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Showing posts with label Novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Novel. Show all posts

Sunday, April 24, 2011

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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Monday, April 18, 2011

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)

http://www.thetattler.biz



Fountain in Huntington Park on Nob Hill!


 

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Scandals of the Privileged Few! A novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 2!











According to the rumors, the owner of the grand old Victorian mansion with the intricate antique gingerbread trim, fell victim to hard times and was forced to unload the three-acre property at No. 8 Stone Canyon Trail for a song.

On the heels of the distressed sale, a posse of slow-poke contractors and well-heeled snooty decorators turned up on the secluded estate one fog-laden morning to work their magic.

The sudden flurry of activity out-of-the-blue raised an eyebrow or two when the loud dusty construction first started up - but – it wasn’t until a squat Mexican gardener puttering around in the garden revealed the extent and nature of the renovations underway that the shit really hit the fan.

Blueprints – lifted by a neighbor with connections at City Hall – revealed that the historical landmark was rezoned to make way for rental units on the site.

The mere thought of an apartment complex standing ramrod straight in their midst, was enough to trigger a knee-jerk reaction among the staid old guard, who sprang into the fray bent on halting the intrusion on Cypress Ridge about to transform the terrain before their very eyes.

“There goes the neighborhood,” one disgruntled resident muttered under his breath, one fine day when he was out walking the dog.

When the word leaked out that the lone buyer was a reclusive European Countess, the rumor-mill shifted into high gear, and the tongues began to wag.

The scuttlebutt ran the gamut.

"The mysterious dragon-lady is sole heir to a fabulous fortune," one gushed.

“Old money,” another asserted in a hushed reverential tone of voice.

"Money doesn't talk, it screams," another lamented.

"Obviously, the bitch is highly connected", one angry long-time resident sneered, when a petition to halt the project was mysteriously stalled in its tracks.

Speculation about the Countess's personal affairs behind closed doors reached a fever pitch.

Without an ounce of proof one scurrilous character took it upon himself to spread a nasty rumor.

The chi chi Countess was allegedly a lipstick lesbian who once-shared her exquisite four-poster bed - replete with hand-crafted Queen-size pillows and pricey designer sheets - with legendary screen Goddess Greta Garbo.

That juicy bit of gossip stuck - go figure - shortly after a lawyer representing the interests of the aggrieved parties confided to a couple of his partners that a stern letter to the Countess failed to engender any meaningful settlement talks.

“I want to be left alone. That was her one-line response,” he hissed to all within earshot, as he threw up his hands in the air in disgust.

A scant few months later three qualifying tenants settled into their tony suites, as a handful of disgruntled neighbors gazed on with their noses totally out-of-whack.

_____________________________________________________


Reginald Bartholomew scrutinized the documents once again carefully.

Sure that he crossed his “t’s” and dotted his “i’s” - he was inclined to flip off the gold cap on his elegant fountain pen - and affix his John Henry to the historical document he was about to sign into law with a flourish.

It was a remarkable accomplishment for preservationists.

Henceforth, influential developers intent on tearing down Historical landmarks within San Francisco proper, would find it virtually impossible to achieve their self-serving greedy ends in the future at the expense of the will of the people, the community-at-large, and the environment most of all.

“A toast is in order,” Bartholomew chuckled to himself, as he strode out the door to celebrate with his partners, who were grinning from ear-to-ear at the prestigious Royal Oak Club on Nob Hill.


____________________________________________________


Union Square was teaming with excited tourists as Brad strode across the plaza in the direction of the exotic archway splashed in red and gold that marked the entrance to festive Chinatown on Grant Street a-hop-and-a-skip-away.

First up?

A stop into a quaint little shop to pluck up a package of incense, an ornately-decorated box of loose Jasmine tea, and a chocolate-covered fortune cookie at the local bakery.

On the way out the door, he gave a nod to a photo of former President Bill Clinton, which graced the wall over a counter stocked with a dozen-or-so delicious bakerd treats.

A few strains of the old rock 'n roll hit - "I Ain't Superstitious" - rumbled around inside his head for a second or two as he proceeded to crack open the cookie.

Uh-huh!

Like it or not, no matter what the message surreptitiously tucked inside said, he'd take it to heart.

Therefore, here were rules to follow, for good reason.

For example, if he rustled up an upbeat message, Brad would carefully fold up the forecast and insert it neatly into his wallet next to his billfold for good luck.

In contrast, an ominous warning - hinting that he may encounter "interesting times ahead" - was summarily tossed into the trash.

In the latter case, the appropriate ritual ensured that any negative influences predicted, were sure to fizzle out.

Silly?

Uh-huh!

But, nonetheless, he never tempted fate.

"Step on the crack! Break your mother's back!"

He laughed to himself.

Thank Buddha for the healing power of meditation!

Admittedly, it was tough spiritual assignment, alright.

Being "empty" and existing in the "now" - free of the tendency to grapple with surreal notions about reality and illusion - was a tough row to hoe.

An old Chinese proverb sprang into mind!

Before enlightenment
Chopping Wood and Drawing Water
After enlightenment
Chopping Wood and Drawing Water

The incense, on the other hand, helped set the mood.

But, more importantly, the sweet-smelling stuff hid the pungent tell-tale aroma of marijuana from his landlord's super-sensitive snoz!

A big fat doobie relaxed him.

Nope, Brad wasn't hooked on the high, in spite of constant teasing from his buddies that (on the contrary) he was pot-head all the way.

The attitudes of society had changed considerably over the years, anyway!

In the 60's, a dude was liable to be sentenced to seven years behind bars for mere possession in Canada, for instance.

Today, cops strode by tourists toking up at trendy sidewalk cafes, and snickered at each other knowingly as they looked the other way amused.
An overzealous pig might write 'ya up a ticket, on the other hand, when least anticipated.

Heck, last night Craig Ferguson teased one of his guests about the pleasures (and merits) of dropping acid and munching on magic mushrooms!

"What kind of high do you experience," he quizzed the surprised actress, who played along nonetheless.

Surely, he was pulling her pretty leg?

Brad just might pay his doctor a little moolah under the table to rustle up a prescription to purchase medical marijuana so that he wouldn't run the risk of getting busted.

A couple of his former room-mates - who were suffering from complications of A.I.D.S. swore by it - in spite of spirited arguments from Government attorneys that the leafy green stuff had no medicinal benefits whatsoever.

Needless to say, when his spare time permitted, Brad often joined in with activists at the non-profit organization - Americans For Safe Access - when they marched in the streets in support of the cause and denounced the DEA para-military-style raids on pot dispensaries in West Hollywood and elsewhere in the Golden state in recent months.

Once, Brad actually posted a feature-length article on the issues, on an Internet web site which was highly-trafficked.

Alongside a publicity still of former Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger taking a toke on a joint at Gold's Gym at Venice Beach in his early body-building days, Brad scrawled the following cheeky caption:

"Don't Bogart that joint, Arnold!"

The hunky terminator must have a sense of humor - because he didn't react angrily - or demand that the incriminating publicity still be taken down from the "Tattler" blog site.

At this point, Brad's thoughts drifted to a life-long friend who recently passed to spirit in Canada.

Whenever he spied Tiffany pour a stiff shot of whiskey, a guilty look spread across her face.

Then, she'd let out her signature giggle, and utter up lame excuses.

"For medicinal purposes," she'd cackle.

"Pour me a jigger, please," he'd respond, quick on the uptake.

Misery loves company, after all!

Then, just like clockwork, the winsome twosome would drift off into a stupor as the sound of the waves caressing Sunset Beach just outside the bay window, ushered 'em both into a deep soothing sleep.

Gosh, how he missed her!

(to be continued)

http://www.thetattler.biz



 
 
 
 
DEA Raids in Los Angeles!
 

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Scandals...of the Privileged Few! A novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter One!





Robert Steele drew back the custom-made curtain from the outer edge of the large bay window and glanced up at the billowing clouds that hung overhead as a jagged fragment of lightning crackled and lit up the sky in the distance.

"Damn," the trim thirty-something lawyer muttered to himself.

"It looks like torrential rains are on the way. Again."

Not one to step gaily into the bustling city street with dreaded umbrella in hand (hated 'em) the foot-loose-and-fancy-free bachelor made a point of making a pact with himself that he would flag down a cab if necessary.

After all, it wasn't a smart move - by any person's standards - to stride into the office late first day or looking for all-the-world like a drowned rat.

Bolton, Bartholomew and Franklin was a staid business concern.

Although, there weren't any practical perks - such as health insurance, expense accounts, or even the luxury of a private parking spaces on the premises - there was a potential for advancement according to one Senior partner who took Steele under his wing for some inexplicable reason.

___________________________________________________


The rag-tag gang of activists could be heard chanting their mantra a half-a-block away, as they marched up Castro Street waving ubiquitous signs with heartfelt slogans emblazoned on their face, protesting the plight of the poverty-stricken.

"Stop homelessness now," the boisterous mob cried out to all within earshot.

Butch, one of the organizers of the weekly street demonstrations - hummed the notes of an old Joan Baez folk tune under-her-breath - as she sporadically approached pedestrians on the sidelines for donations when the mood struck her.

"I'm a walking cliche, I know" the die-hard romantic cackled to one middle-aged gent, who smirked on the sidelines amused.

From the get-up - she was comfortable in a pair of slightly-faded khaki cargo pants, teamed with a loud red plaid shirt fashioned in soft brushed cotton, and sensible black tie-up boots with sturdy heels to anchor her to the pavement when she walked - Butch gave the appearance of a no-nonsense down-to-earth diesel dyke through-and-through.

It wasn't always the case, though.

In her formative years, she was essentially a fragile porcelain doll, thanks to a dotting Mother anxious to shower her only daughter with all the niceties of life that eluded her after she took flight from the warmth and security of her parents once-comfortable home.

When Grandpa lost his first fortune in the crash of 1929, the once-fabulously-rich threesome barely survived the hardships, that descended out-of-the-blue one God-forsaken day.

While under hypnosis, a psychiatrist later dredged up a truckload of troubling childhood memories, that had been lurking beneath the surface of her consciousness for years - which ultimately - had been traumatizing her without her being none the wiser.

When her favorite uncle - Todd - jumped to his death from the top of the Stock Exchange, she was forced to recall that socialite friends cruelly wondered aloud if it was proper etiquette for the troubled man to commit suicide on public property.

Sick a**holes!

Dixie - Butch's dear mother, bless her heart - made a vow to herself that fine day that her own precious children would never suffer the insults of cold unfeeling in-laws if she had to beg, borrow, or steal to accomplish that end.

If necessary, she'd throw caution to the wind, and marry into money!

___________________________________________________


In spite of the loathsome task at hand, Butch's thoughts drifted to "Chad" - her long-time confidante who was suffering through a sex change that was proving to be a highly emotional and physical challenge.

The winsome twosome met at an AA meeting in a run-down old Church situated on the less trendy end of Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood (affectionately known to the locals as gay gulch) and quickly became fast (loose?) buddies!

Film buffs may recall that WeHo was once a outlaw hang-out way back when, which was depicted in scandalous colorful detail in the Russell Crowe flick "Hollywood Confidential".

Although, Chad's mother (a dance-hall Diva with a bevy of pop hits to her name) was behind her daughter (son?) at least one-hundred-percent, the shy misfit couldn't help but be leery about the outcome of the remarkable sexual transformation fast-approaching.

Obviously, there was no turning back.

Needless to say, Chad pined for an intimate relationship with a pretty female companion - a lipstick lesbian - perhaps?

But, because of the traditional values she was exposed to during her child rearing, Chad was forced to go under a surgeon's knife to make it "right".

Was it possible to fall in love, and find bliss away from the prying eyes of hurtful naysayers in Hollywood, in spite of the odds against it?

Butch, though capable of understanding her dilemma, didn't envy her friend troubled friend.

Chad was undergoing such a radical identity change, after all.

"As long as you're happy," Butch found herself lamely lamenting soulfully to her pal one day.

No matter how you cut it, Chad was heading down the road less travelled, for better or worse.

Would she survive the ordeal?

___________________________________________________


Danny turned on his right side, let out a loud yawn as he clawed the air playfully, then flexed a muscled leg beneath the designer sheets.

Say what?

He found himself rubbing-up against the silky smooth skin of a well-defined muscled bod, next to him on the big comfy Queen-size bed!

Out-of-the-corner of one eye - it did not escape his attention, Sir! - that he was in the company of a hunky son-of-a-gun, alright.

Then, as the cobwebs of sleep took flight from the early-morning fog that once-enveloped him, the events of the night before fluttered into his consciousness image by image.

Ah, now all the delicious pieces were falling into place, to complete the puzzle.

After a rough day at the studio, he was inclined to dash off to the local pub - a popular watering hole by the hilarious unlikely name of - The Rooster & the Jug - for a brief respite from the pressures of a strenuous day toiling over a handful of tedious drawing boards.

Within a half-hour-or-so, Danny (a self-styled bisexual) found himself trading quips with a handsome blond surfer-type, squeezed into a dusty pair of faded blue jeans topped with a skin-tight black "T" with the words "pump it" etched on its face.

The kid - from Utah, if he recalled correctly - had an infectious grin.

And, the studly dude was packing a thick inviting tool between his muscled legs, which triggered pangs of sexual desire in the randy depths of his very soul right-off-the-bat.

Gosh, it was about two weeks or so, since his last erotic encounter in a back alley in the Mission District.

Though the dude was obliging when it came to a quick blow-job, he begged off when it came to the question of jotting down the number of his cell.

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, as he zipped up his fly and flashed a wedding band dangling on a glittering gold chain around his masculine neck.

"Taken."

"Slut," Danny thought to himself, as he strode off licking his wounds.

For a week or two, he was off men, after that humiliating brush-off.

What do they say?

Forget the romance.

Whip it in!

Wipe it out!

Wipe it off.

Wonder what Brad's story was, Danny wondered to himself, as Prince Charming suddenly moaned and stirred to life.

Danny reached under the quilt (Martha Stewart, of course) and grabbed a-hold of his junk.

Within minutes, the stud's cock was sporting a roaring hard-on - at which point - his hunky bed mate jumped him for another round of sizzling hot sex.

___________________________________________________


"Wow, that's quite a spectacular view," Brad gushed, as he pulled on his Calvin's and fumbled with his open fly.

To the left, Grace Cathedral hugged a pristine blue cloudless sky.

Below, the picturesque city by the Bay, beckoned in all its stunning architectural (and scenic) beauty.

"And, that's quite a cock 'ya got there, too," Danny blurted out, bluntly.

"They say it's the girth that separates the men from the boys," Brad chuckled, as he turned a little flush in the face.

"You're hot enough to be an Abercrombie & Fitch model," Danny quickly responded, on the uptake.

"Aber - who?"

"How refreshing," Danny smirked to himself.

A hottie who doesn't have ambitions to be grace soaring billboards around the country half-naked.

"Do you own this pad," Brad quizzed Danny, off-the-cuff.

"I lucked out. It's a sub-let. I'm kind-of a glorified house-boy," he chortled, as he hungrily ate up the delicious striking image of manhood at the foot of his bed.

"Shall I get all sentimental and jot down my phone number," Brad teased.

"I'll do 'ya one better. I''ll treat you to breakfast at Hugo's, kiddo."

(to be continued)

http://www.thetattler.biz




Julian Ayrs
Author

Scandals of the Privileged Few!

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Scandals...of the Privileged Few! A novel by Julian Ayrs! Serialized on forgus beylan!












COMING SOON!


"Scandals of the Privileged Few" is a novel by Julian Ayrs set in the picturesque climbs of San Francisco!

Julian's latest literary work (to be serialized each week at "forgus beylan" on the web) features a juicy plot sure to captivate the most intelligent discriminating fans of fiction.

Undoubtedly, avid readers will be titillated by the delicious cast of curious characters as their - sometimes tawdry, but always entertaining - stories unfold each week!

Robert Steele

A brash young attorney in his mid-thirties, with a flair for fashion (he despises dreaded umbrellas, though), Robert climbs (and beds) his way to the top of the conniving back-stabbing legal profession on the treacherous West Coast without looking back (or having any regrets).

Danny Bloomer

A self-styled bisexual with a passion (and weakness) for blonds in faded blue jeans.

Unfortunately, the talented auteur is always a scant heartbeat from the memory of a former lover (who departed from this mortal coil too soon) which may be his undoing.

Melony Vanderbilt Kidd ("Butch")

Even by her own standards, "Butch" is a "walking cliche", alright!

Strong-willed and defiant - the privileged kid from the right side of the tracks - is an endearing "misfit" with a special knack for weaseling her way into the private incestuous lives of the high-and-mighty.

Next to her skillfully penned "Memoires", Andy Warhol was a slouch in the literary department!

Candace Whitney

A classy dame who gravitates to fame and fortune like moth to flame.

Ms. Whitney is the ultimate social butterfly (with bags of loot to boot) adept at flitting about the tony environs of the elite uppercrust - with no door unopened or key unlocked - if she had her druthers.

But, a mysterious past lurks on the horizon, sure to knock her flat on her pretty ass if she's not more forgiving or discreet in the future.

Brad Butler II

This dreamy blue-eyed surfer dude pines for Mr. Right. 

And, he has all the prerequisites to lure the bait, you betcha!

But, will his naivete be his downfall - ultimately - in the sleazy down-and-out cut-throat underbelly of debauched Tinsel Town?

The Contessa

The Royal is rumored to own the Villa at 88 Stone Canyon Trail on Cypress Ridge. 

But, the tongues really wagged one fateful evening recently, when it is was revealed that the elusive beauty was once the lesbian lipstick lover of sultry screen siren Greta Garbo!

Stay posted for Chapter One!