dealer. Eh, kid? Which is it,” he demanded.

“I – I – I use it for medicinal purposes” Brad blurted back, still shaken by the unexpected ordeal which had just gone down on the run down side street in Hollywood.

“Bull,” the younger-of –the-two shouted at him as he stood menacingly nearby.

A second cop raised his hand and gestured for his partner to back off a second.

At this juncture, he sidled up to Brad, and casually – but firmly – placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Who’s your contact, son? We’ll go light on ‘ya. If ‘ya cough up the info, that is,” the officer taking on the “good cop” role promised.

“Look, I want to talk to a lawyer,” Brad managed to mutter, without a crack in his voice.

“Oh, he’s guilty alright,” growled the obvious rookie of the two.

“When the little babies cry for “daddy or their attorney, you just know they’re not new to the ropes,” he hissed in disgust.

“Maybe we should go for a ride down to the warehouse district, eh tough guy,” he continued angrily.

Brad started to reel in shock.

All of a sudden he felt like he was in a bad Mickey Spillane movie, or something.

At this juncture, he clammed up.

“Ok, kiddo. Have it your way,” the second cop – still unidentified at this point in the shake-down – barked back at Brad.

In a few seconds flat, Brad was whirled around roughly and a cold pair of scuffed handcuffs was snapped on his wrists so tightly - that he not only flinched - but cried out in pain as well.

“Ouch,” he found himself yelping out loud as a few of the residents of the middle-class neighborhood snickered nearby in the shadows.

He overheard one hiss.

“Damn drug-dealers are poisoning our children. Rot in hell alongside Osama bin Laden”

Were they going to lynch him next?


____________________________________________________


Melanie was relaxing in a warm silky bath, savoring each glorious note of the classical music as it wafted from one poignant moment-to-the-next throughout the upper levels of their sumptuous home on Nob Hill, when the jarring sound of the telephone broke her moment of ecstasy unexpectedly out-of-the-blue.

Was the maid going to pick up?

Obviously, not.

As she dickered about whether to pick up or not, it hit her like a ton of bricks.

Suddenly, she recalled that she gave Eloise the night off to attend her son’s solo recital at the Masonic Temple in mid-Wilshire.

Now, she was in a dilemma.

Once she dashed across to pluck up the phone from its elegant cradle in the wall, the caller would probably hang up abruptly in frustration.

Should she or shouldn’t she bother making the trek across the cold floor inset with imported Italian marble.

There was something kind of persistent-sounding about the ring, though, she mused to herself.

Melanie’s husband was in Manhattan on business, as usual.

Maybe, there was an emergency and urgently trying to reach Melanie?

Oh, heck.

Melanie grabbed a fluffy pink towel with her monogram etched on its face from the gold encrusted rack nearby, wrapped it quickly around her upper torso, and then gingerly headed towards a small alcove in the far wall.

“Daisy’s flowers,” she chirped with a grin on her face, as she snatched the telephone up in one sudsy hand.

Inside joke!

“Oh, It’s some flower shop” a male voice could be heard informing a third party in the background,

“You may have jotted down the number incorrectly,” the crisp formal-sounding voice noted, before he was interrupted by the towel-clad socialite now dripping all over the normally-pristine bathroom floor.

“Sir?”

Just a sec,” the Police Officer at the Hollywood Police Station instructed Melanie, as he turned to inform Brad of the new developments.

“It may be a wrong number.”

He turned back to the task at hand, and tried to determine the name of the person on the end of the phone, which was now crackling with static.

“Is this Ms. Vanderbilt?”

“Yes. To whom am I speaking,” she asked, as it instantaneously dawned on her how formal and stuffy she must have sounded to the caller on the other end.

“This is Sergeant Montana at the Hollywood Precinct. A young man, who was booked in to the Station a short while ago, asked me to get in touch with you on his behalf, ” he stated matter-of-fact.

Melanie recoiled in horror for a moment.

There must be some mistake, she mumbled under her breath, as a swirl of unpleasant visual images floated through her waking consciousness pushing alarm buttons.\Then, she took a deep breath, and tried to compose herself.

“Sir, there must be a mistake. Who did you say he is trying to contact?”

“I didn’t Ma’am, “he politely responded as he searched for just the right words on his end.

“Miss, I’ll hand over the phone if that’s alright. The gentleman says his name is Brad. He knows you from a Matisse exhibit or something.”

That tidbit of information seemed to ring a bell with Melanie.

The socialite was still in a bit of a fog, and waited with bated breath for the mystery caller to speak into the receiver.

Bingo!

She suddenly realized who may be placing the late-night call.

The Sergeant put Brad on the line with little more adieus.

“Hello, Melanie?”

“Brad, what’s happened to you?” she asked in a calm reassuring voice.

Inside, she was emotionally-torn up, to put it mildly.

“I feel so badly having to contact you, Melanie. But, I am at a loss at what to do,” he started out, a bit hesitantly.

“Not a problem, at all, Brad. I was alone in the bathtub,” she assured him.

“Oh, so you remember me from the Matisse Exhibition about a month ago?”

“Of course. Our chat about Matisse’s subtle and overt influences on a handful of his contemporaries - was that it? - very enlightening.

“In fact, based on your research,” she continued, “I cajoled my husband into purchasing a lesser-known work,” she beamed to Brad proudly.

“If there is such a thing,” she giggled, at the thought.

“Wow! I’m envious,” Brad cooed.

“I want all the delicious details.”

“We’ll do lunch! Eugh, so Hollywood, I know,” she reacted violently to her own suggestion.

“But, how about you, Brad. As they say, what’s up?”

Unlucky at cards, unlucky at nights out on-the-prowl in Hollywood, I guess,” he kidded, to break the ice a little.

“You’re in Hollywood? When did you move from San Francisco,” she probed further.

“A friend of mine had an extra ticket to the premiere of Fast Five at the DGA - you know, the Paul Walker flick - which was part of the Opening Night Gala at the Asian Pacific Film Festival. After the movie, I got into a bit of trouble a few blocks down the street, in an undercover sting. But, it’s awkward just now. I can’t talk.”

“I understand. The Sergeant is listening, right?” she whispered in a lower register.

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. I’ll ask questions from this end, and you say yes or no, okay?”

“Right,” Brad answered back cheerfully.

Gosh, Melanie was not only a great beauty, but quick on the uptake, too. Good thing he called her. Ted would have probably screwed up in his drug-induced state. The Police Department only allowed one phone call, so Ted was out-of-the-question, for obvious reasons.

“Is it something to do with a DUI or public drunkenness, “she probed further?

“No. Getting warm, though,” he joked half-heatedly, as he tried to suppress a chuckle.

“Dope?”

Well, nothing serious,” he responded cautiously, hoping the little game they were playing might rustle up the right information for her to act on.

After all, admitting the purchase of grass on a telephone – that may be tapped – was only a trap a dumb stoner would get snared by.

“Possession?” she asked in a lower register.

“Yes, I don’t know what possessed me,” he quipped, as he gave the Sergeant the once-over to determine if he had a clue about what was going down.

“Okay, I understand. Is there anyone you want me to try to reach?”

“No, if my dad finds out, he’ll cut me off. Say good-bye to Harvard!"

“Look, let me get in touch with my husband, Brad. He’ll know what to do. I’ll take care of it this end, so don’t worry. Watch your back, too, eh? I’ve head horror stories about the County Jail from Lindsay’s mother.”

“You bet. You’re a doll, Melanie,” Brad found himself elatedly blurting into the receiver of the phone before he handed it back to the cop standing patiently.

As Melanie strode towards the luxury environs of her comfy bedroom to snatch up her Armani silk housecoat, she sifted-and-sorted through the jumble of thoughts bouncing inside her pretty little head.

When the Sergeant came back on the line, Melanie had a special request.

“Sir, thank you for calling. Could you tell me what I need to do to have my friend released,” she politely inquired.

“Well Ma’am, from what I understand it is a first offense. Provided he is guilty of the charges, that is. So, the bail has been set within guidelines set by the court. If a bond is posted, and there aren’t any legal complications – no outstanding warrants or that sort-of-thing – he’ll be released right away.”

‘He’ll have to appear at an arraignment and enter a plea, of course. A lawyer will explain all the details more succinctly to you. I am not allowed to give legal advice.”


“Yes, of course, I understand. I was wondering, though, could you do me a favor?”

“Well, if I can,” he hesitated, expecting the worst.

“Shoot. How can I be of assistance?”

If I give you my fax number could you send me the name and address of your facility, what the criminal charges are, and the amount of bail that is due?”

“Well, it’s a bit irregular, Miss. But, I’ll make an exception this time. Maybe the young man just needs a break. I doubt that he’s a hardened criminal or anything like that, judging by the looks of him. Things just went awry for the kid, or he wasn’t thinking straight, tonight.”

“Thank you, sir. You’re a Godsend really,” Melanie sucked up sincerely from her end.

“Thanks Miss. That paperwork will be out to you in the next thirty minutes or so.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for it. And, you can expect a contribution to the Policeman’s Fund,” she teased.

“That’s appreciated, but not necessary, Ms. Vanderbilt.”

Melanie placed the phone down gently, and sighed for a second, before she trotted in to the bedroom to locate her husband’s Hotel information.

Although initially saddened by the upset, she felt uplifted somehow.

Although she contributed to a handful of local charities regularly, reaching out to Brad – another human in an hour of need – really felt good deep down inside for some inexplicable reason

Melanie reflected for a moment or two.

She’d be the first to admit that she basically tended to be self-centered and selfish in life.

Her thoughts drifted to Brad, for a moment.

Initially, Melanie and her husband received a formal invitation to the Matisse exhibit to attend the Opening Night Ceremonies, but due to scheduling conflicts they were forced to beg off.

Melanie proceeded to write a check for the charitable fundraiser the next day, though, and dropped it in the mail box out front for the postman to pick up, before she headed out for her class in fine line drawing.

On the way back to her upscale condo on the hill, her chauffer wisely chose a different route because of a detour that was causing mid-afternoon traffic to snarl just off of picturesque California Street.

As she glanced out the window, she was taken aback when she spied a young man stride into the gallery, who reminded her of an old acquaintance from the past.

“Fritz, please pull over to the curb,” she instructed her driver through the open glass partition, as she snatched up her pretty clutch purse and spiffy feathery bonnet designed by Sarah Burton from the leather seat next to her.

When the luxury Rolls Royce purred to a halt, Melanie arranged to meet up with the efficient snappily-dressed chauffeure in front of the St. Francis Hotel at Union Square at precisely 3 o’clock that afternoon.

Dark clouds hinted at inclement weather, but the socialite paid them no mind, as she set off for the stately grounds of the recently renovated Art Deco-Inspired Museum.

“Miss Vanderbilt. Welcome,” the assistant-curator gushed from across the lobby when his eagle-eye caught sight of her heading his way at a fast clip,

“We missed you at the opening. That was quite a soiree that you passed on!”

"It was quite a struggle to make all her appointments that day," she fessed up.

In fact, by the time the hour of the opening rolled around, Melanie was too pooped too participate and ended up taking a much-needed nap instead.”

“You must get your beauty rest, Miss. Vanderbilt,’ he chided, as he gave her an approving nod up-and-down.

The beaming staffer was all over her like a dirty shirt until she finally managed to wrestle herself free of his clingy personality.

“Whenever you want a private tour, give me a ding, eh dear?” he called after her from his perch by the exquisitely carved antique floor-to-ceiling doors, as she dashed off.

“Thank you, Gimble. Will do. I’m just taking a quick breeze-through today.”

_______________________________________________________


What a shock!

Brad could actually boast that he’d never been arrested – or ever omitted a crime against nature, or man, or beast to his knowledge - at least until that fateful night on a poorly-lit alley in Hollywood.

The night started out in a celebratory mood.

Shortly after he passed through security at Jet Blue’s ultra-chic high-security pit stop at Terminal 2 at LAX, Brad spied Ted right-off-the-bat chatting up a uniformed Chauffeur at the pedestrian walkway.

The outgoing school pal was awaiting Brad’s arrival, no doubt.

When Ted caught his eye, he sprinted over to his handsome childhood friend and hugged him tightly for a second, before he plucked up Brad’s overnight canvas bag from a mini shopping cart and pointed Brad in the direction of the upscale rental courtesy of his boss’s company.

“Get a load off, Brad. And, welcome to Los Angeles,” his pal bellowed out.

“Gosh, where have I heard that catchy phrase before,” Brad laughed out loud, as the driver swung the door open wide to reveal the plush interior replete with a stocked bar and wide-screen digital TV in the back seat.

A few seconds later, on the heels of a jet roaring overhead, the winsome twosome shouted at each other non-stop in a bold-faced effort to rise above the din and catch up on old times.

Within minutes, both men were settling back in the finely appointed interior with cold thirst-quenching brewskies in hand and relaxing into the delightful ride into town.

“Good to see ‘ya big buddy,” his pal beamed.

Brad glanced out the open window now and then - and never stopped marveling at the palm streets fluttering in the breeze, the state-of-the-art thruway moving the cars along smoothly at breakneck speeds, and a handful of architectural wonders that that dotted the side of the road en route to Beverly Hills.

“Is it always churning incessantly like this in the City Of Angels,” Brad quizzed his pal through disbelieving eyes.

“No,” Ted kidded.

“When the word got out that you were jetting in to town, all the dudes and dudettes got gussied up for the occasion.”

“This is the welcoming gang, bro,” he yelped ecstatically as he popped his head out the moon roof and shouted out at the top of his lungs - "Life is Good" - as other commuters whizzed by and honked in respon.

“Get your fat head back inside your fucking pie hole, you gas-guzzling pig,” one passenger yelled back in disgust from a pick-up truck one lane over zipping by at dizzying high speeds.

“Suck my big black cock,” Ted roared back, in spite of the obvious.

He was a skinny old-fashioned white boy from the burbs, after all.

The two of them nearly bust a gut when the late-model Ford skidded out-of-control for a second or two. The shocked red neck nearly shit his pants when he was forced to gear down and edge his way slowly off the freeway as a tunnelful of dust enveloped him in darkness at the off ramp to the diamond lane with two Squad cars wailing in pursuit.

In the rear-view mirror, he caught sight of the asshole shaking his fist into the air.

"Motherfucker!"

Welcome to the mean streets of Los Angeles was more like it as this wild juncture.

“Just another typical day on the 10 in the sunshine state,” Ted chuckled, as his friend egged him on.

Gosh, I feel like such a hick. Look at that sprawling metropolis ahead of us stretching out as far as the eye can see."

“I call it the big bad orange,” his friend laughed wickedly.

Ted glanced at his watch and his mood shifted a tad.

“Once we arrive at the Beverly Hills Hotel, you can lug your knapsack into your bungalow, and unpack. Freshen up a smidgen. Then, we’re kickin it ‘round town. Sound good, dude?”

‘”Bungalow?” he queried his friend.

“I thought the Beverly Hills Hotel was this big ritzy Hotel. A Pink Palace. With every imaginable amenity available. Isn’t it owned lock-stock-and-barrel by the – Prince of Dubai – the richest man in the world?

“Gosh, you’ve done your Travel and Leisure homework,” Ted started off slowly.

“The main section of the Hotel is quite fabulous. And, that’s where the bulk of the guests reserve a suite at going rates. But, skirting one outer edge off of the Main Hotel on a side street, off the lobby, there is a small enclave of prestigious luxury suites usually booked for celebrities, movie stars, and the captains of industry.”

Brad’s eyes bulged a tad, as he reacted to the prospect of hunkering down in those exclusive digs.

"Heck, I'm so unsophisticated," he kidded sarcastically with a twang in his voice.

“Hee Haw!”

Brad was particularly impressed when his friend revealed that legendary Howard Hughes used to be a permanent resident in one of the stand-alone cottages.

“Every afternoon room service was expected to deliver a hamburger to the Hughes’s suite."

If the reclusive multi-millionaire failed to answer the door, the staff had been instructed to deposit the silver tray on the mat at the foot of the door, until the following day when it was replaced with another, according to Ted.

“If the waiter didn’t follow specific instructions, heads would roll!”

“Imagine how many bodacious babes paraded through his door at the witching hour,” Brad wondered aloud.

“Marilyn Monroe, for starters," he quipped back.

“THE Marilyn?”

“Yup. He wined and dined a whole a slew of actresses that he kept under contract at his - cough – studio,” Ted joked, as he checked his image out in the rear view mirror before entering the Hotel.

“The old coot used to park his car right there at the curb.”

And, even though it was a no parking zone, the local police drove right by and paid it no mind apparently.

“Except in one respect,” he chuckled.

“How’s that?”

“They’d write up a ticket, of course.”

"They ticketed Howard Hughes?"

Uh-huh!

“Hughes didn’t mind paying for the tickets, as long as his car was there whenever he needed it, rain or shine. And, you know what?”

Brad shook his head as he hung on every syllable.

“He’s on record for having the most tickets of all the residents of Beverly Hills."

As Ripley would say – “Believe it or not!”

Rumor had it that Elizabeth Taylor was a tenant at the Beverly Hills Hotel with her parents first emigrated from England to Hollywood, he noted matter-of-fact.

“You’d like this bit of trivia, Brad. Liz’s father (she hated to be called Liz, by the way) was an art dealer and he owned a gallery on the first floor of the Hotel. That’s one of the reasons Taylor collected fine art over the course of her distinguished career.”

“And, George Michael got busted in that Men’s room in that park over there,” he noted in a slightly hushed voice.

“Shut up,” Brad reacted excitedly.

“I’ll definitely steer clear of that glory hole. I’m not into toilet sex. In fact, the smell of urine has no raunch appeal whatsoever,” he exclaimed to Ted slightly amused.

Ted suggested that they get themselves paged in the Polo Lounge, too.

“Whatever for,” asked Brad incredulous.

“In the old days, to be paged while having lunch at the Polo Lounge, was a status symbol. So, it wasn’t long before struggling actors and writers were arranging for their friends to call them at the Hotel, so big-wigs lunching poolside would hear their names over the loudspeaker. Anything to get noticed, in this town, Brad!”

"It's easier now that folks have cell phones, though."

After splashing a bit of water on his face, and changing into a clean wardrobe ensemble (consisting of a black “t” shirt etched with an image of Lady Gaga on its face, tight black levis with gold flourishes, and designer Leather/Brand boots) Brad headed out front and struck a pose under the Hotel’s ubiquitous awning just as the sun – a golden orb – slipped down behind the horizon in a blaze of crimson.

At the designated hour, the stretch-limo wonder of the western world crept out from behind the grand old Hotel – at which point - Brad was greeted by Ted who was earnestly snorting up a line of cocaine.

“Steer this baby to the strip,” Ted called out to the uniformed driver, as he sniffed back a little of the white power that got lodged unexpectedly in one nostril.

Judging from Chauffeur’s reaction in the rear-view mirror, the dalliance with the potent drug – all the rage in Hollywood party circles – did not escape his keen eye.

“That’s how the gossip mill gets started,” Brad grimaced to himself.

Was Ted addicted, or just blowing off a little steam, before the EyeWear convention kicked off at the Historical Roosevelt Hotel over the weekend?

Brad was jolted out of his momentary funk when Ted passed a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill his way.

Inside, Brad panicked, for good reason.

On the surface, he played it cool.

“I’m nursing a hang-over, Ted,” he fibbed. “One tail of the dog that bit me, please.”

He was careful not to give impression that Ted’s choice of party favors was bad news, after all.

Addicts preferred company in their ride to euphoria and didn’t warm up to the idea of being around a downer with a holier-than-thou attitude.

The problem with cocaine was that it was “mind addicting”.

And, a difficult monkey to wrestle off even the strongest drug-addled individual’s back.

As he was reflecting on the issue, he was suddenly jolted back to the surface of his consciousness to find Ted tugging toyingly at his arm.

“Brad, there’s the infamous property where the Saudi Prince scandalized the world when he painted graphic genitals on the statues outside of the mansion."

"It used to be an exquisite white mansion – one of my favorites in the neighborhood - before the Sheik turned it into a gaudy nightmare."

"Tourists used to drive up to take shots of it to show people how positively ugly it was when they returned home from their vacations to the California."

“Heh, whatever happened to that Dude, anyway?”

"The Mansion burned down under suspicious circumstances, and stood vacant – and remained an eyesore – for decades."

“Then, one day he up-and-split from Beverly Hills, just like that,” Ted elaborated, as he leaned forward to taka glance at the two new Mansions recently erected on the site under the shadow of the scandal.

“One news outlet reported that when he skipped town, he stiffed everyone – the chef, the maids, even the gardener – so they filed a lawsuit for recovery of back wages."

“For years, the property was in litigation, and until a few months ago, was barren and overgrown with weeds and wild flowers.

Tight-assed uppity residents of Beverly Hills wrung their hands in dismay over that one for years on the sidelines vowing “never again," laughed Ted.

In a follow up to that juicy tidbit of local lore, Ted noted that a few years ago a foreigner tried to erect a huge monster of a house on Tower Road in a picturesque out-of-the-way enclave in Beverly Hills.

But, neighbors – like well-known actor Jack Lemmon – petitioned City Hall to reject what was originally supposed-to-be a single-family dwelling - when (in fact) - it wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination.

"I expect the city building codes have been amended and enforced to restrict outrageous blueprints for excess in the future."

"What a tangled up fiasco that was!”

At this juncture, Ted pointed out a stately-looking mansion that was allegedly the childhood digs of Shirley Temple.

Brad spotted a French Colonial that caused him to leap to the window in awe.

“Yeah, that is one of my favorite luxury estates along this strip. I have vowed to stride through the front door into the foyer one day, come hell or high water,” Ted exclaimed excitedly.

“When that happens, I’ll probably faint dead away.”

“Actually,” Ted giggled (the effect of the drugs were obviously setting in), “I was tempted to crash a party there one night when I noticed the gates were wide open and the chic guests were trekking into the Mansion in swarms without any security details in sight.”

“I chickened out, last minute, though. I’ll say one thing about that couple who breezed into the White House gala dinner last year uninvited. They had a couple of sets of big brass balls on 'em, alright.”

Ted continued to play Tourist guide as the limo arrived at the foot of the retail strip at the edge of the residential part of Beverly Hills.

At the end of the strip where the nightclubs began, Ted pointed out the infamous Rainbow, where a multitude of musicians – famous and infamous – gigged over the years.

“I saw Paul Williams sitting at the bar one night, tossing a cocktail or two back,” Ted boasted to his envious pal.

Ted noted that quite a few groupies hung out there, consequently.

“I’m sure Cherry Vanilla rustled up a subject or two in the bar downstairs over the years. I wouldn’t be surprised if – in addition to David Bowie, Mick Jagger, and Iggy Pop – she also nabbed plaster casts of Lou Reed’s cock, too.

“I was never a star fucker, but I liked to get in on the action whenever I was in town, if possible,” Ted confided off-the-cuff.

“See that blacked-out store front? That’s where River Phoenix overdosed. For months, there was a shrine at that very spot. Thousands of fans made a pilgrimage to that hallowed spot to pay their last respects and gawk.”

Some of Ted’s trivia was odd-ball and off-the-wall.

He was like a sponge, soaking up everything, a human factoid gatherer.

For example, he could point out the restaurant that whipped up the best waffles, according to talk-show Host Merv Griffin.

Or, the location of the very first Famous Amos chocolate chip cookie outlet on Sunset in Hollywood.

“That parking lot next to Tower Records used to be the site of a two-star Hotel where Hollywood hopefuls often crashed when they first stumbled into tinsel town to seek fame and fortune.”

“Once when I was by the pool catching some rays, I met this struggling comic down from Toronto, to perform at one of his first gigs. His name? Howie Mandell.”

“I literally bumped into Sonny Bono exiting Book Soup when I was strolling inside to pluck up a book."

Across the street, on the second level of a small building, Wolfgang Puck opened his first Spago restaurant in WeHo.

And, who could ever forget – certainly not the old-timers – that Schwab’s Drugstore (where Lana Turner was allegedly discovered on a stool at the counter) was a popular hang-out for show-biz types to while away an hour or so in the morning before heading off to the studio.

As they pulled up to the Director’s Guild of America, Ted quickly started to pull himself together.

“Wow! My first red carpet strut,” Brad mused, as Ted ran his hand through his disheveled mop to straighten a few unruly strands a tad.

“There will be quite a few Asian American stars here because it is the opening night gala for the Asian Pacific Film Festival."

Sure enough, they spied Sandra Ho, right off-the-bat.

Later in the week, Taiwanese Pop Star – Leehom Wang – was expected to trigger a mob scene at one of the venues when his big-budget feature – Love in Disguise – .screened to a sold-out house.

Wang was Taiwan’s answer to Justin Bieber, according to Ted, who kept pop music chart-toppers on the tip of his tongue.

“Bruce Lee’s daughter was here last year to officiate at a tribute to her father. That was a sell-out program which ended in a wild par-tay after-hours."

"Tonight’s glittering gala will be a blow-out, too."

The Asian community knew how to toss a glitzy, adrenalin-rushing, Hollywood-style party.

The delectable mouth-watering sweets, delicious chicken wings, and imported beer kept the servers circulating the tony elite for at least three hours before the festive high-energy event started to slow down a bit.

Once again, Ted used the occasion to chat up contacts – glean breaking-news tidbits – and stay on top of upcoming trends.

“You have to keep abreast of sports scores, political events, and who was “hot” in the industry – to schmooze effectively – if you hope to zoom up the social ladder," Ted lectured his pal.

As this juncture, Ted had to take off and finish up work on a project for San Francisco.

Will you be okay if I let you loose?

(to be continued)

http://www.thetattler.biz

Scandals.... of the Privileged Few! A Novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 7!

Butch had just gobbled down the last morsel of her omelet at “Eggs, Bagels & Beyond”, situated in a quaint little nook on Market Street just off the Castro District, when she spied the photograph staring up at her from the front page of the Calendar section of the newspaper.


OMG!

If she was not mistaken, it was a publicity still of Chad.

Once she pushed back her carved wooden chair - which let out a little squeal as she did so – she was able to reach forward and snatch up the newspaper just as a flippant waiter plopped her bill down on the counter next to her car keys.

“Thank you, dear,” he drawled with a bit of a girlish twang, as he roller-skated off to the other side of the diner to deliver up a mug of steaming hot java to a tourist who was closely scrutinizing a downtown map of San Francisco with a female companion.

“Oh, you might want to hop on the trolley and spend a day in Noe Valley,” the server quipped, as he hovered around the table for a second or two.

“’Ya just have to get a gander at the Maiden’s Breasts,” he roared raucously, as he rolled his eyes for effect.

“Where do we catch the train,” one of the twenty-something gals in a maize-colored sun dress quizzed, as the zany server proceeded to tap a spot on the map with a long boney finger splashed with an eye-catching dash of ruby-red nail polish on a well-manicured nail.

Meanwhile, Butch proceeded to plunk the morning daily down in front of her with one pudgy hand, as she slipped a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the end of her finely sculpted nose with the other.

Uh-huh!

Fortunately for her, she’d inherited her mother’s genes, which was reflected in her overall physical looks.

“Not so, with Chad,” thought Butch to herself, as she examined the photograph – about a quarter-of-a-page in size – which graced the front page of the popular arts section.

For starters, her long-time acquaintance kind- of looked-like a chipmunk.

That was partly due to the fact her cheeks were chunky-looking (as if they were packed chock-full of little nuts) and somewhat reminiscent of a rodent’s.

It didn’t help matters that her eyes – caught squinting in the bright studio lights – had a sort-of beady quality to them, too.

Definitely, the angle the photographer chose to shoot from was not a flattering one.

But why – pray tell - was Chad's mug gracing the cover?

As Butch read on, she became fascinated by the report which zeroed in on the intriguing details on Chad’s controversial sex change now making headlines around the country.

Apparently, a filmmaker documented Chad's transition from female to male for posterity’s sake, and now the revealing tell-all was about to be ceremonioulsy unveiled on Oprah Winfrey’s struggling OWN network Tuesday Night.

Oprah - who Butch jokingly nick-named Big “O” a scant few months ago (with a nod to Jackie “O” and Warhol of “Soup Can” fame) allegedly got fed up with dealing with the brass at ABC every time she wanted to sneeze.

So, she jumped ship to rustle up her own broadcast outlet.

“She’s taking a detour before she lands on the net,” one friend kidded to Butch, at a luncheon a week earlier at the Ivy on tony Robertson Boulevard in WeHo affectionately known as gay gulch.

Once the undisputed Queen of the afternoon airwaves, Big “O” was now the butt of a raft of endless cruel jokes, and had Dave and Jay on the talk-show circuit to thank for the merciless roast.

Now, that her “vision” was blinded by the blight (poor ratings, poor baby) the Gab Fest Queen (the hostess with the moistest, as Butch put it) Winfrey was scrambling for heady controversial bill-of-fare to lure in viewers.

For good reason!

According to press reports, right out of the gate, OWN failed to dredge up ratings worth writing home about.

“It will take some time to build up an audience,” Oprah’s right-hand woman (rumored to be her faithful lesbian lover) argued with a poker face to all within earshot.

Although the channel whipped up a dozen-or-so innovative shows to kick off the network in January – on topics that ranged from travel, to nutrition, and self-help tips on home decorating – few managed to gel with American TV’s audiences.

American idol, the Apprentice – even Glee - continued to snap up the ratings while OWN languished essentially viewerless on the sidelines.

In fact, according to the Nielsen ratings, fewer than 300,000 tuned in on average during prime-time hours since the novelty Network made its grand entrance into the highly-competitive media rich cable market.

A gimmick drummed up to promote “Becoming Chad” may turn things around at OWN.

Who knows!

“Oprah says it’s a Documentary Film Club ,” Chantel explained to Butch, who didn’t quite get it at first.

“Oh, I think I understand now. Documentarians will telecast their projects on OWN each month. Then, after the premiere, viewers can order a copy for their DVD collection or rent it from Blockbuster on the cheap.”

“It will probably be available on Oprah’s official web site, too.”

"Where they'll have to swim through a sea of annoying slick pop-ups, no doubt!"

The new venture was causing quite a buzz on the Internet.

If the ballsy talk-show host kept plugging away, OWN might eventually become a respected film producer, and a force to reckon with in Hollywood.

Tuesday night, the premiere production of – “Becoming Chad “ would either emerge a boffo hit or a boob tube bomb.

“It depends on how curious and open-minded the American public is,” Butch found herself speculating to her best friend later in Macy’s where they were shopping for a few odds-and-ends.

Once folks got wind of the fact Chad (subject matter of the controversial material) was the only child of one of their favorite unstoppable Pop Divas, Chantel and Butch both expected fireworks to erupt.

"Just betcha, Chad - and mommy dearest - are in for a bumpy night or two ahead as Bette Davis would say,” Butch surmised.

Chantel agreed in so many words.

“People are a lot more open-minded in Hollywood. Artists forget that. Once they step out of their protective bubble here, they suddenly get a rude awakening,” Chantel snickered, matter-of-fact.

“I doubt those red-necks on Main street are going to warm up to the idea much,” Butch astutely pointed out to her friend.

To some, after all, a full-blown sex change is downright freaky, no matter which way you cut it," bellowed Butch.

Ooops!  Wrong choice of words?

At this juncture in the conversation,a news clip caught Butch's eye.

“Paul McCartney to get hitched”

Well, at least one person wasn’t down on love.

“As Barry Manilow would say, he’s ready to take the plunge again,” Chantel laughed.

“Chance,” Butch corrected her.

“It’s more like taking a plunge. I know, I’ve been there big time.”

“Some people can’t survive in life without the thought of a mate or love in their life,” Butch found herself waxing philosophically.

“I guess that’s why Chad is going the route he is,” Chantel mused.

“If anything, it looks like Oprah is counting on liberated sidekicks, sex changes, and gay interior decorators to boost up the ratings on her network in the next few weeks,” Chantel giggled.

“Most Americans find it difficult to turn away from a train wreck, no matter how disturbing the images,” Butch reminded her pal with a slightly cynical tone in her voice.

A light bulb appeared to go off in Chantel's head at this point.

“Heh, that’s it. Oprah’s handlers should try to land an exclusive on the Osama bin Laden photos. If she broadcast those gruesome suckers, her ratings would go through the roof!”

“TMZ probably scooped them up already, if I know Harvey.”

“I wonder what kind of money those kids make on that show, anyway? Do you suppose Levin tosses them a bone every time their mugs get featured on-camera?” she casually quizzed her friend, as she spritzed a little Oh! That! Perez Hilton cologne on her wrist.

“I hear that Levin is a cheap bastard, so they probably get paid in glory. Can’t hurt their sex lives, though,” Butch muttered under her breath, as she tossed an over-the-top over-designed hat on her head, courtesy the Princess Beatrice Royal Threads label.

"By the way, is he gay?"

"Who?"

"Barry Manilow."

"How would I know?"

"Well, I sort of thought, gay people had the scoop on each other. Who was, or isn’t. Bi perhaps. Don’t you have gadar or something?"

The remark triggered memories of the old days when the gay lifestyle – and being “out” – was basically in its infancy.

Back in the late sixties and early seventies the loved that dared not speak its name didn’t.

"In contrast - today - it won't shut up," hissed Butch.

Butch, for one, used to be terrified at the thought of being exposed (outed) in high school.

Once the damning snicker-and-cold-stare treatment started up, a student's dance card usually ended up short-circuited for the rest of the semester.

One had to endure the occasional slur, too.

Dyke!

Butch hid behind the pretty frilly frocks lavished on her by a dotting mother, crossed her legs like clock-work whenever she took a sitting position, steered clear of plaid shirts, and avoided black sensible shoes like the plague.

Spending the night with a butch horsey-looking female pal was out-of-the-question, too!

Hooking up - preferably with a male hottie - was the best case scenario.

Early on, Butch recognized a great beard in a nerdy computer whiz who sat behind her in Science class, and jumped on his sorry carcass before he knew what hit him!

Whenever Butch reflected on those breathy clandestine coming-of-age high-tension pre-gay daze– she couldn't help but utter up a raucous bell-laugh  or two.

Why was youth wasted on the young?

(to be continued)


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Scandals...of the Privileged Few! A Novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 6!

 

The sun was a golden orb slipping down the horizon when Sterling started the long trek home.

Caught in a crush of afternoon rush-hour traffic at the 405 Freeway in West Los Angeles, he casually flipped the dial of the radio in search of some classical music to calm his nerves.

Los Angeles drivers are terrors on wheels!

The botanist was completely the opposite on the other hand.

In fact, his friends dreaded the thought of being a passenger while he was at the wheel.

"You drive like an old lady," Frankie noted in frustration one day last fall, as he wiggled in his seat uncomfortably.

"Everyone is passing us."

The unemployed auto worker was clearly humiliated.

True, Sterling was a cautious motorist.

When the Ohio-born only child moved to the big bad orange (his nickname for LA LA LAND) he made a pact with himself not to get caught up in the road rage prevalent on the highways and byways of sunny southern California.

He hung a crucifix on the rear view mirror and made a point of "blessing" his car every time he alighted inside his fire engine red Fiat.

Sterling was very fussy about anyone touching his car. Valet parking? Not on your sweet short life. He rented an apartment off an alley where car jockeys parked upscale vehicles for their chic owners when they trotted off for cocktails and dinner at any one of the trendy watering holes on restaurant row on La Cienega Boulevard.

The way they tore down the dark alleys - with dust and pebbles flying wildly in all directions - convinced him.

No way Jose!

Of course, he wasn't one of those phony show-biz wannabees anxious to be spied by one of the paparazzi from TMZ or Page 6 scrambling for a revealing scoop or photo opportunity.

"I dont' care if I have the right-of-way. If they want to go - I say - let them speed on to their untimely deaths without me."

If someone tailgated him, he simply pulled over to the curb and waved them on.

"Be my guest, road hog," he'd mutter under his breath.

He was improving his Karma, after all, in the grand scheme of things.

Suddenly, a few words of a talk show host which floated across the airwaves on the squawk box, intrigued him.

"H.A.A.R.P. is a scientific research facility located near Gakon in the remote Alaskan outback and is a joint Navy and Air Force project. This facility is used to study the earth's ionosphere, the electrically-charged belt surrounding our planet's upper atmosphere ranging between 40 to 60 miles from its surface."

Because Sterling was essentially a plant doctor, in his opinion flowers and trees - and wildlife in general - vibrated on a level of intelligence man was unfamiliar with.

Years ago, when researchers encouraged plant lovers to talk soothingly to their leafy green mood-boosters around their homes to promote growth, most Americans thought the scientists were off their rockers.

But, legitimate experiments have established since then that plants are not only sensitive, but capable of sensing danger.

For instance, in one controlled lab setting, a tomato plant with ripe fruit was placed on a table with a handful of electrodes attached to a lie detector machine.

When a researcher outside the door of the lab was given instructions to enter and stroll up to the plant and pluck off a tomato, the monitor registered a pronounced reaction on the screen.

The test results established that fear swept over the plant for a moment or two.

And, as soon as the scientist strode into the lab and snatched a tomato off a branch, the plant literally went into shock.

The ramifications were astounding.

Sterling was intrigued about the concept of H.A.A.R.P. for good reason.

According to the disc jockey, H.A.A.R.P was a controversial high frequency radio transmitter also known as an "ionospheric" heater.

On the surface, explanations about the project sounded innocent enough.

The Military has been using the billion-watt pulsed radio beam in the earth's upper atmosphere to create extremely low frequency waves (or ELF waves) with beneficial effects.

"This technology is expected to enhance communications with submarines and allow mankind to see into the Earth and detect anything from oil reserves to underground military targets."

Oh, oh!

An alarm bell went off in Sterling's handsome little head.

If H.A.A.R.P. was being used strictly for humanitarian reasons - to better the daily lives of sentient beings on the planet by curing disease, healing the environment, and forewarning about impending global disasters - wouldn't the project be run by scientists instead of the military?

The applications of the "science" can be traced back to the work of Nikola Tesla, a Yugoslavian Scientist, and his amazing achievements which include the Tesla Coil or "magnifying transmitter" which is still used in televisions and radios today.

When Sterling cruised to their web site later that evening, he learned some eye-opening facts.

The transmitter generates extremely low frequency (ELF) waves and is capable of communicating with submerged submarines and conducting geophysical probes to identify and characterize natural ionospheric processes so that techniques can be developed to mitigate or control them.

Anti-H.A.A.R.P activists fear that the Military may be experimenting with Tesla's concept with the ultimate aim of developing mind control techniques.

And, at one web site, a hysterical blogger made wild claims that the recent raft of earthquakes in politically-sensitive hot-spots were man made.

"It's all documented," he asserted to doubters in the comment section, though it didn't escape Sterling's attention that he neglected to post any evidence supporting the claims.

When Sterling put forth that question, the dizzy blogger's response was quick and to the point.

"It's highly sensitive material, that's why."

A handful of concerned individuals are involved in a strident effort to shut H.A.A.R.P. down.

They worry about the fact the military is capable of generating an ionospheric lens capable of focusing on large amounts of high frequency energy and ionospheric processes that may be potentially exploited for a Department of Defense Electron acceleration of infrared (IR).

Say what?

In addition, the Government has fessed up they intend to utilize optical emissions to control radio wave propagation properties and generate geomagnetic field aligned ionization to control the reflection-scattering properties of radio waves.

H.A.A.R.P is a remarkable tool also capable of using oblique heating to produce effects on radio wave propagation - and thus - broadening potential military applications for ionospheric enhancement technology.

To alleviate widespread fear, managers have asserted publicly that the applications being used at the facility in Alaska are relatively harmless.

For example, one spokesperson at H.A.A.R.P. stressed that the fundamental goal of the research conducted is knowledge gathering in nature.

In sum, allegedly the aim is to understand natural phenomenon occurring in the Earth's ionosphere and near-space environment.

Information derived from this research will have a major value in the design of future communication and navigation systems for both military and civilian use.

Although research conducted at the H.A.A.R.P. observatory is generally published in peer-reviewed scientific journals - such as the Journal of Geophysical Research, Geophysical Research Letters, and Radio Science - naysayers contend that the results of experiments of a highly sensitive nature are kept secret.

And, there have been allegations that negative impacts on the environment in the vicinity have been kept under wraps.

"All of the significant environmental impacts associated with building and operating the H.A.A.R.P. observatory at Gakona can be mitigated to an acceptable level," a spokesman boasted.

"Some insignificant potential impacts, such as lost habitat, and wildlife impacts, may not be mitigated," staunch opponents fire back angrily.

According to project scientists, the H.A.A.R.P. facility will not affect weather.

Critics disagree.

Sterling was troubled about the data he stumbled on.

The military possibilities were scary.

And, the Government's tendency to downplay their involvement was downright suspicious.

No wonder, there were so many conspiracy theories running rampant on the Internet recently," Sterling quipped to a friend over coffee at Starbucks.

Intelligent concerned citizens like actor Martin Sheen have jumped on the protest bandwagon.

Why not Sterling?

(to be continued)

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Scandals of the Privileged Few! A Novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 3!



Robert tossed the newspaper down on the antique oak desk and reflected on the Court's ruling for a moment before jotting down a few salient points he'd argue at his lecture the week next at Harvard.

Justice Roberts got it right.

The outcome rested on constitutional law - even still - the end scenario stank.

It irked Steele that a posse of hateful Christians got a nod from the highest court in the land.

And, the plaintiffs were left to skulk away and lick their wounds.

"Well, it proves that the system works," quipped a senior partner at a lunch earlier that eventful day.

"But, justice wasn't served," a snotty waiter flippantly snipped as he scurried off to take an order at the next table.

Yeah, picketing a funeral - on any grounds - was a pretty despicable act.

Even Roberts - a well-meaning turd - admitted as much as that if you read between the lines.

In the final analysis?

The Supreme Court was forced to recognize that the protesters (headed up by a born-again Christian with all the intelligence of a slug) had a Constitutional right to voice their opinion pursuant to the U.S. Constitution.

In the eyes of decent folks, the Church group’s anti-gay protests at funerals (where picket signs were crudely scrawled with slogans like "God Hates fags" and "Thank God for dead Soldiers”) were sick and in bad taste.

Although their message may have been lacking in any resemblance to the loving God portrayed in the scriptures – or the Lord's message of compassion and understanding and forgiveness – the Supreme Court noted that the bible thumpers observed the laws of the land because they maintained a thousand-foot buffer zone and protested without “physical” violence .

What about the mental and emotional anguish they wrought on innocent mourners, Steele wondered aloud to himself, in total disbelief.

But, there it was, in black and white.

"Even hurtful speech on public issues merits 1st Amendment protection" the Court found (8 in favor and 1 in dissent).

Robert was just putting the finishing touches on his prepared speech when the joyous bells at quaint old St. Mary's chimed!

He glanced at the diamond-encrusted face of his tank watch.

Midnight!

The hours had slipped away into the dead of night without Robert being any-the-wiser.

It was time to pack up his briefcase and head home for a nightcap before tucking in for the night.

Suddenly, it hit him like a ton of bricks.

Tomorrow was Palm Sunday.

It was a toss up.

Should he attend a service at Grace Cathedral - which was obviously going to "play" to a packed house - with a lot of high drama and pomp and circumstance?

Maybe, he should just slip into the oldest Cathedral in the San Francisco - St. Mary’s – instead.

Coincidentally, just a few days ago, Robert received an e-mail from the Church leaders at Grace announcing the launch of their spanking-new web site.

How long would it be before church-goers elected to sleep in Sunday in favor of attending a "virtual" service later in the day when the lingering cobwebs of the all-knowing subsconscious finally surrendered their subjects to the warmth of a lazy sunny day?

Just click on a link - and presto - divulge the innermost secrets of the soul.

Confession!

“Do you suppose those wise old priests are scheming to utilize PayPal to rake in oodles of cash securely online," he joked to his neighbor over the fence as he dashed out to toss the trash in a ubiquitous recycle bin.

"A lot classier than passing around the hat," his neighbor shot back cynically.

Well, that would solve the problem of the snatch-and-grabs (theft) that were proliferating at collection boxes in the dank dark shadows of the grand old Cathedral.

"Until some scam artist from Nigeria hacks the site," Steele chuckled to himself.

Whew, he was tired, and needed a break.

At this juncture, he stretched his arms out high above his head – rolled his back a fraction to get the tension out - then hit the log-off button on his IBM ThinkPad.

Thank God, his Toshiba laptop was stolen.

After all, that unexpected turn-of-events ended up being a blessing in disguise.

But, the mugging was disturbing, nonetheless.

For years, Robert felt totally secure (and safe) residing on the West Coast in the tony climbs of sophisticated San Francisco.

Then, one night after a chat with friends over coffee at Serendipity - out-of-the-blue - three thugs dashed up from behind him on the dimly-lit street and snatched his laptop right out of his fine-boned hands.

"Heh," he cried out in shock, as they dashed down the street at breakneck speed.

At this point, Robert literally froze on the spot, as he watched the thieving trio disappear down a side street and into a dark alley.

For a moment, he was tempted to give them a merry chase.

But, he had second thoughts, after an inner voice cautioned against it.

Just maybe, the toughs were trying to lure him into an out-of-the-way spot, so they could steal his wallet and relieve him of his diamond ring and gold crucifix?

Oh well, good riddance!

Up until that point, Steele had been experiencing quite a few headaches, because of a handful of nasty glitches which were driving him over the edge.

In fact, the busy lawyer found himself spending more time editing his copy - than drafting his legal papers - that's how bad the word processing end got.

Shabby poorly-designed software was the culprit.

For example, the cursor on the Best Buy El Cheapo special, often hopped around the screen at whim.

Damn annoying!

In high school, he distinctly recalled that his teacher always hammered into him the importance of not looking at the copy or the keys when transcribing material from from one location to another.

"If you look back and forth, you'll develop a bad habit. And, you'll never learn to type properly, only hen and pick," Miss Fraser instructed daily from her podium at the front of the cramped school room at Humberside High.

Looking back, he recalled that he had a bit of a crush on the pretty young blond with the dazzling come-hither look.

Unfortunately, one day one of the bullies in class was inclined to embarrass the heck out of her, just to be mean.

He was a total asshole,

For example, during the second semester the rumor-mill started to spread a nasty piece of gossip.

Miss Fraser got knocked up!

Uh-huh!

To make matters worse, the joker hatched up an idea to put her on the hot seat, go figure!

"By the way,” he started off slowly at the end of class.

“Is it Miss or Missus,” he blurted out with a smirk on his acne-ridden face.

The silence in the aftermath was so loud, and awkward, it was deafening.

Without skipping a beat, Ms. Fraser reacted, just as her face turned beet red.

"Miss."

The insensitive bastard let out a guffaw, then recoiled in horror, as the rest of the class angrily stared him down.

After all, Ms. Fraser was one of the school’s favorite teachers, who was well-liked.

How cruel.

Shortly after that, in the last phase of her pregnancy, Ms. Fraser departed from the school without saying good-bye.

Yup.

One rainy day, some grey-haired old spinster gruffly strode in the room, and ordered us to turn to page fifty-six for the next lesson without so much as a “how are you, kids?"

Typing class was never the same after that.

But, in retrospect, the snappy dresser was glad he took typing - instead of the other option (Latin).

"That was before the advent of computer laptops. Who knew how important it would be to type proficiently? To most of the guys, it was the pussy's way out, to rustle up a decent credit to get by in High School," Robert recalled jokingly to one of his work-out buddies.

I wonder what ever happened to Ms. Fraser, he wondered to himself years later.

______________________________________________________


The hike up the steep hill to Grace Cathedral was an arduous one.

But, it was that, or circling for a half-hour-or-so to find parking.

With gas at $4.59 a gallon, Robert didn't fancy springing a sawbuck on a trip to the Palm Sunday celebration in his sleek black SUV.

By the time he crested the top of Nob Hill, he was quite noticeably out-of-breath, though.

"Okay. Okay. Okay," he uttered up under his breath in his best Joe Pesci impression.

His work schedule had been hectic, and he had let the treadmill - and daily work-outs at the gym – fall by the wayside.

Steele was paying big-time for that act of laziness now, alright, as he struggled to regain his breath.

But, come Monday, he was going to hop to it, and get his cardio vascular pumping and in tip-top shape once again.

If it killed him!

The service at Grace Cathedral wasn't going to rev up for about ten minutes or so, so Robert took a detour through the well-manicured park across the street, where the locals walked their rambunctious dogs, elderly Asian men and women practiced Tai Chi at the crack of dawn, and singles on the prowl occasionally strolled with an eye towards a hook up.

He always marveled at the delightful fountain situated in the center of park - which glistened today - in the early-morning light.

If Huntington Park’s spiffy “waterworks” looked familiar, it was for obvious reasons.

The landmark is a replica of  an Italian fountain – “Fontana delle Tartarughe" – gracing the Piazza Mattei in Rome.

The original was designed in 1581 by Giacomo della Porta and featured bronze figures sculpted by a craftsman by the name of Taddeo Landini.

The beautiful centerpiece was originally known as the "Fountain of Dolphins" because it exalted slender bronze youths riding dolphins.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini added a humorous - magical touch - when he incorporated tortoises when the fountain was overhauled in 1658-59.

The four Croker children - prominent long-time residents on tony Nob Hill - donated the dazzling sculpture to the City of San Francisco in 1954.

Today, there was an exhibition of sculpture on display, which complemented the scenic grounds in the heart of the city.

Steele was particularly drawn to the work of Scott Roach and its obvious tribal art influences.

Unfortunately, a couple of the artists lacked the know-how - or literary skills - to properly promote their art in the hand-outs that were distributed to art-lovers who stopped by to chat.

On occasion, the mission statements were bang on, though.

James Moore, another talented sculpture, underscored his keen efforts to employ powerful visual vocabularies based on the cube to represent the human form.

"When the rules of proportion and balance are applied, the resulting works capture what I see as the essence of graceful and playful movement and gesture."

His stick figures - one titled "Leap of Faith" – tossed the spotlight on his light touch, sense of humor, and unique crafting and construction skills.

None of the pieces would shake up the art world, unfortunately.

An old expression sprang to mind.

"I don't know much about art, but I know what I like."

When some fool uttered up a comment like that - an artist friend of Robert's - would invariably laugh out loud.

"Yeah, just betcha, they're the kind of folks who love black velvet paintings."

"Leslie, stop. That's rude, they'll hear you," Robert would urge in a polite hushed voice.

It was embarrassing the way the robust happy-go-lucky painter scoffed at potential patrons.

"It's your role to educate and enlighten," Steele teased in a sly effort to smooth the waters.

Les was the kind of artist who would rather starve - than sell a painting to some moron with big bucks - who he felt didn't deserve a passionate creation drummed up from the very depths of his artful soul!

"Boy, you wouldn't have survived in the middle ages," Robert lightly scolded.

"To survive in that era, artists were required to flatter their wealthy patrons with appealing likenesses, or be forced to live in the poor house.”

Indeed, quite a few of those wealthy old dames were ugly as sin, but you'd never know it by their celebrated portraits hanging in world-class collections at top-notch museums and prestigious art galleries around the globe.

In retrospect, you had to wonder, how Picasso ever got away with depicting Gertrude Stein as the old shrew that she was, without being banished from her elite powerful inner circle.

Personally, Robert preferred landscapes - the Hudson School, for instance - and Canada's group of seven.

Steele pined for the day when his walls would be graced with a Lauren Harris or Emily Carr.

“I’ll have to start chasing ambulances and representing clients in the insurance-industry-racket to afford it,” he ruefully complained to his friends.

________________________________________________________


When Robert dashed into Grace Cathedral, a line was forming at one end, where the faithful waited patiently to follow the Choir down the aisle with reeds in hand during the Palm Sunday celebration.

One of the priests informed him that there were a few seats available in the pews, so he snatched up the program, and slipped into seat a-dozen-or-so rows from the front of the Cathedral.

Funny that!

There was always a good turn-out on Christmas (for midnight Mass, in particular) and Easter, the two holiest occasions on the church calendar, each year.

Did Christians feel guilty if they failed to observe the birth and death of Jesus?

Were those faithful moments expected to book-end their dreary little lives, and curry favor with the Lord?

Or, were they the meek simply bowing to peer pressure?

If Steele neglected to attend service regularly, it was because of a growing trend at the Church, he was not in accord with.

At Grace, there were quite a few females preaching, which made him a tad uncomfortable.

A phrase from the Bible loomed large in his mind in that regard.

"The Whore of Babylon."

If Robert recalled correctly from his Sunday school classes, the "Whore" was associated with the "Antichrist and the Beast" referred to in the Book of Revelations ( and the allegorical kingdom).

According to the prophecies in the final chapter of the Holy Scriptures, the apocalyptic downfall of the "Whore" unfolds in the hands of the beast with seven heads and ten horns.

Robert reached for a copy of the St. James bible on the bookshelf and perused the passages to refresh his failing memory.

The Holy Scriptures / Revelations

17:4

And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication.

17:5

And upon her forehead was a name written:

Mystery, Babylon the Great, Mother of the Harlots
(Abominations of Earth)

17:6

And, I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus.
And, when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.

17:9

And, here is the mind which hath wisdom.
The seven heads are seven mountains on which the woman sitteth.

17:10

And there are seven kings:
Five are fallen, and one is, and the other is not yet come
And, when he cometh, he must continue a short space.

17:11

And, the beast that was, and is not,
Even he is the eighth, and is of the seven, and goeth into perdition

17:12

And, the ten horns which thou saw are ten kings, which have received no kingdom as yet;
But, receive power as kings one hour with the beast.

17:15

And, they saith unto me, The waters which thou sawest
Where the whore sitteth, are peoples, and multitudes
And nations, and tongues

17:18

And the woman which thou sawest is that great city
Which reigneth over the kings of the earth.

Biblical scholars commonly used the phrase "Whore of Babylon" to refer to the Roman Catholic Church.

Reformation writers who taught these associations included respected Martin Luther (1483–1546), John Calvin (1509–1564), and John Knox (1510–1572)

Supporters often quoted the following verses from Revelations 17:5 to describe her:

"And on her forehead a name was written"

"Mystery, Babylon of the Great, Mother of Harlots"
(Abominations of the Earth)

A harlot is representative of a church that has been unfaithful,

"The woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet, and adorned with gold and precious stones and pearls, having in her hand a golden cup full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication."
Understandably, Steele felt more comfortable with a male presiding over the services, as a matter of personal preference.

Go figure!

Female doctors gave Steele the willies, too.

However, some dudes warm up to the idea of a physical - or prostate check - with a pretty young intern at the – um – helm.

Was Steele a male chauvinist pig?

No, it all went back to his childhood - the way he was raised, his faith, and that sort-of-thing.

Curiously, a few weeks prior, Steele attended a service at Grace - the “Contemplative Eucharis” - which was held early in the evening at 6 p.m. on a Sunday evening.

It was an intimate affair, where two dozen or so parishioners formed a circle on the labyrinth, near the entrance of the Cathedral.

Shortly after the breaking of the bread, and the drinking the blood of Christ, a still small voice inside of him spoke out.

"God is not here."

Say what?

He looked around.

Did anyone else hear that?

Nope, guess not, because they solemnly continued worshipping.

Weeks later, the memory of it, still caused him to shudder.

After the service, Steele dashed downstairs for a coffee and cookie on the house, and to unwind.

In spite of the fact it was Palm Sunday, and heartfelt sermons were uttered up upstairs just minutes prior, the volunteers serving up the refreshments remained aloof and distant from the parishioners streaming in to chat each other up.

When Steele approached one table with flyers on it, a prissy middle-aged lady stared down her nose at him, and blurted out rudely:

"This is for women."

Gosh - did it never occur to the ice Queen - that a handful of men in attendance might be interested in rustling up information for the women (mothers, sisters, girlfriends) in their lives?

"I'm not wearing my glasses, so I couldn’t peruse the information on the hand-out," he responded, with a broad smile, nonetheless.

Suddenly, he recalled that Grace had a new web site, so he pulled out his laptop to see if the webmaster had set-up any Internet connection yet.

When the splash screen burst across the computer screen, the usual list of Internet servers, were blocked out.

The walls at Grace must be pretty thick, Robert chuckled to himself, as he perused the screen for more options.

When he clicked on the icon for the lone service that popped up in a dialogue box, he noticed the ID right off-off-the-bat.

It read "Black Hawk".

A shiver ran up his spine, but it wasn't a pleasant one, in fact.

He pondered the situation for a moment.

What would happen if Steele inputted  "Whore of Babylon" and tried to use the three digit password  666?

(to be continued)

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