Archive for the ‘When Zak’s Been Drinking….’ Category

Ah, The Rich Irony

Wednesday, March 12th, 2008


How ironic that the use of a free blogger site enables Google to add their ads to Wildomar Magazine and that those ads are for “real estate” websites.

That is why Zak has purchased his own Wildomar Magazine website and Google will not be able to leave their scat without my permission.  For the present, check out those ads and support your local real estate industry.

One of these days, you’re gonna wanna sell your house and you’ll need an agent to assist you.

Stripper of the Year

Wednesday, February 20th, 2008


She was one of San Diego’s finest new lawyers back in the middle of the Pacific War when female attorneys were few. Good ones were rare.  Her love of the law and her litigation skills were surpassed only by her latent exhibitionism.  It was an elderly gentleman, a libidinous uncle of mine, who encouraged her to live her young life to its’ fullest expression by tempting fate and shedding her garments in a local entertainment venue.  To satisfy her obvious need for privacy, Uncle invested in a Mardi Gras mask to keep her identity secret. He later left the mask to me in his estate upon his demise. It reeks yet of her perfume.

Young sailors and marines, soon to be shipped out to the lethal combat zones of the Pacific, flocked to the local strip clubs on Monday nights as it was  Amateur Night.  As word of her unjaded, girl-next-door beauty and  sensuous talent spread around the downtown area, even local civilians began to join with the warriors to enjoy the contests. One can only imagine her shock when the dollar bills  of breathless gratitude being slipped under her garter were being proffered by senior partners from her law firm.  Fortunately, daytime professional garb made of heavy wool layers hid her finer assets and the mask kept her identity a secret.

There were other amateur women participating in the stripping contests, each envious of her talents, until the tension level of competition was eventually surpassed only by that found on the beaches of Tarawa or Peleliu, where the winners took no living prisoners. 

It became obvious to all that there had to be an ultimate contest between the dancers until only one could be The Best.

Needless to say, when all of the locals were given their opportunity to perform and compete against her on one stage, the lovely, unclad lawyer took first place, was given the title of San Diego’s Stripper of the Year and she then happily retired to her drab life in the court room.  She was a better attorney for the experience.

Em One Thumb, sort of

Sunday, February 17th, 2008


Not long after graduating from Lake Elsinore High School in 1952, I answered the patriotic call of our nation, as did thousands of other young American males, and joined the United States Army. It was with the purest of motives that I envisioned my service in the American army as being heroic and gallant. If I had to forfeit my life in the defense of my country, then so be it. It was the least that I could do to defeat godless Communism.

But the Fates dealt otherwise. Never one to question one’s destiny, I have rarely looked back at my unfortunate accident nor have I ever divulged the exquisite injury…. until now. The why of exposing one’s most profound and life-altering secrets cannot not be fathomed. Perhaps I have become bored with my own prose. It is enough that I bare the truth.

The most significant part of training for battle in the modern world is the necessity of becoming proficient in the use of war’s machinery. Not the airplanes and the tanks or the ships. No, the most important tool of the foot soldier is the basic infantry weapon, the rifle. The Army had replaced its’ proven shoulder weapon, the 1903 Springfield, a bolt-action thirty caliber rifle, with the M1 Garand during the early days of World War II.

 A bolt action rifle fires a single shot and requires the shooter to open the action after each shot, which ejects the spent cartridge and inserts another. The new weapon used the gases generated by the firing of the bullet to automatically push a bolt backwards, ejecting the spent shell and inserting another cartridge. This could happen a total of eight times before the rifle required reloading. When the rifle was emptied, the bolt remained open until further cartridges were inserted.

There was, however, one serious flaw in the weapon. Once a soldier had pushed a magazine of eight fresh cartridges energetically down in the maw of the rifle, he was required to quickly remove his right thumb before the action closed or he would suffer a painful slamming of said thumb in the metal action. The result was quite visible in its’ deformation of bony tissue and would subject the wounded to much manly derision amongst fellow soldiers.

Late one evening, long after the lights had been turned off, a young soldier, feeling the need to improve his dexterity in the process, without the ruthless scrutiny of men of war, reached for his unloaded M1 Garand, a fresh magazine of eight cartridges and practiced by the light of the moon coming through the barracks window. Tragically, the soldier had chosen to sit naked on his bunk and lay the M1 Garand carelessly across his lap. While reaching for the cartridges, he heard the familiar snap as the action closed crisply, without warning.

The pain was appalling in its’ intensity. Dental surgery sans anesthesia could never attain the acute level of severe and painful impulse that propelled up his nervous system, groin to brain, save for the briefest of pauses that serious injury allows the victim. The young soldier instantly felt as one with his comrades already in the foxholes on Pork Chop Hill. Surely somewhere, some soldier was, at that precise moment, experiencing the shocking impact of an enemy slug. His pain could not be any greater, were he to survive. Young Zak, at that precise moment, envied the dead.

In the years that followed, even the professorship at the Ivy League junior college and the many successful books on Fate/Destiny only partially masked the emotional scars that lurked just beneath the surface of an otherwise happy life. Marriage, understandably, had always been out of the question. Unable to bear up under the burden of the private disfigurement, I have recently taken advantage of a generous government’s offer to its’ veterans and have submitted to reconstructive surgery.

Re-aligning delicate but altered tissue takes time for healing and the threat of infection is one’s constant companion. As a result, I have had to allow my insights into politics to take second place to recovery. However, with the removal of stitching, I am again ready to offer my thoughts, for your consideration and reflection. 

The Lost City of Wildomar

Tuesday, February 12th, 2008



Once the center of a vast Aztec civilization of Aztlan, what is now called Wildomar is actually the Lost City of Pochtecatl. Pochtecatl means “merchant” in the nuahatl language. Legend has it that Pochtecatl would return to its former glory four years before the end of the world, now scheduled for 2012, according to the Aztecian calendar. 

Pochtecatl was destroyed by hordes of merchants, lured by the scent of desperation. Overly-optomistic priests tried to build their temple during an Aztec recession.  When they needed money, they began to encourage all empty land to be built out for commerce.

Finally, they began to auction even the bricks of the temple to pay for a continued existance. Eventually, every brick of the city’s temple was sold to pay the bills of the city. 

The ancient prophecies again foretell the failure of the Lost City by the year 2011, just before the end of the entire world in 2012, as a result of miscalculation and poor financial planning by the Lost City’s High Priests and Priestesses and the failure to lure Walmart to the northeast corner of Bundy Canyon and Interstate 15.  

Ironically, had the Walmart deal gone through, the Lost City of Wildomar would have disappeared by the year 2010.