Saturday, October 31, 2009

Easy Come Easy Go


The bombing raids on Japan reduces the Pacific nation's industrial base to a near-neanderthal level. America mocked their first import offerings, although I loved the little radio labelled MADE IN JAPAN. No battery. An alligator clip attached to a piece of metal provided enough energy to allow a young boy in Maine the pleasure of listening to the Boston Celtics. Sam Jones and KC Jones were brothers and Bill Russell a greater hero than anyone else in my world. Bill Russell's starting salary was $19,000, whereas their recent star forward Antoine Walker was paid $14 million one season. This amount of money might seem enough to last someone several generation, however Douglas County police arrested the former All-Star at a Reno Casino for writing 10 bad checks for a total of $1 million.

The 33-year-old player had earned $110 million-plus during his career.

His reported worth at present is zero.

All that money is gone.

The price of living large and his difficulties are a common occurrence in the NBA where 80% of the players end up bankrupt after they quit the courts. Few fans sympathize with their idols, but this same rags to riches to rags equation plays out for mega-lottery winners. The money is easy come and easy go.

Mike Tyson broke.

"Serves him right."

Maybe so but ain't something right about this much bad happening to the nouveau-riche.

They just done got robbed and ain't no one saying by who.

Not ESPN or FOX Sports.

And not no one else either, because we love to see the might fall low.

"Serve them right for thinking they were something."

Truth is they were something and the NBA should have made sure they came out of it with something and that's the truth.

Raking the Fallen Leaves


My family home on the South Shore bordered on a small woods. Every October the trees would turn brilliant red, yellows, and orange. The glorious explosion of color lasted until the next cold snap and a good wind would rip the exhausted leaves from the branches. They fell by the millions on our back yard. My brothers and sisters loved running through the rustling piles, but come the weekend and my father would order my older brother and me to rake the leaves into piles. Once the lawn was visible my father would lit our labor afire. The smoke of those leaves filled the air with the fragrance of burnt autumn offerings.

The next morning the leaves would be replaced my their cousins. Less than before, yet millions still and my brother and I would have to reap the harvest of leaves. Another fire. The Sisyphean ritual was repeated until the trees were bare. I hated raking leaves. The task seemed as senseless as mowing the lawn. Something my father wanted done without question.

Living in the East Village as a young adult excluded my performing either of these chores. No lawns and the the wind disposed of the leaves. Municipal workers were confined to street sweeping duties, so our neighborhood depended on the wind to dispose of the leaves from the few ornamental pear trees on East 10th Street.

Most New Yorkers love this freedom from Nature, but my good friend AP was telling of an Easthampton client who ordered the landscapers to blow errant leaves from the estate's 20 acre lawn. Before the crew finished the billionaire came out of his mansion to request that the workers pick out the finest leaves for a pristine pile of leaves for his children to run through after school.

"That's the way of the rich." AP deals with such people all the time as a architect.

We laughed at their excess. That 1% knows how to spend the 95% of the wealth.

After hearing that story I went to shoot baskets at my local park on deKalb Avenue. No one was on the court, but several park workers were raking leaves. I thought about my father and the East Village and then the rich guy in Easthampton. Leaving the park I commented to one worker about raking the leaves and he said, "Yeah, we're bringing them to another park, so the kids can run through them. They love that."

Same as rich kids in Easthampton.

And me too.

It does make a pretty sound.

For the rich the poor and the in-between.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Aussie Rules


An Australian guy is traveling around the Greek Islands. He walks into a
bar and, by chance, is served by an Australian barmaid. As she takes his
order, a Foster's, she notices his accent. Over the course of the evening
they get chatting. At the end of her shift he asks if she wants to come back
to his place.

Although she is attracted to him she says no. He then offers to pay her $200
to sleep with him.

As she is traveling around the world, and is short of funds, she agrees.

The next night the guy turns up again. Again he orders Fosters and after
showing her plenty of attention, asks if she will sleep with him again for
$200. She remembers the night before and is only too happy to agree. This
goes on for 5 nights. On the 6th night the guy comes in again, orders
Fosters but goes and sits in the corner. The barmaid thinks that if she pays
him more attention then, maybe she can shake some more cash out of him. So
she goes over and sits next to him.

She asks him where he's from in Australia ..

' Melbourne ', he tells her.

'So am I. What suburb?' she enquires.

'Glen Iris' he replies.

'That's amazing,' she says excitedly, 'so am I - what street?'

'Cameo Street ' he replies.

'This is unbelievable.........' she says, her voice quavering;

'What number?'

'Number 20', he replies.

She is totally astonished. 'You are NOT going to believe this,' she screams,
'but I'm from number 22! My parents still live there!'

'I know...' he says, 'Your Dad gave me $1,000 to give to you'

HE WHO DRINKS AUSTRALIAN, THINKS AUSTRALIAN

How Love Works













Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Awful Afghan Autumn


October 2009 has proven deadly to coalition soldiers stationed in Afghanistan. The Taliban proved resilient and the populace resistant to appeals for peace from the occupation forces. Hardliners in the Pentagon are pressing President Obama for more troops. The C-in-C has resisted their demands, for the people of America don't have the heart or mind for a long war. Most couldn't located Afghanistan on a map or New York.

So what to do?

Pull out?

Not easy.

16,000 British troops withdrew from Kabul in the winter of 1842.

Only one soldier made it to safety.

Bomb the shit out of them.

The Russians tried that. The USA too.

I hate to say this, but the best policy would be to reinforce the troops there with a plan to get the fuck out in the summer and pay the right people bribes for a safe exit.

Nothing else will work.

Nothing.

Jailbait # 3



Need I say more.

Oi Yey Ist Mir Basketball


Tonight is the opening of the NBA season. The premiere match-up of the Cleveland Cavaliers versus the fabled Boston Celtics. Shaq and Lebron against the Big 3 of Garnett, Pierce, and Allen, combined age 100 plus. The score is tied with 2 minutes left in the 1st half.

real basketball as opposed to the exhibition trash of the past month and none worse than the charity event of the Knicks playing against Israel's #1 team, Maccabi. The result was never in doubt, however the visitor's coach exhibited classic Israeli stubbornness after being ejected by the referee.

He refused to go to the showers.

8 minutes.

A rabbi even came down to plead with the refs to let the coach stay.

The NBA security escorted the guest from the court.

Strangest of all was that the coach was protesting an offensive foul called on the

Go figure.

Several Sundays ago I was bicycling through Williamsburg. A group of young Hasidim were playing basketball. I watched for several minutes and one of them asked if i wanted to play. His friend had to go back home. finding a basketball game in Brooklyn isn't as easy as you would think, so i eagerly accepted thinking my ancient skills would shine against the Lubbavitchers. I was wrong. They were good shooters and keen foulers.

I love this game.

Go Celtics.

Never Can Say Goodbye


Women say good-bye in many ways. Most of them not nice.

I've been lucky. Mo

My girlfriends have exited from my life without a backward glance.

They were happy to be gone and going where they were going. None of them have sought revenge, mostly because they were doing the leaving, however some of my friends have suffered through catastrophic schisms. Wives barring visitation rights to their children. Girlfriends suing for palimony. Gunshots fired through the window. One friend was even stabbed by his lover, the night he signed to lay football for the Detroit Lions.

"You ain't going nowhere."

Seano was lucky to be alive.

Scorn doesn't wear well on women. Most are not as deadly as Seano's girlfiend. Still they will extract their pounds of flesh. One woman took revenge of her cameraman/lover by leaving his rented car in long-term parking while he filmed THE LAST EMPEROR and another called the weather in Tokyo while her beau was away in Antarctica. The damage was in the thousands. One tempestuous soul singer torched her man's houses.

$2.7 million up in flames.

It all hurts, but Sam Royalle got off cheap this weekend, when his tee-lat left for parts unknown, although not before throwing his mobile phone, blackberry, TV, computer, and hair-dryer in the pool

A good soak worth several thousand dollars.

Cheap and certainly less painful than a knife in the back.

"Love is never having to say you're sorry."

That line from LOVE STORY always works well in Thailand, as I know too well.

Vicious.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

When in Thailand....


The British Foreign Office is famed for the reserve of their diplomats, however the BBC uncovered the true feelings of their ambassadors thanks to the Freedom of Information laws. The smiles, the speeches, and promises of friendship are a front for the traditional English bias against anyone not from the right school or blood.

The UK's ambassador to Thailand during the Viet-Nam War expressed his opinion of the Thais in his reports without disguising his disdain.

"They have no literature, no painting and only a very odd kind of music; their sculpture, ceramics and dancing are borrowed from others, and their architecture is monotonous and interior decoration hideous. Nobody can deny that gambling and golf are the chief pleasures of the rich, and that licentiousness is the main pleasure of them all."

Harsh words from a long-nosed farang.

Of course the Thais express their opinion of such comments either with a murderous smile or a bullet to the back of the head.

Either way works, especially if you're telling the truth.

Sirens Of Soi 6 # 8


The mama-san of the Chic Bar watched her two best girls leave the front terrace. Nat and Ping said that they were getting some som-tam. All the girls on Soi 6 loved the fiery mango salad. Anyone from Isaan called the popular dish Tam mak hoong. The two short-timers waved down a passing motorcycle with an attached sidecar. The vendor was well-known on Soi 6 and her afternoon passage from Second Road to Beach Road could take as much as an hour. The mama-san shouted for Nat to order enough for the rest of her staff. They deserved a reward for the afternoon's work. 25 farangs short-time. 200 baht a room plus drinks came to about 7000 baht for the bar and at least 15,000 baht for the girls who went upstairs with a farang. Nat and Ping had gone three times each, but Ping's young cousin was the winner with five farangs. The 18 year-old was a gold mine.

Ping sat on a chair. Her body felt like she had been beaten by her father. Her legs were wobbling with exhaustion. Every man had taken their full hour with her. At least they had tipped her well thanks to the passionate moaning with each thrust, but she wasn't sure that she could take much more of this.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

She wanted to run to the end of the street and throw herself in the sea. Only the beach was too well-patrolled by the police and the shallow water wasn't deep enough for her purpose. Two fat farangs eyed her from the street. They nudged each other and came over to speak with her.

"You go short-time, little thing?" The man was in his 50s. His belly protruded like he had swallowed a million beers. Something about the way he smiled said that he thought himself handsome.

"No, can not boom boom." Ping weighed less than 41 kilos. Having sex with farangs was not the same as Thai boys who finished in a few minutes. Farangs ate special medicine to have long erections. She hated them for eating that jah. It wasn't fair.

"Why not?" His friend was even bigger. Ten beers before noon. Another five this afternoon. His eyes were the color of boiled ham. he reached into his pocket for his money. His fat hand pulled out a 1000-baht note. "You not like men? Maybe you like lady. I pay to see you and other lady."

"I not lesbian." Ping belonged back home in her village. She was only here to pay for her brother not to go to jail. She sent money to her mother and father. It was never enough. Once she saved her brother, her uncle needed money for his tractor. After that it was the sick buffalo. Then her mother wanted to buy pigs. No one in her family ever asked what Ping wanted from life. Only farangs and they wanted one thing. "Pai ke ki. I not want man now."

"if you don't want a man, then why are you working here?" The fatter of the two laughed out loud. "This is a street for sex. Not eating. Not drinking. Sex. You come here, because men give you money, so you can send your family. Here I give you more money to have sex with me. Even more if you have sex with the two of us."

The man was waving 5000 baht in Ping's face. It could have been a million. She didn't want any man. Not anymore. Por laeo. Enough was enough. She tried to push the big man away. He was too strong and thought her pathetic effort was funny. Ping looked to the toher gilrs to help heer, but they were laughing too. She had been queen of the Chic bar for a only a few weeks and they were looking for her downfall.

None of them more happy than to see someone fall to the bottom.

"Fuck off, fat man." Oom hit the fatter man in the head with a high heel. He went to his knees like a buffalo hit in the head with a nail. His friend tried to stop Oom. He had to be three times her weight, but he never saw Nat come up behind him with her shoe.

She struck him twice in the back, then scratched at his face. The motorsai taxi boys joined the fracas and the two farangs were soon spurting blood, as they ran for safety. Nat picked up the 5000 baht. She took one, handed another to Oom and then gave the other three to Ping.

"Why you not tell him go away?" Nat was heavy-set. Some western men liked big girls. She would do anything too. They liked that also. At her age she had to do anything to get kaks. The customers on Soi 6 liked girls young and Nat was anything but young these days.

"I tell him go. He not go." Ping was sniffling away the tears.

"You not tell him 'fuck off'. Farang understand 'fuck off'. Not understand 'go away." Nat waved for the som-tam lady to bring the salads to the terrace and then said to the other girls. "You get nothing. You not help little sister. I remember this. You all same dog."

Calling a Thai person a dog was very bad, but all the girls at the Chic bar were scared of Nat. She had been in the Monkey House twice for fighting other girls. The older short-timer knew dirty tricks. Both in bed and on the street.

"Listen to pi-Nat," her cousin suggested while forking shredded mango into her mouth. She handed Ping a fork too. "She know farang. She know many thing. Know how to make love. Not hurt. Not make you tired. maybe tonight she tell you."

"Tell you many times, but now eat. Eat too much and then drink whiskey. Forget everything. Good." Nat smiled at Ping like a long-lost sister. "We family now nong-Ping."

"Thank you pi-Nat." Ping wai-ed the bigger woman. She and Oom had saved her from the two farangs. She would not forget this act. They were all family now.

"Fuck farang."

The three girls laughed and pointed to three old farangs walking down the street. "Fuck farangs. Big money. Small money. Fuck farangs."

And for the first time that day Ping was happy.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Jail Bait # 2



None of us are Roman Polanski

Die Baby Die


SENATE HEALTH BILL: 1,502 PAGES, Colorado insurers say health care bill would lead to 'system collapse' and 'Senator: USA could be on path to a 'banana republic' situation...' grace the front pages of DRUDGE REPORT. damn, these fat white males have not had to face 'communism' in years and the GOP have yet to figure out the right attack against the nouveau pinkos.

Health Care 2010 will be universal health care.

Nothing the GOP says or does will change this future.

They are a bankrupt political power.

Capable of only one tactic.

Nigger fear.

Am I scared of niggers.

Not really.

I'm more scared of mother-fuckers talking on the phone while they're fucking driving.

Now those motherfukkers are really dangerous.

Balloon Fuck-Up


America doesn't produce much these days. Our cars suck and even Wall Street is a scam. Our only true GNP product is fat people and fuck-ups. None better than the father of the Colorado balloon boy.

Police were alerted to the potential danger of a 6 year-old boy somehow seeking a wizard of oz escape from his flatlands TV existence. His father said the young boy was in the sky. The news media and police believed him. The wreckage landed without the boy. No body. No habeus corpus. The kid was hiding in his room.

Safe and sound to the chagrin of his father.

"The little shit should have flown."

Damn right.

One of the ten commandments stated that thou shalt obey your father and mother or some bullshit like that.

Little boy was too smart to fall for that shit.

Safe and sound in his closet.

No matter what his old man thought.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Freedom for Beer-Drinking


My friend Miguel Abreau is having an opening this evening on Orchard Street. A film by Pedro Costa and a single painting by Pieter Schoolwerth‏. No beer. No wine. The precinct captain has come down hard on the upstart galleries' serving alcohol without a license. Last time I went to his gallery I was served an 'open container' summons.

A $20 fine.

Miguel was punished to the max.

$1000.

For serving beer.

And I thought this was America.

Miguel Abreau Gallery
36 Orchard Street.

His freedom to serve beer is my freedom to drink beer.

JUST ANOTHER SOLDIER by Jason Christopher Hartley


The 6th Sunday of the NFL season. Games are played around the country. The fans stand for the National Anthem and a honor guard reminds the TV audience of our military commitments in Iraq and Afghanistan. No one will go to their atlas to find out where these countries are. Unimportant. Bring on football and chicken nuggets and beer and pick-up commercials.

Not everyone is so lucky and to read what life is like for a solider overseas then go to the following URL

http://blog.justanothersoldier.com/

It's not all burning shit.

Just Say No


Alfred Nobel stated the Nobel Peace prize should go "to the person who shall have done the most or best work for fraternity among nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies, and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses."

The GOP led by the Palm Beach media magnate Russ Limbaugh and Fox News Mormon correspondent Glenn Beck have harshly criticized the Nobel Committee for awarding Barack Obama the Peace Prize. Their protests are based on their political opposition to the democratic President, but even I have to ask why would any leader fighting at least two wars receive this achievement for pacifism.

Some pundits cited the award as 'pre-emptive strike', as Obama contemplates the strategies for GW Bush's wars in Afghanistan, Iraq, and other countries throughout the Middle East and Africa as well as the War on Drugs in Columbia and Mexico.

Critics called on the President to reject Nobel Prize and the $1 million cash accompanying the honor. Only 2 winners have refused the award. North Vietnamese negotiator Lu Duc Tho rejected the peace prize and the co-winner Henry Kissinger was embarrassed by the Nobel Committee's closing the door in his face when the US Secretary of State attempted to return his award. Their policy is once you have it, you own it ad infinitum.

Foster and polish
The warrior spirit
While serving in the world;
Illuminate the Path
According to your inner light

THE ART OF PEACE, Morihei Ueshiba

No More Mr. NIce Guy


The Short-time bars of Soi 6 and go-go bars of Walking Street are not the only tourist attractions of Pattaya. Farangs and Thais travel down from Bangkok to enjoy lounging on the beach, dining at the thousands of restaurants, shopping at street markets, and taking in the sights. This week Louis Tussaud's Waxworks promoted its pseudo-museum with a new billboard on Sukhumvit. Farangs couldn't read the words in Thai, however the giant photo of Adolf Hitler sieg heiling said a million words to foreign travelers on the busy highway.

The ad campaign appears to be aimed at Thais, since the wordage is in the native tongue of Siam.

"Hitler is not dead."

German and Israeli embassies immediately complained to authorities and the Louis Tussaud's Waxworks manager apologized for this cultural faux pas.

"We think he is an important historical figure, but in a horrible way. We apologise for causing any offense which was not at all intended. We did not realise it would make people so angry."

Thais were unperturbed by the mistake.

'Man kill farang. Not kill Thai. What problem?" One of my Thai friends said over the telephone. Thais aren't too concerned with anything happening outside their borders or the present. Neither are my fellow Americans. "If he bad. Why no one kill him?"

Indeed Hitler has been rumored to have escape the Berlin bunker. George Steiner wrote THE LAST PORTAGE OF AH about an Israeli intelligence squad finding the Nazi leader in the jungles of Brazil. Several films have centered their plots of the lost empire of the Third Reich. Adolf would be a very old man if he was alive. In fact he'd be the oldest person alive on this planet.

"120 years old." An overweight Hassidic diamond broker told me the other day to start off a joke. "Things are bad on this planet. troubles so bad that people want a strong leader. someone finds Hitler alive in Brazil. 120 years old but still mentally capable. The world leaders struggle to persuade Hitler to take over the world. He refuses time and time again, until he agrees.

"Okay, okay, I'll do it, but this time no Mr. Nice Guy."

Yes, Pattaya, Adolf still lives.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Empty Basketball Courts


My skill at basketball is worse than mediocre on offense. My defense has been called tenacious by my friends and dirty by my opponents. Doctor Nick has warned against any further play.

"A man in his late 50s should know when to stop."

Sound advice, except I love the feel of the basketball leaving my hands. The unseen arc targeting the rim. The ball dropping through the net. The secret sensation of success. Even better when competing against other players.

It was cold this afternoon. Low 40s. I've played in colder weather and headed over to the basketball court on Dekalb Avenue. No one was in the playground. Not for basketball. Not for baseball. Not even for skate-boarding. I shot solo for an hour, hoping for someone to ask, "Mind if i shoot with you."

No one.

Before I left the States in 2002 the basketball courts were packed with young and old. Something happened in those six years to denude the city of street athletes and my friend Shannon Greer explained, "All the kids are inside playing video games and the old geezers our age are scared of getting hurt."

"But no one playing?" There should have been one pick-up game.

"I rode around to six courts the other day without finding a game." Shannon is a much better player than me. He once beat me only playing left-handed. It wasn't even close.

"So street ball is on the edge of extinction?" I have played basketball over 45 years. The game has given me great joy. when I was lonely, I played basketball. Break up with a girlfriend. play ball. Hung-over. Sweat out the poisons playing basketball. It's your birthday. Play ball to celebrate.

Someone out there has to feel the same way and I'll keep going out there until i find them.

THE WIND by Circus Maximus


In 1967 Circus Maximus released THE WIND. The title song achieved some success on underground radio. Its jazzy cadence and 8-minute length assured its failure to cross-over onto mainstream radio. After a month-long stint at the electric Circus on St. mark's Place the band appeared at Carnegie Hall. The show was far from a success and the band broke up, freeing lead singer Jerry Jeff walker to pursue a solo career highlighted by hits such as MR. BOJANGLES and UP AGAINST THE WALL REDNECK MOTHERFUCKER.

THE WIND remains a gem.

To hear this song click on the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O-aBYqVAYNo

BET ON CRAZY - TOUGH GUY by Peter Nolan Smith


Brownsville is a tough section of Brooklyn. Actually tougher than tough. Its unofficial motto - "Brownsville! Never ran, never will!" guaranteed Kings County Hospital the title of the most gunshot victims admitted to its E.R. The US Army even set up a training program called the Academy of Advanced Combat Medicine to take advantage of the hundreds of gunshot and stabbing victims from neighborhood. Surviving the gauntlet of youth steeled Mike Tyson for his reign as the heavyweight champion of the world and molded my boss on 47th Street, Manny, for the old diamond dealer also hails from Brownsville.

"Brownsville was always tough," the 80 year-old jeweler explained to everyone who has to listen. "I fought with Italians, Puerto Ricans, Irish, and Blacks, but in some ways we all got along. Everyone knew who they were. One day this big black kid decides to fight with me. He didn't give a reason. Maybe he didn't like pastrami. He called me out and after school I met him in the playground. He had thirty friends with him. I wasn't too scared, because a fight with a schwartzer was usually fists. Only the wops and spics carried knives. 31 schwartzers versus me. So I tell the guy, "Listen you want to fight me then we fight, but if any of your friends touch me, then tomorrow they'll be a 100 guys out here looking to square things with you." The guy, his name was Horace, looks at me and says, "Fuck it." That's how things were back then. No guns. No one dead. The next day Horace and I were friends."

Black boy and Jew boy friends in the 1940s. A beautiful movie, except high crime, absentee landlords, redlining, and arson sunk Brownsville to new depths.

Jimmy Breslin wrote about the neighborhood in 1968. "Berlin after the war; block after block of burned-out shells of houses, streets littered with decaying automobile hulks. The stores on the avenues are empty and the streets are lined with deserted apartment houses or buildings that have empty apartments on every floor."

Manny left Brownsville well before this decay, but Brownsville remained in his blood. After working as a schlepper for several years, he met the most beautiful girl on the Bowery and they opened a jewelry store on Canal Street. Manny was true to his roots. He didn't take shit from anyone. Not the mob from Little Italy. Not the other jewelers who looked down their noses at the young upstart or his wife's family who couldn't see what she did in the undersized starker, as the old folks call a tough guy in Yiddish. He wasn't beholding to none of them.

Street fights were not acceptable, but Manny would protect his own.

Even after he moved uptown with his sons, Richie Boy and Googs.

"He comes from the Bowery." The older family firms would say to explain his rough ways.

"I come from Brownsville." Manny was proud of his heritage and even prouder to exhibit the street prowess a boy needed in that neighborhood.

Diamonds are traded on memo. One jeweler loans merchandise to another jeweler on the promise that in 90 days they return the goods or the money. Honesty is a crucial element in these transactions, however not all jewelers are honest, so the odds are high that sooner or later you'll get burned.

Manny depended on his tough guy reputation to avert any thefts.

Unfortunately Manny was getting old.

Young guys aren't scared of old guys and this one jeweler burned Manny for a $20,000 diamond. This was before the age of cellphones. No one knew where the thief had gone. Manny had to make good the loss. He never thought that he would see the thief again. Life went on. Manny took his second wife to dinner after playing tennis.

A midtown restaurant. Not too expensive, because besides being a tough guy, Manny was a little cheap. This vice was another legacy of a Brownsville upbringing. His second wife didn't mind, for she used to dine with the infamous Jewish gangster Meyer Lansky. Luciano's 'Little Man' would split a dish with her. She always told Manny that he was no Meyer Lansky.

"He was a runt." Manny wasn't too tall either, but his height broke 5-8. A good half-foot taller than Meyer Lansky.

Size isn't the only determining factor for toughness. Mike Tyson was only 5-10. He KOed taller, stronger men with regularity in the early years. Iron Mike hit Leon spinks so hard the then-champion's eyes rolled in his head like dice. Most of it was being ready to be tough and Manny was more than ready, when he saw the thief of his diamond at the bar.

He took out his tennis racket and whacked the gonif in the head. The thief was 30, taller, and once remarked that Manny could go fuck himself if he thought he was going to get back his diamond. Manny made him pay for this disrespect with another couple of whacks to the ribs. His wife pulled off the 60 year-old and the police arrested the two of them.

After hearing Manny's story, they freed him and searched the gonif's apartment. The diamond was in a steel box. The cops kept it as evidence. Manny cursed them for 6 months.

"I'd rather have the stone back then see that piece of shit in jail."

Manny's balance of justice had been met with the beating. It was the Brownsville way of life. Manny got his diamond in the end. He doesn't admit to hitting the gonif now, but he's still a tough guy at 80. Mean too, because something about those Brownsville street true a tough guy mean and Manny was no exception. A old mean tough guy.

We fought all day long over sales. he stiffed me on a commission. I called him a cheat. He was a piece of shit to me and I was a piece of shit to him.

The other day a hard-nosed Hassidim was late delivering a diamond. My customer didn't want to wait. I lost the sale. $200 out of my pocket. $2000 from Manny. Fish was a big guy. 6-4. It wasn't the first time that he had been slow to give me a stone, so I phoned Fish and said, "I might not wear a yamulke but I do make sales."

"I don't need to take this shit from you."

"That's apparent from the way you treat me, sie gesund."

Ten minutes later he was at the exchange, itching for a fight.

"I should hit you."

"Hit me once if you want." I was a tough guy too back in the 70s, 80s, and some of the 90s. I've been a tough guy in the 21st Century too, but with decreasing success. "But if you try a second time then I'll take out your teeth."

"Slow down." Manny came to the counter. "Fish, we're here trying to make money. If you say you're going to give us a stone, give us a stone. Don't make so much drama about the goy saying something about your beanie."

Manny hasn't been to temple in since his father Jake passed away in the 50s. Fish is an observant Hassid. He eyed the both of us and shrugged off the moment. We sold his stone to someone else later that afternoon. Manny complained about the profit I got from the customer. He was still a tough guy. A piece of shit too, but a tough guy from Brownsville wouldn't have it any other way.

"Brownsville! Never ran, never will!"

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Somewhere Over Colorado


In the WIZARD OF OZ Dorothy returns to Kansas via the wizard's balloon. Billions of people have seen the movie, yet few know her last name was Gale. The same went for a young boy in Colorado who was feared to have been airborne in a high-flying balloon launched by his father. The police scrambled their amber alert forces to rescue to 6-year-old, as the UFOesque balloon designated 3DLAV rose to 1000s of feet over the high plains. The missing whippersnapper was later discovered in his garage to the relief of his parents.

The family had survived a previous brush with fame through their appearance on the reality TV show WIFE SWAP. The title is self-explanatory and some reporters suspect a hoax by the father.

"In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." - Andy Warhol

And then some even get a second shot at it.

15 plus 15.

Almost a half-minute.

Certainly more than me.

ps the balloon family's name is Heene.

Health Plan 2009


Olympia Snowe, the GOP senator from Maine, broke with her political compatriots to vote for the Democratic Health Plan. The threat of socialism didn't scare her DownEast constituency. 77% of Americans want a change in the present health system dominated by private insurers. The GOP don't get it. All they see is pinkos behind every nigger. Always have and I'm one of those pinkos, however I never get sick which is amazing for a hypochondriac.

No colds. No flus. No fevers.

My only visits to hospital were at birth and for sixteen stitches at Banglamung Hospital. A bad motorcycle accident. The other driver fled the scene. He was Thai. For a day I thought he might have been my first wife's lover. I'm insured for a million baht. My paranoia was ill-directed. He hadn't been in town that day.

The cost for that care was less than a $100.

In USA it would have been in the thousands and at present like millions of other Americans I have no coverage for health care.

"You have to get health care." Richie Boy stated as we drank at a bar. He's my boss and normally should be paying for this luxury, however I remain uninsured. Next year this could be against the law, but for the moment I treat my health the only way I can afford.

With beer.

Not too many for I believe in excess in moderation.

At 57 I have no other choice.

Bless you Olympia Snowe.

I'm from Maine too and you make me proud that you shunned the power of the mighty Russ Limbaugh.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Smart Guys Finish Last Too


I won a scholarship to high school. Bad grades forced the principal to rescind the award. My diploma from university read 'sin laude' or without honor. Few of my employees have remarked about my intelligence, although Manny likes to say, "You're a smart person."

Anytime he says those words I realize that he's about to blow smoke up my ass.

At best I'm a pseudo-intellectual tempered by a healthy touch of cynic hypocrisy, which suits my purposes well in New York City. Every year the graduates of the best schools in the world gravitate to Manhattan for their stab at fame and fortune. For decades their designs were diverse, however the rising costs of living on this fabled isle required more and more of these recruits to join the world of finance.

The brightest and the best on Wall Street.

The odds seemed stacked for an unheard of bull market and throughout the earlier part of the 21st Century the Down Jones rose despite 9/11, two foreign wars, a debasement of the dollar, and the exodus of industry from our native shores. Derivatives and sub-prime mortgages were the invention of these great minds from ivy collages and MIT. No one understood them, but bet their houses on these innovations.

Oops.

The geniuses weren't as smart as we thought and yesterday Calvin Trillin wrote an op-ed piece in the New York Times placing the blame for the collapse on Wall Street not on the old boy system, but a newer suspect for the all-points bulletin.

The intelligent new-comer.

To read this article click on the following URL For a related article click on this URL


http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/14/opinion/14trillin.html

These geniuses look so lost in New York, but they wouldn't have survived a second in the 1970s. Even Manhattan was too scary for these square-state born back then.

PEACE OF MIND / Blue Cheer RIP Dickie Petersen


North Dakota was a wasteland for rock and roll and the heavy-metal pioneers Blue Cheer deserted the badlands for San Francisco in 1966. Their first and really only hit SUMMERTIMES BLUES hit #11 on the charts in 1968. They were loud. In fact the group achieved the Guinness Books record of loudest band at a free concert. Hundreds of people complained of burst eardrums. On one occasion at the Kinetic Playground venue in Chicago Blue Cheer terminated the show because the rear wall collapsed thanks to the volume and people left with their ears bleeding. I never saw them but respect their power and even to this day love the raw talent on their LPs.

Play it loud for Dickie Petersen.

He passed away today at the age of 61.

No one ever put all the leads into the amp until him.

110dB.

All the way.

To listen to PEACE OF MIND click on this URL

www.youtube.com/watch?v=nLAShtHvAvI&feature=related

Why are Raincoats Yellow?


And westerners ask my Arab women wear chadors.

Common decency of course.

Peacenik Pension


My older brother likes to tell a story at holiday dinners about my protesting against the Viet-Nam War. His version goes something like this.

"I was entering the commons and a group of anti-war demonstrators were lying on the ground pretending to be Vietnamese dead. I look down and there's my brother. I said 'hi' as I stepped over him."

I've been psychologically scarred each time my older brother tells this tale. Partially since I can't recall the incident and somewhat hurt that he would not join me. Now my pain is nothing in comparison to the suffering of Agent Orange victims denied health care by the Pentagon or the parents of Vietnamese infants deformed by the Dow Chemical product. but the pain exists, especially as my efforts were not rewarded with true peace. Instead Le Doc Tho and Henry Kissinger negotiated a faux peace and the war continued to its inevitable end ie the fall of the corrupt Saigon government.

Undeterred by my defeat I have protested against every US incursion and war since my conversion to anti-violence in 1968. This pacific attitude was strictly relegated against the military-industrial complex, for I've always liked a good fight. even into my 50s.

Still my stance against the wars of this country has led to a campaign aimed at establishing a pension for long-time anti-war activist. My letters to the White House were ignored during the Bush years. Father and son. Clinton's staff never returned an answer too. My petition was as popular with the Obama administration as a parole request from Leonard Peltier, the AIM activist sentenced to life for the cold-blooded murder of 2 FBI agents.

I'm not asking for much.

Just enough to allow my living in Thailand.

A mere $2000/month pension.

Peace Now.

Saying it a million times has to be worth something.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Where do we go from here?


“The conventional army loses if it does not win. The guerrilla wins if he does not lose.”

Henry Kissinger

So where do we go from here?

My suggestion is home.

All of us and now.

See yah.

Fun without Borders


Prostitution is illegal in Thailand, yet millions of men visit the nation to meet women. The whole world has heard of such sex entrepots as pattaya and nana Plaza, but few realize that the trade exists within the country and at the borders too, especially to the south beneath the restive province of Pattani and Yala.

Every night hundreds of Muslim men, if not thousands, pass through Thai customs to escape the Sharia law imposed on them by the Islamic councils. Beer, disco, girls, because some of these men want their paradise on earth and not in the next.

The Thai girls here prefer Malaysian men. "They don't do anything rude to me. Malaysian men only drink when they are partying and want to enjoy. Thai men drink as routine".

Sungai Kolok has survived the five-year war in the south. Bombs have torn the streets and threats have been issued by the insurgents. faced with death the customers keep coming in droves. Only this month a car bomb killed 4 near a hotel.

Death or disco?

In Sungai Kolok the vote for disco is obvious.

Disco will never die.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Another Farang Bites the Dust


Years ago I was stranded in Penang. My Italian girlfriend took off with my airline ticket. She called to say it was a mistake, but never posted the ticket. This was before ATMs and cellphones. Bank transfers took several weeks. Luckily my father said that he would take care of the matter. He was is and will be my best friend. I waited at the Swiss Hotel on Chulia Street. It was cheap and cheerful. during the day I wandered through Penang and one day stumbled out of the mid-day heat into the foreign cemetery. The gravestones dated back into the 19th Century. The causes of death were clearly etched in big letters. Malaria. Typhus. The Flux. Westerners died in droves.

The same is true today.

More farangs die in Thailand than any other country only the causes of death are not disease. Most exit this world thanks to misadventure and last week 'that farang speaks 2 much' reported on the unusual death of a Pattaya nightclub owner. The police recorded his demise due to a bread roll a la Mama Cass of the Mamas and Papas.

Most of his friends suspected the cause of death at the Lido Hotel Guesthouse was something more nefarious. The Bangkok coroner entered the cause of death as the deadly bread. fingers were pointed at his common-law wife. In most cases the person with the most to gain from the murder. The police like to keep things simple and stupid.

"Dead men tell no lies."

Especially with bread in their mouths.

For more

http://www.tfs2m.com/pattaya/2009/10/09/coyotees-t-j-hawley-died-of-asphyxiation-while-choking-go-go-bar-closed-permanently/

To live or die in Pattaya.

I like to see the dawn. Several decades more of them too.

So sleep with an eye open and keep that door locked from the inside.

The life you save might be your own.

Women's English / Men's English


Yes = No

No = Yes

Maybe = No

We need = I want

I'm sorry = You'll be sorry

We need to talk = You're in trouble

Sure, go ahead = You better not

Do what you want = You'll pay for this later

I'm not upset = Of course I'm upset, you moron

You're very attentive tonight = Is sex all you think about?

MEN'S ENGLISH

I'm hungry = I'm hungry

I'm sleepy = I'm sleepy

I'm tired = I'm tired

Nice dress = Nice cleavage

I love you = Let's have sex right now

I'm bored = I'd like to have sex with you

May I have this dance = I'd like to have sex with you

Can I call you some time = I'd like to have sex with you

Do you want to see a movie = I'd like to have sex with you

Can I take you out to dinner = I'd like to have sex with you

Those shoes don't go with your dress = I'm gay

This lesson in political incorrectness comes from the ever-popular Nick Adams ex of Pattaya.

Thanks wanker.

ila jaheem ma'ik


ila jaheem ma'ik means 'go to hell' in Arabic, which is what most Arabic men might feel about the previous entry. Firstly most Arabs are not terrorists. Secondly some Arab men drink beer. Lastly most American men would flee in terror at the sight of a 300-pound naked American woman.

"Run for the hills before they dose you with Viagra."

Then again some guys like fat.

When I was working at the Milk Bar, a taxi would pull up across the street, every night around midnight. A couple would get out. The male weighing 140. The woman over 300. He was so in love with her and she treated him like shit. We couldn't figure it out, although Big Joel said, "Some men like a woman with a little meat."

A little meat.

This woman was mostly fat.

Another useful Arabic expression is 'kharrah ibina' or WTF.

WALK NAKED IN AMERICA DAY


DON'T FORGET ABOUT NEXT SATURDAY!

Don't forget to mark your calendars. As you may already know, it is a sin for a Muslim male to see any woman other than his wife naked. He must commit suicide if he does.

So next Saturday at 4 PM Eastern Time, all American women are asked to walk out of their house completely naked to help weed out any neighborhood terrorists. Circling your block for one hour is recommended for this anti-terrorist effort.

All patriotic men are to position themselves in lawn chairs in front of their house to prove they are not Muslims and to demonstrate they think its okay to see nude women other than their wife and to show support for all American women.

Since Islam also does not approve of alcohol, a cold 6-pack at your side is further proof of your anti-Muslim sentiment. The American government appreciates your efforts to root-out terrorists and applauds your participation in this anti-terrorist activity.

God bless America !

It is your patriotic duty to pass this on. If you don't send this to at least 5 people, you're a terrorist-sympathizing, lily-livered coward and are in the position of posing as a national threat.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Thai Temples


Thai Buddhist temples are ornate offerings to the Way of Buddha. This temple still has to be painted with red and gold. An eye-stopper.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

SEX SEX SEX


Scandal loves scandal and Roman Polanski's arrest in Switzerland has caused several famous people to speak when they should have shut their mouths. Woody Allen came out in support on the Oscar-winning director. An old man who married his adopted teenage daughter. Not the best support and things got worse, as France's Culture Minister criticized the extradition process against Polanski only to have his name besmirched for having written a book about having sex with young rent-boys in SE Asia. Most politicians would have run for cover, however France's outspoken Prime Minister praised the 2005 book BAY BOY.

Sex sells, although not in the USA.

We'll be seeing Roman soon enough.

Jill St. John


Jill St. John went out with Henry Kissinger.

“Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.” - Henry Kissinger.

It must have been for the sex.

War Criminal #1


Kissinger also won the Nobel Peace Prize.

No one on the committee said a word about the secret bombing wars in Laos or Cambodia.

The dead number in the millions.

Watch Football Hear No Evil Eat Potato Chips


America is the Land of the Free as long as what you say, see, or hear is only what the government wants its citizens to say, see, or hear. This Orwellian bargain was highlighted this week by Congress' redlighting the release of 21 photographs of prisoner abuse by the US military. The Obama administration offered the excuse of conflicting interests as the publication of these incriminating photos would interfere with a ACLU lawsuit, but more importantly the decision up to this point has been made by the Secretary of Defense, who cites a provision in the freedom of Information Act, which prevents the release of any information that might cause a threat to the public safety..

The Defense Secretary is an appointed member of the government.

No one in America elected Robert Gates to this post.

He is a hold-over from the previous regime of GW Bush.

The photos are an indictment of torture and reveal the widespread system of detainee abuse condoned by GW Bush and Dick Cheney and their staffs.

Abu Ghabi was not an aberration.

And neither can the US public be certain that the Pentagon and CIA aren't using torture on detainees throughout their covert empire.

The freedom of speech means the freedom of speech.

There are no exceptions.

WHY I MISS JUNKIES by Peter Nolan Smith

(published in OPEN CITY MAGAZINE 2002)

Most New Yorkers depend on air-conditioning to survive the summer, unfortunately AC for me always felt, as if a dirty old man from the Arctic who isn’t Santa Claus was breathing down my neck, plus I actually like the heat. I can tolerate anything under 92 with a fan and a couple of cold beers. Anything warmer necessitated multiple baths in my kitchen tub and the drinking countless liters of water, however as July 1999 stretched into its second week of body-sapping heat I had to admit defeat. I needed cold.

Renting a car and driving someplace less tropical was not an option, since the entire coast from Block Island to Cape Hatteras was blanketed by the same oppressive mugginess and the meteorologists forecasted no relief till the end of the week. My bank account held enough money for a small 6000 BTU AC and I staggered out of my apartment with only one purchase on my mind.

The nearest appliance store was on 14th Street. It seemed out of range in the pitiless heat and I stood dazed by the brittle sunlight of East 10th Street, until someone called my name.

Sweat stung my eyes and I blinked several times.

Crazy John was exiting from the Russian Baths. His long white hair was wet and his papery skin was flushed red from the long sit-down in the baths. He walked, as if his feet had no bones.

“You weren’t schvitzing today?” I loved the baths, but not in the summer.

“Why not? It’s so hot inside the steam room that this temperature is almost chilly.” Crazy John was a junkie. Their blood ran cold as snakes. “You should try it.”

“No way.” I was scared of heat implosion. “I need to get cool.”

“Why don’t you go swimming in the East River?” His eyes were the color of mercury.

“The East River?” Every day New Yorkers drive by, over, and under the East River. Its broad tidal stream touches the lives of millions. Lovers wander along its banks, tourist ships cruise its waters, fishermen cast for blues from FDR Park and kayakers shoot the outbound tide off Roosevelt Island, yet since moving to Manhattan in 1975 I recollect anyone ever swimming in that river, except for the Dead End Kids in the movies.

“Sure, there’s a peninsula of rubble on East 20th Street.” Crazy John had millions, but lived on the streets. My uncle Carmine was letting him live for free behind his building. Crazy John said he would pay Carmine a fortune for this favor. Carmine’s wife and I were not so sure.

“I see where you mean.”

”So billions of gallons of sea water flush the river every day. My friends tell me it’s okay. Better than riding all the way to the Rockaways or the Hamptons. Give it a try and let me know. ”

He sauntered off to 1st Avenue without breaking a sweat.

Bathing in the East River was a mad idea, for it had been used it as a sewer for more than a century. The river couldn’t be clean, but I returned to my apartment and changed into shorts and reef-walkers. The AC could wait.

Hitting the street again, I threw a towel over my shoulder and headed east. No one dared to play basketball on the frying pan of Tompkins Square Park. Old men in tank tops listlessly played dominos on East 13th Street, while a pack of children scampered through the spray from a fire hydrant. I resisted succumbing to its temptation and slogged past the Con Ed power station. The river wasn’t far now.

An elevated section of the FDR Drive shaded a cluster of improvised shelters. The inhabitants lay on cardboard boxes, as if they were exhausted from praying for winter. Come January they wouldn’t be so happy about their dreams coming true. Mine was across the access road I ran to the chain-link fence guarding the river from the city.

The water was a cold green plain separating Manhattan from Brooklyn. A tour boat steamed upstream and two jet skis skated across its foaming wake. Their drivers wore wet suits and laughed like they were having a good time. I breathed air scented by the evening tide and hurried to 20th Street.

It was just like Crazy John had said.

Several old-timers basked on a narrow spit of beach extending thirty feet from the stone embankment. Sea gulls perched on the waterlogged stumps of a forgotten pier. The lap of waves dampened the hush of traffic on the FDR and I climbed over a railing to a rock slick with algae. The water emanated a chill and I tested the temperature with my foot. It was cold and I inched into the river. My feet explored the bottom. Anything could be stuck in the sand. Waist-deep was far enough and my body was cooling down from the heat. I would have turned around, except a head popped from the river. It was a man and he wiped the wet from his eyes. The swimmer smiled and sensed my hesitation. “C’mon in, the water’s great.”

“Jamie?” I recognized the voice and the face.

“Way you say that makes me think you thought I was dead.” Jamie stood up like he was tottering on an unsteady perch. He was missing a few teeth and his beard was a grizzled gray, but he was unmistakably alive instead of dead from a series of ODs, fights, and freak outs. “I’m too crazy to die, but I heard you died too. Something about a bike crash in Burma.”

“It was more a near-death experience than the real thing,” I hung my shirt along with my towel on a stump.

>“Hey, those are the worst kind.” Jamie was as wiry as a meth addict’s pit bull.

“Is it really okay?” A flotilla of plastic bags floated past him.

His skin was clear of any rashes. “It ain’t the Riviera, but it’s better than Coney Island with a million people pissing in it.”

“Maybe.” Goose bumps popped on my flesh. It did feel good.

“If the water looks clean and smells clean, then there’s a good chance it won’t kill you.” Jamie swam on his back. “Don’t be a chicken.”

Those words spurred my diving under the water. The cool wet spoke of Labrador and Greenland. Nothing disgusting touched my flesh and I rose from the shallows refreshed by the plunge.

“So what you think?” Jamie raised his arms above his head. The tracks within his arms were on the mend. He almost looked healthy. He examined me too and I said, “Almost as good as Jones Beach.”

“Hey, why shouldn’t it? It’s the ocean. Only don’t swallow any of it?” Jamie glided on his back and the current tugged him away from the shore. He broke free with a frantic flurry of flailing arms and kicking feet. Reaching me, Jamie said, “Damn, it’s dangerous. Exciting too.”

“I have to admit it’s nice swimming in the city.”

“’They’ forbid us from doing it.” His tone made no bones about who ‘they’ were. “A friend of mine dove off the helicopter port. The authorities decided he was a suicide. The fire department and police tried to rescue him. He kept on doing the Australian Crawl. Hah. Even the divers were scared to enter the river. It’s not too bad after you’re used to it.”

“Where you been lately?”

Pedestrians stood by the embankment and gaped at us. It might be another ten years before normal people chanced swimming in the river. They walked away shaking their heads.

“The Bellevue doctors diagnosed me as manic-depressive and I wasn’t in any condition to argue. Upstate I discovered the State was hiding hundreds of madmen and women in these abandoned nut houses. Most of them not really crazy. Only homeless.”

“What do you mean?” I was suspicious of conspiracy theories from avowed maniacs.

“You wonder where those Squeegee men went? No, cause you were too happy with them off the streets.”

Very few New Yorkers missed the hordes of beggars and mumbling madmen, although their near-extinction posed a very sinister mystery. “I figured the Mayor had hired a death squad from Columbia to kill them.”

“He’s too cheap to pay more than the price of a bus ticket.”

An old man shouted from a bike. Jamie waved to him and threaded his way through the debris-strewn bottom to the beach.

“Friend of yours?” I waded to shore, careful not to step on a broken bottle.

“I met Dynamite upstate. Once was a fighter. He took a couple of punches too many.” Jamie picked up a torn tee-shirt.

“You want me to meet him?”

“Dynamite’s a little touchy around strangers.” Jamie motioned for me to stay in the water. “He should be getting help, but they emptied the hospitals, cause the mayor’s running for Senate and can’t piss off those upstate hicks, so you’ll be seeing lots more of my friends.”

“I’ll keep my eyes out for them.”

Jamie waved good-bye and climbed the embankment to the old man. Poseidon had a claim on my soul and I backstroked with the current into the river. I was exhilarated by this simple pleasure, until the wake from a tourist boat filled my mouth with water.

The passengers pointed at me and I imagined their saying I was mad or re-enacting that episode from SEINFELD in which Kramer swam the East River.

“Squares don’t know how good it is.” Jamie yelled from the road.

I saluted him with a raised fist and returned to the decrepit spit of debris. The sun dried my skin in seconds and I sniffed my arm. It smelled clean, but a bath was more than likely not a bad idea. I didn’t buy an AC and the next day the weather returned to normal.

Survivable.

Best was having achieved a feat few New Yorkers could fathom and this exhilaration increased each time my friends’ faces warped with disbelief upon hearing about this exploit. I fought off a grin, since I hadn’t witnessed such boldfaced distaste since the grammar school nuns had condemned my wearing a leather jacket to Mass.

I swam a few of more times in the East River without running into Jamie.

Summer rounded the homestretch into September and his prediction bore fruit. New legions of homeless people begged quarters and harangued passers-by with demented litanies. Most East Villager ignored them in the hopes they would disappear with the change of the season, mostly because the neighborhood wasn’t like it used to be and I couldn’t tell whether it was for the better or worse.

School was back in session and one afternoon I stood on 3rd Avenue in awe of the passing parade of NYU students. The boys wore their hair like boy bands and the girls groomed themselves as if they were seeking employment as a shopping mall mannequin. They watched too much MTV and drank too much Coke. Happiness beamed from their clean faces and their joy infected with a safety of the suburbs.

Tears broached the dikes at the corners of my eyes.

I missed the gap-toothed smiles of the needle-tracked 12th St. whores, the gravity-defying acrobatics of Union Square’s Valium addicts, the ravaged face of William Burroughs shambling through Grand Central, Johnny Thunders falling off his stool, and the constant patter of drug dealers on my corner. My nostalgia was scary, since the bad from those times was so much more memorable than the good.

The traffic light switched to green. Students rushed past the ‘don’t walk’ signal, which I might have obeyed forever, if Jamie’s gravelly voice hijacked me back to the present. “Nothing stays the same.”

“No one said they do.” I turned to face him.

“Remember the way it used to be.” He pointed up 3rd Avenue. “In the parking lots prostitutes worked out of decrepit vans.”

“Now they’re college dorms.”

“Farther along the street were pawnshops, a gay peepshow theater, and a couple of porno parlors.” Jamie looked worse than the last time. His unwashed clothes smelled from a distance.

“Now sushi shops and beer halls for the students.” I breathed through my mouth.

“Shit, the director of TAXI DRIVER filmed at that SRO hotel on 13th Street.” Yellowing bruises discolored his face and he was missing a front tooth. His hand deftly covered his mouth and slipped on a cap to fill the gap. “Man, this neighborhood was fucked up. Junkies, sluts, people down on their luck.”

“Not anymore.” His sidewalk preaching was attracting too much of the wrong attention and I crossed the street.

Jamie followed, speaking with a belligerence better saved for the start of a fight. “I hate these kids. They wear helmets bicycling and condoms for sex. They stare like we didn’t belong in the East Village. It’s them that don’t belong.”

“Perhaps we’re too old.” I led him onto Stuyvesant Street. There were less people on the tiny square.

“The little stick-pussies pretend they’re us.” Jamie snarled at two teenage punks. “They’d survive about one second where I sleep at night.”

They’re kids.” I had been young once.

“if I ran a gang of thieves, pickpockets, conmen, and grifters, I rip these spoiled brats off for every last penny and send them crying to their fat-ass parents.”

The idea of a Fagin gang raping the rich was a psycho-flame not needing any gasoline, but I asked, “Little angry this afternoon, Jamie?”

“Damn right.” His eyes twitched without focus. “I finished a weekend bid in jail.”

“For what?” Knowing him it could have been anything.

“This film crew was tearing branches off a tree blocking their fucking shot. I told them to stop and they ignored me. I punched out the producer and was arrested for trying to save a tree.”

“That’s very green of you.” I like saving the planet too, though not enough to go to jail.

“I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the tree, but I hate film people making believe like the shit they film is the truth.” Jamie was waving his hands in the air to catch imaginary flyballs. “Then I get out and find out they jailed Dynamite. Shit, he ain’t killing people with tobacco or brainwashing people’s minds with advertisements. Only ranting about a fight he might have lost twenty years ago and if that’s a crime, they’d throw all the assholes talking on cellphones in jail too. I wish I had a hockey stick to slapshot them off their ears. I mean who are they talking to anyway? Dynamite’s crazy talk made it safe for straights to speak on phones like they were communicating with Martin Scorsese. Why they have to bust Dynamite? He’s only a drunk. The cops, they don’t care, cause they have orders to protect these fucks’ pretty little world.”

Jamie seized my arm. His fingers bit into my bicep and I pried them loose. It wasn’t easy. “You gotta calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” Jamie spun around, as if a sudden spurt of vertigo might shift the time twenty years into the past.

“Then don’t calm down.”

“Calm, not calm.” Jamie staggered to the fence around a weedy garden. “You gotta remember why this ain’t how it was. Why nothing is the same it was after the night they took Hakkim away.”

“Hakkim?”

“You remember Hakkim?”

“How could I forget?” His sanity depended on my answer.

“And the night they took him away?”

“We were at the Horseshoe Bar on Avenue B.”

“Good, you haven’t forgotten.” He stood up straight. “Sorry, I lost it, but I get a little crazy, if my blood sugar gets low. They still have egg creams at the Gem Spa?”

A family of Pakistani might have taken over the newsstand, but the recipe was as old as the neighborhood. “Same as ever.” “I drink one of those and I’ll be good. You have money?”

A warning accompanied my two dollars. “You go crazy and you’re on your own.”

“Hey, I’m just having an egg cream.” The evaporation of his rage left him a fragile shell. “You mind coming with me?”

“What are friends for?” I walked him to the corner of St. Mark’s.

“Good to see something’s still the same.” He turned and said, “Do me a favor.”

“What?” I hoped he wasn’t thinking about robbing the Gem Spa.

“For once it’d be nice for someone to wait around, instead of running away.” He almost sounded like a runaway. “Can you do me that solid?”

“Hurry up.” While I didn’t owe him any favors, I couldn’t see refusing this small boon. I waved him inside and examined the street to recall what else had been here twenty years ago than the corner newsstand. In truth very little. The St. Mark’s Cinema was a Gap, the Orchida serving pizza and liter beers had been replaced by an Italian restaurant, the Baths were now Kim’s Video and those were only places.

Faces were also missing.

Steven Pines OD, Carol Smith OD, Johnny Thunders OD, Clover Nolan disappeared into East Berlin, Klaus Nomi and Steve Brown of AIDS. Thousands more moved out to regular lives in the suburbs and hundreds left for LA dazed by the promise of stardom.

I had gone nowhere.

My apartment on East 10th Street had been my home since 1977.

>Back then East Village resembled ancient Rome a week after the Huns had sacked the city. Apartment buildings were abandoned by indebted landlords. Other tenements had been torched for insurance and the rest were rattraps overrun by cockroaches with buckling walls and no heat. The Ninth Precinct had unofficially declared east of 1st Avenue a ‘no-go’ zone and thieves, whores, chicken-hawks, hustlers, rapists, scammers, junkies and deviants contested our right to live in the East Village. It was dangerous, but my hillbilly girlfriend from West Virginia loved the album cover pose of the New York Dolls in front of the Gem Spa and we weren’t the only ones. This was the center of the universe for punks, musicians, artists, runaways, B-grade models, painters, dancers, actors, and sculptors repopulating the burnt-out neighborhood.

It didn’t last long.

Nowadays the politicians, the cops, the shop owners, and the nouveau-riche claim responsibility for the East Village’s rebirth, however the improvement was determined by one criminal’s absence and if anyone tells you different, it’s because they never met Hakkim.

>A scumbag like him comes around once in a generation.

July 1, 1977 was not a day for moving. It was hot, but my hillbilly girlfriend was eager to start our new life and we loaded five boxes crammed with books, clothing, stereo, and a black-and-white TV into a taxi for the cross-town trip.

The driver emphatically refused to go any farther than 1st Avenue.

>We lost the argument and unloaded our stuff onto the sidewalk.

A flurry of near-naked children played in the spray from a hydrant, their parents lounged on the steps, and old men played dominoes on milk crates. This rendition of a Jacob Riis photo was why my girlfriend and I wanted to move here and I kissed her. “Guess we’re home.”

“No, home is upstairs.” She beamed and lifted a box. I tried to manage the other four. One toppled onto the sidewalk. Two scrawny kids offered to help and my girlfriend whispered, “Can we trust them?”

“We let them help and no one will think we’re stuck-up white people trying to evict them from their neighborhood?”

I handed them each a dollar and she frowned in disapproval of my bride. The kids joked about us being Mr. And Mrs. Opie, then fell silent at the door to our new address. A pockmarked junkie lay slumped before the door and the taller kid said, “That’s George. He ain’t dead, just fucked up.”

I nudged the comatose junkie with my foot.

As he slumped from the doorway, an enraged voice shouted, “Who the fuck are you to kick George?”

The two kids dropped the boxes and ran toward 1st Avenue. The kids in the spray of the fire hydrant scurried to their parents, as a bare-chested black man crossed the street. He wore jean shorts too tight for his muscular build and his eyes bellowed with yellow fury. This was not a joke.

>My girlfriend stood behind me and I said, “I didn’t kick him.”

“You callin’ me a liar, you white piece of shit?” he snarled from the bottom of the steps.

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t look him the eyes.

“Too late for sorrys. You’re fucked.” The veins on his neck pulsed with thick throbs of blood, as he clomped up the steps in his army boots. “I’m gonna to kick your ass.”

Countless scraps with Southie boys had taught me the value of not fighting fair and I threw the boxes at his chest. Their weight knocked our neighborhood greeter off balance and his body slammed onto the sidewalk. The crack of his head on the pavement echoed off the opposite building. He didn’t move and a trickle of blood seeped from under his head. The street grew very quiet.

George rose from his slumber and stared at his friend. “Hakkim, what you done to Hakkim? You fucked yourself good. Hakkim gonna come for you and your little girlfriend. Take your clothes, TV, jewelry and fuck her.”

Anyone stupid enough to threaten you without throwing the first blow deserved a beating and I kicked him in the head. My girlfriend stopped me before I hospitalized him. “We better leave before the police come.”

I carried our boxes to our third-floor flat.

That night I lay awake on the futon waiting for Hakkim’s revenge.

A little past 3AM my girlfriend lulled me to sleep. “Nothing is going to happen tonight.”

Birds singing in the alley woke us and we made love on a dusty futon. We took a bath in the kitchen tub. She washed me and I dried her. We made love again with the sun streaming into the apartment. When I went to buy groceries, the domino players across the street greeted me with a wave. Hakkim appeared that afternoon sporting a stained head bandage and George possessing a black eye and a swollen cheek. Their eyes followed me, but neither man tried to attack me that night or any other.

Their unexpected leniency didn’t curtail their reign of terror against the neighborhood. Two models, Valda and Mary Beth, moved into an apartment across the street. The two models heeded my warnings about Hakkim and installed theft-proof grills on the windows.

For several weeks they were spared the unwelcome wagon treatment, but only because Hakkim had been busy elsewhere.

One night they returned home to discover Hakkim had chopped through the walls, stolen their money, defecated on their beds, and threw their clothes into the street. They moved out the next morning.

My friend, Kurt, devised the unusual strategy of leaving his door unlocked.

“I have nothing worth stealing.” He upped this security measure by refusing to clean the apartment, throwing pizza rinds onto the growing pyramid of trash in the corner. “That’s all I have and, if anyone wants it, they can have it.”

A lack of cleanliness was meaningless to a criminal so far removed from godliness as Hakkim and one day I spotted him wearing a jacket Kurt had buried under a pile of Chinese take-out boxes. Observing my horror, Hakkim warned ominously, “I been waitin’ for you. Waitin’ real patient for a piece of your girlfriend too.”

After hearing of Hakkim’s threat, my hillbilly girlfriend thrust the Village Voice in my chest. The weekly was folded to the APARTMENT FOR RENT section and she didn’t mince words. “Find us an apartment quick. I don’t care where as long as it’s not East 10th Street.”

I called the landlord of a one-bedroom in Grammercy Park.

It was available and my girlfriend said, “Go over and sign the lease.”

“Right away.” Our experiment with urban pioneering was nearly at an end.

No one on 10th Street was strange, yet I’d witnessed enough weird shit in one month and I walked to hail a taxi on 1st Avenue expectin the worst.

Loud shouting rang from the corner.

Hakkim and another junkie were arguing about the number of apartments they had vandalized and robbed. Hakkim saw me. My eyes narrowed and he laughed, “You gonna throw down on me? You a punk bitch same as the rest of ‘em. I own you all.”

It was two-on-one. Almost fair odds. I snatched a two-by-four out of the trash and charged after Hakkim. He scrambled between two tightly parked cars and I swung at his head. He ducked under the killing blow and stumbled into the avenue. His escape was cut off by a Daily News truck. Its fender sent Hakkim flying fifty feet in the air. He landed on the other side of the street, a bone audibly snapping, and his body tumbled to rest. The other junkie stared at him sprawled on the pavement.

I expected him to blame me for causing this terrible accident.

Instead he rifled through Hakkim’s pockets and cried out with joy upon discovering several glassine packets of dope, then ran east spreading the news that Hakkim was dead.

Long-time residents emerged their apartments and stood over the fallen thief. Only the untimely arrival of a cop car from the Ninth Precinct stopped their revenge. The crowd begged the police to leave the scene. The officers apologized, “Sorry, we have a job. For him as much as you.”

People swore at the cops, as an ambulance carted him to Bellevue, but no one was afraid to pray aloud for their tormentor’s death and that evening people walked on the block with newly purchased TVs, radios, and the stereos. Stuff they wouldn’t buy as long as Hakkim controlled the streets.

“You want to leave?” I asked my girlfriend. The sun was setting in an orange sky. Children were laughing beside an ice cream. She tucked her arm around my waist. “If he’s gone, then we’re still home. You want vanilla or chocolate?”

“Both.”

Flowers sprouted in the beaten ground underneath the trees. Supers swept the sidewalks and music sounded on the street. This miracle’s lasting forever was too much to ask from a place so beyond the pale of civilization as East Village.

Two weeks later I was sitting on the stoep with my upstairs neighbor and his face went white. He had seen a ghost. God might have been above saving his only soon, but turning around I couldn’t make any sense of his sparing Hakkim. The junkie was hobbling down the sidewalk on crutches. His admiring coterie toasted his resurrection by ripping the flowers out of a recently planted garden.

“Hey, you motherfuckers.” Hakkim waved a clump of roots over his head. ”Get ready for a Christmas in the springtime, cuz I been hearin’ you bought a lot of shit for me.”

Everyone shirked his gaze and I shook my head. “I have to move.”

When I broke the news to my girlfriend, she started crying. She wasn’t a baby, but believed Hakkim was coming for her. I did too and took out my five-shot revolver from the closet. It was hardly the most accurate weapon in the world, but if I could get within ten feet of Hakkim, he was a dead man.

Night fell slowly during the first hours of my hunt.

Hakkim wasn’t at Brownie’s or the East Village Artist’s Club on 9th or at any of the shooting galleries on 4th.

I ran into Jamie Parker at the Horseshoe Bar on Avenue B. He pointed to a group of passing Puerto Ricans. “They’re gonna to find Hakkim way before you. He ripped off their bruja. This fucked with their juju or some shit, so have a drink and let them commit murder for you.”

Hunting someone in hot blood gives a man a thirst. I drank a few beers. My mind imaged Hakkim on the ground before me. The gun in my hand. My finger on the trigger. Jamie sensed the rising tide of vengeance and ordered me a shot of whiskey. I pushed away the shot glass. “I need air.”

“Don’t go far.”

I stepped outside. The air was still and the streetlights black. Someone had knocked them out. Running feet slapped against the pavement. It was George. No one was catching the little junkie.

“Who was that?” Jamie exited from the bar.

“Fucking George. Hakkim can’t be far behind.” My hand slipped inside my jacket to the handle of the revolver.

“Help me. Please help me.” Hakkim wobbled along the street on his crutches. “They gonna kill me. Help.”

“Someone call the police.” A gang of Puerto Ricans mocked him.

“Help me.”

Plenty of people were on the street and lots more watching from the windows.

No one answered Hakkim and I tried to cross the street to kick him off his feet.

“This doesn’t concern you.” Jamie restrained me.

>He was right and I watched, while the terror of East 10th Street swung a crutch at four young barrio toughs. They were joined by six more kids carrying pipes.

“Help me for God’s sake.” Hakkim screamed with his head to heaven.

A teenager wearing a black satin shirt mercilessly asked the onlookers, “Anyone want to save Hakkim’s ass?”

The people in the windows shut them. Those on the streets walked away. The courts might accuse us of being accessories to murder, but that night we were a jury giving no other sentence than thumbs down and none of us lost a night’s sleep about out verdict. Not that night or any other.

Jamie emerged from the Gem Spa and finished the egg cream with one long suck. “Damn, that was as good as it ever was.”

“Glad to hear it?” I stepped aside for a quartet of retro punks dressed in new leather. They bumped into me as if to show they were tough.

“Watch who you bump into.” Jamie’s eyes locked on them and they ran off like rats with their tails on fire. He tossed the empty egg cream into the overflowing trash bin. “Punks.”

“Jamie, I didn’t need your help.”

“Didn’t say you did, just my way of saying thanks for not walking away while I was in the store.”

“Jamie, you be careful.” I had someplace to go.

“That might be asking too much?” Reacting to my facial expression, he added, “Don’t worry, you ain’t seen the last of me yet.”

To prove his statement, Jamie strolled across the avenue, daring the traffic to hit him. A cement truck lurched to a screeching halt and he yelled, “See, I’m invulnerable?”

Reaching the other side of the avenue, Jamie stopped to speak with a fat punk girl on the sidewalk. He must have told her a funny line, for she grinned broadly. Jamie extended his hand to help her up. They vanished into the crowd of college students. He was lucky with girls, although it was the luck no one wanted anymore.

In the following weeks I expected to see Jamie again, except he was nowhere to be seen. He might be living in a squat with the fat punk girl. More likely he had lost his temper and the police had thrown him in jail. If not, I hoped he left town and whenever I went to church on 14th Street, I lit a candle for Jamie.

Maybe he’ll return, after he has rested or the neighborhood reverts to its old self. It’s only a warning, because they can’t keep a devil like Hakkim in Hell until Judgment Day especially in New York.