SOMETIMES THE SAFEST PLACE TO HIDE SOMETHING IS OUT IN PLAIN SIGHT SCHMOOZINGWITHALIENS: TRINKETS FROM AN UNKNOWN ADMIRER: Sorry I can't spend much time with you this night...the vampires at http://bit.ly/gw7fAE are driving me crazy. But here is something to con...
EVERYTHING IS EVERYWHERE What choices do you make? .
Subscribe To VAMPIRE WONDERLAND
Posts
All Comments
Twitter.com/wilkravitz
Posts
All Comments
Friday, August 3, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
GRIGORI USIPOV, the hot, Russian, VAMPIRE-OLIGARCH waxes Philosophical
A 'war' between vampires and 'humans'? What type of superficial poser could even fabricate such a thing? Can you conceptualize within your skull a war between the shepherd and his sheep!? I saw it. I saw it while drifting out to take my place among the Hamptons glitterati. Two bored, not quite sexually mature, disgustingly flaccid faced mortals gazed upon it. True Blood, I mean, from the confines of a faux Ralph Loren, dude ranch couch shipped east from Aspen. Who troubles to do such a thing? Not the show...the couch. Perhaps it is all an illusion? Maybe things are not what they appear? But what do I care? Let me kill them and laugh. I will feed their fingers to my parrots. But no. I am guest here and if my anger has been riled, must remember to kill a maid instead. Such a gesture will still send the proper message.
But please forgive me these thoughtless indiscretions. Grigori Usipov speaks not this way. I am disciplined Russian Oligarch..... Vampire part is just ancillary to true nature. I do not kill for sport..... occasional pleasure, yes.... sport, no. We hunt wolf for that. And I am very proud to say I do so without gun.
Perhaps the bacillus smeared upon my teeth enchant me, or intoxicate me? I do so have difficulties remembering this bastard, English jargon.
Now, let me step out onto expansive, seaward, terrace..... so very like one possessed by Dowager Duchess at Yalta during last nights of Romanov Regime.
Time to squeeze a bit of tittie and breath into some ears. I have friends here. They love me.
Henchmen of American Secretary of State are known to me. Such ill fitting garments. Even the Cossacks knew better. They have it with them a lead lined conveyance..... a truck of some kind, stationed back, behind the pool house, meant to imprison me.... Not the pool house.... Truck.
'Pool house'...... I am loving that term. Place has three sexrooms and five shit chambers. Not that I am amazed by such opulence..... far from it. But I do not like American understatement. In Russia would be called 'place where most recent favorite whore sleeps,' or something like that....... We are very direct people.
There is quarry. I will greet him. We will speak. I will 'dance' him into corner.... perhaps where terrace wraps 'round fire pit? Then I pull him close, as if to share secret...as if to share extremely priceless secret. He will freeze. He will listen. I will speak in deep, low breathy voice. Soon a touch.... a feather-like tingle..... a small, electric shock. Perhaps, if you were close enough, tiny bead of blood can be seen escaping from left ear, providing necessary portal for lethal bacteria (or is it virus?..... a vampire does not care). Three nights later he will be dead and name of well known New York, money king will 'Trend' upon the Twitter.
But henchmen of the formidable Mrs. Clinton are watching. Perhaps should be sending her some truffles when I 'gift' her with their heads?........
Ah, moon on surf of Hamptons is very beautiful..... and I do enjoy such things...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please communicate existence to friend via SHARE BAR. COMMENTS are very much relished. thank you.
But please forgive me these thoughtless indiscretions. Grigori Usipov speaks not this way. I am disciplined Russian Oligarch..... Vampire part is just ancillary to true nature. I do not kill for sport..... occasional pleasure, yes.... sport, no. We hunt wolf for that. And I am very proud to say I do so without gun.
Perhaps the bacillus smeared upon my teeth enchant me, or intoxicate me? I do so have difficulties remembering this bastard, English jargon.
Now, let me step out onto expansive, seaward, terrace..... so very like one possessed by Dowager Duchess at Yalta during last nights of Romanov Regime.
Time to squeeze a bit of tittie and breath into some ears. I have friends here. They love me.
Henchmen of American Secretary of State are known to me. Such ill fitting garments. Even the Cossacks knew better. They have it with them a lead lined conveyance..... a truck of some kind, stationed back, behind the pool house, meant to imprison me.... Not the pool house.... Truck.
'Pool house'...... I am loving that term. Place has three sexrooms and five shit chambers. Not that I am amazed by such opulence..... far from it. But I do not like American understatement. In Russia would be called 'place where most recent favorite whore sleeps,' or something like that....... We are very direct people.
There is quarry. I will greet him. We will speak. I will 'dance' him into corner.... perhaps where terrace wraps 'round fire pit? Then I pull him close, as if to share secret...as if to share extremely priceless secret. He will freeze. He will listen. I will speak in deep, low breathy voice. Soon a touch.... a feather-like tingle..... a small, electric shock. Perhaps, if you were close enough, tiny bead of blood can be seen escaping from left ear, providing necessary portal for lethal bacteria (or is it virus?..... a vampire does not care). Three nights later he will be dead and name of well known New York, money king will 'Trend' upon the Twitter.
But henchmen of the formidable Mrs. Clinton are watching. Perhaps should be sending her some truffles when I 'gift' her with their heads?........
Ah, moon on surf of Hamptons is very beautiful..... and I do enjoy such things...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please communicate existence to friend via SHARE BAR. COMMENTS are very much relished. thank you.
AND NOW FOR A REFRESHING RESPITE~~~~
This is not my blog for tonight. It's just to let you know that I'll be 'channeling' the vampire (and others) wonderland in a little bit. But first I have to take a break to watch a half hour or so of HGTV and chug a few big tumblers of TURKEY HILL <diet> Blackberry Sweet Tea.
We all have our addictions..... Google SCHMOOZINGWITHALIENS if you crave a bit of yet another pixilated universe in the meantime.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
thanks. SHARE BAR maybe?
We all have our addictions..... Google SCHMOOZINGWITHALIENS if you crave a bit of yet another pixilated universe in the meantime.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
thanks. SHARE BAR maybe?
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
VAMPIRES KILL IN MANY WAYS
He wandered 'round the compound. Who would stop him? And why should they? He looked the part..... fine, almost see-through, white, linen shirt..... 'bespoke' jeans, also white and driving slippers made from the rump skin of dead mermaids. He had a man in Bimini for those. Tan looked real good too. OK, so it was a 'spray-on.' Grigori is a vampire after all.
They had books here, old ones, all done up in soft morocco leather. He lingered there, like Rhett Butler in that scene at Twelve Oaks. No one came in. The 'missus' never did and her hubby paid people to read books for him. Guess the decorator picked them out. Even had a fire going on the last day of July... not gas either. Apple wood. You could smell it. You can do that with air conditioning. Vampires appreciated such modern conveniences..... They remember the old days. Although the Romans did have a series of small fountains positioned to splash water on interior marble walls. That worked, up to a point, if you didn't mind dying of some unnamed respiratory malady that turned out to be Legionnaires' Disease. True, not everybody died, but you had to take your chances. Apparently, not sweating was worth it.
Grigori had his orders. He let them use that term... the honorable servant of 'Czar' and country and all that. Oh, the pretender to the Romanovs was already in place. And true, he'd be more of a constitutional monarch (almost), but the romance would be there. Special coronation coaches were already being assembled in a venerable Flemish atelier in Brussels. Petition would be made to The World Court demanding the return of Russian-America. I believe you call it 'Alaska?' And rumor has it that allied reactionary elements, aided by their own loyal vampires, anticipated 'the return of the king' (or in this case kings <a few queens too>) in storied lands throughout the Eurasian world. Not just there. Some say a descendant of Monctazuma II waits to take the throne of Mexico.
Democracy? Civic morals? Bah... who needs them?
Just make sure you're well-born, or perhaps sleeping with one who is. Otherwise, better beef up them yoke-bearin' muscles.
The Russian will not kill anyone tonight, but that does not mean no one will die.... just not here..... just not now. You see, draining the blood from a body is only one way...... But there are others.
A small dab of lethal microbes applied to the fangs. A friendly kiss.... a naughty nuzzle.... and there you have it. Three days later the compliant paramour (or would-be paramour) swells up and explodes, victim to an exotic, Third World plague. It takes that long for the microscopic creepy-crawlies to reach critical mass, so everyone else assembled for this 'dance macabre' is safe.
He enters the kitchen through an unseen service passage. The designer children eat their curds and whey. He smiles... playfully musses their hair. They giggle. Cook stares longingly. The governess addresses him by name. They know him here. It's all right. He fishes in his pocket and gives each child a rich, yellow, shiny, Russian ruble. Old ones... czarist ones... made of three times purified, twenty four carat gold. Gifts like that are common here. The children examine the huge, thick coins, thank him and return to their meal.
Then he exits... crosses to a nearby powder room, goes in and locks the door. There he retrieves a small bottle of Bal a Versailles (yes, they still make it) form off the thick, quartz slab. He opens it, puts a drop or two on his finger and 'paints' the tips of his sharp, white fangs. Then he sniffs, seals it up and puts it back (a functionary will soon destroy the evidence) before venturing out to join the party.
The shrimp ain't the only thing rancid here tonight....
*************************************************
please tell others of our tale via the SHARE BAR . your COMMENTS are especially welcome. thank you. and remember this is an on-going thing with like 740 episodes. scroll around. you'll see.
They had books here, old ones, all done up in soft morocco leather. He lingered there, like Rhett Butler in that scene at Twelve Oaks. No one came in. The 'missus' never did and her hubby paid people to read books for him. Guess the decorator picked them out. Even had a fire going on the last day of July... not gas either. Apple wood. You could smell it. You can do that with air conditioning. Vampires appreciated such modern conveniences..... They remember the old days. Although the Romans did have a series of small fountains positioned to splash water on interior marble walls. That worked, up to a point, if you didn't mind dying of some unnamed respiratory malady that turned out to be Legionnaires' Disease. True, not everybody died, but you had to take your chances. Apparently, not sweating was worth it.
Grigori had his orders. He let them use that term... the honorable servant of 'Czar' and country and all that. Oh, the pretender to the Romanovs was already in place. And true, he'd be more of a constitutional monarch (almost), but the romance would be there. Special coronation coaches were already being assembled in a venerable Flemish atelier in Brussels. Petition would be made to The World Court demanding the return of Russian-America. I believe you call it 'Alaska?' And rumor has it that allied reactionary elements, aided by their own loyal vampires, anticipated 'the return of the king' (or in this case kings <a few queens too>) in storied lands throughout the Eurasian world. Not just there. Some say a descendant of Monctazuma II waits to take the throne of Mexico.
Democracy? Civic morals? Bah... who needs them?
Just make sure you're well-born, or perhaps sleeping with one who is. Otherwise, better beef up them yoke-bearin' muscles.
The Russian will not kill anyone tonight, but that does not mean no one will die.... just not here..... just not now. You see, draining the blood from a body is only one way...... But there are others.
A small dab of lethal microbes applied to the fangs. A friendly kiss.... a naughty nuzzle.... and there you have it. Three days later the compliant paramour (or would-be paramour) swells up and explodes, victim to an exotic, Third World plague. It takes that long for the microscopic creepy-crawlies to reach critical mass, so everyone else assembled for this 'dance macabre' is safe.
He enters the kitchen through an unseen service passage. The designer children eat their curds and whey. He smiles... playfully musses their hair. They giggle. Cook stares longingly. The governess addresses him by name. They know him here. It's all right. He fishes in his pocket and gives each child a rich, yellow, shiny, Russian ruble. Old ones... czarist ones... made of three times purified, twenty four carat gold. Gifts like that are common here. The children examine the huge, thick coins, thank him and return to their meal.
Then he exits... crosses to a nearby powder room, goes in and locks the door. There he retrieves a small bottle of Bal a Versailles (yes, they still make it) form off the thick, quartz slab. He opens it, puts a drop or two on his finger and 'paints' the tips of his sharp, white fangs. Then he sniffs, seals it up and puts it back (a functionary will soon destroy the evidence) before venturing out to join the party.
The shrimp ain't the only thing rancid here tonight....
*************************************************
please tell others of our tale via the SHARE BAR . your COMMENTS are especially welcome. thank you. and remember this is an on-going thing with like 740 episodes. scroll around. you'll see.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
VAMPIRE AIR KISSING ON LONG ISLAND'S SOUTH SHORE
The party was a big one. A certain red headed, rotund, celebrity chef was cooking and guesting. Vera Wang did the table cloths and Grigori Isipov was not the only vampire in attendance. There may have been another. Although some of the erstwhile mortals sported a certain 'too thin' cadaverous mien (the gashy red lipstick didn't help), they were not actual blood suckers. Well, not that kind anyway.
And a benevolent sun bathed all in a late afternoon/early evening cool, orange glow straight out of Caleb Deschanel...... The 'magic hour' indeed.
Oh, Grigori was already there. He came last night. But any lingering, solar illumination posed no problem for him, since he was cosseted away in the sumptuous, subterranean, maroon velvet theatre ( I think it was actually called the Bijou) with a group of visiting, Malibu big wigs, supposedly enjoying a politically scathing 'indie' film staring The Olsen Twins and a computer generated Danny Kaye. Or maybe it was Vincent Price? But the host had a few bottles of genuine, early twentieth century Parisian absinthe, so to hell with Mary Kate and the other one. Usipov took a few hits too. He liked the film community. They gave him money....lots of it, in exchange for tiny cordials of his regenerative, sanguine elixir. Granted, to an entrenched Muscovite Oligarch, like him, that was just utkah food. But he still enjoyed the Hollywood intrigue just the same. Such fun. And to think that his country made pogroms against such people.
Now there was a certain Bentley that smelled of cat piss. Look, I don't know. Maybe it wasn't cat piss. It might have been greasy, fast food french fries. I'm a disembodied spirit. Last thing I smelled was a sodden, blood soaked pillow stuffed in the bottom of a wicker basket when they guillotined my head off. The Reign of Terror? Hello? Maybe you've heard of it? Well, I think some espionage types from Foggy Bottom (headquarters of the U.S. State Department) came up in it. Look...Look... They're over there, by the cold shrimp..... The Jumbo, cold shrimp. See 'em? See 'em? I mean, who wears a Seiko in The Hamptons? Even a dead, Gascon trouble maker like me knows that. You gotta watch those things, you know? God is in the details.
It'll be dark soon... true night. Bet they want the oligarch.....
Look, let me sublimate down 'cross the lawns and onto the beach. Two girls are dancin' 'round naked and I wanna go see.
Don't worry. You'll see it on You Tube. Come back tomorrow. I'll tell you more...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please hit the SHARE BAR. tell people about us. leave a COMMENT. merci bo-koo.
And a benevolent sun bathed all in a late afternoon/early evening cool, orange glow straight out of Caleb Deschanel...... The 'magic hour' indeed.
Oh, Grigori was already there. He came last night. But any lingering, solar illumination posed no problem for him, since he was cosseted away in the sumptuous, subterranean, maroon velvet theatre ( I think it was actually called the Bijou) with a group of visiting, Malibu big wigs, supposedly enjoying a politically scathing 'indie' film staring The Olsen Twins and a computer generated Danny Kaye. Or maybe it was Vincent Price? But the host had a few bottles of genuine, early twentieth century Parisian absinthe, so to hell with Mary Kate and the other one. Usipov took a few hits too. He liked the film community. They gave him money....lots of it, in exchange for tiny cordials of his regenerative, sanguine elixir. Granted, to an entrenched Muscovite Oligarch, like him, that was just utkah food. But he still enjoyed the Hollywood intrigue just the same. Such fun. And to think that his country made pogroms against such people.
Now there was a certain Bentley that smelled of cat piss. Look, I don't know. Maybe it wasn't cat piss. It might have been greasy, fast food french fries. I'm a disembodied spirit. Last thing I smelled was a sodden, blood soaked pillow stuffed in the bottom of a wicker basket when they guillotined my head off. The Reign of Terror? Hello? Maybe you've heard of it? Well, I think some espionage types from Foggy Bottom (headquarters of the U.S. State Department) came up in it. Look...Look... They're over there, by the cold shrimp..... The Jumbo, cold shrimp. See 'em? See 'em? I mean, who wears a Seiko in The Hamptons? Even a dead, Gascon trouble maker like me knows that. You gotta watch those things, you know? God is in the details.
It'll be dark soon... true night. Bet they want the oligarch.....
Look, let me sublimate down 'cross the lawns and onto the beach. Two girls are dancin' 'round naked and I wanna go see.
Don't worry. You'll see it on You Tube. Come back tomorrow. I'll tell you more...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please hit the SHARE BAR. tell people about us. leave a COMMENT. merci bo-koo.
Author Tanja Segal: Guest Blog by Seumas Gallacher
Yo, nascent writers.... a rising tide lifts ALL boats.....So lets do our part to raise the sea level a little... Author Tanja Segal: Guest Blog by Seumas Gallacher: And today I invite Seumas Gallacher to my blog. He is the author of Vengeance Wears Black! Please don't forget to comment, like or share his...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)