The Voyage of the "Raconteur."

Now that the holidays are--mercifully--over, and now that the land where I live is shrouded in winter, I was standing on one of the 127 balconies of my sprawling, historic, luxurious country-home of Palmerwood, staring out over the frozen Midwest and hating every square inch of it.

"What," I asked myself, "is the damned point of being a fabulously independently wealthy adventurer, playboy, and jetsetter with a regally-appointed 170-ft yacht, the 'Raconteur,' if I'm not going to take advantage of it? Hell with this. Time to set sail for warmer climes that don't make me want to kill myself."

Draping myself, for the moment, in my matching sable fur hat and man-fur (a small gift from Vladimir Putin, in gratitude for services rendered the Russian state the details of which I cannot now go into), I bellowed for my trusty yet feeble-minded manservant, Cubbings, to pack my bags and carry them down to Shaddix Dock. 

And down the length of the Muddy Mississippi, past Natchez and New Orleans, through the Gulf of Mexico and into the Caribbean, sailed we. The 'Raconteur' was just rounding the Marquesas Keys when I thought I'd sit down and relax with a glass of MacAllen 64 and a Cohiba.

Unfortunately, the warmer weather induced my yachtmaster, Cap'n Stabbin, to come out of his cabin. I'd thought it best not to disturb him. God only knows what goes on in the Stabbin Cabin, and I'm sure I don't want to. But I was pleased at the devotion to duty exhibited by my serving-staff. Not a drop of the Auld Drink did they spill as they fended off the captain's advances. 

At long last, we docked in Nassau for a few days of rest and relaxation. Resplendent in a madras blazer, white ducks, a pink linen shirt, and sockless Gucci loafers, I strode down the gangplank. 

The children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., as well as my life-partner, The Greek, enjoyed the jaunt as much as I did.

That evening, as we set sail for our vacation quarters, the luxurious Vista Del Mar hotel at lovely Smegaroon Beach (faithful Minion readers of this blog will remember it as the site not only of former Palmer vacations, but as the site of the Palmerwood Illustrated Swimsuit Edition) I gazed out over the railing at the azure sea and robin's egg blue sky of the Caribbean. I felt mighty contented. At peace. Shriven. Renewed. Rejuvenated. At one with all the good Lord's creation. Slightly buzzed. And without even a hint of the disaster in the offing. 

Had I not been quite so contented and/or drunk, I might have remembered to keep on my guard. Cap'n Stabbin, when the fever comes upon him, is not to be dissuaded from his quest by the presence of a mere employer. And over the railing I tumbled.

As I plummeted into the sea--and the arms of fate--one thought crossed my mind. "There is no way in hell," I reflected, "that Cap'n Ernest Lee Stabbin is winning this year's 'Palmerwood Employee of the Year Award.' I'm giving it to Nanny Klagg. Or maybe Bechamel de Bouillabaisse. His turtle soup with brandy was particularly piquant last week. Or maybe even Cubbings, if the moron can manage to coordinate even one tie, pocket-square, and cufflink ensemble this year."

As the 'Raconteur,' its crew and passengers blissfully unaware that its owner was now no longer aboard, steamed merrily away, I realized that I was, as my Great-Great-Aunt Elfrieda Augusta Palmer was wont to describe such situations, "in a bit of a pickle."

My Olympic-calibre physical conditioning allowed me to tread water steadily for about twelve or so hours, but eventually, I realized there was no help coming, and I allowed myself to sink beneath the waves to what I could only assume was a watery grave. As I saw my life before my eyes, I was fortunate enough to get a few replays of some of my favorite memories--my trip to Cuba back in '94, and the time I knocked out two of Jerry Falwell's teeth back in 2001.



David Carradine, Michael Hutchence and I can all attest--for different reasons--to the fact that oxygen deprivation can do strange things to one's brain. I've no idea whose soft and feminine hands closed around my mighty biceps and who pulled me to safety... but I will admit that, to paraphrase the Bard, "There are more things in heaven and earth, JP, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." While I do remain dubious about the existence of certain beings, my experience did remind me to keep an open mind.



I awoke, draped in mollusks and kelp, on a white sand beach on an island which, so far as I could see, was distinguished only by its isolation from everything else.

After a good three hours without a rescue, I resigned myself to the idea that this island would be my new home and my eternal resting-place, and went full Crusoe.

Imagine, then, my surprise, when I saw, leading to the thick jungle fringe up the beach, footprints--and not just any footprints. These were the footprints of someone wearing 12.5 John Lobb Oxford Chiswells, which go for about a grand a pop. Whoever else was on this island was loaded.

I pushed my way through the jungle until it suddenly gave way to an immaculately-tended greensward. Now I've seen a good deal on this old carousel they call life, and I'm not easily surprised, but I will say I was a little taken back to see Nicolae Ceasescu, the former dictator of Communist Romania, Ivan Boesky, the disgraced former Wall Street pirate, Robert Maxwell, the former head of Maxwell Communications Corporation and the biggest thief in British history, and Ferdinand Marcos, the former dictator of the Philippines, all clad in exquisitely-tailored summer whites, and enjoying a leisurely game of croquet.

I hadn't seen Maxwell for years, not since the Bryan Adams Affair back in '90. And, like damn near everyone else in the world, I'd assumed he was dead, having fallen off his own luxurious yacht, the Lady Ghislaine, and drowned just off the Canary Islands

"Well, well, Jimmy," Maxwell's rich bass rumbled up from his capacious gut, "we've been expecting you. Welcome to the Island of Retired Megalomaniacal Egomaniacs. We've been expecting you. Let's get  you barbered up. That's no way to present yourself."

Thunderstruck, I allowed myself to be led into the barbershop of a palatial, old-fashioned hotel not far from the croquet-green--an exact replica, I noted, of the fabled, long-gone, and richly-lamented Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo. There, as I was expertly shaved and manicured by scantily-clad women, Maxwell explained things to me. 

"You see," Maxwell said as Muammar Gaddafy drops in to say cheerio, "some time ago, quite a lot of us decided that the world was just getting a little too hot for us. Indictments, revolutions, invasions, SEC investigations--who needed the heart trouble? So we built this place, faked our deaths, and came down here to get away from things. Former Communist dictators, disgraced CEOs, oligarchs on hard times--we figured we'd come down here and to be among the company of our fellow megalomaniacs. We understand each other. And we're all here: Boesky, Marcos, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, the Duvaliers... Hugo Chavez just joined us, and Fidel plans to move in some time this year."

"So basically," I mumbled through a faceful of shaving-soap (the most expensive shaving-soap in the world, I was informed--it's made of what got sucked out of Oprah and Jennifer Love Hewitt during their last liposuctions), "anyone who could have been a villain in a Bond movie is in the club?"

Maxwell nodded sagely. "That's about the shape of things, Jimmy me boy."

Unbeknownst to me, my absence from the 'Raconteur' had finally been noticed, and a crack team of loyal minions--the Chief Librarian of the Aviation Library and pilot, my vicious and fiercely loyal Heads of Security, and the resident Palmerwood physican, bon vivant, and director of the Pooley Clinic for Peasant Scrofula--had commandeered one of my fleet of Chris-Craft Silver Bullets and gone in search of me. Staying close to shore in case they ran short of liquor, this fearsome "Death or Glory" band pledged themselves to my safe return.

But I was having other thoughts.



As Maxwell, Marcos and I left the sumptuous Hotel des Supervillains for a stroll down the avenue, Maxwell applied to me the hard sell for which he was notorious.

"Stick around, Jimmy," he exhorted me. "Stay here in the company of your fellow despotic magnates."

"Dammit, man!" I snarled. "I'm a selfless defender of the Republic! A noble crusader for truth, justice, and the right of ALL humankind to enjoy fabulous luxuries like superb bespoke tailoring and triple-distilled wheat vodka!"

"Enough with the pious posturing, Jimmy," Marcos sneered. "Are we really so different, you and us? Was the Joker that different from Batman? Or Moriarty from Sherlock Holmes? Aren't heroes and villains just mirror reflections of each other? Gooble gobble, Jimmy, one of us... one of us..."

"The weather's always superb, James," Maxwell added. "The company's excellent, the food and liquor sublime, the cigars Cuban, and the golf course here is the best on the planet."

"I hate golf," I replied, though my steely resolve wavered.

"Did we mention we've got Alyssa Milano and Susanna Hoffs from the Bangles giving full-body Swedish massages in the clubhouse after each game?" Marcos asked slyly.

"When's tee time, again?" I asked.

My resolve, however, didn't get a whole lot of time to waver.

Suddenly, without warning, the lulling calm of the Island of Retired Megalomaniacal Egomaniacs is shattered when a posse of violent, bloodthirsty, and most likely drunken desperadoes explodes onto the scene, firing indiscriminately. Ferdinand Marcos, holed through the chest, goes down.

Maxwell flees, calling over his shoulder, "PALMER! Do you have any idea who these people are?!?"

I, seeing the plaid shorts, white tube socks, and Teva sandal ensemble on his pilot and Aviation Library chief librarian, nodded in recognition. Oh yes. I knew exactly who they were.

I was, gently, persuaded to leave the Island of Retired Megalomaniacal Egomaniacs and return to the real world. Not, however, before shrieking, "JUST ONE ROUND OF GOLF. JUST ONE. JUST ONE!!!!!!!"

"Sunstroke," mused Dr. Pooley. "Man's delirious. He hates golf. What's desperately needed now is vodka."

"Vodka? Really?" wondered Head of Security Dailey.

"For a man with sunstroke?" asked Head of Security Miller.

"No," says Pooley. "For me."

"Step it up," bellows Rhodes. "I've missed enough cricket matches looking for this $#&@! as it is."



I was, of course, thrilled to be returning to Palmerwood and all the trappings of my regular life. Just tickled. Couldn't be happier not to be spending the rest of my life on a secret tropical island populated by crazy-rich retired supervillains and 80's pop-culture divas who have aged remarkably well.

I will admit, however, to being a tad subdued, for some reason. I didn't really join in the merriment of my rescuers as they celebrated my safe return with a post-rescue binge on martinis, scotch and Kit Royales (beautifully mixed by my newest Elite Minion, Expert Fancy-Shmancy Cocktail Mixtress, Madame Karen Stafford Thornton) (that's her relaxing on the bow. She came along because she figured Messrs. Rhodes, Pooley, Dailey, and Miller might be thirsty) (this also marks the first time a female Minion--or Minionne, or Minuette, or whatever--has been visually represented. Kind of a landmark, no?).

No, I was uncharacteristically melancholy as the rescue craft rounds the coast of Miami and the high-rises and condos come into view.

Must've been the sunstroke.

Places I've Never Been, But Would Like To Have.

A lot of the stories that continually swirl around in my head, and which I never actually get around to writing, either begin or take place within a place the official name of which is Rosenberg's Dairy Cafe, and the unofficial name of which is "Shtarkers" (shtarker being Yiddish for "strongman," or "thug").

I think I first thought up Shtarkers when I heard this song: the Amsterdam Klezmer Band's "Sadagora Hot Dub," and I wondered in what kind of place I'd like to hear it played live. Shtarkers leapt into my head, fully-formed and populated. It's easier to imagine it with this song playing in the background.

Shtarkers, of course, never existed. I made it up. But I'm sure countless places like it did at one time. The Yiddish-speaking world, in cities like Lvov, Bialystok, London, Detroit, Buffalo, Chicago, Philadelphia, St. Louis, Miami, Cleveland, and especially New York, was punctuated with places like Shtarkers--watering-holes and gathering-places of the old Yiddish underground. They were places as colorful as the communities they served, where socialist firebrands, ghetto poets, newspaper editors, cartoonists and funny-book men, workers and shleppers, businessmen and bagmen, rabbis and atheists, and gangsters--especially, in my imagination, the gangsters--congregated to eat, laugh, fight, kvetch, kibitz, wheedle, plead, lie, brag, beg, bust balls, tell tall tales, pontificate, do business, and talk, talk, talk, talk, talk with the peculiar intensity, ferocity, and humor which marks Yiddish discourse.

But that's all gone now. I'm sure there are still a few places like this around--in St. Louis, it's Kopperman's--but they're mere shadows of what they once were, and the clientele is people like me, nudniks and nebbishes nostalgic for a world that was long dead decades before we were gleams in our papa's eyes. No more the makhers and shvitzers, the greenehs and the lantzmen fresh off the boats, the nogoodniks and shnorrers, the handlers and the tzaddiks, who used to frequent them. But I like to think about the kind of place where Abe Reles, Big Maxey Greenberg, Gyp the Blood and Lefty Louie, Morris Dickstein and Abe Cahan, Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster, might have congregated, for the sake of the stories that were told there, the stories that began and ended there.

You can tell I'm a phony because I left the jars of pickles off the tables.