Office Chair On The Snow

Sunday afternoon the snow fell lightly. walking down Vanderbilt Avenue I spotted a black office chair. In relatively good condition. I brushed off the snow and sat down, thinking, "This might do."

The snowfall was less than an inch. I rolled it to my building on Myrtle Avenue. I hefted it. Not light. Heavy. I sat again. Not the right height. I live on the fourth floor. I wished the chair luck.

The blizzard hit Brooklyn. Traffic was closed to all, but emergency vehicles and plows.

In the morning I ventured out to buy butter for pancakes and red raspberries at Coco. The plows had cleared the avenue. The sidewalks were treacherously slippery. The gales harvested the snow into gathering drifts. The chair was gone. To someplace else than here. I wish the new owner and the chair good luck.

ps only pour maple syrup on pancakes. Quebecois. No maple syrup from Maine. Not enough maple trees in the Pine Tree State.

Ash Wednesday

On Ash Wednesday Jack and I traveled into the city to 5th Avenue. To have ashes of repentance marked as a cross on our foreheads. Jack was not a Catholic. As an atheist Catholic I baptised her from the entrance font. We lit candles afore Bridget of Clare an old pagan saint of healing and then chanted 'mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa' before the anointing priest. I was an altar boy. Latin was my first second language. Amo amas amat the verb to love was first learned. Mea culpa means I'm sorry. For what? There's always something. Numquam amare obliviscor If there is no sin, there is no reason to repent. My friend Alison had attended a Swiss bordering school and wrote to me that Mea culpa doesn't quite translate to "forgive me I have sinned". Close enough I guess for a paganist. Ash Wednesday's origins date back to Babylon. Isthar's consort dies and after forty days of fasting is revived with the coming of Spring. ps Isthar is the goddess of fertility and dates further back to the Sumerians 2000BCE

Opening Line JUNKIE

Junkie was my first encounter with William Burroughs, the infamous beat writer. I can't recall my ag, when I read his first novel. Maybe 18. Maybe 20. His novel was not in the stacks of the town library to the South of Boston in the 60s. Imust have found it in a Harvard Square bookstore.

Junkie along with Last Exit to Brooklyn opened my eyes to the transgressions life. I survived my early years without imitating that life.

In the 70s I sometimes saw Burroughs shuffling across the marble floors of Grand Central Terminal, his steps whispers on stone. His eyes not saw me. I studied him for several seconds. In a suit grayer than his skin. Gaunt. Glazed by heroin or vivid with the need for heroin. I never said anything. His world was his and heroin. Not mine. Some times. Never no more.

"I suppose I'm a junkie, which is a fairly long story." First line Junkie 1953. I was one years old. I'm much older than that now, unlike so many junkies.

Lucky Me - 2013

New Years Eve 1986.

I was riding my Yamaha 650 through a snowstorm.

Approaching Houston and 2nd Avenue the light changed to red.

I skidded through the intersection excepting the worse. Cars crisscrossed my path. I stopped against the curb.

A 9th Precinct cop said, "Damn you were lucky."

"That I was." "Where you headed?"

"Home to East 10th Street."

"That's not a bad idea."

He was right.

I was lucky.

But if anyone was luckier, it was Indian Larry. Wintah was wintah once he rode bare-chested in the snow. His words;

The right bike, the right day, the right road. I just pretty much feel. One with the universe
When I feel like I don't fit anywhere
Lonely
All screwed up in the head
I get on my bike and go
For a ride
All of the sudden, I'm fixed
Indian Larry
Foto by Grégoire Alessandrini

I bet he's having a Mr. Softee somewhere wherever and maybe with the mr. Softee's jingle in his ears.

The jingle came from a famous tune from 1915 A WHISTLER AND HIS DOG.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FDtVe04Z5I

WHERE'S MY MR. SOFTEE TRUCK.

The Importance Of Size - 2010

Judging from the number of spam emails cluttering my inbox, a sense of inadequacy about the size of the male organ is a problem superseding hair loss, obesity, and global warming. I can understand this latest anxiety since most men in the West are rabid porno addicts and these websites feature male performers with truly biblical Staffs of Moses. These seemingly impossible proportions are the goal of any men purchasing pills, pumps, and medical herbals to enhance their girth and length.

“I just want to hear one woman say, “Not with that you don’t.” offered one testimony from a size improvement website.

“Not with that you don’t.”

I don’t know why anyone would want to hear that, but is size really important to a woman?

The girls at the Welkom Inn on Soi 3 in Pattaya see a lot of action. When asked if they liked big, the most popular girl said, “I like small and fast too. Not hurt. And not take too much time.”

Another admitted, “Sometime when really horny. I like big. Good. But can’t work later. Small better.”

This doesn’t prevent them from massaging the male ego.

The fellatio expert says, “Man always love to hear he have big penis. If not big, he believe big you tell him big. Stupid kwai.”

My lifelong friend, Sherri, who performed in over two thousand XXX films, professes, “Size isn’t important. Well, if it’s a cashew, then it’s a problem, but otherwise most girls in the industry like a normal penis. Nothing too awe-inspiring. And quick too. Guys with big ones. Not many of them know how to use it, plus when a guy with a giant cock gets an erection most of the blood leaves his skull, so he devolves to a gibbering fool. Gimme a nice Irish or Jewish guy any day. Cut too.”

Sherri knows cock.

So there you have it.

Here is a list of the average male Erect Penis Lengths for 10 species
1. Humpback whale 10 ft
2. Elephant 5-6 ft
3. Bull 3 ft
4. Stallion 2 ft 6 in.
5. Rhinoceros 2 ft
6. Pig 18-20 in.
. Man 6 in.
8. Gorilla 2 in.
9. Cat 3/4 in.
10. Mosquito 1/100 in.

Stormy Daniels the XXX actress had a pas de deux with Donald Trump and described Trump’s penis as “smaller than average” but “not freakishly small”. “He knows he has an unusual penis,” Daniels writes. “It has a huge mushroom head. Like a toadstool … “I lay there, annoyed that I was getting fucked by a guy with Yeti pubes and a dick like the mushroom character in Mario Kart ... “It may have been the least impressive sex I’d ever had, but clearly, he didn’t share that opinion.”

pps I'm normal.

Trump has been mentioned in the Epstein files over a million times according to a Democratic congressman. He must have hit F for find on the download of the files. One mention ncluded an FBI tip sheet with an accusation regarding a 13 or 14-year-old girl. There are still three million emails to go. 47's gonna drop.

General Tso's Blizzard - 2010

Christmas is a time for family. Mine was on the other side of the world in Thailand. I had a ticket reserved for a January 10 departure. My sister insisted on my spending the holiday with her in Boston. She was worried about my head, since our beloved father had passed away in November. I boarded a Chinatown bus northbound to South Station. Christmas Eve was with friends and family. Christmas was strictly family. My sister missed my father and so did the rest of us. Our parents had been good people.    My plans for the weekend were fluid, until I discovered my nephew Matt on the telephone. He was calling his airline for confirmation of his flight to DC. All departures on the East Coast had been canceled for that Sunday. The US Weather Service was forecasting a major storm. 24-36 inches. Amtrak was sold out. The only out from Boston was the Chinatown bus. Matt and I packed within minutes and my sister drove us to South Station. We caught the 11AM bus. The snow was light, but the traffic was heavy. People were trying to get home before the worse. Upon our arrival in Chinatown I offered Matt a place to stay in Brooklyn.    

"I got to be in work tomorrow."    

He worked for an internet company. It was not affiliated with the CIA. At least that was his cover and I had been brought up to not ask questions about jobs in Washington. I put him on a DC-bound bus and took the F train over to Brooklyn. It was only 4PM, so I stopped in Frank's Lounge for a beer.    

Several of the regulars were in their Sunday seats at the bar. We drank several rounds before looking out the window onto a terrifying scenario. The snowstorm had been upgraded to the wintery tornado. The accumulation was already ten inches and there was no sign of let-up. None of us had anywhere to go tomorrow. The radio had announced the trains were being taken out of service.    

"We where we are and nowhere else." Homer announced in his thick Mississippi accent. He was happy to be in Frank's. It was our favorite bar, but we were hungry. He made several phone calls for take-out.     

The only response was from a Chinese restaurant up the block. I ordered the General Tso's Chicken extra chili. Homer followed suit.    

"You know General Tso's Chicken doesn't exist in China." It supposedly was invented by the Hunan-born chef T. T. Wang in 1972.     

"How the hell am I supposed to know that. I ain't ever been to no damned China." Homer traveled mostly on a straight line. Brooklyn to Philadelphia, Mississippi, his hometown. He certainly hadn't seen any snow in his youth, but plenty since he left the Delta over fifty years ago fleeing a lynch mob. He liked it back there now. Family and "The crack has gone out of some of the crackers, especially since my shotgun ain't never out of reach."    

"Well, I have." Only one time to Yunnan, Sichuan, and Tibet in 1996. "And there was no General Tso Chicken."

"I don't care about no China. I'm here in Brooklyn."    

The traffic on Fulton was extinctized by the snow. There were no pedestrians. The drifts were over a foot. We started to fear that our food wasn't going to come and we would have to survive on the stale packets of chips from behind the bar, but after a half-hour the door banged open for a delivery man covered by snow. He held two bags of food. We cheered his arrival and Homer gave him a $5 tip.    

"That's because Tipping ain't no city in China and a Chinaman will deliver your food even when the US Mail can't get through. Here's to the Chinaman."

We raised our glasses and ate like this was the last meal on Earth.    

Looking out the window that's just the way it felt.

February 20, 2026

A wet afternoon with the meteorologists forecasting a nor'easter bearing down on the East Coast for the weekend. Nothing like the Holiday blizzard of 2010, but this has been a hard winter and it ain't over yet.

Below 101 Avenue A

A winter afternoon
on Avenue A
Abbie and I sat on set
A movie set
Extras waiting to be extras
Unpaid extras
Abbie and I never met
Before today
The two of us
In the basement of 101 Avenue A__
The two of us
Nothing to hide
I tell my story
Abbie tells hers
The horror of teenage drug addiction
Hardcore
Near-death and then alive
To near-death again
More than a few times__
Me
No more young
Abbie shows a photo
On her phone
A beautiful junkie waif
"I was so bad.
But only bad to myself.
And only for four months."
She had died in a hospital
I had died too
More than once
Now___
Back to life
Now
Clean for years
I listened to Abbie's every word
Without having to say a word
Other than to prompt more
"More"_
She handed me a poem
I read her poem
To her
It was perfect
Nothingness__
Oh to be young again
In the basement
Of the old Pyramid Club
Disco lights
HIgh on everything__
The director enter
Points
To we two
We are up
Extras
Unpaid extras
I wish I was young
Abbie too
Together
Nothing to each other
Nothing__
I am so happy__