The Issue of Journalistic Integrity

Las Vegas Review-Journal Writer Leaves Paper Following Restrictions on Sheldon Adelson Content

Posted: 27 Apr 2016 09:39 PM PDT

I got into the poker industry and the writing part of it, specifically, by a happy accident back in 2005. In the eleven years since, I have generally been able to write what I want on my own terms. There have been those rare times, however, when I have been told to stay away from a certain topic or perhaps adjust the way I wrote an article, whether it was to add some sort of mention, remove something, or alter the tone. Only a handful of those times did the request from someone up above truly frustrate me, but hey, it comes with the territory. Not every day is great in any of our jobs; I wasn’t about to quit just because someone pissed me off one day. But then again, I’ve never had a serious journalist role like columnist John L. Smith of the Las Vegas Review-Journal.

On Tuesday,  Smith resigned from Nevada’s largest newspaper because he was instructed to no longer write about casino barons Sheldon Adelson and Steve Wynn.

Adelson, CEO of the Las Vegas Sands Corp. and billionaire Republican string-puller, purchased the Review-Journal in December 2015 for $140 million, an amount that seemed exorbitant. The prevailing opinion at the time was that he bought the paper in order to use it to exert political influence, but the paper’s publisher, Jason Taylor, said that Adelson would have no influence on editorial content.

Taylor was replaced on January 28th by Craig Moon, who reported directly to the Adelson family ownership. Prior to his installation, there was a disclosure in the paper about Adelson’s ownership; after his hiring, that disclosure was deleted. It was that day that Smith was instructed to stop writing about Adelson, a fact that remained largely a secret until this past Saturday.

On Saturday, the University of Nevada-Las Vegas hosted a public Society of Professional Journalists meetingduring which Review-Journal editor J. Keith Moyer (who joined the staff in February) was interviewed. During the interview, he for some reason revealed that he had told Smith not to write about Sheldon Adelson. This jaw-dropping admission was live-tweeted by several journalists, including those from his paper, who were in attendance.

Moyer explained (or tried to explain) that Smith had a legal history with Adelson and therefore “it was a conflict for John to write about Sheldon.”

In 2005, Adelson sued Smith in response to a book he wrote about the CEO. That lawsuit was dismissed by a judge. A similar lawsuit for a similar reason was brought against Smith in 1997 by Steve Wynn. That suit was also dismissed.

When asked about the Wynn lawsuit, Moyer admitted he knew nothing about it. According to Jon Ralston of Ralston Reports, Moyer told Smith on Monday to stop writing about Wynn, as well.

It sounds like that was the last straw for Smith, who resigned Tuesday. Before leaving he explained his reasons via a letter he distributed around the office, saying, in part, “….if you don’t have the freedom to call the community’s heavyweights to account, then that “commentary” tag isn’t worth the paper on which it’s printed.”

Smith’s entire letter is copied below.

Job Opening: Columnist

Dear Friends,

I learned many years ago about the importance of not punching down in weight class. You don’t hit “little people” in this craft, you defend them. In Las Vegas, the quintessential company town, it’s the blowhard billionaires and their political toadies who are worth punching. And if you don’t have the freedom to call the community’s heavyweights to account, then that “commentary” tag isn’t worth the paper on which it’s printed.

It isn’t always easy to afflict the comfortable and question authority, but it’s an essential part of the job. And although I’ve fallen short of the mark many times over the past three decades, this is a job I’ve loved.

But recent events have convinced me that I can no longer remain employed at the Las Vegas Review-Journal, a spirited newspaper that has battled to remain an independent voice of journalism in this community. If a Las Vegas columnist is considered “conflicted” because he’s been unsuccessfully sued by two of the most powerful and outspoken players in the gaming industry, then it’s time to move on. If the Strip’s thin-skinned casino bosses aren’t grist for commentary, who is?

It’s been an honor working with you all. Your hard work and dedication remind me every day that journalism is better than ever – even if management leaves something to be desired.

Take care,

John L. Smith

Three Little Pieces

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

My "Art" of Writing

One glorious Sunday morning ten years ago, around this time of the year, right after Thanksgving, maybe two or three days later, maybe longer, I don't recall the exact day, but what I will not forget is that I woke up on that glorious, sun-drenched Sunday, with an aching, enormous, delightful hard-on, the likes of which I thought would never ever happen to me. I lingered in bed, enjoying rushing, reassuring feelings of virility. Then all of sudden, I jumped out of bed---the erection was still in full swing, arching splendidly to the direction of the sky---and ran toward my study and wrote down in my notebook: "Today marked the beginning of a new life of Wissai. Henceforth, he would call himself a writer, an artist with words."

Since that day, I have written almost everyday, drunkenly, like a man possessed. I have written about her, about me---mostly, and occasionally about you. I have weaved fantastic tales of temptation and resulting efforts of redemption. I have written poems, mostly very bad and amateurish, but they are my poems, my voices, my dreams, my pains. I also write absurd, phantasmagorical short stories of violence and lost loves. I write therefore I am. I write so I can stay alive on this planet. 

Do you honestly believe, dear reader, whoever and wherever you are, that the writer of the preceding paragraphs suffers from an inferiority complex, that he has a low opinion of himself, and that he is bashful and shy and conformist, as a fat, ugly, short, penurious and chronically mentally constipated bitch portrayed him to her parents, her kids, her grandkids, her dogs and cats? 

When Leslie Lovely, the combative, tart-tongued reporter from a "family publication" who fell in love with me during our very first get-together, called me up today and checked on my reactions and "thoughts" about her after our marathon sex session upon the completion of her second interview with me, which started on the kitchen floor and ended in the walk-in closet of the master bedroom of  a high-rise condo built in the desert somewhere out in the West of the good, old U.S.A., I told her about Lund/VAW's outlandish assessment of me, Leslie exploded:

-Just give me the phone number of the midget bitch. I'm going to give her a lesson. In fact, do you know where she fucking lives? I'm gonna go over there and kick her fat ass until Hell freezes over. 

-Baby, ignore her. Leave the bitch alone. Why do you want to come near a leper? She isn't fucking worth it. She's been going crazy with jealousy ever since she found out I like you. 

Comme Toi/Like Thee

Comme Toi/Like Thee

She was only nine

The same age as mine

Three years we were together 
Except during the long hot summers

She was the best in the class

She was truly a lovely lass

Clear, sparkling yes, nice smile, and long hair 

And I dreamed of her and I really cared

Her name was long

It had many letters

It made me feel strong

And wondrously tender

We met briefly, you and me

Then we met again and I was drowned in the sea

Of a crazy love for thee and I was not even eighteen

You looked so much like her, nine long years I hadn't seen

You had her eyes, smile, flowing long hair 

And a long name that drove me into a state of despair

My heart went wild with tormenting desires

My mind said, "I must put out this stupid fire!"

So, I ran away from you, knowing I meant nothing to you

I buried myself in books while my heart throbbed unsubdued

I learned French, a language I knew I must know

In order that I could live with a love I had to forgo

I learned to write and I learned to fight for a peace

That I must have in a world that I feel amiss

All because foolishly I had allowed you to set my heart on fire

I turned to books, poetry, and philosophy so my heart can turn to ice

Months rolled by and years came and went away

All sorts of women, lovers and friends, put my heart in further disarray

Where are you now, the girl in my dreams

As I thrash around in the twilight of my life, I want to scream

Wissai

December 3, 2013

Book Review of "The Adventurist by Dwight Gardner if the NYT

J. Bradford Hipps’s bright and large-souled first novel, “The Adventurist,” is set in the New South of gleaming office towers and tract houses and conference centers. This is where the region’s major cities, he writes, have “begun to except themselves from their soil’s bony history.”

His novel’s hero, Henry Hurt, is a programmer and an executive with a company called Cyber Systems. Henry is a droll and chivalrous if mild fellow who may remind some readers of Binx Bolling, the New Orleans stockbroker who is the protagonist of Walker Percy’s classic novel “The Moviegoer” (1961).

The slight resemblance is intentional. This novel begins with an epigraph from “The Moviegoer” (“Businessmen are our only metaphysicians”) and it shares some of that novel’s buoyant yet searching tone. But Mr. Hipps is his own writer, and he’s one to reckon with. He has grace and insight to spare.

“The Adventurist” is that relative rarity, a business novel that’s interested in what people get out of their work lives. Henry is no Babbitt; he is far from smug or vacuous; he is not a dupe. But he is good at what he does and takes pride in it. He is 34 and single and aware of “satisfactions like a thick wallet.”

Henry’s sister, an altruist who lives back home in Minneapolis, is convinced he is made for a higher purpose. He tells her: “The day I hold forth on digital security at a dinner party is the day I quit. What moves me to work is money’s comforts, yes, and also a community of smart, mostly efficient people; the sense of place that a good office gives.”

He’s aware that, in admitting you crave money, “you set yourself up as a satirical creature.” He can live with that, for now, at any rate.

“The Adventurist” is about the small and then the large ways in which Henry’s life begins to fray. Cyber Systems has a bad quarter and may go under. He and other executives are forced to go on a barnstorming tour to drum up new business. His lack of efficiency at romance tortures him. His beloved father is in the early stages of dementia.

Mr. Hipps is as adept as a gifted playwright at setting a scene. Important moments in “The Adventurist” occur in airports and snowed-in hotel bars, where the electricity flickers. The author writes about these places with a casual vividness that put me in mind of Walter Kirn’s novel “Up in the Air.”

There are also indelible scenes at a strip club and a Nascar race. (Both outings bring Henry to something close to despair.) A stolen kiss occurs on a Ferris wheel. At the strip club, the men lined up along the catwalk remind him, bleakly, of Communion-takers at the altar rail. Henry views the Nascar race as an “imperial spectacle.” He observes how the “bright-painted sponsorships would shame coral fish.”

Mr. Hipps’s prose is reliably this crisp. A co-worker has “trouser creases sharp as the prow of a destroyer.” A man throws back his whiskey with “a quick pelican jerk of the neck.” An old man has a mouth that is “pinched in a sort of bitter embouchure, like a trumpeter.”

These kinds of observations are the buttons and clasps of this writer’s attire. The fabric of “The Adventurist” is made from Henry’s search for meaning and for life’s small raptures, what he calls “these little junkets into beauty.”

Throughout the novel Henry fights what he calls “the pall,” a sense of desperation that seeps in at an afternoon’s margins. He wards it off in small ways. (“The remedy is obvious: to the laptop. Metaphysical dislocation is no match for a to-do list.”) He can’t always keep it at bay.

He has given up on television because the final episode of a good series sends a ghostly wind through him. “The program ends, the darkness rises, and the strings play elegy for me, not them,” he says. “There is nothing left but to stab the remote and sit in the awful quiet.” The Midwesterner in Henry longs for a hearth; the electronic one has let him down.

He is aware, at the Nascar rally, that he does not fit in. Amid the rowdy tailgaters he feels on display, and not in a good way. About how others see him as a figure of derision and almost desire to hoot, he remarks: “No matter how liberal a person’s sentiments, how tolerant and unprejudiced his cardinal humors, he is glad to see the outcast, to know conclusively it is not him.”

There is drama in Henry’s attempts to maintain his equilibrium. There is yet more drama, genuine human stuff, in his awareness that many dozens of lives are in danger if he and the other executives can’t keep Cyber Systems afloat. People have families and mortgages; at least one is in the United States illegally and might get thrown out.

Henry has an outsider’s sense of the South, a sense that keeps his transistors alert. “I am forever being outflanked,” he sadly reports, “by Southern manners.” He envies a certain kind of confident Southern man, about whom he says: “His is a discerning shtick of which the Southerner is king: wicked-sounding but affectionate, droll, imperturbable above all.”

Who is Henry? He turns out to be a fool for love, among other things. He acquires a physical as well as an intellectual crush on a married co-worker. He adores the way that, in conversation, “a heartfelt obscenity, deployed just so, activated her pleasure centers like a neon sign.”

“The Adventurist” activated most of my cranial pleasure centers. It’s a brisk and polished and somehow very American novel. It moves confidently, that is, until it can no longer pretend to do so. It delivers to the reader internal wounds that will fail to clot.

The Adventurist

By J. Bradford Hipps

276 pages. St. Martin’s Press. $25.99

Dreams and Realities

 Dreams and Life, Fiction and Reality

Roberto once came across a New York Times book review article that contained a resonant, reverberating sentence, "Anyone can tell a story that resembles a dream....[but], but it's a rare artist, like this one, (meaning Haruki Murakami) who can make us feel that we are dreaming it ourselves."

He liked that sentence. He reread it over and over again. He didn't know if he was an artist or not, but he liked things that stirred his soul and took his breath away: music; painting; movies; poetry; a nice smile from a demure, shy pubescent girl but with a ripe, curvy, curvaceous, voluptuous body; a nice turn of phrase that made his soul soar high into the sky with fire and style; an unending marathon love-making session that went through the night.

Roberto was Asian, hailing from the tropical wetlands of the Mekong River Delta, but he liked to call himself Roberto. He had a nickname for every language he tried to master. The name "Roberto" sounded robust, muscular. It had three distinct syllables, not two or one like a midget would have. Ro-ber-to was his name. Words were his game. And when he wanted to be tender to his Cuban girlfriend, he liked to say, "Salomé, te amo. Te amo mucho." Speaking in Spanish made him feel good about himself. He wanted to be cosmopolitan, urbane, and cultured, the world away from his native village in the tropics. He loved his old country, though. In fact, that love had landed him into trouble several times. That was why he said, "No más" and turned his back on his fellow expatriates who were mostly stupid, vicious, vain, rude, crude, and ignorant. He despised these motherfucking assholes and scumbags, but he had a soft spot in his heart for those 90 million compatriots of his who languished under the yoke of beastly, greedy commies. 

Roberto was a honest man who didn't tell lies in real life, but in the life of his fiction, he told a lot of lies to even things out. He told Omar that with a grin when Omar confronted him with  the inconsistencies in the stories he  wrote. Then he darkly added that fiction was just another name for reality retold. He said, "Dude, listen up, I couldn't say straight up what I wanted to say. I had to make a detour to mask my stories as if they were fiction. I had to unburden myself somehow. You wanted me to reach for the gun instead of the pen? I am not a trained writer, ok? I didn't bother to sign up for any creative writing program. I always do things my way. Haphazardly. I live life that way, too. Unplanned. I let things come to me. I write whenever there's an urge, a desire to say things. I am the loneliest man alive. I write without a wish to get my stories published. I don't care for fame and recognition. I just want peace and the words shaped and formed and written right in front of me. I have strange sensibilities. And right before I die, I would like to quote the Second Timothy "I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith." But are you listening to me? Why are you smiling?"

So Omar told Roberto he was smiling not because he was finding his friend amusing or his concerns droll, but because for his alleged erudition, he didn't know shit about life and the art of living. 

"Roberto, your diatribe about the motherfuckers, assholes, scumbags, liars, phonies, blah, blah, blah, was so tiresome. Don't you realize so? You are not the only human who feels disgusted about the scums of the earth. Wake up and grow up. I'm your best friend, so I feel I can say that straight to your face. And stop writing about syrupy, absurd, fantastical stories about heterosexual love. Write war stories instead. Write about blood, violence, death, injustice, and absurdity. Don't write about religions and the search for God and the meaning of Life, or about the bullshit called God Himself. There are many, many stupid, really, really dumb bastards and bitches in this world who don't really know to think and reason, and thus don't know what the fuck you are talking about. You can't argue with stupidity or ignorance. You already know that in this day and age, there are plenty of dumb asses who still think that there's a physical location called Heaven high up in the sky and they will go there after they die, just because some dumb priest or pastor or Imam told them so. You and I both know that's  just stupid religious hot air but to them it is the truth because some "holy" book said so! Don't these motherfuckers have a brain?"

-"But Omar, I can only write about what I know. I know about women and love and religion. I know nothing about war, violence, and death," Roberto meekly protested. 

Omar went for the jugular, "So do research. Expand your range of reading. Use your imagination. But wait a minute, aren't you from Vietnam? Didn't you go through the Vietnam War? Surely you must have seen plenty of gore and destruction in your youth."

Roberto sighed. His eyes avoided those of Omar. He looked away, over the distance, like he was going back to Vietnam, across the ten thousand miles of ocean. He then turned his eyes back towards Omar  and said, 

-"A human being in intense physical pain would be screaming out loud, like an injured raw animal. However, when it comes to emotional and psychic pains, humans react differently than "lesser" animals. The suffering person does not normally scream. He suffers in silence. Only his face says something about the state of his mind and the well-being of his heart. In addition, non-physical pains last longer. If left untreated, they can and do ruin and destroy the suffering person. Most Vietnamese of my generation have been in emotional and psychic pains for a long time. We went through a long, absurd, meaningless war. Many witnessed horrific crimes against humanity. Some performed those acts themselves. War reduced most of us to a level of animal-like existence. All higher values were sacrificed for the sake of sheer survival. I would submit that almost all of us have scars, some visible, most are not. I would also venture to say that some of us are the walking wounded. Their scars are still festering and have not even begun to heal. That's why I see acts of acting out performed daily in the forums on the Internet: unrestrained and shameless libel, obscene and untempered aggressive cursing language, unsubstantiated bragging aka brazen lying, and stupid smugness over minor accomplishments. I feel sick to my stomach at the level of pathological behaviors of my fellow expatriates. I am not saying I am perfect and free of human foibles, but compared to them I must say I am an angel. My problem is that I am increasingly sick and tired of my fellow expatriates. More and over I view them as no longer humans, but pathetic animals. There is one old crusty asshole in particular. He's into gratuitous libel, but he routinely condemns others of the same thing. What a fucking hypocrite asshole! To me he is lower than a dog and as worthless as a piece of pebble. Even a piece of shit can be used as fertilizer. He is good for nothing, a stain and a disgrace of the human race. In him, honor or self-respect are like fingerprints of a ghost. They can't be found. One day while reflecting on the despicable behavior of this fucked-up piece of human trash, I recognized something about the irony of suicide over shame or honor. Only real humans do that. Sub-humans have no sense of shame. They blithely think it's okay to live, at any price and at any cost. Living, to them, is just like a reflex, an instinct. Their lives are measured by the longevity, not the honor. You thus cannot argue or even associate with human animals like them, just like you cannot and should not play around with shit. You will get foul and sour. And the stench will permeate all your being. So the answer is silence and contempt. Let the motherfucker think he's won the battle. I used to be intensely proud to be Vietnamese, but I'm afraid I'm not much any longer. These stupid but vain, ignorant but smug human animals disgust me so much that I view them with utter distaste and nausea. In a way, I feel bad that most of my fellow expatriates have degenerated to this kind of level. Sometimes I wonder whether I am too smug and self-righteous myself. I don't know. I just really think I must maintain at least a modicum of decorum and righteous behavior: honor, truthfulness, and patriotism. I must not myself perform acts that I deplore and condemn in others. True pride manifests itself in self-respect and real accomplishments, not platitudinous hot air and hypocritical, engineered behavior. Ego should be a friend, not a burden to uphold. Ever since I discovered that I have some physical ailment that puts my life in jeopardy, life has taken an urgency and a sweetness.

Omar reached out and seized him on the shoulders and said,

-"Mi querido amigo, you think and feel too much. Take things easy, please. Be like a bird. Try to find a balance between poetry and science, between altruism and ego. Travel light and learn to fly. You're a fine specimen of the human species, not perfect, but warm and caring and honest. There are no flies on you. Life is what and how you make it out to be. Your life does not have to be muddy, messy and maudlin. Be free like me!"

Roberto snorted and snarled and said with scathing sarcasm,

-"It's easy for you to say. I'm not an assassin like you. Hey, vato, how does it feel to be a paid killer? How can you sleep at night? The targets got nothing against you, didn't you harm, and you killed them just for the bloody money. That's cold, vato."

Omar didn't answer him right away. He laughed uproariously instead. Roberto was annoyed, "What was so fucking funny about what I just said?"

-"Roberto, I found you so disarmingly naive. We all have to die at some point. Now or ten, twenty, thirty years from now, really makes no difference, if you really think about that. To live is to die. The real point is not how long you live, but how happily you live. I have a happy life. The marks (targets) pissed off somebody really bad or are in the way, so they had to die. As simple as that. If I didn't do it, somebody would. The same thing goes for eating meat. If you are a meat-eater, somebody has to do the killing, either some bloke at the slaughter-house or you yourself if you are a farmer or a hunter and want to get your hands dirty and bloody. Some poor animal has to die in order to sustain another animal. I didn't kill for the sake of killing. I killed with a purpose. To answer your question, yes, I sleep very well at night, like a baby. Why shouldn't I?"

-"Omar, you're a sick dude. Do you know that?"

-"No, I am not. It's you and your fellow Vietnamese expatriates who are sickeningly sick, arguing and quarreling day after day, month after month, year after year, over nothings, like a bunch of stupid schoolboys. You guys need to get off your big fat asses and do something for your old country. In some ways, I am like a bird of prey: big, bold, and beautiful; solitary and self-possessed, free and numb from the griefs and hurts of those lives I snubbed out. What role in life do you want to perform? Predator or prey? Be a prey as much as you wish. As for myself, I always want to be a predator. It's more fun and more masculine."

-"Omar, you're making me sick"

-"No, I am not. I am making you become strong, like me."

-"By convincing me that I need to be a killer like you?" Roberto's voice was rising; his face flushed and he was breathing hard.

-"No, we are not having one of those Plato's dialogues. I'm merely trying to point out to you the sentimentality of your sentiments. They have made you weak and ridiculous and inviting disrespect from scumbags. You must learn to be quiet and strong and aware of the potentiality of a killer in you so when the right time comes, you wouldn't freeze and hesitate. He who hesitates will lose. Be fluid, my friend."

-"Thanks a lot. I'm not strong like you. I have doubts. I have anxieties and pangs of conscience. You and I are best friends, but we are really different. You're in the power dynamics in human interactions; I'm into the softer side of life: truth, beauty, and love. We both need to reach the Middle Way somehow. Life is most diverse when the circumstances are not extreme. We need to imitate Nature, Omar."

-"No, I don't want to imitate Nature although I came from it. I want to be me: strong, solitary, and self-reliant. I'm a fallen angel, figuratively speaking."

-"You're no angel; you're a smug, cold-blooded assassin. That's who you are. Look outside. The city is awash in sunshine. People are walking around, seemingly happy and carefree. And here you and I are sitting in this bar and prattling on about much ado about nothing."

-"No, Roberto, you're wrong again. The conversation we're having is important and vital to our well-being. It's forcing us to come to terms as to who we are. A life unexamined is not worth living, as some Greek guy said thousands of years ago. We examine our lives to see if they are in ruins and need to be repaired. Complacency is the sign of lazy smugness. But enough talking for the day, don't you think? It's good to see you. I'll see you when I see you. I  have a job lined up overseas. It's not easy. I have some misgivings about it." 

For the first time since Roberto knew Omar and he has known him for almost eight years now, that Omar looked pensive and his voice betrayed a hint of existential anxiety. The guy was not as tough as he tried to show off to me, Roberto thought. They had met in the Taj Mahal poker room in Atlantic City eight summers ago. They sat next to each other. Roberto was a friendly and garrulous middle-aged guy. He made small talks with a Latino-looking, young, vigorous guy with penetrating eyes and athletic guy named Omar who was polite but said little about himself other than he was a consultant who happened to be in town for a meeting, and was now unwinding himself in a friendly game of poker. The players at the table were shooting the breeze between hands, as they were wont to do in a small game where winning or losing in a single session would not be a life-changing event. In that evening the conversation topics went from dirty jokes to politics and then hired killers. Roberto had read some fiction involving assassins so he put in his two cents. One drunk player bragged that he knew personally a guy who was willing to do contract killing and if anybody needed the services, he would be glad to make arrangements. Other players laughed at him, saying that he was full of crap. A quiet gentleman who sat next to the dealer then spoke up, reminding everyone that the drunk might set them up, and that the subject was not wholesome and needed to be dropped. But Omar kept the subject alive by asking the drunk guy some probing questions. Roberto was listening to the dialogue and soaking up the conversation. Then Roberto won a big pot off Omar. For some reason, Roberto uncharacteristically gave most of it back to Omar, saying, "it was unfair. You weren't paying attention. You were busy talking." Omar smiled and pushed the chips back to Roberto, "Thanks. But that was all right. I have plenty of money. You won fair and square. But I really appreciate the gesture. I really do. I'm hungry. Would you join me for dinner? I'm paying." When Roberto said that he should pay since he just won a big pot, Omar smiled again, "That's really sweet of you, amigo, but as I said, I have money and it looks to me, no offense intended, that you need the money more than I do. Let's go eat." It was during the dinner at the Chinese Restaurant The Blossoms on the premises that Omar revealed that he was a professional assassin after exacting a promise from Roberto to secrecy. The friendship blossomed over the years. Roberto was a good, sympathetic listener, and partial to Latinos. Omar was cynical, but needed a loyal friend whom he could trust. Two summers before today's meeting, Omar revealed that he had put Roberto in his will, besides his only surviving sister who lived in Chicago. "If something "happened" to me, a lawyer will get in touch with you. Here's his business card. You need to give him and me your cell number and address whenever you move." 

.-"So, don't take it."

-"It's not as simple as you think. You can't say no to some people."

–"Be careful, vato. I love you," 

Omar said nothing. He just nodded his head, stood up, pulled out two Franklins from his billfold and gave them to Roberto, and said, "The beers are on me. Keep the rest. Watch your back. If you need help, text me. If you can't reach me, call the number that I gave you. Somebody always answers. Give them your name, tell them you're a brother of Omar Sabat, and you need help. I already gave them your name. Take care."

Roberto watched Omar walk out of the bar and into the street. A tall, muscular guy with an easy, fluid gait, long arms swinging smoothly, looking every bit a predator that he was. Just then, Roberto's cell phone rang. It was Arthur, a Vietnam War vet and a retired retailed clerk, and the other friend Roberto had. 

Roberto only had two friends in this world: Omar Sabat and Arthur Patterson. And they were the polar opposites of each other. Whereas Omar was a dark, talk, athletic, self-assured, self-disciplined, cynical, rich, well-read, atheistic Latino, Arthur was a short, pudgy, religious, weak-willed, relatively poor, decent, and principled American Philistine of Scandinavian descent. They had only one thing in common. They were generous with money and kind to Roberto. In return, Roberto provided them with reliability and loyalty. They knew they could count on him for help, 24/7. Roberto  was closer to Omar because of the affinity in education and intellect. After Omar revealed that he was a paid killer, Roberto asked him why he chose to tell him that, "Wouldn't you be concerned that I might tell the police?". Omar laughed, "Why should you do a thing like that? You would gain nothing. I did nothing wrong to you. In fact, you would be concerned that now you have been seen to dine with me, the cops might come after you, asking you about me. I don't know. Believe it or not, I'm a good judge of character. I know you although we just met. I make snap decisions. And I trust my instincts. I travel though AC a lot. I need a friend here, a regular friend having no connection with the dark world that I've been associated with. I'm not saying I will use you and discard you. I like you, Roberto. You're honest, maybe a bit naive, but a good person. You wouldn't know it, but I watched everybody at the poker table. Maybe it was Fate that you and I sat next to each other. I could tell you that you play poker to supplement your income which is not high. I'm sorry if that offends you, but I want to be honest. But more importantly, I could tell you were lonely. You treat the poker room as a social club where you meet people. What else? You asked me so many questions! You like people. You want to be around them, but you're lonely because you have no friends whom you can trust. Were you aware that I purposely let you win that big hand from me? I wanted to make you happy. You needed the money. What I didn't expect at all was that you wanted to give almost all of it back to me, saying that it wasn't fair because I didn't pay close attention to the game. No poker player had done that to me before! And then after I invited you to dinner, you said you would pay with the money you just won. That was very sweet of you, really sweet, amigo. I knew then I could trust you. You have a heart. Anyway, from time to time, I might ask you to do me a favor, getting me information that I need or do some errands for me. Of course, I will pay you for the services. I might even need your condo as a "safe house" where I need to lie low for a few days. I don't always trust hotels and motels. You aren't scared, are you? Come on, you seemed to be so fascinated with the underworld, asking that stupid drunk guy all kinds of questions. By the way, the drunk was legit, but stupid. He will get into trouble, sooner or later. You can say no, and I understand. And we are still friends. I just want to be honest up front." 

Roberto wanted to say no, but the Death Wish and the strong sense of adventure took over. He figured here it was his chance to get close and personal to the exotic world of ninjas and assassins that dominated his fantasies when he was a teenager. Nobody would know it by just having a cursory look at him or making small talks with him, but Roberto was attracted to the bizarre and the surreal. So he extended his hand to Omar who took it and squeezed it hard. In the back of his mind, however, he wondered whether he was a cheap person whose friendship could be bought for a lousy $300 dollars and some change. Years passed and now Roberto definitely thought he had made the right decision for he had learned a lot from Omar, the most important of which was to look at most human interactions from a point of view of power and benefits and a harsh view of life as being the struggle for survival and the interplay of predator-prey relationships. Omar taught him that most human behaviors, could be understood and explained in terms of power, benefits, and love. Roberto felt he was becoming more of a realist and less of a dreamer. "Don't be a parasite, a clinger, a hanger-on. Be resolute and ruthless when you need to be. Don't be sentimental. Be fair, yes, but not soft and weak-willed. You must learn to say No, Roberto. You must learn to take of you first and of your needs. That's how 99% people in this world are operating. Who says Life has to be pretty? It is not. And don't forget you must learn to talk less. Stop confiding to strangers. Be smooth. Control yourself by controlling your tongue. Use your head and be ready to die at any moment. You will be okay if you act more like me and less like you. Trust me. Have I let you down yet? Be careful of women. They can hurt and destroy you. You've fancied that they find you attractive and irresistible, but they all use to their benefits. If you're no longer of any use to them, either financially or emotionally, they will discard you like an old rag. Don't be sentimental, I repeat. I know you fancy that you are a fantastic, fabulous fucker and funny, felicitous old fart in bed, but sex is not that important to women. It is security. Always be mindful of Appearance and Reality, amigo."

Roberto took the call from Arthur. Arthur wanted to meet him for dinner later on. Roberto was not surprised. Arthur was lonely and Roberto was the only one in the city to whom he could relate and communicate because he could be cranky and touchy and was wont to utter outrageous, outlandish statements. Arthur spent his time cooped up in his apartment watching TV and drinking and surfing the Internet, watching porno videos and reminiscing of his youth when he was virile, well-off, and attractive to women. Arthur was proud of his intelligence but he was lazy in intellectual endeavors and relied too much on Fox News for information. He therefore had flights of fancy and wishful thinking. A few months prior, he insisted on making a wager with Roberto that Hillary Clinton wouldn't run for the the office of the presidency of the United States! He wanted to make a big bet. Roberto had to convince him to settle for a "friendly" bet of $100. Arthur said that he agreed to the 1/10 of the original amount in order to please Roberto because he "knew" he would win. Anyway, Arthur usually wanted to go out on Saturday nights to a restaurant cum bar and casino off the Boardwalk. And he usually picked up the tab, so Roberto said, "Fine, but I'll pay this time. You already paid last time. Okay?" Arthur said nothing. 

When Roberto showed up at the door of Arthur's apartment at 7:30 pm, Arthur was in high spirits and ready to go. He was smartly dressed, as usual, a habit from his halcyon days as a manager of a drugstore. Years of hard drinking and the decline of his fortune had reduced his standing in his narrow circle of acquaintances, but hardly made a dent in his pride. Roberto could smell alcohol on Arthur's breath, but he said nothing. As soon as Arthur got into the car, he said, "I'm buying." To that, Roberto was silent. He had learned his lesson. The last time he insisted on paying for the outing, Arthur had a fit and sulked like a spoiled child throughout the ruined evening. "So where we're going?" Roberto queried although he already knew the answer. "The same place.", replied Arthur. 

The restaurant was packed. Arthur ceremoniously ordered a big T-bone steak and two eggs to go with it plus salad. Roberto settled for a lousy tuna sandwich. He didn't want to incur a heavy expense for his friend. Arthur was in a good mood. He talked between mouthfuls. He said he liked to come to this restaurant because when he was prosperous, he and his wife came here two, three times a week after an evening of playing on the video poker machines. Arthur was a retro man. He liked to dwell on his "glorious" past. Roberto had heard all the stories a million times, but he was attentive to what Arthur said, like it was the first time he ever heard of the stories. A true friend must know how to listen. 

Arthur's wife was Vietnamese, a woman without education but of sharp intelligence and plenty of street smarts. He had met her in one of the infamous Saigon bars during the war. He was young and shy and introspective. Enlisting in the Army was his way to get tough and wise. She was six years his senior, but she was pretty and charming, despite having two young kids. He fell in love with her and the country, but he didn't want to marry her because he had a high school sweetheart waiting for him back in the States. When he got back to his hometown which happened to be Atlantic City, he married the sweetheart but the marriage didn't last long although they had fantastic, bed-rocking, wall-vibrating sex sessions. Arthur's first wife was apparently a nymphomaniac. She not only slept with Arthur, but also with the milk man, postman, delivery men, and any approachable male neighbors. It reached a point that Arthur could not stand being a cuckold. He divorced her and reenlisted in the Army to fill the void within and to end a nagging sense of humiliation meted out by his wife. He was back in Vietnam in 1971 shortly thereafter. He looked up his former Vietnamese bargirl. They got reacquainted and she joined him to get back to the States after his second tour ended. She brought along her youngest child, a young girl of five on whom Arthur doted, even to this day after she had got married and had children of her own. Athur!'s wife worked as a seamstress for the first twenty years in America, and then as a house-cleaning woman. Like Arthur, she was retired and lived on her meager social security and retirement benefits. 

Arthur was a generous man. He let his wife keep all the money she earned. They lived on his income as a manager of a drugstore. It was and still is very dangerous to live in Atlantic City, the Seedy City of Sins, as it likes to advertise itself, especially if one has a drinking or gambling problem. His wife loved to gamble. And Arthur loved to drink. So together, they managed to lose their house to foreclosure and a great deal of self-respect in the process although they did try put up a brave front. Blumen, that was Arthur's wife's name, was a smart woman. It amazed Roberto that she could pick up English just by being around Arthur, despite being completely illiterate. She tried to get him to stop drinking and smoking, to no avail. She was very appreciative that Roberto saved her husband's life three times by dragging him to the car and driving him to the emergency room of the local VA hospital when Arthur complained of feeling bad. And every single time, the doctor said Arthur should have gotten to the hospital sooner. 

It was obvious that Arthur had a Death Wish. He was also sexually impotent because of the heavy drinking. He had not slept with his wife for over twenty years. Still, he liked to watch sex videos. One day, in panic he called Roberto to please get over to his apartment in a hurry because he had a problem that he refused to discuss over the phone. It turned out that he was watching a sex video involving minors, and somebody had been monitoring his activity online and shut down his computer and demanded a payment of $200 otherwise they would inform the police so what should he do, he asked Roberto's opinion. They were discussing this in Arthur's bedroom with the door closed so his wife would not hear. He and his wide slept in separate rooms. 

-"Were you chatting with a minor at all?"

-"No! I was just watching a video."

-"Well, in this case, somebody is just blackmailing you. If this were a police work, they would lure you by posing online as a young girl and agreeing to meet with you somewhere in order to entrap you. If I were you, I wouldn't give in to the fucking blackmail scheme. I would bring the computer to a repair shop. It would be much cheaper and more gratifying that way. Fuck the bastard that's trying to get money off you. If you pay, what guarantee would you have that the computer will work as normal? The motherfucker will just blackmail you over and over again. I'm absolutely sure this is not a police or FBI work because if it were, cops would be here already. Agreed?"

Arthur said nothing. He just nodded his head. His face was a picture of stress and strain and shame. Then Roberto left. The matter was never brought up again. 

Arthur was now done with eating. A sexy but cheap-looking young, bottled-blond walked by. Her hips swayed with much exaggeration. Arthur's eyes followed the woman. "Boy, in my younger days I would surely want to get a piece of that ass." He then regaled Roberto with a story that Roberto had heard so many times before. Arthur twice slept with his friend's wife while the poor man was at work on night shift. He claimed that he was drunk and the woman came on to him. Roberto then said, 

"Arthur, you were brave. You could get yourself killed. What would happen if the man came home unexpectedly and saw she was fucking his friend ? His instinct would just take over. He had no time to reflect that his wife was trash and therefore he would just divorce her and find another woman. No, he would just kill you and her because he was so mad. What a dangerous thing you did, Arthur. Were you not aware that animal males fight and kill each other over females? It's instinct, man."

-"No, it's not instinct" Arthur weakly disagreed.

-,"Yes, it's instinct, Arthur."

-"Have you screwed somebody's wife?"

-"No, I didn't have to. I had plenty of choices. Besides, I couldn't get it up anyway because that would not be right, hitting on somebody's wife or even girlfriend. I wouldn't want other men to do that to my wife or my girlfriend, so why would I do something like that?  Falling in love with somebody's wife or girlfriend would be another matter because love is an involuntary reflex, a conflation and conflagration of respect and affection, but I would love her in silence and from the distance. I would never let her know, especially if she's happily married."

-"Boy, you surely like to use big words, don't you? What are those big words again? Cuntlation and cuntfairsomerhing?" Arthur asked with a grin, smug with his "wit". 

-"Never mind. Don't be gross and vulgar. Are you going to order dessert?"

-"I want to, but I'm stuffed. But you go ahead and order something. Fuck, you can't be full with just a sandwich."

- No thanks. I'm watching my weight. Then let's go. I'll take care of the tip."

"You're not going anywhere in a hurry, are you? How are Leslie and Martha? Are you still seeing them? Why don't you ever let me meet them so I can see if they are for real, and not some bitches you just made up to impress me?

-"I will never let you get near my women, not after you told me about your amorous conquests of your friends' wives."

-"Feeling insecure, huh?"  Arthur chuckled. 

-Yeah. 

Of course, Roberto didn't feel insecure at all. He  just humored Arthur. Arthur fancied that he was still good-looking, but he was way past his prime, with all that hard drinking and smoking and lack of exercise. He looked at least fifteen years older than Roberto, although they were of the same age. And he walked with a cane. His ass was way too big, like that of a big fat black woman. Roberto seriously doubted any woman in her right mind would find Arthur sexually attractive. Besides, he was impotent and Roberto was still virile and exceedingly proud of that although he noticed that recently he didn't have the full tumescence in the morning upon waking up as he used to do, before the damned kidney problems hit him. Oh well, nobody lives forever, Roberto bravely reminded himself.

-What are you thinking", asked Arthur. "You look deep in thoughts. I don't want to go home yet. I want to gamble. Let's go play video poker, if that's okay, unless you have a better idea. "

"That's fine with me, but I hope you're not going to blow all your money."

-Don't worry about that. As I told you, I just got approved for full disability. I now get two grand extra each month."

-"Shit, that's more than what I get on social and retirement . If you can't live on five thousand dollars a month, you really have a problem". 

There was nothing "disabled" about Arthur from his two tours of service in Vietnam. He was not even wounded. In fact, he was not even shot at. However, he was in the area that was heavily sprayed with the defoliant called Agent Orange. So his buddies told him to file papers for disability. He was first accepted as 65% "disabled" although he walked around fine (he used the cane because he was heavy and had a weak heart from drinking and no physical exercises) and had no injuries other than those caused by an auto accident (crushed ribs and broken collar bone which were healed shortly thereafter) and years of hard drinking and smoking. A few months prior, his former Army buddies had advised him to refile for 100% disability. And he told Roberto that he got the approval. Roberto found that hard to believe because his wife said nothing about that to him. Arthur's wife had a big mouth and loved to brag. She would normally tell Roberto something that drastic in the change of her husband's financial well-being. She craved respect. 

They got to the machines. Arthur peeled off two twenties, gave one to Roberto. Roberto firmly shook his head. Arthur said, " Suit yourself." He played for a while, lost the first twenty in a hurry. He put the second twenty into the slot. He was up to $27 twice, but he didn't quit. Then slowly he went down to single digits. He said to Roberto, "you play for me. You may get lucky. I need to go to the bathroom." Roberto protested, "No, that's your money. I don't want to play it. What happens if I lose it." "Roberto, I wouldn't lose sleep over it. Christ, there's only 8 dollars left. Go ahead and play. I just have a feeling you may get lucky." Then Arthur walked off, quite quickly for an "old" man with a cane. 

Roberto sat down with a dread. He just didn't feel good about the whole thing. He told himself that if he got to $20 or a little above that, he would quit. He was up and down in the single digits and low teens. Then he got down to $4. He said, "Shit". Then lo and behold, the machine showed 3 aces. He was playing Jacks or better version of Video poker. He said to the machine, "come on, full house, full house." But what he got better than the full house, he got 4 aces! That meant he just won $200! Roberto was very happy for his friend. He cashed in the ticket right away and went to the bathroom. Arthur was no where in sight. Then it dawned on him that the bastard couldn't be that long in the bathroom. 

He found Arthur sitting at the counter at the bar, face flushed with booze. Arthur looked sheepish, "Want a drink?". "No, thanks, not tonight."  Arthur then said, "How was it? How did it go? Did you get more lucky than me?" Roberto said nothing. He pretended to look unhappy and embarrassed, then he slowly took $201 (two Franklins and a single) from his pants' pocket and handed them to Arthur. "You got lucky. I hit 4 aces." Arthur beamed, took the money, and said " I told you. I "knew" you'd be lucky. Here's the hundred I owe you from the Hillary bet." Roberto said, "No, that's not right. I wouldn't take it. I "knew" there was no way that Hillary wouldn't run. She was so close to the power. She wanted it bad. She would even cut off her right arm to be the President of the United States. Keep the money. I am so glad you won the $200. That would more than cover the meals and the drinks you're having." Arthur looked conflicted, "Are you sure you don't want the money? You won the bet!" Roberto replied, "I'm sure. Keep the money. We need to go home. I'm tired."

Then Arthur had an outrageous idea.

"Listen, buddy. I have an idea" Arthur was grinning and he looked mischievous. Then he motioned for the bartender to get closer so he could listen to the conversation, "All these years, my friend here has been bragging to me that he's a stud and all that shit. Now I'm giving him a chance to prove it. Let's go to the bathroom, you and I, Roberto. You get into the stall and if you can get it up into a full hard-on under 5 minutes, you win $100. If not, that's okay. I would know then you're just a liar." Roberto was annoyed and said, "I want 10 minutes, not 5 because I just ate. And I want $200, not $100, for all my "hard" work. You must stand outside the stall and keep your mouth shut. You cannot say anything." At that time, the bartender said, "Shit, I can do it under 5 minutes for 100 bucks." Arthur said, "You don't count. You're a young man. My friend here is 66 years old. I doubt if he can get it up even half-way. Okay, let's go. Two hundred's fine with me. Let's go!"

Roberto chose the stall at the far end after he and Arthur synchronized their watches. Arthur loitered at the sink area while Roberto was trying to earn the $200 the "hard" way. He closed his eyes, went into a meditative trance, and thought of Salomé and the porno video he had seen two evenings prior, involving a hot Russian young porno actress, all the while glancing at his watch. After four minutes, his body responded. After six minutes, his cock was half-erect. At eight, it was on its way to a full-bloom erection of magnificence. At nine, he yelled, "Arthur, get over here," The door was pushed open and Roberto thrusted his manhood for Arthur to see, "I won! Let's get the fuck out of here." He closed the door, pulled his pants up, and marched out of the stall in triumph. 

They passed the bar. The bartender yelled, "How did it go?" Roberto took the two bills from his pants and waved them in the air.

In the car, Arthur said, "I really had a good time. I am proud of you, fucker. I never thought you would make it. It was pretty awesome, Roberto." Roberto just smiled and didn't say anything. He was still thinking of Salomé. He was glad he had not told Arthur about Salomé. Arthur hated Mexicans. Any Hispanic was Mexican to him. Then Arthur said, "I am glad you went out with me tonight. I really had a good time. I know I drink a lot. But that's all right. I feel happy. Like Jesus said, you've got to be happy".

Roberto never heard anybody said Jesus had said that. Maybe Arthur just said so to rationalize his drinking behavior. But Roberto was not in an argumentative mood. He just nodded his head, "Is that right?".

When he dropped Arthur off in front of his apartment, he said, "Good night, my friend. Take good care of yourself. See you."

When he got home, it was almost eleven. After brushing his teeth, and soaking himself in the bathtub, he retired to bed, but he couldn't sleep. It was also the wee hours in Dallas where Salomé lived. So he couldn't call her. He took out his iPad and wrote. Normal folks drank, gambled, jacked off when they felt restless, but not Roberto. He wrote, instead. The following is the English translation of what he wrote that night:

"Mi querida Salomé, mi bonita Cherry:

I just got back from the day spent, first with Omar, and then eating and drinking and gambling with Arthur. I only did the eating part; Arthur did all three. Arthur said he had a good time and I was glad he did. I went out more for his sake than mine. He could be tiresome and trying on my nerves. How are you, baby? I miss you badly. When are you coming over here? 

I've done a lot of thinking lately. And I realize my fellow Viet expatriates are all fucked up and crazy in some way or another. I used to think I was half crazy myself, but not anymore. Fuck, I'm getting saner with every passing day while they are going downhill with delusions and illusions. Today a Vietnamese monk, would you believe an actual ordained monk, called me and others in vile, angry terms. He had a long email list of addressees, so under a false woman's name, he edited/twisted the majority of the names of the addresses into cursing terms. A Buddhist monk is supposed to be able to deal with Anger, but while this fucked-up mono/monkey could write intelligently on many topics, he apparently couldn't deal with Anger. I was amused by his behavior, I feel sorry for him. He is suffering. I am not. His suffering is making me wiser. We suffer because of misplaced Ego. You know I'm an arrogant, conceited, insufferable son of a bitch, but I am not into delusions and illusions, although lately I am walking around with a feeling that I may be indeed rare and beautiful. 

The instrumentation music of the song Rolling In The Deep written by Adele inspired me to adapt the lyrics as follows:

The title of the song itself stirred my soul

Then the music set it on fire

Making me restless throughout the night

Yes, we could have it all

But instead, tears are starting to fall

We met way, way too late 

So how could we be each other's mate 

Except in dreams

But I won't wallow in despair

No, I won't

I only think of all the nice things you shared

The smile, the flowers, the majestic tree,

Waves and waves on the deep blue sea.

There's a fire in my heart

Bringing me out of the dark.

Salomé, we do have a lot in common. I like water: oceans, rivers, lakes. I like mountains (I live near mountains) and I like deserts. I like trees and young animals. But for large animals, I like predators. For birds, I like birds of prey. I have both the blood of the farmer and the hunter flowing in me. I am a passionate, sincere (I hate phonies and exploiters) man. I like to live life at the edge, to the brim, always testing myself to see what I am made of. I hate humans behaving like animals, with no redeeming human qualities. We are lucky to be born as humans, hence we must do things animals cannot do. 

As I said yesterday, I am a late bloomer. Things are taking on a clarity of who I am. They are coalescing. They are on fire. I strongly urge you watch the video of the instrumentation music by the Piano Boys of the song Rolling In The Deep. The music got me on fire. Note the bodily expressions of the man playing the cello. That was me in my dreams. Watch his face: happy, ecstatic, lost in the music he was making. We all need to make our own "music", blaze our own trails, start our own fires, and die on our terms. 

Yo quiero a ti. Hasta luego. 

I'm translating a French poem into English. I will send it to you when I'm done. 

Wissai

April 22, 2015