Paul McCartney Is A Fly

The Beatles released ABBEY ROAD on 26 September 1969.

The pop quartet's eleventh LP was their last and featured such McCartney disasters as "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" and "Oh! Darling", but was saved by Lennon, Ringo, and George.

According Wikipedia shortly after Abbey Road's release, the cover featuring the four Beatles crossing a London intersection depicted a funeral procession to the millions of fans around the word, thereby creating "Paul is dead" theory fed by the rumors of the bassist having died in India famously fueld fueled by the Stones lyrics in Sympathy For the Devil , "traps for troubadours, who get killed before they reach Bombay".

The LP's procession was led by Lennon dressed in white as a religious figure; Starr was dressed in black as the undertaker; McCartney, out of step with the others, was a barefoot corpse; and Harrison dressed in denim was the gravedigger. Paul McCartney was famously left-handed, while in the photo the man holds a cigarette in his right hand, indicating that he is an imposter. Secondly the number plate on the Volkswagen parked on the street is 28IF, meaning that McCartney would have been 28 if he had lived – despite the fact that he was only 27 at the time of the photo and subsequent release of the record.

I know Paul lives.

Some people might think he had been reincarnated as a fly, except I saw him on a Hamptons Beach in the late 1990s, walking with his ailing wife, Linda. I wasn't a Beatles fan post Revover, but I respected him for his wife. a good man, even if he wrote HEY JUDE.

I HATE PAUL by Peter Nolan Smith

The Beatles began their infestation of America in 1963 and the following April the Fab Four dominated the US charts with 5 #1 hits. I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND was followed by one chartbuster after another. Teenage girls adored the Fab Four. Paul McCarthy their #1 Moptop. My next-door neighbor and I favored John Lennon. His sister, Addy Manzi, had seen the group at Carniege Hall in December 2, 1964. Her father had played with big bands in the 40s and his old music contacts had scored the tickets.

”I screamed John’s name a million times. He never looked my way,” the beautiful brunette told her brother and me after she came home from New York. My ex-babysitter remained flustered until seeing the Beatles at Boston Garden a week later.

“John played every song for me.”

Every girl in the audience thought the same about Paul and John, less so for George and Ringo and the adoration of teenage girls transformed the English group into gods with the release of A HARD’S DAY NIGHT and RUBBER SOUL. No one in the rest of the world paid much attention when John Lennon claimed that the Beatles were more popular than Christ in the summer of 1966, but priests and preachers throughout America burned their LPs in Nazi fashion, however the bonfires of the Bible Belt were shunned by millions of virtuous girls willing to sacrifice their maidenhood to Beatlemania.

This defloration fantasy was shared by the majority of New England girls.

Most girls pined for Paul McCartney. My younger sister wrote ‘the cute Beatle’ a dozen letters. She was not alone.

Kyla Rolla was the cutest girl in my 8th Grade class at Our Lady of the Foothills. She wore her brown hair long like Paul’s girlfriend, the British actress Jane Asher. I knew her since we were eight. She hadn't said three words to me in five years.

My band was the outlaw Rolling Stones. I couldn’t tell Kyla that SATISFACTION was the greatest rock song of all time or that I loved the B-side of the 45, UNDER-ASSISTANT WEST COAST PROMO MAN. In order to gain her heart I committed treason to the best rock and roll band in the world and pretended to like the Beatles.

I stopped visiting the barbershop in Mattapan Square, who was rge father of Star Trek's Spock. My hair grew over my ears. Desert boots were abandoned in favor of Beatles boots. I wore a Beatles jacket without a collar. It cost $15. Matching pants were another $10. I wore the suit to school.

The nuns sent me home with a note for my parents, breaking my perfect attendance streak, but Kyla noticed my belated surrender to Beatlemania and after school on the bus ride home, she sat next to me for the first time in years.

“Who’s your favorite Beatle?” Her uniform skirt was four inches over her knees. The nuns sent home any girl with a higher hemline. There was only one answer.

“Paul.”

“Me too.” Kyla moved closer.

Her skin smelled of Ivory soap and her hair bore the faint fragrance of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. Her green eyes were the color of the emeralds stolen by Murph the Surf from the Museum of Natural History in New York. I prayed that she didn’t notice my breathing her scent, as our conservations revolved around Paul McCartney trivia.

Paul was a Gemini like me. He was 22. I was 12. His favorite color was blue.

"Mine too." It was the truth.

I told Kyla that she looked like Jane Asher.

She let me hold her hands.

I sang her songs off BEATLES 65. ‘YOU’VE GOT TO HIDE YOUR LOVE AWAY.

Kyla closed her eyes dreaming that I was her Paul.

“Kiss me, Jane.”

“Oh, Paul.”

Our lips met at the red light before the local church. Paul’s soul invaded my body and my hand touched Kyla’s cashmere sweater. Her ribs felt like thick guitar strings. My fingertips inched higher.

“Oh, Paul.”

My hand grazed the bottom of her breast and Kyla gasped with outrage. A slap to my cheek devastated my imitation of Paul.

“But I thought that____”

“You thought wrong. You’re no Paul.” Kyla pulled down her shirt and stormed down the aisle to the girls her age.

My older brother had seen the entire episode. His eyes warned the other boys to not make fun of me. It didn’t stop their snickers.

Every day I begged Kyla for forgiveness. She ignored my every entreaty and went steady with Jimmie Lally for the rest of the school year.

His hair color was closer to Paul’s than mine.

I didn’t hate him or her, because they were accurate caricatures of the greater world beyond the confines of Boston’s South Shore.

Kyla broke up with Jimmy in May. On the last day of school she came up to me and said she was leaving for Miami. My birthday had been in May. I was now 13. A teenager

"You can write me in Florida," she said. Her parents were divorced and her old man was living in Miami.

"But why didn't you talk to me all this time?"

"Because I wanted to teach you a lesson."

"About what?"

"About wanting to hold my hand."

I wrote her letters that summer.

In September we were a thing again, but I could tell that her kisses were for Paul same as her caresses. I hated him and his poster over her bed. He stared at me all the time and I gave him the finger whenever she wasn't looking.

My parents bought SGT. PEPPER for my birthday. I listened to it once. Kyla had ruined the Beatles for me. The Rolling Stones regained my devotion. I played HIS SATANICAL MAJESTY’S REQUEST twice a day as if the Devil could transform Kyla’s love for Paul into stone, but like Jesus the Beatles were more powerful than Satan.

Over the next few years Kyla and I never went all the way. We were saving it for our wedding night. Her mother was going a man from Chile. They spent nights out in Boston. We had the run of the house until midnight. I was almost a man.

Kyla introduced me to WBCN on her FM radio. “Mississippi Harold Wilson” was the first DJ to play Cream’s I FEEL FREE. She loved the Velvet Underground. I was a big fan of the Jefferson Airplane.

We lay on the couch of her dark living room. Our nights were everything except have sex. My parents understood that we were in love. My mother was okay with our dating as long as I got home before midnight. I felt a little like Cinderella.

My hair grew longer. Kyla and I talked about running away to San Francisco for the summer of love. We got as far as Wollaston Beach.

At summer’s end I spent a long night on the couch. Time disappeared from our universe, as WBCN’s night DJ played the Modern Lovers’ ROADRUNNER and Quicksilver’s MONA, then JJ Johnson announced over the air, “I have a special song to play this evening. A masterpiece. HEY JUDE by The Beatles.”

I stopped rubbing against Kyla’s thigh. WBCN never played The Beatles. Paul McCartney, my old rival, opened with vocals and piano. F, C and B-flat. The second verse added a guitar and tambourine. Simple and purely The Beatles.

“I love this.” Kyla pulled me closer. The four minute coda of ‘Hey Jude’ went on forever. At the song’s end I was still a virgin, but only just. Kyla opened her eyes and sighed, “That was good.”

I read the love in her eyes.

Paul.

Always Paul.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 2:10. I kissed her lips and dressed fast, as if my speed could turn back the hands of time. Kyla waved from the door way. She was wearing a silk robe.

“Tomorrow.”

“Manana.” I had learned the word from her mother’s boyfriend. He let me drink wine.

The streets of my hometown were suburb quiet. No cars. All the houses dark. My home was three miles away. I was on the track team and ran my best time for that distance.

A car appeared around a curve. A VW. It was my father’s car. He must have been coming to get me. His mood had to be dark. He liked his sleep. The VW 180ed in the street with a screech. It had a short turning circle. The car braked to a halt and the passenger door shot open.

“Get in.” It was a command.

I sat down expecting the worst.

My father read the riot act.

"All you had to do was call. Ten seconds and say you were all right. But you were only thinking about yourself.”

I never saw the punch coming. The VW never swerved. Blood dripped onto my shirt. My father handed me a rag. I could tell that he was sorry for having lost his temper. He had never hit me before.

“You’re grounded for a week.”

“Yes, sir.” A month was punishment. A week was an apology.

He turned on the radio to WBZ. The disc jockey was playing HEY JUDE.

Soon The Beatles song seemed to be the only song on the radio. Kyla played it at home. My mother and my father knew the words. I couldn’t get them out of my head.

At the end of my grounding I went over to Kyla’s house. Her mother was out on a date. I looked up at Paul. Kyla put on SGT. PEPPERS LONELY HEART CLUB BAND. She pulled me to her and I should have walked out, but leaving Kyla wasn’t in my heart and I sang along with Paul. She smiled and kissed my lips.

I might not have been her Paul, but I was holding her hand and Paul never did that other than in her dreams.

PAUL IST TOT by Feldfarben

Today is Paul McCartney's birthday.

PAUL IST TOT by Feldfarben has nothing to do with the Beatles' bass player.

But I love the post-punk apocalyptical tune.

It's certainly better than HEY JUDE.

Fehlfarben - Paul Ist Tot lyrics (English translation)

Ich schau mich um und seh' nur Ruinen, EN: I look around me and see only ruins,

vielleicht liegt es daran, daß mir irgendetwas fehlt. EN: Perhaps it is because something is missing me.

Ich warte darauf, daß du auf mich zukommst, EN: I'm waiting for you to come to me,

vielleicht merk' ich dann, daß es auch anders geht. EN: Perhaps, then, I notice that there is another way.

Dann stehst du neben mir und wir flippern zusammen, EN: Then you're standing next to me and we play together, Pinball

Paul ist tot, kein Freispiel drin. EN: Paul is dead, no free play in it.

Der Fernseher läuft, tot und stumm, EN: The TV runs, dead and dumb,.

und ich warte auf die Frage, die Frage Wohin, wohin? EN: and I'm waiting on the question the question where, where?

Was ich haben will das krieg' ich nicht, EN: What I want to have I not got that

und was ich kriegen kann, das gefällt mir nicht. EN: and what I can get, I don't like it.

Was ich haben will das krieg' ich nicht, EN: What I want to have I not got that

und was ich kriegen kann, das gefällt mir nicht. EN: and what I can get, I don't like it.

Ich traue mich nicht laut zu denken, EN: I trust not loud to me think

ich zögere nur und dreh' mich schnell um. EN: I just hesitate and turn ' me quickly to.

Es ist zu spät, das Glas ist leer. EN: It is too late, the glass is empty.

Du gehst mit dem Kellner, und ich weiß genau warum. EN: You go with the waiters, and I know exactly why.

Was ich haben will das krieg' ich nicht, EN: What I want to have I not got that

und was ich kriegen kann, das gefällt mir nicht. EN: and what I can get, I don't like it.

Was ich haben will das krieg' ich nicht, EN: What I want to have I not got that

und was ich kriegen kann, das gefällt mir nicht. EN: and what I can get, I don't like it.

Ich will nicht was ich seh', EN: I do not want what I can see,.

ich will was ich erträume, EN: I want what I dream

ich bin mir nicht sicher, EN: I'm not sure

ob ich mit dir nicht etwas versäume. EN: If I miss something with you.

Was ich haben will das krieg' ich nicht, EN: What I want to have I not got that

und was ich kriegen kann, das gefällt mir nicht. EN: and what I can get, I don't like it.

Was ich haben will das krieg' ich nicht, EN: What I want to have I not got that

und was ich kriegen kann, das gefällt mir nicht. EN: and what I can get, I don't like it.

TO HEAR PAUL IST TOT by Feldfarben PLEASE GO TO THIS URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YeGu62RnuU0

Hate/Love l’Histoire de Melody Nelson 2013

I have always considered L'HISTOIRE DE MELODY NELSON as one of the most provocative pop LPs of the 70s. Serge Gainsbourg's opera musically melanged JG Ballard's CRASH and LOLITA into an opera of sexual authenticity. The accompanying video is a gem with Jane Birkin playing Melody to the hilt.

I was thinking about her and wondered if Serge was a voyeur.

I googled his name and voyeurism, finding this 2006 internet entry by Melita Teale;

Why I Hate l’Histoire de Melody Nelson

Fuck Serge Gainsbourg, that fucking voyeur pedophile satyromaniac. What sort of man writes a concept album about knocking a teenager off her bike with a Rolls, giving her piggyback rides, deflowering her, and mourning her subsequent death in an aeroplane accident?

What sort of a worm of a Svengali records his young girlfriend Jane Birkin having a shockingly piggy orgasm on track six to flesh it out? Not to mention having her photographed with the most lamentable cameltoe in rock ’n’ roll history for the album cover – while she’s topless and holding a teddy.

Talk about objectification. How can he so objectify a fifteen-year-old with a line like ‘une poupée qui perd l’équilibre, la jupe retroussée sur ses pantalons blancs... (A doll who lost her balance, her skirt pushed up over her white leggings)’?

With his googly eyes and hideous looks, of course Gainsbourg would have fantasized about some poor disinterested ‘agréable petite conne’ of a virgin who would fall hard enough for him to let him take advantage of her.

And he sang on the album about as well as Leonard Cohen sings now. Except Gainsbourg actually tried to carry a tune.

Melita didn't hold back any punches, but then went on to write the following;

Why I Love l’Histoire de Melody Nelson

My god, Serge Gainsbourg made an enchantingly beautiful album about being a voyeur pedophile satyromaniac. I’m reminded of a story about Paul McCartney making a bet about being able to write a song about anything and coming up with one from Picasso’s obituary. Except it embarrasses me to compare Melody Nelson with anything that came out of Paul McCartney.

Can I recommend an album this evil? Well... I recommend it like I recommend Italian strippers or hash oil. You’ll feel dirty, but if it’s your sort of thing you’ll like it. Outside of Jane Birkin squealing there’s nothing pornographic about its sounds; the lines quoted above are the naughtiest. I don’t write that to defend the album; I write that to exclaim over how the world of longing here is all the more artful for not being solely physical.

Not one wasted word or note – they all take you right into the heart of a hard but besotted man who believes the girl he’s obsessed with is both a straightforward simpleton and an unearthly, irresistible force that he can never understand.

His voice, crappy though it is, manipulates. In the "Valse de Melody", where he carries the tune as well as he can, the seconds where it breaks and snaps show us more desire than Ang Lee managed in three boring hours about star-crossed sheep herders sniffing each other’s shirts.

And the arrangement is flawless. This being Serge Gainsbourg, the hero of French pop, and it being the '70s, he got an orchestra to use as a simple backing to his vocal crackling and to the three piece band that drives the action and the tune.

He uses the orchestra not wastefully, but as one big ambient instrument helping beautifully bury the listener in the narrator’s perturbing emotions, letting the whole thing seem like a desperate quest not just to possess but to love.

Right on Melita with the love/hate thing, because Serge Gainsbourg is too complicated to simply choose between love or hate.

Moi, je l'adore.

Give Peace A Chance 2015

Back in the last century Richie Boy, Ronnie D, and I were surfing in the Hamptons. The day ended with beers on the beach. A fire from driftwood warmed our bones and we rehashed old stories, as the sun sank over the salt marsh. Richie Boy's girlfriend asked us to pose for a picture. We stood together in our wetsuits.

Dawn said, "One-two-three." and clicked a photo.

"Stop that," a man shouted from the hightide line. He was British and older than us. "I don't want any photos taken."

"Who the fuck is taking photos of a loser like you?" I yelled back and Richie Boy started laughing, "You idiot, that's Paul McCartney."

"Asshole," I muttered under my breath, as the old Beatle waddled down the beach with his wife. Linda looked ill. He was protecting her and I regretted my muttered words. Hecwas a good man, despite having written ROCKY RACCOO. I was never a McCartney fan and in 2008 he showed his true colors by playing John Lennon's GIVE PEACE A CHANCE at a show in Tel Aviv. Maybe one day the young Zionists will listen, although I think IMAGINE is much more effective a song for peace.

Peace on Mars and Earth.

HEY JUDE by Wilson Pickett and Duane Allman

While I don't Love Paul McCartney of the Beatles, Wilson Pickett's HET JUDE is a killer.

Eric Clapton said that Duane's guitar solo is the best he heard. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0y8Q2PATVyI

St. Valentine's Day Massacre / BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith - 2011

Every Valentine's Day diamond dealers and jewelers on 47th Street anticipated a winter spending spree by lovers for their loved ones, but each passing year of the 21st Century the sales numbers have dropped drastically, as the economic downturn cuts into everyone's surplus, but the rich.

The Friday before Valentine's Day in February 2011 shoppers crammed the chocolatiers along 5th Avenue and the high-end stores hawking peach fuzz soft cashmere scarfs and libido-arousing lingerie at Victoria's Secrets. Rose hawkers manned every corner and no man was going home empty-handed, if he knew what was good for him.

Hlove and I stood in our diamond shop at noon. The ex-junkie is not in a good mood. Not a single customer had entered the exchange throughout the day.

"This is not looking good." I shared in his pessimism. My kids in Thailand needed money for the weekend and I was late on my rent.

"Valentine's Day isn't what it used to be." HLove was a little better off. He had given five guitar lessons in the last four days.

"Not that it ever was good." I failed to recall a single Valentine Day in this century.

My telephone rang and I checked the number. It was an unknown caller and I answered the phone with caution.

The caller was a friendly voice.

"My name is Alex. I was recommended by a friend. Are you open?"

"Very open." There wasn't a single customer in the exchange. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a gift for my girlfriend."

"Then come on over and I'll help you find something."

I hung up with dismay, because Richie Boy and Fat Karl had stripped the store bare for the annual Palm Beach Antique Show.

Lenny the Bum rapped on the window and mouthed the question if we had been robbed.

"Not at all," I answered in mime, but we had nothing to sell and I complained to Manny, my boss.

"Stop your crying." Manny had seen four score plus Valentine Days and he had spent most of today arguing with his girlfriend in Florida. All the big machers on the Block were down at the Show, because nothing said 'loser' louder than pale winter skin for non-Hassidic diamond dealers.

"Selling when you have goods is easy. Selling when you have nothing is the sign of a great salesman. When your G comes in, act if you're standing in Cartier, because you are in the center of the diamond world and you know where to get everything."

"Right." There was no sense in fighting Manny, since he was usually right, even when he was wrong.

At noon Alex showed up with a smile on his face. Forty years old, slightly balding, well dressed. He wanted a bracelet. A tennis bracelet. I asked, "What's your budget?"

"Around $3000."

"How long you been going out this woman?" $3000 was more than most men spent on their wives. For that money a 14K 3-carat tennis bracelet was possible.

"Six months." Alex sounded like they were still having sex.

"Really? What does she do?"

"She's from the Ukraine and studied economics at University of London and works at the Bank of America."

"Oh."

According to my calculations Alex was about one zero away from happifying this woman. We had no tennis bracelets in the store and I told Hlove to pick up some for our wholesaler. I had to kill time. Five minutes and I pulled out diamond hoops for $15000. They were the only ones left in the store.

"Way too much." Alex owned a budding high-tech company. They had no investors, so I showed him a pair of Italian diamond earrings with two carats in diamonds set in 18K white gold flower design. I had sold several other pairs over the last month and I had guaranteed each male customer a happy ending upon giving the gift to their loved ones, but I also suspected that might not be the case for Alex, so I asked my diamond associate for her assessment of the diamond earrings.

"There's very nice." Danni was Eastern European, young, and adored jewelry. Her engagement ring came from Jacob and Company. Her mother-in-law ran Moscow's largest jewelry store. She examined the earrings and asked Alex, "How long you been with your girlfriend?"

"Six months. She's petite. Like a ballerina."

"The earrings cost $3000."

"They are beautiful. Italian too." Danni told the truth. We always do, mostly because the truth is easier to remember than a lie.

"I'll take them." Alex paid the $3000 without haggling for a lower price. We gave him a nice box. I even wrapped it. It was a classic ring-box-go sale, although Hlove was pissed I had wasted his time, but he wasn't important.

"If you don't get a happy ending, I'll give the money back." It was our standard offer.

After Alex left, I called Richie Boy at the Palm Beach Antiques Show. He wasn't happy with the sale. There was only $500 profit. "He's a friend of a friend."

"Oh, great." He had to share the profit with me.

50/50 minus the expenses.

"Better than nothing." I hung up the phone and put the money in the safe minus my commission, then closed the diamond shop.

The evening train men rode giftless to Brooklyn. Valentine's Day was on Monday. They were cutting it close, at crowded with men carrying Valentine Day gifts. They wore smiling faces. My effort had made Alex happy. I spent $10 of my commish on a Mexican dinner and fell into bed reading Pier Brendon's THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE. Within three pages I was out cold and didn't wake until 8am.

It was Sunday morning. I called my wife in Thailand. She was happy to hear from me and my daughters and sons wished me much love. The store wasn't opening until 10, so my wake-up process lasted longer than normal. I read a little more of the book. England had really put it to India. I watched some basketball and went to sleep early.

Monday morning I called Richie in Palm Beach. The show had been a success. He was coming back tomorrow.

"At least we didn't get shut out in New York"

One sale."

"Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick."

He was right. I had sent money to my family and still had some for me, but not my rent. I left my apartment in Fort Greene at 9am. It was warm for February. Sunny too. The subway wasn't too crowded. I arrived at work a little past 10 with a buttered bagel and coffee. My co-worker, Hlove, waited by the safe. The ex-junkie musician's face wore a veneer of exhaustion. The sixty year-old had just stopped drinking on his doctor's orders. The H was harder. I said nothing. We weren't friends.

"I couldn't get to sleep." Hlove tried to make conversation.

"Don't worry, I'll set up the front window. You do the cases." I wasn't having any of that.

Manny wasn't coming in early. I took my time. Mondays were always slow. I was wrong. Alex showed up several minutes later. The chagrin on his face revealed the answer to my question, "How'd it go?"

"Not good." He stood at the counter, sagging with the weight of disaster.

"Tell me." The $140 in my pocket didn't feel like mine anymore. I expected having to refund thevsale, except all sales are final is printed on the sales receipt.

"Last night we were going to the ballet. She came out of her bedroom in a dress, which looked like it was woven out of the wind. On her ears were two-inch long strands of diamonds. They were antiques and looked like her family stole them from the Czar. I handed her the box."

"The box." I had luckily given him an expensive box. "It cost over $20."

"She looked for a name."

"Oh." The box was elegant, but anonymous.

"She opened it and her face dropped like I had called her mother a bad name. She examined the earrings and said, "You have to be kidding." She didn't stop either."

Most women like her don't when they're on a good roll realizing the man was defenseless.

"She said they looked like they cost $600." Alex was reliving the pain from his failed gift.

"Enough already. I blew it. It's my fault." He handed over the box. The earrings were inside.

I shrugged and said, "I don't know what to say. All sales are final. You can pick out anything. Why don't you wait until the goods are back from Palm Beach. Wednesday."

Actually that wasn't the truth.

Several curses floated on the tip of my tongue.

"I don't know whether to leave her or not."

"There's only one thing you can do at a time like this." Alex's day of romance had been ruined by this unfeeling chuva, which meant 'whore' in Yiddish, so I said the only thing possible, "Do what you think is best."

My advice was non-committal and exactly what he wanted to hear, because any advice from me would be seen in a negative light. I had ruined his Valentine's Day.

"Thanks for taking care of this. Svetlana said she wanted to come by to check out this place. She's that type of girl."

"No problem." I waved good-bye. "I'll be polite."

After Alex walked away, Hlove, happy that the sale died, said,."That sucks."

"Big time. Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

I asked HLove to T the G or follow Alex for several blocks to see, if he stopped at another jeweler.

A half hour later he returned and said the lovelorn executive had beelined into Van Cleef.

"Sucker."

"Yeah." I phoned Richie Boy with the bad news. He took it with a lack of grace.

"That fucking bitch. A guy gives her a gift for $3000 and she shits on it. I can't believe it."

"First time it happened to me."

"Stay long enough in this business and you'll see everything."

When Manny came at noon, he said the same thing and added, "All sales are final."

His son and he were from the same school.

Everyone was out for themselves and no good deed goes unpunished.

Around 2:30pm a small blonde in designer clothing entered the store. A wide-brimmed hat hid her face. She was no ballerina in my book, but Alex must have seen a different performance of SWAN LAKE than me. Alex's fiancé examined the jewelry and I pulled out the earrings.

"You mind if I ask you a question?"

"No." The thirtyish woman was dowdy, but she wasn't telling the truth. She wanted out of here.

"If someone gave you this for Valentine's Day. How would you feel? Good? Bad? It cost me $2500. Maybe it's a little girlish for you. Women in their 40s like something bigger."

"I'm not 40."

"Are you in your 50s?" I was being mean. Someone had to be for Alex.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

She huffed out of the store. Manny gave me the thumb's up. He was happy that I revenged her slight. Alex and she broke up that week. Severa months later he bought a diamond tennis bracelet for his new love to redeem his $3000 A year later a 2-carat diamond engagement ring. That Valentine's Day in 2011 hadn't had a happy ending, but he was now and that's just thecway of the world.been happier with Alex's money in my pocket, but sometimes you have to settle for what you can get and some days revenge is all there is, when beauty is in the hands of the holder.