Two Weddings, A Baby, A Gaggle of Racial Predators and Hadrian’s frightful ghost.

October 24, 2018November 13, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

The recent wedding of the Duke of Huescar to his handsome bride was a stunning bit of theatre. He is, of course, the future Duke of Alba, grandson of one of the grandest nobles of the last century, the inimitable Duchess of Alba.

The cut and design of the bridge’s dress is truly elegant; apparently, it was designed by her creatively gifted mother herself. They make a truly handsome couple.

At this juncture, I have not yet found any video of their nuptials on the Internet; perhaps, it will surface at a later date. The sublime elegance of her dress deftly reflects the undeniable harmony between this couple. So good it is to see a couple of souls who after having suffered lost through death in recent times, return to find each other anew, to further explore their loving bond.

Whilst awaiting the second royal wedding, I passed much time reviewing the coverage of the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex last May. I was ever intrigued at the notion of an even larger guest list for the marriage of Jack Brooksbank and HRH Princess Eugenie of York.

A simple wedding, I was moved by how vastly different it was to that of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex’s months earlier. The most obvious difference in both ceremonies being the latter’s carriage ride; a rather simple affair. This, of course, was an affair filled with aristocrats – some of whom had attended the earlier wedding last May.

Along with Tom & Lara Inskip and Guy Pelly with a wife more noticeably pregnant, there was the ever stylish Sofia Wellesley, this time equally stunning in a Dolce & Gabbana dress.

Tom & Lara Inskip processing towards the Lower Ward and St. George’s Chapel.

Guy Pelly attending the second royal wedding of the year.

Guy’s expectant wife, Elizabeth Pelly accompanied by Astrid Harbord.

Also, attending their second royal wedding for the year, Zoe & Jake Warren.

Back for more, Pippa Matthews with her younger brother James Middleton with that Tsar Nicholas thing going on with his look. For me, a woman is most beautiful when expectant – fecund, voluptuous, primal she is then most powerful; she is then truly the creator of life. How beautiful is that Kelly green?

Perennial favourite Chelsy Davy with Melissa Percy, who wasted little time in saying, this mum don’t babysit and there went Tom van Straubenzee. Gorgeous periwinkle dress.

Cressida Bonas radiating the light magical essence of artisan souls everywhere.

Franz Albrecht & Cleopatra zu Oettingen-Spielberg, young Bavarian royals attending their second royal wedding at Windsor Chapel this year.

Holly Candy – hands down, the best dressed lady at this royal wedding. Those matching pink bow gloves took her outfit stratospherically to the next level of |über soignée. I really did not think that Amal Clooney deserved that honour at the royal wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess; for one thing, her hat was worn on the wrong side of the head – always on the right side!

Coming on strong in second place, like Secretariat was phenomenon, Naomi Campbell. Readily, so many people were carping on about what is she doing at the royal wedding; hello, how many times has Sarah, Duchess of York not been a guest of Ms. Campbell’s whilst holidaying on some yacht or other in the Mediterranean. I love the way that Ms. Campbell feigned disbelief when asked by an attendant to leave the seat in the front row of the royals’ side of the quire where she sat speaking with Crown Prince Pavlos of Greece and his family.

Made in Chelsea star, Oliver Proudlock and his fiancée Emma proved among a couple of the best-dressed men.

Admittedly, though, not the best photograph, the urbane Alexander Gilkes, Paddle8 CEO, arrived in the company of artist Tracey Emin.

Cara Delevigne – another dead-ringer for magical artisan soul with the planet’s most ubiquitous plus-one, Derek Blasberg.

Kate & Lila Moss bringing the glamour.

Poppy Delevigne sporting one of the best fascinators at the royal wedding of Jack Brooksbank and HRH Princess Eugenie of York.

Other notable royals in attendance, Princess Marie-Chantal, Crown Prince Pavlos and their daughter, Princess Maria-Olympia of Greece. Also, the Crown Prince’s younger brother, Prince Philippos of Greece attended.

Lady Gabriella Windsor and her fiancé Timothy Kingston; yet another royal wedding is on the horizon. By far, the most statuesque of the Windsor ladies.

Lady Helen & Timothy Taylor; the minor royals whom we never see enough of. Love her dress.

Ricky Martin and his artist husband.

The always witty thespian, Stephen Fry and his husband, Elliott Smith.

Holly Branson coming through.

And her brother Sam Branson

The irrepressible mother of the bride, Sarah, Duchess of York and her firstborn who seems resigned to the fact that there is always an opening for spinster lady-in-waiting. Back in the 80s when Merlin was then incarnate, I shared with him a dream had that night of ‘Fergie’. Set somewhere in east Africa, she was riding atop the roof of a Land-Rover with several others… it was a dusty, tree-lined road and they were loud, happy persons all – her husband, Lord Porchester’s offspring was not present in the dream. As the vehicle hit a bump in the road, Fergie went flying from atop the vehicle’s roof and landed on her head; it was the most startling affair – we all screamed.

There was deathly silence as her khaki-clad body remained motionless for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly, as though jolted by lightning, much as a ginger cat with a few lives yet, Fergie shot to her feet, ramrod straight then began rushing about from one side to the other of the parked Land-Rover, mugging and waving to the perfectly immobile and non-human trees. I awoke from the dream laughing, the image was so bizarre. Seated across the Cabbagetown breakfast table from me, Merlin casually declared whilst remaining focussed on the Globe and Mail in hand, “So that’s how she became unhinged…” Yet again, I was reminded of that dream as Sarah, Duchess of York bounded from the Rolls Royce and made a mad dash, mouth ajar, mugging and waving to god-only-knows whom at the foot of St. George’s Chapel’s west door the day her daughter took possession of her man. This eccentric behaviour, much as in that dream, was on display as she entered the quire at St. George Chapel at the wedding of TRH Duke & Duchess of Sussex on seeing Misha Nonoo and her date, oil heir Michael Hess. These days, she always seems only too happy that she has not ended up like Diana, Princess of Wales.

Another soul who seemed spooked to be at the ball was the groom’s gin-blossomed father whose daft expression throughout was more than a tad distracting. One was reminded of how odd Thomas Markle would have looked, had he been allowed to attend the Sussexes’ nuptials.

Here’s to the lovely young couple; here’s to life indeed. Happy for them that they have found each other anew in this life experience. To paraphrase Prince Seeiso of Lesotho when speaking of the Sussexes, I wish them buckets and buckets of healthy, happy children.

Even more glorious than their beautiful wedding was the recent announcement of the pregnancy of Meghan, HRH Duchess of Sussex. You cannot begin to fully fathom how excited this makes me for HRH Prince Henry, Duke of Sussex. He has always seemed so alone, so vulnerable and emotionally fragile for having suffered the tragic, violent and sudden loss of his fantastic mum at age 12. So happy to know that they will be parents, and so quickly, and am fully confident that they will make the most fantastic parents. What more than two parents truly in love does a child need on coming into this world… again.

In all of this, what has not been cool, has been watching her racially predatory white relatives act as though she is nothing but a runaway slave. There is no doubt in my mind that were the Markles a wealthy family with a net worth of more than 200$m, would any of this acrimonious dreck be taking place. How dare she, the otiose, racially impure step-sibling, Meghan, end up doing better than them in life? Not only had this runaway slave managed to have escaped capture but she had gone and married the scion at an even more wealthy plantation.

Alas, nothing was more abhorrent than having to watch the most venal racial predator interject herself into the Sussexes/Markles’ “drama” as she opined on the ABC TV documentary, The Story of the Royals. So what if a twelve-year-old Meghan Markle wrote to you about a dish detergent ad; she also did same to then First Lady, Hillary Clinton. Straight away, the puppet-master orchestrating the Markle step-family’s media campaign of slander, grudge and none-too-succinct racial predation became fully focussed. Who else but this vile racial predator, who uses the U. S. justice system to wage personal racially predatory campaigns, against blacks with heretofore impeccably clean public personae, seated there in its invisible grand wizard Klansman’s hooded costume, could be directing this media putsch to sabotage the Sussexes’ marriage? Well near the end of the 9th decade of racially obsessing over blacks, you would think that having finished off Michael Jackson, made a joke of Tiger Woods and a jailbird of Bill Cosby would be enough; no thank you, there is bigger game to prey on. Clearly, the clown knows nothing of the BRF.

Enough about those who truly do not matter.

Hier soir, as I live an almost exclusively nocturnal existence, I got into a compensatorily parfumé Uber, driven by a recent Dravidian arrival with rather pleasant overleaves. I was stunned by how much traffic gridlock there was at pushing six in an already dark, autumnal and cool, too, evening. The driver could not figure out why traffic was so bad in Toronto and as I have always been a most vocal backseat driver, I soon began educating him on why Hogtown is the only major North American city without exclusive one-way streets in the downtown core. Back in the 60s through 70s when streetcars were being removed from streets like Avenue Road, Bloor Street, Sherbourne, Parliament, the city’s old WASP guard decided that for nostalgia’s sake some streetcar lines ought to be maintained a little while longer.

Well in excess of 40 years, the city still only has the two subway lines, two million more citizens and what seems like the fungal viral growth of condos. Naturally, the city’s constabulary and the TTC (Toronto Transit Commmission) made an unwritten alliance to keep themselves gainfully profitable by maintaining the streetcar lines that were left. Hence, each summer, kilometres of tracks are ripped up and replaced with the necessity for TTC outdoor workers and police staff on hand to maintain traffic. Well into the 21st century, a woefully inadequate 19th century technology clanks away, holding up traffic and as recently was the case this past monsoon season – climate change is truly upon us – the new streetcars were caught in feet of flooded water with faecal matter afloat their flooded interiors. All this so we never end up with new subway lines, one way streets with the discontinuation of streetcars. At least, Montréal can be commended for having owned up to the crippling corruption at the municipal level of government.

Finally, after directing him along streets that he didn’t even know existed, I got to the southwest corner of University and Queen Street West, hopped out, crossed the city’s widest boulevard and made it into the lobby of the Four Season’s Centre for the Performing Arts at 1831. Lucian Mann-Chomedy who happens to be a scholar in my entity and a professor emeritus at University of Toronto, who also happens to be an unrivalled Voltaire scholar glowed as I dashed inside. We hugged and kissed and it was good to see his eyes light up; he does have more than a passing resemblance to Merlin… vibrationally. Gave him his ticket to the first opera of the season that we’ll be seeing, Hadrian. Whilst he took to the amphitheatre for the pre-opera lecture, I swiftly made it west along Queen Street West and got myself some very deliciously spiced beef teriyaki washed down with a dash of prosecco.

Returned to the theatre, Lucian shared that he found the lecture rather stimulating; heaven only knows what that meant, I was though too busy creating a post of the evening for my Instagram. What then unfolded was the most god-awful unmitigated bullshit conceivable. Look this was nothing more than effete poseurs of Toronto’s gay mafia, throwing government money around to keep their friends afloat. Watching this bit of bold-faced arts larceny was at times cruelly embarrassing. Of course, it was staged by consummate professionals, thus there were truly sublime moments when the production was marvellously realised. However, I was reminded of all those downright dogfests at Toronto Dance Theatre in the 80s – do they even exist anymore – where god-awful retro-Neanderthal movement was set to, of all things, J. S. Bach.

Act I opened with vaguely lissom dancers upstage posing overlong as Roman statuary. Naturally, they were lit such that when they finally began moving downstage on the diagonal, in movement that had been first realised by Vaslav Nijinsky (he is a mature sage, in my entity and currently reincarnated and an actor on the Portuguese stage) a century earlier, you really had to squint and try to make out if they were truly nude. Naturally, there was no such luck. That was just as lame as the opening of Act III after an intermission where there was much cruel laughter at what a dog’s breakfast we were having to slug our way through. There was the none-too-fey/verile or lissom-looking Antinous cavorting on a bed that was reminiscent of a couch I frequented in the late 70s where the city’s only queer psychiatrist and I had an ongoing affair. This bit of uninspired staging in the post-AIDS paradigm was as lame as having to watch two bored manatees going at it. Goddamn, where is the frottage! They seemed to be sleepy hobos, trying to make out which side of the bed they wanted to sleep on rather than obsessed lovers engaging in the gay world’s paedophiliacal obsession – let’s not go there just now.

Well, if you can’t hack a pop career in these parts, the next best thing is, go compose an opera. Lord Jesus… why? I am only too grateful that he didn’t set his sights on appropriating black high art and opting for a Jazz career. Last evening, Tuesday, October 23, 2018 proved without doubt that the kinder of minor Canadian celebrity should never be indulged when they elect to pursue whatever line of work mama or papa pursued. I am reminded of “Bathhouse Pierrette” as he is charitably dismissed, playing party leader in these parts and forever looking gripped by stage fright. I was much humoured this past summer as he followed the future Duke of Sussex about Buckingham Palace at the Commonwealth banquet desperately trying to score an invite to the royal wedding and being clearly snubbed by HRH Prince Henry of Wales who was gruffly dismissive of his attempts to score a pair of tickets – in the 11th hour – for him and his insufferable fag hag wife.

There were points where persons in back of Lucian and me were laughing at how embarrassingly bad the opera was. Small-time, one guy to my rear readily dismissed. Goodness, if there was one more unpleasant reference to “the Jews” in this horrid farce, I was ready to get up and walk out. The opera was frankly a reflection of the archly conservative and frankly sphinctered worldview of Toronto’s incestuous gay elites – many of whom I went through in the 70s through early 80s and who then were just as smegmaed as a can of freshly opened corned beef – those, indeed, were the pre-plague years.

Getting on the elevator to make it to the basement where I collected my pea coat, I remarked, to one woman who asked my verdict, “You know, it would truly have been great theatre if that strobe light in Act IV had suddenly flashed brighter and erased this entire madness from memory. Trust me, dreams are never this bad!” You can fool those of your tightly incestuous social crowd all of the time but never those too shrewd to give a damn about you and your BS.

As ever my darlings, dream like you’ve never dreamt before and by all means, push off and start flying for at least there, you can readily escape the madness that’s got this paradigm saturated to the gills with BS. Thanks so much for your ongoing support, I love you more!

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On The Sunny Side of The Street, It’s Black History Month!

February 1, 2016November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Happy Black History Month! Who cares about the Oscars? The most important point of power in all situations is being able to see through to the structure of anything. Those who cannot manipulate real time events to show themselves, chosen, entitled, special, ‘genius’ and all that nonsense will ever cheat, lie and steal. Please do tell in in what other universe would there be a tie between Katherine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand for Best Actress but in this one where the most venal racists run the show and everyone looks like another variation on Jackie ‘blasted god-fugly’ Stallone.

Go on, give each other awards; what does it finally matter when you know nothing of being cool and sophisticated as in those whom you so revile, vilify, loathe, incite others to hate – all the while crying of being victimised. You know… those marvellous people whose spirit you will never crush, despite the attempts of Orly Taitz and the returned de Torquemada – now no less fugly got up in reincarnational drag – Jackson, Woods and Cosby and you just know that the swine has only just begun. They, those marvellous people, who like dreams – wherein only truth and beauty exist – are the ones to have invented Jazz and whose spirit will never be eclipsed by your god-fugly ugliness. Yes, them… they who don’t need awards to show how special, chosen and what marvellous geniuses one so over-compensatorily is not!

Alas, for the truly marvellous people every day of the year is awards season; despite your alarming ugliness, you have positively no power over any of us when we set feet into our homes. There, despite your lunacy, we affirm our creaturehood, our beauty or phenomenalness and we turn on some Jazz which can speak to no one else as it speaks to every last one of us – not you! So while you infest the culture, like some fetid mould – which thankfully are never lasting – just know that the ugliness of your lies can in no way invalidate the beauty of Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Betty Carter, Lena Horne, Anita Baker, Sarah Vaughan, Diana Ross, Natalie Cole… and countless others.

So go on and speciously raise your rear right leg and take to the airwaves claiming, “Jazz has its roots in Klezmer!” Just remember this: forgiveness is the price a damn fool would gladly pay to forget anything. Clearly, you do not know Black people and come November, we won’t collectively have taken leave of senses and do as you would wish… not after Orly… Who cares about the Oscar vote? Our vote is the one that truly matters… Remember eight years ago… “I’m Voting For Her!” We do not forget… where is that displaced haus frau anyway? You know, the one who was partout on TV demanding that the unchosen sheeple, “Vote For Hillary!” followed by that demented laugh of hers… perhaps, she is too distracted these days trying to recall with which hand she ate last night.

Truly empowered are they who always say what the fuck they mean and never leave any doubt as to their resolve.

Incidentally, all the Jazz artists mentioned in this blog, I have to date done their Michael Overleaves. Some are listed in the Michael Overleaves Appendix page those which aren’t were only recently channelled; they are… Natalie Cole, Anita Baker and Lena Horne. Not in the least surprised was I to have found that Natalie Cole is an entity mate. Every time I hear her voice, I am instantaneously catapulted to a groove that I can only call a soul high… So then here are her Michael Overleaves with one of my favourite video performances of hers. Every idiosyncrasy of hers resonates to the very core of my being… God she could represent!

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*Richard is New York City academician whom Merlin met during the final couple of years of his life. This man had the most uncanny resemblance energetically to Merlin and I only met him a week after Merlin’s passing as he ventured to Toronto; he had previously planned to, to bid Merlin farewell. Alas, unlike Joe Morton who flew in from Los Angeles for 24 hours to be with Merlin, Richard had been too late but came nonetheless; the gesture was truly noble of spirit and was greatly appreciated.

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Look Who’s Coming To Dinner!

August 12, 2015November 14, 2022 Arvin da BrghaLeave a comment

Recently, I caught up with old friends; a bunch of Leos all, we decided to get together and share our birthdays which all six fall within an eight-day period. I still have yet to actually meet someone born on August second, my actual birthday.

In any event, there just had to be that dinner guest that made a point of being a dumb-as-fuck catty fag who spent most of the dinner trying to throw shade my way. Bitch please, I long ago turned in my Gay card – why be a card-carrying member in a society which is marked with intense racial animus towards Blacks?

I simply do not play. Go be Gay and all that that stands for. I don’t lisp and I especially do not suffer anyone who does.

Naturally, there was overlong discussion of that silly White male dickless wonder-looking attention whore whose appearance on the cover of Vanity Fair was the final straw for me. Dominick Dunne is gone as is Christopher Hitchens – what soft hands he had and such sad lonely eyes.

In any event, the cumfarting twit was fast taken to task when deliberately regurgitating the usual media hate-fest now at fever pitch about Bill Cosby. Well, of course, he is guilty – he is a man and a successful man.

Which successful man doesn’t have access to readily available sex? What the fool guest did not get was what was really at play in all this, namely why is that fugly – tell me, her retroussé-ugly face does not resemble a bat’s in extreme close-up – lawyer’s obsession with Black men?

First it was Michael Jackson, then on to Tiger Woods and now Bill Cosby. Better watch out Will Smith, hell Sidney Poitier is still alive… no successful Black male in America beloved and respected by the media is safe.

Look at what a laughing stock Tiger Woods has become. All three men, as most people and that idiotic dinner guest – about whom I coolly hissed whilst looking unflinchingly at the roast on my plate, “What is this doing out of the oven?” – fail to realise, had a legacy which was beyond the norm.

Clearly, it isn’t about merely being Black; it is always about having ventured into uncharted territory. Who can deny Michael Jackson’s stellar genius? Who could have imagined anyone achieving, let alone conquering Tiger Woods’ spectacular accomplishments? Then there was Bill Cosby, after Norman Lear had given the noctambulant masses the image of what Blacks ought to damn well be, presenting perfectly normal middle class Blacks without rage, baggage and drug issues.

In short order this klanswoman replete with invisible hood has devoted her professional life to latter day lynching of Black men with legacies which are too unpalatable for the likes of her ilk to suffer. As it is, I was in no mood to suffer some lunatic Jewish queen and his need to raise his rear right leg and piss all over Blacks with smug conceit known only to the equally smug few.

Clearly, there were no Black men in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book or by now our honorary Klanswoman would have trotted them all out by noose to that most effective of poplar trees, the television medium and then onwards to court to effectively circumcise their legacy.

The day prior as I rode from job three en route home to take a nap using my snazzy new CPAP machine and attend one of three parties over two days, I had quite the little adventure. Riding alongside me as I rode in the street – I never ride my bike on sidewalks, a white BMW edged next to me.

Inside, there were Whites in back and front seats. With windows rolled down, they cruised along to keep pace with me as I leisurely rode and enjoyed the feel of blazing sunlight on my skin. As is customary, I wore my shades.

“Oh look it’s Ray Charles. No wait, I think it’s Stevie Wonder,” said the dumb-as-fuck-looking blonde in the backseat smugly looking out and grinning her more-gums-than-teeth, saurian-lipped-hideous and blissfully ignorant face at the sight of me.

Their laughter was that hideous semi-feral clipped affair known only to the White tribe when it is enjoying being racially predatory and making sport of Black lives. The big White male next to her who likely preferred fucking her in the arse than not, called out, “Hey bud, guess what? No more Jell-O pudding for you!” to which there was even more wicked gales of laughter known only to Blacks when being racially preyed on by Whites who will ever swear up and down that there is no such thing as racism. Hell, the term racial predator does not exist.

So nice to know that by millennium’s end, this murderous Saurian predator masquerading as human will be yet hunted by an even more menacing terror – those who think nothing of cutting empty brain-dead skulls from bodies and placing them in the small of the back. Yes dumbasses, you too like Rome will fall and you too will yet be the hunted.

Next, the male driver who howled with wicked delight then did something that never before had I experienced, for the next block and a half – he rode alongside, matching my speed, never allowing me to drop behind or overtake his car – he turned on the windshield wiper which naturally saw wiper fluid jet beyond the car’s roof and left me good and drenched.

I got home a sticky, stinging ashy-white mess as anti-freeze fluids and sweat took their toll in the glaring heat for several kilometres. Long had it been since I had been reduced to tears at having been racially attacked.

So as this arse-eating venal swine sat across from me going on ad nauseam about Bill Cosby, I quietly excused myself and took to the host’s bathroom where I feverishly texted my delightful Panamanian-born Montréal friend, Raoul de Castro and told him where to come find me and spirit me away from this gold-and-diamond-thieving arse-eating fool.

Returned to dinner, whilst I patiently awaited Raoul’s arrival, I began speaking of the audacity of New Jersey paying out one million dollars to Holocaust survivors in the state who numbered more than 40k. How many were there in Florida, Illinois, Arizona, New Mexico to say nothing of California and New York? Were they being paid for Holocaust PTSD too?

Why pray tell were American taxpayers making any such payments when the Third Reich had not occupied America nor for that matter had the Holocaust occurred on American soil? Funny how quickly some can go from being smug to being downright accusatory.

Once challenged with fact, the fool began accusing me of being anti-Semitic. Some things truly are as predictable as flies on shit as Frederick ‘Mr. Hat’ Jones would ever impart.

Our idiotic otiose dinner guest soon demanded of our host why he was allowing our dinner party to be ruined by all this slanderous anti-Semitic talk. Grabbing my Samsung Note, I gladly shared the news article on the Jerusalem Post’s website which heaped praise on the New Jersey governor for being a good little porcine Goy and paying out needless, to say nothing of dubious, guilt money.

All talk of Bill Cosby ceased as the subject was changed to the Andy Warhol show here in town – which I have yet to see but soon shall. Soon enough, and well before dessert, Raoul crashed the dinner party and rescued me.

As we left, in a manner that was crass and as can be expected of a sage soul born in the year of the Monkey, Raoul called across the room to the South African-born boorish Semite and waved at him in a gesture that was decidedly born of the Reich, “Farewell to all that!”

Naturally, Raoul was in town because at the weekend it would be the annual Caribana or whatever it is now called. I never attend, too much Sun and crowds – two things which cause my vampiric soul to cringe – you’d be amazed what working night shift for more than two decades will do to your reaction to sunlight.

Raoul was in town because like me, also leonine, it was the annual fest of big Black American cock. Can’t never have too much of a good thing indeed!

Alas, drink of my spirit and savour this truly beautiful dream where I dined on the astral plane with my task companion and then astral plane habitué, Merlin. Now there was a true Semite; above all else, he was a remarkable human being.

As Raoul and I rode by cab from the horrid dinner party in the Beaches, I remarked how rare a light Merlin was to him. During those seven years that I knew him, Merlin never once referred to himself as a Jew.

He was not ghettoised, he had nothing to prove. What was even more remarkable in those seven years, Merlin always referred to everyone whom I had yet met as ‘my friend…’ So it was that on Halloween 1982, we went to ‘my friend Joe’s’ pumpkin kill party and pleasantly surprised was I when we got to the 12^th or was it 14^th storey apartment in the upper west 90s and his friend Joe turned out to be Black – of course, that friend Joe is the actor, Joe Morton.

This was the most remarkable thing about Merlin, meeting all his friends over the years, was like being at a reincarnational ball, you were ever surprised when the door opened and you finally met ‘my friend’ so-and-so only to discover that they were Japanese, Chinese, Jewish, Black, Armenian… whatever. No wonder I have never had patience for ghettoised fools like the boor at the abandonned dinner party in the Beaches.

The dream was lived in telepathic lucidity befitting not merely entity mates but task companions no less. At the time, Luna did as is her wont, she grooved through Leo and thus my third house like Sarah Vaughan some lazy, syrupy scat.

That Wednesday, I was coming near the end of my stay in Vancouver as it was April 16, 1997. Too, the dream was audiocassette-recorded on tape two hundred and twenty-nine and is yet to be found in volume XXIII of the twenty-five volume dream opus.

Say what you want but intellect is the most beautiful flower on this world or, for that matter, any other across this vast universe. Befitting a late mature artisan of pronounced scepticism, aren’t you glad that that I can readily see through any shabbily concocted fraud?

Yes, indeed, Vanity Fair has no time to report on Ferguson or the #BlackLivesMatter issue, any more than it cowardly avoids reporting on taxpayers’ money being brazenly scammed in New Jersey – about which you can damn well bet Vanity Fair and its editorial staffers are cognisant.

On one thing I am uncompromising: If you don’t like Black people… Fuck you!

Life is but a dream and sweet it is when you fear nothing and no one. Sweet dreams, you are more magical and beautiful than you know. For being focussed herein, I am both grateful and honoured by your patronage.

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A rustic restaurant at night-time, which was wide-open with lots of exposed wooden beams, proved the setting for this dream. Seated with my left side to the aisle, where the waiter came and went, I was at a table for four.

There were persons, across the aisle from us, to whom I really did not pay much attention. Who should though be on my right but Merlin!

Whilst interminably waiting to be served, we silently sat there. Before being taken, our order took almost forever.

Leaning forwards from behind us, a waiter finally did appear. Smiling, he asked us to come with him as he now had a table for us.

So, we got up and began walking back with the waiter. We were as though going to the back of the restaurant.

We moved through a beautiful interior which was nicely, dimly lit. The flames here were live flames in glass beaker-like vases.

Too, there were the most spectacular antlers and horns displayed high up on the walls. Some of the horns were on the ceilings about the light fixtures.

All in all, it was a beautiful ambiance here. Too, there were rustic paintings on the walls that I paid little attention to.

The seats in this section allowed you to face out into the aisle with your back against the wall. I had been concerned about our not having been served for so long.

Though we were not saying anything to one another, I was not concerned about that. There were no doubts that Merlin wanted to be there with me.

We passed much of our time together, lost in a silence which was born of our being communicatively engaged, on alternate levels of reality which precluded speech. We were being exclusively telepathic.

We sat side by side, facing out to the dining room, which gave us a commanding view of the persons on display. The atmosphere here was very nice.

I quite enjoyed being with Merlin. There was nothing more sublime than our silently sitting there, whilst together taking a meal, by candlelight and some mellow Jazz instrumentals perfuming and further intoxicating our very souls.

*Christopher Hitchens’ Michael Overleaves now to be found in Michael Overleaves Appendix.

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Photo: White truffle chocolate strawberry cheesecake from Daniel et Daniel

Antler/horn lighting fixture.

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Dreams are the poetic expression of the soul.

Tag: Bill Cosby

Two Weddings, A Baby, A Gaggle of Racial Predators and Hadrian’s frightful ghost.

On The Sunny Side of The Street, It’s Black History Month!

Look Who’s Coming To Dinner!