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Kiki was still on the circuit, though now she had some freedom to come and go. She had chosen Houston as her base. It was cheap, there was a large Thai population, and the balmy weather reminded her of home. And business was booming. Like many cities in America, Houston has long regarded prostitution as a victimless crime. For most of the city’s history, it has been a man’s town, rough-and-tumble, contemptuous of rules, filled with wildcatters and blue-collar workers who resist the constraints of civility that women can bring. This is the city where the lavish “gentlemen’s clubs” were invented in the seventies, a decade after the breast implant was born there. Another local invention? The lap dance. By 2006, Houston had more sexually oriented businesses than any other American city. An unspoken agreement seems to hold that prostitution is good for business, particularly convention dollars. It was no accident that one of the city’s most renowned brothels operated for many years in the shadow of the George R. Brown Convention Center. –“The Lost Girls,” Mimi Swartz, Texas Monthly
He had had a magnificent career, and his in-ring work was by that point almost certainly over. But there was a pervading sense in his obituaries that he had lived up only to the cusp of something, that pro wrestling was about to become bigger than ever, that André was a sort of Moses, unable to get to the promised land. It’s certainly the case that he didn’t live to see the full explosion of the modern era of wrestling, but that’s just as well. He was an icon of a different era, the last in a long line of real men — William Wallace, Vlad the Impaler, Davy Crockett, etc. — who became gods in the retelling of their tales. In the modern era, with television and, later, the Internet, there is no folklore, no mythmaking outside of the sort of postmortem buffering that’s been done to Ronald Reagan’s legacy. André’s death, heartbreaking as it was, elevated him into the pantheon, into the world of memory and legend, which is where he always belonged anyway. –“Dead Wrestler of the Week: André the Giant,” the Masked Man, Deadspin
The hotel provides a little zone where you can drink Ciego Montero sodas and watch the cars go by, and I spend a few hours picking dead ants from my dress and reading a book. When I can’t read I try to understand the idea of an artificially fixed currency and do not succeed.
The zone where I sit watching cars is marked by tables, a carpet of cigarette butts, and a cannon that was used to sink an American battleship, the USS Montgomery, in the mid-1950s. A few blocks to the west there’s an ice cream stand surrounded by shady tables that also functions as a hub for prostitutes. At each table sits a foreign man and one or two local girls drinking Red Bull with a bored expression.
There are no places to read after dark. The only light sources are compact fluorescent bulbs which burn dim and contain mercury (if one breaks you have to sprint in the opposite direction.) –“Christmas in Havana,” Molly Young, n+1
More from Rafe Bartholomew:
There was no slant to the sun — it was just there, overhead, burning, making him sweat, making his underwear bind and the shirt stick to his back as if it had been glued on, and why he’d ever let Carolee talk him into this he’d never know. The bus lurched. There was a stink of diesel. Gears ratcheted beneath the floorboards, metal on metal, as if they were going to fuse or maybe explode into a thousand pieces at any moment. He looked beyond Carolee, out the window, feeling ever so slightly queasy, though everyone assured him the water was good here — potable, that was the word on everybody’s lips. Plus, the food was held to the highest standards and the glasses out of which they’d sipped their rum punch and rum Cokes and rum tonics had been scrupulously washed in hot sudsing pristine well water, because this wasn’t like Mexico or Guatemala or Belize, this was special, orderly, clean, a kind of tourist paradise. And cheap. Cheap too.
On top of it all, he had a headache. Or the beginnings of one. But that was understandable, because he’d gulped down three rum punches with lunch, so thirsty he could have drained the whole pitcher the waiter had set in the middle of the table, and no, he wasn’t going to drink the water, no matter what anybody said — not unless it came from a bottle with an unbroken seal. He rubbed his eyes. He had aspirin in his kit back on the ship. Cipro too. But that didn’t do him a whole lot of good now, did it? Anonymous streets rolled by, shops, people, dogs, ratty-looking birds infesting the trees and an armed guard outside every store — or tienda, as his guidebook had it — and what did that tell you about the level of orderliness here? Buenos vecinos. Welcome. Mi casa es su casa.
Acreage of a Christian nudist colony under development in Florida:
Florida’s wildlife officials decided to remove the manatee, which has a mild taste that readily adapts to recipes for beef, from the state’s endangered-species list.
A 64-year-old mother and her 44-year-old son were arrested for running a gang that stole more than $100,000 worth of toothbrushes from Publix, Walmart, Walgreens, and CVS stores in Florida.
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“He could be one of a million beach-bound, black-socked Florida retirees, not the man who, by some odd happenstance of life, possesses the brain of Albert Einstein — literally cut it out of the dead scientist's head.”