Dead Aristocrats, the ultimate aphrodisiac- Toso from the Argentine Cup

Like Don Giovanni, the count is an unrepentant hedonist, a throwback to our pre-bourgeois past. Sad to say I have no moral moorings or desire for a serious life. Everything that has followed the Enlightenment, gives me nothing but a gas bubble and a killin’ ennui. I blathered on like this to the tattooed “Suicide Grrls” on the smoking porch to their evident non-interest. Then I started in on my occasional desire for lurid “vacations” that I might initiate with eligible, exotic American females- such as themselves. This indecent proposal was met with the requisite faux caustic response that one expects from a Northwest hipoisie- but thankfully, their social calendars were as empty as poor Marie Antoinette’s bed. They called le bluff of le count. And our hero came through with yet another brilliantly crafted, if morally bereft, suggestion for mutual amusement.
I had planned to take the Xmas holidays on the coast in Costa Rica anyway, but then decided; “why not leave a few weeks early and take advantage of the South American summer, and finish up in Costa Rica”. I made a call on my cell and woke up Jorge who runs a ranch in the pampas, about two hours outside of Buenos Aires. I knew he could get me 3 tickets to the Argentine Open. By looking at these two grrls I judged that their experience of Polo would have to have been limited to some favorite uncles collar. Jorge’s older brother owns a mill and he happened to be in the US on a business trip, so he swung up to Oregon on his Gulfstream two days later and ferried the three of us back to the sunny side of the earth and to the mecca of Polo.
We landed in Buenos Aires and so I took my little genetically gifted dolls into the city before we were to go to Jorge’s ranch near Palermo. Ever at the service at the of the gods of pee- pee humor, I took them straight to the obelisk down Avenida 9 de Julio. We sat down at the first confitéria we could find, ordered cognac and maté; and commenced to make much mirth in the penumbra of the magnificent phallus of the porteños.
I can’t really describe the introverted strangeness that hangs over the porteños and their city; a city that produced Borges, the Tango, and the worlds greatest number of neurotics riding couches in psychoanalysis. This next vignette may give you a feel for Buenos Aires’ unique emotional undertow.
So we’re sitting there at an outdoor table on the sidewalk in the late afternoon sun and four lanes of taxicabs and traffic are barreling by us on the worlds widest avenue. There are ten story buildings everywhere, and this is the “Paris of South America”, urbane, distinguished, sophisticated... right? Just then a frightened pony gallops by, in the midst of this 45 mile an hour traffic, toward El Centro and certain death at one of the stoplight interchanges. Watching this poor animal flash by, accidentally loosed from some vegetable cart, caused all the outdoor tables to grow sullen and quiet. It felt as if each porteño became sucked down a whirlpool, into his own saturnine inner orbit, each taking blame for the ever present savagery that flays the innocent- this “civilization”. So there you are. Buenos Aires: brooding, passionate, and softly tragic. Porteños: you gotta luv ‘em.
The girls wanted to do the tourist thing, so we got a cab down to La Boca so that they could see the crazy quilt of colors the cast iron houses make in the barrio where Tango originated. Too touristy for me... guys in chinos sticking their faces through plywood paintings of fat ladies for a 5 dollar tout photo. I lobbied to get us out of there as quickly as possible. I took the girls to the Jockey club for more drinks, but didn’t realize that women are still only allowed in the dining room, so we turned rigidly on our heels with a flourish.
The sexiest place in Buenos Aires is the Cementario de La Recoleta, where all the heavy hitters are buried in lovely crypts as big as marble houses. I shot some pulse quickening video of these Bettie Page brunettes in front of Evita Peron’s flower strewn, black marble mausoleum. Life was good and death the beautiful.
I swear, for me, dead Aristocrats are the ultimate aphrodisiac. We ended up renting a large apartment from a private party that was the perfect set for a “Last Tango in Buenos” meets Richard Kern video that we shot that evening. The apartment had lime green paint peeling off the walls, dark wood floors and a wrought iron balcony that French doors opened out onto over the street. Our carrying on would have made any decent (read annoying) people within earshot commit hari kari, but instead we made as much noise as we wanted; the rest of the building was condemned.

Polo is in my blood. In the 70’s my father was captain of a national champion polo team under Stephen Roberts, at polo powerhouse Cornell, so I have romped my way through a few chukkas in my day. My own chukkas were not exactly in riding shape after Buenos Aires to take a mount in a friendly morning match at Jorge’s ranch. The grrls parked themselves pool side and Jorge and I took a walk through the stables in the break time between chukkas, and we reminisced about old times at the academy where we were on the Lacrosse team.... ball and stick sports being mucho popularo in upstate NY. I helped him double the width of the goal to sixteen yards after the match was tied after 6. A deciding goal was needed so that everybody could finally eat some of Jorges’, “worlds best steaks”. Some of the guys on Chapa I, who were to compete the next day at the Open, including world polo tour #1 ranked Mario Aguerre, were out on the pitch. You see, the Argentine Open is the Superbowl of polo, so to check these these guys out in action the day before the final was the treat of a lifetime. (Sadly, the next day the heavily favored Chapa I suffered a damaging injury to Horacio Heguy and were defeated 15-11 by Nachi and Pepe Heguy and their Chapa II squad at the first Heguy Super Clasico final in Palermo since 1996).

In the final evenings we were there, I made sure to carve out some time before dinner to play with Jorge’s marvelous Australian Shepherds; throwing spit covered balls for chasing, far out onto the pitch, with Jorge’s lacrosse stick. I watched them with full contentment their silhouettes tearing, asses tucked forward, through the reddened grass at the close of Argentine day.

I flew my new favorite friends home 1st class Dec 17th on United as I peeled off for a little Pura Vida at the famous Guanacasteco at Playa Avellanas, Guanacaste state, NW Costa Rica; The Guanacasteco is home to a silky hollow right, perfect for a regular pied like moi. [More heavy breathing blogosophy later]. Ciao.

Buxom ladies in Lingerie get what they want... In general.

Many of you ladies have e-maled me at the WHOdyssey site and inquired about the specifics of writing “The Subway Killer” some have even sent me provocative photos of themselves to serve as a “bribe”, so that I might reveal the creative process. Well as many have found out, the way to get to the count is through his knickers, so I will divulge un peu amount in the hopes of more titillation's to come.
Subway Killer was written at the Hotel Regyns, Monmartre in Paris on the evening of August 10th 2002. Even though most of the events of the song take place in NYC, the origin of the story came from an incident I witnessed at the St. Lazare metro station.
I love my life. One day I am out on the ranch in Idaho on horseback communing with moose and buffalo and the next I am Paris watching les chiens take triple A battery sized shits on the sidewalk...
On the evening in question I had accidentally fallen asleep on the Metro and by the time I woke up there was hardly anyone around. I needed to transfer to the green line to get back to Abbesses and the Regyns so I got off on the platform St. Lazare. There were 2 other men on the platform. The first an enormous, smirking dark skinned man across the tracks on the platform opposite and the other a tiny mousy looking little Frenchman (?) of about 28 years old wearing a fringy suede cowboy vest on my side. The tall, dangerous man jumped down off the platform and hopped over the rails towards us, sitting gingerly on the bench next to the little cowboy. Just then, my train arrived and I got on. I looked out the windows to see the little cowboy walking away and the Persian hulk following him close behind, saying something I couldn’t hear. The little cowboy wheeled around flashing a huge steak knife. Without hesitating he ripped the big man from his dick to to his tits. The giant looked so shocked with his eyes bugging out that initially, I laughed. He grabbed himself and fell hyperventilating to the platform, pouring the contents of his intestines onto a beautiful reddening tile, he became the spreading center of a Japanese flag. The cowboy slowly walked away, looking directly at me and like he felt like a million bucks. In the microsecond that this all happened my train was pulling out of the station with only me on my car. The lighting of the Metro station gave it all a silent, filmic quality, and I became convinced that I had dreamed the whole incident. I laughed in my sleep again as the the pope had suddenly appeared on my car and when he saw me looking at him he covered his dick with his hat. Yes Romans, the Subway Killer had become a prime unsolved murder mystery in my subconscious. My blood pressure was too high to return to sleep, so I tripped around Monmartre dodging tourists who were puking in the saw dust under carnival lighting. Something in me either snapped or threw down the gauntlet. I pulled into a late night cafe sat at an outdoor table and, after a few beers and scribbling, sang The Subway Killer onto my video camera. Content with this, I decided it was time to leave Paris, and the next day I booked a flight for Barcelona to visit the crunch time peanut man, but ladies that is another story. Keep those sexy photo’s comin’. Bisous. Le count.

Almost thrashed my best wig.

Jean Claude took the pleasure gymnasts back to Eugene in the khaki Willy, after coffee and awkward conversation on the back deck. As soon as I waived a lacy sleeve “bon chance”, I leapt into my bubblegum pink wetsuit and ran with my lemon colored Robert August longboard hurdling over the foam and paddling out to the point break. I sat out with the seals for a good long time, before I realized I had forgotten to remove my powdered wig. Mon Dieu! I must have looked like the fucking king of the teletubbies. The seals got real close, cocking their heads and scratching at their little ol’ man faces like they couldn’t believe their eyes. Understand, that this was one of my favorite wigs so I decided to limit my rides to one. After tucking as much as I could inside my head piece. The wave I chose closed out hard on pauvre monsieur d’ monet and after a considerable time under water, trying to see which direction the light was coming from, I finally surfaced and rode the white water in on my belly. Luckily for my pride, I had the beach to myself, and luckily Madeline’s hair dryer and curling iron wizardry has salvaged wig # 1 for future WHOdyssey rocking
Winter surfing in Oregon is just a different animal than Costa Rica, where I spent the X- mas holidays. The champagne water on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica is warm. It caresses the surfers body like a sorority of buttered nurses. Even the most ill tempered set is sort of fun and feels like playing with your dog. Winter surf in Oregon is always like plummeting in an avalanche of chess pieces.
I watched The Prisoner on the flat panel hi def TV in the master bath as I showered, and was inspired to wear my sort of Dick Van Dyke (good band name idea) suit: white pants, black shoes w/ white spats, black turtle neck and red and white vertical striped blazer. No boater- that would be going to far.
I took this mélange down to the recording studio to work on some new WHOdyssey material. I composed Sex with the Devil. I dashed this out in several minutes and made a CD rough for the band. I spent the rest of the time online making my big toe shoot up in my boot. I guess that's just how I motherfuckin’ roll. Ideally, this song will premier at the WOW hall show on Feb 4th, if I manage to connect with the Fantastic Four long enough to install its retarded simplicity onto their hard drives before then. Keep your fingers crossed ladies- I always do :-)~
The rest of the day was spent fishing off the yacht. Actually, just dropping crab traps around and reading the New Yorker in the galley. I also tried once again to learn this hi tech navigating system that employs sonar and can pretty much steer itself once you learn how to plug in coordinates. Its gonna take awhile I’m afraid. As the sun went down I shot clay pigeons out over the side- I have a chucker off of starboard. Amazingly, I hit 42 out of 50. I am always calmer and steadier with a gun when I am hung over, but I have to compensate for the more pounding heartbeat that sugar metabolization gives you- each contraction bumps the muzzle slightly.
Anyhow, I don’t think that I am going to go out prowling for adventure tonight. I think I will just hit the hay out here on the waves. In a lot of ways I prefer the bed on the yacht to all the other beds that I own- its the one I spend the most time alone in. These Mojito’s are making me sleepy. Good thing the Spaniard is here to navigate, I am useless. I am going to put on Beethovens Late String Quartets and call it a day. We will pick up the rest of the crab traps in the morning. Bon Soir, mes amis.

WHOdyssey, the Lifestyle- Wednesday night, Thursday morning

Salut, ça va?

The premier of the Counts blog will be a simple re"count"ing of events of his last 24hrs.... After the ladies and I managed to squeeze 3 into a 2 seater (the malibu bleu 69 Vette with the 427), we rumbled our way west, out the heavy black gate of the vineyard and over the coast range then down 101 south to beach house. We pulled up the winding drive at 4:30 am and were met by Madeline and the estate crew; whom I had alerted as we finished the last of the braised duck at the VIP lounge. Bleary eyed and suspiciously scantily clad, Madeline led the "starlets" (Ha!) down the black spiral staircase to the red velvet grotto. She had already put Elis Regina on the High Fidelity (fidelity, Ha!) system. There were thankfully, little chocolats and treasures in the golden bowls among the black lillies.
As the ladies showered and prepared, Jean Claude and I examined the 427 Engine in the temperature controlled garage. The gauge was pegged on hot all the way over the mountain and I feared that I might have to entertain these 2 in a quite rustic and blizzardly fashion- and me without my saddleblanket! I left the automotive problems to his pit crew and descended myself to the private bath. My muddy riding boots had not been seen to and this made me flush for a second; I regained my composure at the sound of my lovely Brazilian chanteuse. Her posthumous recordings always make me wonder, how she must have looked during her death by overdose lo these many years ago. I picture her as a noble corpse smiling slightly, and in a bathrobe for some reason. I threw open the big bay windows to the sound of roaring surf. In the dim I could see the flashing white of a huge swell, dumping hollow barrels on my rocky beach. I just left the windows wide open and sunk into the 30 foot wide clamshell bath and waited for my debs. It was worth the wait.
They slinked down the spiral stairs like a crack dance outfit- usually the girls that I bring here look more like they had chosen their outfits on crack. Instinctively they knew to make their movements small; subtle and angular, more Tango than humpy humpy (which it must be admitted occasionally has its place). One was wearing an adorable golden waist chain. Svelte & Buxom is not just the name of some corporate law firm that might have defended d' Monet Enterprises, let me tell you. [Here I feather fan myself] Eyeliner became smeared, swords were drawn, the signal to charge was given, a slow motion bullet destroyed an apple, black and white pages of the calendar flew off, the moon went behind a cloud, and the clouds dropped below the horizon so that the lazy winter sun could reveal our three hero's, as sound asleep as Greek statuary, in the purple room of mirrors at 11AM. [I must for now Adieu. Bisous]