Literary Paris

This is the cover of my book. It's not my editor's fault it didn't sell. It's nobody's fault. 660 new books were published the month that mine came out. 120 were new novels. And, I was in the Seychelles drinking beer, watching a rat eat my mango tree, in my little corner of paradise. End of genius storming literary Paris. It was just another book, about just another john. Everybody's a whore, or a john, or a cop, but nobody wants to hear about it anymore. Give us reality television, as long as it's not realistic. I now live a twenty minute tram ride from the red light district, but every time I see a picture of one of those narrow alleyways, all that I notice are the men outside, and no matter how big the tits, and how shiny the gloss on the lipstick, you've got to have an abstract mind of the highest order to forget that some syphilitic prick fresh out of Zimbabwe, or fresh out of Yale, or not so fresh out of the local grocery store, has either just walked out the door, or is getting ready to follow you inside. And, disease travels fast in rainy climates. If it were about twenty degrees colder, I just make take a shot at it.





Prostitution is called a "social ill". It's a failure to be socially healthy. I sometimes wonder why people get so upset about it, then I wonder whether people actually do get upset about it. It's hard to criticize the girls, they're providing an essential service; they know it, the cops especially know it. The police would put bordellos on every corner, if they could keep the criminal element out. There's the rub. When women's bodies are being sold as commodity items, just how do you keep the criminal element out?






that train just came right into my attic!!!!!!