Dove HappyHappy

May 14, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Actors are all full of shit.

Expecting attention for an unending of neuroses. Pretending to be someone they are not. Unless they're funny they bore me. Artists are much better. I prefer workers like Patrick the cook and Kim's friend Amos.

Amos's a Southerner always quiet. I didn't know why Kim explained he was dyslexic. "He never finished high school. He can't read and he can't read it write "

Back in Boston I taught at a Special Ed school. The kids were very challenged. Most couldn't read. Most couldn't write. Some couldn't speak. I sang to them. Write. As a child I had trouble speaking. Stutters stammers mumbles lisps eating my words. My schoolmates were not kind. I wanted to kill them all. I wanted to join the Marines and come back to my hometown as a killer. Amos must feel the same way and that's why he's in New York. Because people like us belong here.

Home must have been torture for Amos to stay in school.

He's a good man and he likes me, because I dislike Marky from the Ghosts. But I no longer dislike Marky. He once tore up a picture of mine. It reminded me being bullied. I didn't hit him. Wanted to, but didn't, since my father used to say, "You have to compromise."

I never saw why, but maybe one day I might.

Four fat lesbians

I like the idea of Subway suicide Laying on the tracks The steel wheels running over me Not stopping Not screeching The A train 40 miles an hour heading to Times Square

At that Kim's apartment Amos Cyrena, Kim and I drink party shots. It's afternoon. Sean leans against the plastic wall. He falls through it. No fun. we leave for a dracula film.

ER Waiting Room

Last weekend I headed out to Montauk for my weekend gig at Winick Diamonds on 771 Montauk Highway. The usual 8:18 departure from Jamaica Station. I sat on the left side to avoid the glare of the morning sun. The old disel train hauled the newer yet still old passenger cars down the line. Everything was so familar. This routine was in its third year. Weekends in Montauk from May to December 24. Weekend days in the city. Familiar, although a few changes. I had moved from Clinton Hill to the NYU professor housing at the end of April. Back into the curt after twenty-four years in Thailand, Palm Beach, Fort Greene, Luxembourg, and Clinton Hill. Different, but the same.

The train ride was uneventful. Spring was spreading east throughout suburban Long Island. Slowly. It had been a long cold winter. I fell asleep at one point and woke several hours last past Amagansett with the train passing through the beetle-ravaged Pine Barren. Not a single pine had survied the infestation. the transplant team suggested an ambulance to S'hampton Doctor called and advised my going to the ER. Heading there now. Feeling better than before. Im going to the ER to check on abdominal swelling. I feel no pain. Best to pkay safe This morning i spoke with the transplant team and they said go in right away. I went in, the ER did blood work and a CAT scan. A doctor came in and said it night ve something serious. I process that and told myself youve been here before. It was nothing. But i had to check I thought i might have to spend a couple of days. Nothing better than walking out of the ER with a clean bill of health. This morning i spoke with the transplant team and they said go in right away. I went in, the ER did blood work and a CAT scan. A doctor came in and said it night ve something serious. I process that and told myself youve been here before. It was nothing. But i had to check Regina updated me on your hospital stay. I'm sorry you're having trouble. It looks like we're both having issues right now. I had 3 L of fluid removed yesterday from my abdomen. We are talking with my doctor in an hour to figure out what options there are good luck, Peter. Nothing better than walking out of an ER as health So am i. 7 hours in thr hospital All clear. A doctor came in earlier and suggested something serious. All clear. I wish Pam was the same. Spent ten hours doing tests. No explanation for the swelling. Release me at midnight. At first they thought it was something very serious. The tests and scans showed is was okay. The transplant team tea has said to into the ER. I still feel beat up, but they gave me a go home tix. I wish they could do the same for you. Ive een in the hospital at least twice a week for tge last month. Im coming up for the Grays anniversary Maybe Jack too She is at cannes I'm so sorry, Peter. I hate seeing my brother having such a hard time. I love you very much.

Shi Pei Pu RIP 2009

FROM JOYCE WADLER 2009

NY Times

I could probably be tossed out of the business for telling you this — it violates every journalistic principle in the book — but once, long ago, in the course of my work as a reporter, an international man of mystery pressed upon me a gift of rare jewels, and to my shame, I accepted.

Foto ASSOCIATED PRESS MONSIEUR BUTTERFLY Shi Pei Pu, circa 1965.

Related

Shi Pei Pu, Singer, Spy and ‘M. Butterfly,’ Dies at 70 (July 2, 2009) The man’s name was Shi Pei Pu, the Beijing opera singer and spy who died in Paris last week. True, he was not out of the James Bond mold of international men of mystery or even the Austin Powers mold: He was a delicate, theatrical, otherworldly little man who beguiled an employee of the French Embassy in Beijing into espionage during the Cultural Revolution by claiming to be a woman. In the course of their affair, he even produced a child.

I was working as a reporter at People magazine, back in 1988, when I saw the Broadway show the case inspired, David Henry Hwang’s wonderful “M. Butterfly,” and it raised many questions: How could a guy make love to another guy for months and not know? Where had the kid come from? How could I get to Paris, where the two men were now living after spending time in prison, on somebody else’s dime?

There were also Shi Pei Pu’s own singular demands: He wished to promote himself as a Beijing opera star (though there was no evidence he had ever been one in China). He would do an interview only if the magazine arranged for him to perform on television. As luck would have it, People was about to launch a television show, so this was not a problem.

Also, this story happened long, long ago, at a time when there was money to be made in journalism. Especially at People magazine. Arriving at work, one had to wade through it in specially made money boots, so as not to stain the feet. In keeping with that spirit, the photographer and I checked into the Lancaster Hotel, on the Right Bank, where Richard Burton and Liz Taylor once shacked up. We were soon joined by a TV producer, TV reporter, interpreter and video crew. Even by People magazine standards this was getting to be a pricey enterprise. It got pricier as the days passed and we waited for Mr. Shi (pronounced Shuh) and his retinue to show up.

One hates to speak badly of the dead, but it has been now five, maybe six days, and I think I may be forgiven for saying Shi Pei Pu was one of the more maddening subjects I have ever met. It took him days to admit he had a physical affair with Bernard Boursicot, the embassy worker, and although police records showed otherwise, he denied that he had pretended to be a woman. He could, however, have taught a course on charming manipulation. Despite his ordinary masculine dress, the baggy turtleneck and blue trousers, he managed to convey the impression of a tragic, exiled and fragile porcelain princess who, pushed too hard, might shatter.

Also, he told great stories; flowery, Chinese-French bodice rippers. He and Bernard in the days of the Cultural Revolution, when it was forbidden for Chinese and foreigners to meet, sitting across Changan Avenue and staring at one another; or Bernard so in love with Pei Pu that he ran waving and yelling after his bus. Later, Bernard would tell the same story with Pei Pu running after him, but no matter.

Shi Pei Pu’s televised Beijing opera recital turned out to be a major production: The hotel rooms the magazine had arranged were deemed too small, new space had to be found and paid for, fittingly in the town of Versailles. Pei Pu’s musicians had to be paid. Finally, it was over. Pei Pu, in the manner of wanna-be divas to whom attention has finally been paid, was giddy with delight and appreciation.

Finding me in my room at the Lancaster later that day, Pei Pu told me, through the translator, that he wished to give me a gift; then, with a delicate but mesmerizing flourish, he presented me with a long string of pearls. They were his grandmother’s, Pei Pu said. He wished me to have them.

Reporters are forbidden to accept gifts; in extremis the general rule is that one can accept something if the worth is under $25. A 20-inch string of antique pearls was definitely out. I tried explaining this to the translator. There was a great deal of flowery back and forth which, with subtext, went something like this.

Me: “No, no, no, no, I could not possibly. Especially because you have not yet told me how you hid the fact you are man, you devious little snake.”

Shi: “Yes, yes, yes, you must. After all, it was you, cher Madame, who got me on American television. I guess it would be too much to hope you know an agent.”

Finally, the translator, in a private aside to me, said: “You must accept. If you do not, it will be a great insult.”

I saw no way around it. If this kept up much longer, the Lancaster would hit us up for another night. I accepted the pearls, thinking I would figure out a face-saving way to return them — maybe turn them into a bracelet and send it to Pei Pu’s son when he married. When I got home I put them in a drawer where they languished for years. I wrote a book about the case, but Shi Pei Pu wouldn’t speak to me for it because he hadn’t liked the People magazine story. Too much sex.

Then one day, heading up to the Diamond District to have a bracelet repaired, I remembered the pearls in the drawer.

“Tell me these are under $25,” I told the man in the repair booth.

His examination barely required a glance.

“They’re not only fakes, they’re very bad fakes,” he said.

“Perfect,” I said.

I had them made into a three-strand bracelet: the Pei Pu pearls. I wear them sometimes to the theater. They’re very bad fakes, but for sure, one of a kind. Rest in peace, Shi Pei Pu. You told a helluva story.

Nussy Andrew Show

Nussy Andrews, Ev Christensen and Comet Thursday, May 21 2026 at 6:30 PM Doors: 6:30 PM Nussy Andrews: 7 PM Ev Christensen: 7:45 PM Comet: 8:30 PM Join us for an incredible night at Drom featuring 3 talented artists. Nussy Andrews is a singer and songwriter based in NYC. All of her work is self-produced and self-recorded. Her love of music stems from a childhood fixation with classic American standards such as the compositions of Cy Coleman and George Gershwin. Originally from North Dakota, Ev Christensen is a rising NYC artist that creates a unique folk sounds in tracks such as “Loose” and “Spectacular”. Comet is is a nu-grunge force tearing through New York City’s underground that you won’t want to miss. i'll be reciting HE MAKES ME HAPPY for Nussy__

MAY 13, 1978 TIMES SQUARE JOURNAL ENTRY

Clover, Anthony, and I are creating a photo-roman based on my story and featuring his photos. Our cast includes Rhonda, Cookie, Klaus as well as Andy Reese playing a hustler gunman. Everyone else from previous test shots; Mark Mitchell, Wendy have been exed from the future shootings. Anthony wants to finish this fast, so he can show the results to a Bridgehampton Gallery. Clover loves the first prints and asks, “Where is Bridgehampton anyway?”

May 13, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Walking through Soho's deserted streets Ro asked what my intentions were.

"What you want me to do?"

I wanted to say nothing, because nothing is what I normally want to do other than to have sex with her in an alley, but she is not that kind of woman. My wanting to not doing anything is not apathty, just sloth. Sensing my silence she asked, "Name me five things you want me to do."

I couldn't answer that question right then. I wasn't going to bamboozled her with insane misinformation. She's too emotional be involved with the revolution.

Later

Political goals

First: A moneyless society. Money controls the slavery of man, except with the Eskimo or South Sea Society where money doesn't exist. There is no money on Star Trek.

Number Two: Going to the Stars. Too many people here are devoted to the collective human suicide. We will only live with the hope of going to the Stars. As the biker Eddie Mickee said, "When the shit gets a foot high, step a foot higher."

Three: Equality. For all races, ages, and sexes. The Founders of this nation declared, "All men are created equal." although a large percentage of the thirteen colonies' population were enslaved and the tribes had no rights at all otehr than extermination. No sense in freeing whites of theirtheir racism, unless we go for their children.

Four: The ennobling of Homo Sapiens To render us neanderthal and loving.

Speaking to Ro in the evening, she asked, "Are you going to wait for a revolution?"

"The revolution is now."

The Revolution will arise from obscurity without anyone ever know it's coming until it's there or else the government will squash the secret known only to those who believe. It's not a disco party or punk and we will promote life unlike the capitalists."

"You are not a dreamer. You are mad."

I pull her into a doorway.

I am not trapped by bankers enslaving people with mindless economic debt. I will never pay my college loans geared to back the war of the Pentagon. I will not vote for politicians who love racist societies to control the people. The people want the death of the human race a Nuclear Holocaust. The culling of billions zero population growth complimenting the Death Cult of Capitalism.

Later

I entered Alice's apartment quietly. She had said she wanted to be with me before she left for her grandmother's funeral. I spooked her and she shuddered with fear. She started crying and I held her in my arms. Tomorrow she will fly out of LaGuardia Airport. I have never flown out of New York. My trips home to Boston have been either by the bus, train, or hitchhiking.

Tomorrow should be gone I will miss her.

She's gained a little weight and has no appetite for sex. I hope she isn't be coming asexual or lesbian. Lately both practices of such an abnormal practice as asexuality bring up fearful memories of the Russian castration sects or Coptic monks two groups again be popular or even the Shakers

I asked her you want to marry me.

"I don't want to get married, do you?"

"Not really but it seems to be something was supposed to till death other than life."

I can't shake death's grip. I'm not looking forward to death. I want to live forever.

Television strangely is on the radio. I drink a watery bourbon hoping for more words get off of this pen. I should be grateful with what I'm writing, but it all seems so tedious.

Alice says she should go on the $20,000 Pyramid, then added, "My grandmother might have left me some money. I was her favorite. I never saw her in the her nursing home. My father said that was for the best"

Yesterday on 42nd Street my right thumb in my finger went numb. No feeling, then a throbbing pulse almost as if I was brought back to life.

Later

I'm concerned with time the passing of time. I don't want to get old. I don't want to be an adult. I want to be 15 again like Xcessive. The punk Peter Pan. I get to sleep just to be always awake. I want to fuck Alice, but not now

Liar.

I want to fuck her too now

Later

The Stanley Cup Bruins versus Canadiens

I'm only 26. I can still enlist in the Navy. I have no job. I have no future. My older brother Frank warned, "Don't be crazy."

At 16 I wanted to join the Marines to leave my hometown. Not to kill anyone. The only people I wanted to kill were the teens in my town. Not the Viet Cong. Back then I met someone at the Quincy Quarries just returned from Vietnam. He said it was all a lie.