Guerilla Traveler - Have pen, will travel..

Jekyll Island, Georgia: The writing is on the wall. Or I should say the fat is on the fire. Americans are so fed up, literally and figuratively, that they repudiated Mr Obama resoundingly by sending a truck-driving former Playgirl model to replace Ted Kennedy in the Senate. Scott Brown is so handsome and down to earth that even Whoopie Goldberg has the hots for him. Sex object or not he has his work cut out for him: He has the necessay vote to stop the pork-laden health bill in its porcine tracks. Talk about tea parties. You have to love this one. Massachusetts dumpled their pinko past and put a man without a past (and two extremely hot daughters) into Congress.  Nice one. The independent minded Senator Brown, who calls himself a Scot Brown republican  will be on the presidential ticket one day soon. The GOP can't afford to let this Mass attack go unfulfilled. The dream ticket? A populist southerner with the Massachusetts mensch. Pork eschewed, the GOP is looking lean and mean . . . Now it's time for campaign finance reform, further term limits on Federal politicians, flat tax, a reasonable nationwide VAT instead of the many hidden taxes and a healthy dose of libertarian justice. That is all. 

YAHOO SPORTS NEWS

Pat Burns gets to the bottom of this Tiger Woods mess
By Sean Leahy

Before he became a Stanley Cup-winning head coach, Pat Burns was a police officer and now that he's living in Florida, he's made some friends in the Florida Highway Patrol. So when Tiger Woods crashed his SUV into a tree in late-November, Burns reached out to his local police buddies to get the inside scoop on what really went down that night.

Burns revealed what he found out during an interview with CKAC Sports radio in Montreal this week. According to the former NHL coach, Woods was knocked in the face with a golf club by his wife, Elin Nordegren, and was left with a deep cut on his cheek and down two front teeth after she confronted him after reading text messages from one of the golfer's numerous mistresses.

From the Phoenix New Times:

"He kept saying there was nothing there. He went to watch television ... then suddenly, bang! A nine-iron in the face!" Burns tells the station. "He left the house running without shoes. Elin followed him with the club. He left in his Escalade. She followed him and broke two or three windows. That's why he hit the tree."

Burns went on to say that the current Vanity Fair cover boy flew to Phoenix for emergency dental and plastic surgery, making him unavailable to local police after the news broke.
From the Ottawa Sun:

"They took him to hospital in Orlando. Elin was in the ambulance with him and called his agent. He suggested that they meet at the hospital. Once there, the doctors said he needed plastic surgery to repair the broken teeth, but only one institution could do it, in Phoenix (Arizona). The agent warmed up the jet to he could leave for Phoenix where they could fix his face. This explains (Woods') absence when the police wanted to meet him the following days," Pat Burns told the station.

This article appeared in January 2010 in the 100th edition of French Playboy. This is its second printing.

SEVEN DAYS IN THE LIFE OF GEORGE CLOONEY:
                                   HOW TO LIVE LIKE A FILM ICON
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                                             by Harold von Kursk
                                              PLAYBOY FRANCE

No other movie star alive today can match George Clooney’s lust for the good life. After suffering a certain amount of confusion and torment earlier in life – i.e. marriage – Clooney has turned himself into a turbocharged bachelor who has carved out a wonderfully hedonistic yet purposeful way of being.  From his stately Villa Oleandra in Laglio to his cross-crountry motorcycle trips to the never-ending stream of luscious women at his side, Gorgeous George has turned the good life into an art form.

Milan: I arrived in this northern Italian bastion of fashion at 23.00. It had only been hours since Burleysconey, the president of Italy had endured a smack attack in the shadow of the Milanese duomo. Struth! The Best Western was supposed to send a bus to collect me at 23.30. I walked out of the terminal at 23.25 and didn't see the bus. I didn't see a sign for the Best Western nor any hotel shuttle. Shit, I cursed to myself. Another fuck-up. I'd been traveling for nearly 12 hours-half spent in the confines of the Alitalia lounge in Rome. No shuttle. I spied a Marriott shuttle and walked over. The driver told me that Best Western's shuttle would be down at the far end of the terminal by exits 6 and 7. I was in front of exit 1. I walked down to 6 and 7 and sure enough there was the bus. Not. There were just the big buses that ferry passengers between Milans two other airports, Linate and Bergamo. Shit on it I thought. This is not going to work. Still I was stubborn. I know Italian taxis and I know that they make Captain Morgan, the marauding corsair of the 18th century look amateur when it comes to piracy. I tried to dial the hotel with my pre-paid Polish phone. No dice. It would not connect me. I kept getting messages in Italian which said, forget it buster, you're barking up the wrong GSM. Never mind. The guerilla traveler is fearless. I felt the eyes of the taxi drivers on me. The hotel was only 6 k from where I stood, but in Italy that can cost you a trust fund. Seriously, I knew I was looking at a minimum of 20 to 30 Euros. In Venice where I was in September it was comme il faut to lay out 70 Euros,  a hundred bucks, to ride from Da Vinci airport to the sinking city. You pay through the nose for the slightest luxury in Italy. They've been doing tourism for 2000 years and in that time the locals have learned how to fleece a sheep. Believe me. Zut alors! I kept walking up and down. I smoked a cigarette, stubbed it out and lit another. It was cold. I was tired. My sinuses were saying fuck you buddy. At midnight + 10 I gave in and went over to the taxi rank. I took the first taxi in line as custom dictates and then found myself enduring a waspish harangue in almost indescipherable Italian from the driver. he was pissed off. The gist was that he was telling me what a dolt I was for standing out there in the cold waiting for a shuttle that was obviously not going to come whilst not only freezing but wasting my time. And time is money. Especially to taxi drivers. He was so disgusted he didn't even help me load my bags. he whisked me off to the hotel and only stopped shaking his head and castigating me when I started yelling back at him. It took less than 10 minutes to get to the Best Western which was as dead quiet at a tomb in the Valley of the Kings in the middle of the night. I checked in. Nice. I didn't even bother to argue with the desk clerk about why the shuttle hadn't come. I figured it was my fault anyway. I felt like a dolt. I got my card key and went to my room. I turned on the TV which was showing a film about a woman played by Sigourney Weaver who lived with apes in Kenya. I went into the bathroom and had an excellent high-powered shower. It was 1.30 AM by the time I hit the sack. I had to wake up at 5. 30 to catch a 6 AM shuttle to Malpensa airport. I popped a couple of xanax and drifted into oblivion with the ape woman going through her paces. In my dreams I was the monkey man dancing to the organ-grinder's tune . . .