Beauty as a Beast

Lady Caroline Blackwood

"A mermaid who dines upon the bones of her winded lovers."

Robert Lowell husband/poet

Ghouls or Phi on the Loose

If you ask Thais if they’ve seen a ghost, most will timidly say NO, indicating the fear that any mention of a spirit might endanger their luck, yet Thais love horror movies popularized by such famous ghosts such as Phi-pop who eats livers, phi tai hong who died due to violence, and phi kraseu who has a head of intestines.

Thai movies' make-up and FX are naive, but scare the bejesus out of my wife, however these Asian film horrors have nothing on the real people in the USA.

This is a true story.

_________________________________________________

On their way to dig up a grave in rural southwestern Wisconsin, the Grunke brothers and a friend stopped at a Wal-Mart to pick up some condoms, authorities said.

Three days later, on Tuesday, twins Nicholas and Alexander Grunke, 20, and Dustin Radke, 20, were charged in Grant County with attempted theft — and attempting to have sex with a corpse.

“In different schools that teach you about bizarre behavior, necrophilia is one of those things that you hear about, but never think you’ll have to deal with,” said Grant County Sheriff Keith Grovier. A Cassville police officer arrived at the St. Charles Cemetery on Saturday night after a neighbor alerted police to suspicious activity, according to a criminal complaint filed Tuesday.

The officer found an abandoned vehicle parked near the cemetery. Minutes later, the complaint stated, the officer saw Alexander Grunke walking toward the vehicle, dressed in black and sweating profusely.

After being questioned, Grunke told the officer his brother and Radke were trying to dig up a grave, according to the complaint. The two drove into the cemetery to find the partially dug grave of a 20-year-old woman who was killed in a motorcycle accident Aug. 27 in Cassville. The diggers had only managed to reach the top of the grave’s concrete vault.

Nicholas Grunke and Radke were arrested Sunday morning in Beetown, about eight miles from the cemetery. The complaint said Radke told police that Nicholas Grunke had asked him to help dig up the Cassville woman’s body and take it to Grunke’s house, so that Grunke could have sex with it. On the way to the cemetery, Radke said, they stopped by a Dodgeville Wal-Mart to buy condoms “because Nick wanted to use them when he had sex with a corpse,” the complaint added.

Grovier said the three did not know the woman but had seen her picture in a newspaper obituary.

Grovier said the woman was “very well-liked, very popular” in Cassville, a Mississippi River town of about 1,100. “The community is very upset,” the sheriff said. “They can’t believe it.”

What’s amazing about these boys is that they used condoms for safe sex.

I told several Thais this story.

They didn’t believe me, but said the town should have a mor phi or ghost doctor come to save the town from any ghoulish episodes.

_________________________________

Necrophilia is a crime in most states but not all.

Wisconsin is one of them.

Necrophilia should be beyond the pale, however OTTO IV, the Holy Roman Emperor, reputedly slept with his deceased wife for over 17 years. Many courtiers of the Holy Roman Empire said she was faking sleep.

I found a wicked account of a necrophiliac at a bookstore along the River Seine.

THE JOURNAL OF LUCIAN H

This romantic novella about a French man’s exploration of love with the dead doesn’t appear on any Google searches. The tale tells of his falling in love with them after they are dead. He doesn’t abuse them. Sad is his mood, when he has to leave them once the bodies are too far gone. Of course that’s a far cry from Hollywood movies glorifying the dead, but then teenage boys would have to depend on sappy love movies to get girls to hug them in the cinema.

Yech.

Shannon the Easter Bunny

Several Halloweens ago I was sitting in front of Mekong restaurant on Prince Street. It was a warm night. My friends and I watched the parade of costumes. We were having a good time, until a Batman sat next to our lady friend. The Caped Crusader aggressively kissed Jane and then he stole my beer. A Stella. Women were sacred. Beer was holy.

"Jane, you know this guy."

"No." Jane seemed horrified.

I told the intruder to push off and Barman retorted with an unkindly expletive about my age. I was only 47.

"Leave it off." My friends' kids were at the table. I didn't want them to witness a fight, plus my knee was shot from B-ball and I needed a cane to hobble around the streets. Still it was only Batman without Robin or Catwoman, so I said, "This isn't your table."

"Fuck off, you old git." Batman grinned like the Joker.

The word 'git' ended the discussion. Git was my word. I seized Batman's cape and threw him into street. He swung my cane at my head. I grabbed it out of his hand, but he snatched my glasses, running away, "Nah-na-na-nah-na."

It sounded mockily like Stream's hit TELL HIM GOODBYE

I was in no condition to chase him.

Shannon came out of the bar. He was a good decade younger and several inches taller. We were friends since the Milk Bar. He and I played basketball together.

"What's wrong?"

"Batman stole my glasses." I felt a little like the Daredevil. Cane and nearsighted.

"I'll go get him." Shannon loped down the street.

Batman was laughing at the gate to St. Patricks. Shannon told him to give back the glasses. Batman threw a punch. Shannon KOed Batman. One punch. Batman laid on the sidewalk like he was sleeping in Bruce Wayne's bed.

Shannon returned to Mekong and said, "Here's your glasses."

"Thanks."

"I be going." Shannon didn't need to speak with the police.

My hero.

And my money is always on the Bunny Versus Batman.

Acceptable improper Etiquette

'It's one thing to have bad manners, it's good manners to know when not to use them." James Steele

Nearly three years ago GW Bush embarked on a farewell tour of occupied Iraq. A reporter was so incensed by the president's smile and joking that he hurled his shoe at GW Bush. It missed, as did his second shoe. The act is considered an extreme insult in the Middle East.

"This is a farewell kiss from the Iraqi people, you dog."

Security guards hauled the barefooted journalist from the room. His screams was recorded by camera. GW Bush shrugged with a pleased smirk.

"It's a way for people to draw attention."

Muntadhar al-Zaidi was tortured repeatedly during his two-years of incarceration

Beatings with electric cables and iron bars accompanied by endless session of near-drowning in icy cold water.

Al-Zaidi was hailed as a hero upon his release in 2009. An Arab business offered to buy the shoes for $10,000,000. The Pentagon refused to sell and destroyed the relics. GW Bush has been out of office almost two years and tomorrow night the invader of Iraq will throw out the first pitch of the 4th game of the World Series.

Fucking wanker will probably receive a Standing O from his fellow Texans, however I plan to throw my flipflop in the direction of the TV.

A la Al-Zaidi.

Next if no children or women are in the room, I'll turn around and moon the ex-leader of the USA, then cheered for the San Francisco Giants.

They used to play in New York.

To see the Iraqi journalist throw his shoe, please go to this url

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8l9xM5mwN-E&feature=related

Will GW Ever Go Away

"You can pick your nose, you can pick your friends, but you can not pick your friend's nose." Anon

"Unless he has been snorting coke." maybe said by GW Bush 1983 during his contribution to the Contra drug trade.

4Q By peter nolan smith

Coming back to America was a shock after a long absence in Asia.

I was thin in comparison to the tubby NYU students waddling down St. Mark’s Place. They all had food in their mouth. My lower jaw hung slack in shock. This expression of disgust was bound to attract the wrong attention and a familiar voice said, “Pretty damn amazing, isn’t it? How fat everyone is?”

Jamie Parker was looking prosperous in his lightweight Italian suit and also surprisingly fit for a fifty year-old, considering his hard years on the road. Our association went back to the 1970s and shook hands with a warmth reserved for friends who think the other might be dead.

"No one was this fat when we were young."

“I just watched the Rolling Stones’ GIMME SHELTER. The only fat people at the Altamount concert were a naked girl, a Hell’s Angel, and the fat guy that gets stabbed by the bikers.” He spoke like he might have attended the infamous Stones’ show. “Everyone was skinny back then.”

“When did this obesity thing happen?” I couldn’t pinpoint exact moment, but suspected the trend began with the 1968 Moon landing.

“Over a long time, though the religious right considers obesity a deterrent to teen sex.”

“Another preemptive strike.” The War in Iraq was going well for the president, especially since he only read his own press releases.

“Welcome back to the good ole USA.” Jamie had been at my going-away party two years ago. “Looks like it has been treating you well.”

“Oh, I get by.” Jamie explained how he had made a small fortune as an Internet wunderkind after providing scientific proof to the GOP that global warming was due to the planet passing through a warmer section of outer space. “How was Thailand?”

“I’m having a baby with my girlfriend.” “Not bad for a fifty year-old well-unknown poet.” He slapped my back and then lowered his voice as if his conservative supporters might have sicced the FBI on him. “You’re not bringing her back here? I mean America isn’t really America anymore. More like the Land of the Fat and Stupid for picking this president and eating 1000 kinds of potato chips.”

24% of the voting public had elected George Bush and potato chips went good with Velveeta. “People get what they deserve.”

“You know why he got elected in the first place?”

“He was GW One’s son?” My patience for a full-blown LSD-flashback rant was limited.

“You got three minutes?” Jamie clasped my arm like a Twinkie-hungry bear.

“Not really, I have a hair appointment.”

“Yeah, you always had a good head of hair.” He had been balding when I met him twenty-five years ago. “More money is spent on the cure to baldness than AIDS.”

“I thought this was about George Bush.”

“Okay, okay, you know I went to Yale. Got a scholarship for hockey. 1967. Met George Junior a bunch of times. Drank beer, smoked pot, and did some fine CIA cocaine. Anyway I dropped out, enlisted into the military, bounced around Asia, then came back to the States.”

“Jamie, I’ve heard this before.”

“But not this.” He dragged me into the corner newsstand and scurried to the stroke mag section. “You remember Iran-Contra. Well, I knew people in Washington. Knew people in Columbia. The CIA was bringing arms to Honduras and deadheading the empty planes to Fort Chaffee in Arkansas, until someone gets the bright idea that they can finance the entire operation by trans-shipping cocaine. It was all fine and good, but those Spooks had never put their noses to the silver plate and they were getting beat by the Cali Cartel. They needed someone to test it and GB One I volunteered GW to sacrifice his nose for the cause of Liberty. Well, needless to say, snorting coke isn’t fun alone, so old Hoovermatic called in a few friends.”

“You?”

“Yep,” Jamie nodded with a twinkle of an old junkie’s recollection for what had been the ‘good times’. “I did ounces of zoot and should have gotten a Purple Heart for fucking my nose with GWII and Bill Clinton. Yeah, Slick Willy was the governor of Arkansas. Couldn’t keep him away from the stuff. I could have screwed them both, but kept my mouth shut. I actually thought George W would be better than Al Gore. I mean he knew all about Weapons of Mass Destruction?”

“I always thought they were a cover-up for our having sold Saddam the poisons to kill the Iranians. I mean even Donald Rumsfeld never thought they would be used against his own people.”

“Yeah, right, the Iraqis never built shit.” Jamie made a face like I was stupider than some chubby white male who bought an SUV to make himself look thinner. “WMDs were a drink, which took a little of the steam off the Bolivian flake; tequila, cognac, and Moet champagne. A concoction the CIA dreamed up, when they were dealing heroin out of Laos.”

“You’re fucking mad.” Americans hated the French. They had been nice enough to hire me as the physionomiste of the Bains-Douche. I had treated them like dogs and they had loved me for it. I loved France too, but not as much as pizza or America or the baby growing in my girlfriend’s belly. “Jamie, no one cares anymore about what anyone does.”

“You’re right. I’m 4Qed, but what is everyone else’s excuse?” He yelled. “Answer me that. What’s everyone else’s excuse?”

I rushed onto the street and was immediately swarmed by giggling college students, rushing across 3rd Avenue. They were living their dreams. Life was good and the sky was clear. Everyone seemed happy to not question anything and so I ignored Jamie’s last question, because in the Land of the Free and the Brave, the pursuit of happiness trumped all other desires no matter what the bible-thumpers promised the wicked in this life and the next.

Steal and Burn This Book

In 1970 Yippie spokesperson Abbie Hoffman wrote STEAL THIS BOOK, a guide to growing week, communal living, food theft, passing bad checks and a whole slew of revolutionary repossession techniques as well as how to confront the police armed and unarmed. The book hit the bestseller charts in 1971. I stole the guide from a Harvard bookstore. Someone lifted it from me. Pirate Editions the publisher made no profit from me and now I'm suggesting the same tactic for GW Bush's DECISION POINTS.

The former president tells all about his 8 years in the White House including the last time he had a drink.

GW has already received his check.

Now it's time to screw the publisher.

Steal that book and burn it.

It will make you feel good.

Google Goons

"Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men." - Baron Acton 1887

This quote has been proofed by countless megalomaniacs in the years after its inception. Richard Nixon, Mao Tse-Tung, and the Vatican. Their ranks of their legion are limitless and this week Google CEO Eric Schmidt who has said of his company, “We know where you are. We know where you’ve been. We can more or less know what you’re thinking about.”

Google Street View is an all-seeing god manned by the thousands of viewers living lives so meaningless that they spend theirs days and nights as snitches for Google Street View.

Squealers of bad behavior and the Google CEO responded to accusations of Big Brotherism by advising people upset by 24/7 all-seeing eyes to move away from the cameras.

Oh, super-powerful CEO there is another option.

Good people shoot out those cameras.

Only then will the gods be blind.

rat-fink google.

The End is More Neigh Than Before

On Saturday I informed the ex-model from Paris

I m a not a servant of satan
only a rocker.

I thought this reply an olive branch, however the ex-model is resolute in her convictions.

Saturday at 6:38pm
peter if you are not humble and you don't realize that Jesus is all powerful and He died for your sins you will not be prepared for these times......

Saturday at 6:40pm
Peter Nolan Smith tant pis i am humble. i have no aspiration to pretend that I am immortal. life is the wonder. a different view. all sunset change color according to where you stand in the sand

Saturday at 6:48pm
Peter Nolan Smith
do not worry about my soul. its sanctity is intact albeit my sanity is questionable. but you always knew that.

Saturday at 6:49pm
Peter Nolan Smith
off to see KINGS OF LEON

love and peace

Saturday at 6:50pm
you have no spiritual hope, scary.

Saturday at 6:52pm
Peter Nolan Smith
enlightening actually

Saturday at 11:13pm
ex-model
enlightning without the E and stop prating Peter you love listening to yourself prate, get down on your hands and knees and confess your sins before almighty God that you can be washed clean in the blood of the Lamb, its no joking matter... you can scoff now, but there is a special place reserved for people that scoff in the face of the creator of the universe that is willing to bend down and pull you out of your filth that you seem to love
wallowing in..............I say this out of love so that you wont be lost forever, it is horrible to live blinded by satan, and in the end its with satan that you will spend eternity, God isn't laughing Peter He had to see His only beloved son hanging from the cross to buy you back, its a choice you have the freedom to make, oneday you will stand alone before Jesus and you will answer for every idle word, I just hope i am not piling burning coals on your head because you have absolutely no excuse !!!! you HAVE A SOUL and you must consider these things seriously, its my duty to warn you !! LOVE bridget

Peter Nolan Smith
e is oblivion not enlightenment

no joking i am pure of heart

but a firm anti-believer
...
have been since I was a youth.

sorry, but i appreciate the concern.

But I'm really worried about her god not having a sense of humor.

Any god that can not laugh is not worthy of worship.

The End Is Neigh

Riots in Paris, floods in Thailand, the religious right praying to bring the Nazis back to cleanse America.

The born-agains claim this is the End of Time like my good friend, the ex-model from Paris

the ex-model from Paris
Dont mix GOD up with RELIGION
Religious Demons 5-29-10
watchmenradio.podomatic.com
Guest: Pastor John Goguen

Peter Nolan Smith
that was my 58th birthday

the ex-model from Paris
peter please go to God in prayer terrible times are ahead in America the economy is coming down soon, God is leading me to tell you this get very serious time is short, dont be fooled by Satan, internet is going to be shut down lots of love brother when the shit hits the fan just call on Jesus

Peter Nolan Smith
my body and soul are ready for these times
I see the signs too
i m a not a servant of satan

If things get bad, I'm bicycling up to the diamond exchange, opening the safe, getting the two Glocks and bag of gold, and then heading down to the seaport to board the Clipper City. We will sail to salvation and it won't be any fucking 2nd Coming.

The Amnesia of You

“As you get old you forget. As you get older you are forgotten.”

The other day a woman sent a query to my Facebook page.

“Are you who I think you are?”

Cheyne had worked at the Milk Bar as a waitress. Cute mulatto singer from London. 21. I remembered her well. I wrote back that I had worked at the Milk Bar as the doorman. Her reply came as a surprise.

“I’m sorry I worked at the Milk Bar too, but I don’t think you’re the person I was thinking…It was all such a long time ago…Take care.”

Not who I thought you were?

Cheyne must have wiped her memory clean of the night the little Brit accompanied back to my apartment on East 10th Street for a little wine. It was 5am. There was no questioning her purpose, however as we got out of the taxi, she said, “I’ve been here before.”

It wasn’t a case of deja vu. Cheyne had come home with my previous subleasee, a male nurse from Sweden. Ruben was a body builder. He was also into black chicks. A nice guy who always paid the rent on time. The girl entered the apartment and said, “Same as it was only Ruben kept it a little cleaner. You know I was wondering who lived here, but saw the records and figured it had to be some old hippie.”

‘Old hippie’.

Those two words castrated my libido. Cheyne and I did nothing but a little blow. That humbling episode was over 23 years ago. Her epistle on Facebook reveals she has forgotten about me 100% and those two words too. They were a curse, because I still listen to Quicksilver Messenger Service and Jefferson Airplane. I might not have long hair, but I am still an old hippie and a punk too.

I will never forget KICK OUT THE JAMS MOTHERFUCKERS.

Babe Ruth Quote

All ballplayers should quit when it starts to feel as if all the baselines run uphill.

Babe Ruth

Lets Play Two

The Yankee destiny was built on a single trade. The owner of the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to finance a Broadway production of NO NO NANETTE. $200,000 for a flop and a curse lasting 68 years. While the Sultan of Swat might have been the most memorable hitter of the Damn Yankees, their roster starred Hall of Famers like Lou Gehrig, Yogi Berra, Joe Dimaggio, Lefty Gomez, Mickey Mantle, Phil Rizzuto, and Dave Winfield. Mario Riviera and Deter Jeter of the present Bronx Bombers will most certainly enter the Hall of Fame on the first ballot, yet my favorite Yankee will always be Fritz Peterson. The southpaw holds the club record for lowest at the House that Ruth Built at 2.52 ERA. He was the last pitcher to throw the ball at Yankee Stadium before its renovation in 1973. These accomplishments were on the playing field, however his true claim to fame laid with his inter-team swap of wives with his teammate Mike Kekich which culminated with the exchange of wives, children, and even dogs.

"We may have to call off Family Day."

Yankee officials were shocked by this bold sexual freedom and traded the pitcher to the Cleveland Indians in 1974. He ended his career with the Texas Rangers. 8-14 for 1976. He still lives with his teammate's wife.

Maybe Family Day will be called Fritz Peterson day in the future.

Otherwise there remain the Damn Yankees.

Heresy For One Night

The greater part of my life has been spent in New York. Manhattan and Brooklyn. I have never abandoned my support of the Boston Red Sox. My son's name is Fenway. I gave my 1975 World Series Ticket to Harrison, my nephew. SRO was $7.50. When Keith Raywood invited me to the new Yankee Stadium, I wore my Red Sox shirt and cap. The fans gave the finger. I expected nothing less. No one said worse than 'fuck you' and the allure of the playing field detracted zero from my love for Fenway Park.

Yet this evening I found myself rooting for the Damned Yankees.

Down 3-2 to the Texas Rangers.

A better team except it was once owned by GW Bush and I despise 'the monster' more than the Bronx Bombers. In fact I've never really hated the Yankees, since any sports fan will admire perfection.

But not GW 'fucking' Bush.

Sadly the Yankees lost in Texas.

GW Bush is happy tonight.

I only hope that the National League finalist can make him cry like a cheerleader.

See DEBBIE DOES DALLAS.

Chuck Norris # 1

Nothing we write is read. Nothing we say is heard. TV controls all thought. 19% of my visitors go to this page

2010/06/19/movies-tv/chuck-norris-top-ten-list.htm

Mad about Chuck Norris?

There is actually an internet cult based on the legend of Chuck Norris.

Everything fake.

"There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live."

19% of my visits generated by a Chuck Norris blurb. My webmaster suggested writing more stories about Chuck Norris. I googled his name. #4 Jokes about Chuck Norris.

Chuck Norris does not wear a condom. Because there is no such thing as protection from Chuck Norris.

If Chuck Norris is late, time better slow the f*ck down

Some kids piss their names in the snow. Chuck Norris can piss his name in concrete.

I love Chuck Norris.

The next favorite page was about castration in Thailand.

No Thai woman dare try that on Chuck Norris.

Her Royal Humbug

Ebenezer Scrooge infamously declared his opinion of Christmas in Charles Dickens' A CHRISTMAS CAROL with the immortal words, "Bah humbug."

Typically portrayed as a banker, loan shark or lawyer, Scrooge's name is synonymous with miserdom, although Queen Elizabeth II entered the anti-holiday
'bah humbug' by canceling Buckingham Palace's annual Christmas party. The event was paid by the Queen's private funds, although this year her spokesperson or palace lackey explained, "The queen is acutely aware of the difficult economic circumstances facing the country and, given the current economic climate, it was thought that it was appropriate for the royal household to show restraint."

600 guests @ £50,000 ($80,100) or a c-note each.

This year - nothing.

QE2 should change her name to Meryl Streep which is the cockney slang for cheap.

Very cheap.

Adios Los Falklands

Los Islas Malvindas are 250 nautical miles from the Argentinean Coast. The distance between Port Stanley and London is approximately 8000 miles. My friend, Vanessa, represented the Falklanders in the UN. Her duties required two annual trips to that remote South Atlantic archipelego. The voyage was a grueling 40 hours from New York via Chile, since Argentina has banned any flights from the mainland to that contested territory.

In the winter of 1982 a crew of Argentine junk dealers were hired to scrap a whaling station on South Georgia. One drunken night a welder raised the Argentine flag over the wreckage without any comment from the natives. The military government in Beunos Aires seized on this incident to invade the Falklands, figuring to bolster support for their unpopular regime. Thousands enlisted in the army. Troops were committed to the defense of the Las Malvinas. The British Navy sailed from england. Ships were sunk. Planes shot down. Men died in the hundreds for a distant speck of land north of Anarctica. The British Empire retained its possession.

Those battles may soon have been in vain, for David Cameron the UK Prime Minister has announced the decommissioning of the aircraft carrier ROYAL OAK leaving England without a naval striking force for several years. This gap could easily be exploited by the Gauchos, since the Falklands are defended by a company of paratroopers. Tough, but too small a force to defeat an invasion.

So it's adios los Falklands.

And then Ulster.

And then the Jersey Islands.

Until it's Lesser Britain.

Knock off your Soxes

A UK survey exposed that 43% of English men keep on their sox during sex. The findings did not reveal the why, however I lived in London during the autumn of 1977. My girlfriend, Lisa, was a model. Blonde and small-framed, David Bailey liked to photograph her. I think nude. She rented a posh studio by the Chelsea football pitch. The sheet were sea cotton. The duvet filled with goose feathers. Only problem to this paradise was that the heat emitted from a small electric heater fed by a constant stream of 10 pence coins.

Otherwise it was colder than San Francisco in August.

Mark Twain swore that was cold but he should have lived through November in London.

I wore my sox to bed. I wore them having sex. Lisa wore mine too.

Things should have improved in the 30 year interim, however British traditions hang around like old Thai girlfriends. I asked a few Pattaya bar girls about the English’s perchance for sox, “Do your Brit boyfriends wear soxes when having sex?”

“Sex when have sex? Mai chao jai.” They invariably mistook ‘sox’ for sex. Explanation further confused the issue. “No, they wear condom.”

Not on their feet as least.

In America we have an expression, “Knock your sox off.” meaning to be impressed.

Its origins are attributed to the people being knocked out of their sox in pedestrian-vehicular accidents although another source could come from the early days of porno movies, when the male actors wore sox to speed up getting on their shoes if the cops raid the premises.

Feet don’t fails me now.

The only time they took off their sox was when the sex was astounding.

Sexual bliss has nothing to do with the Brits, who probably also don’t take off their soxes because it’s too much of a bother.

MY LIFE WITH A PORNO STARLET #1 by Peter Nolan Smit

NEW YORK 1978

The first time I saw Sherri Conti in a movie theater. The Victory on 42nd Street. She was not in the seats, but up on the silver screen sucking the pizza boy’s cock, while taking it doggie style from the man acting as her husband. Neither man was particularly handsome, cast to resemble their captive audience of porno raincoat fiends.

I had entered the theater to watch the young brunette with a lithe acrobat’s body. A friend had recommended THE ABDUCTION OF CLAUDIA. His critique of her convex ass and pouting belly sold her starlettedom. Her breasts were small, but once the director said 'action, Sherri Conti was unleashed on mankind.

It was obvious that neither man on the screen could handle her succubus. The director was so transfixed by her libertine performance that he only shot one take. Sherri understood the width of the camera's vision. She remained within frame for seven solid minutes.

Releasing the pizza boy’s cock, she glanced over her shoulder at the camera. A pink tongue snaked out to lick at cock-bruised lips, then her hand reached back to part her asscheeks. A pink-brown valley invited more and Sherri moaned, “Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby!”

She dropped her head down onto the pizza boy’s cock, until the head lodged in her gullet. It wasn’t a deep throat, but I had my zipper down and cock in hand mimicking each thrust of the man from behind. Every man in the theater were in unison and we came together, as the pizza boy spattered the brunette’s face with a load of cum and her ‘husband’ blew his wad over her flawless ass.

After leaving the theater I unsuccessfully searched the porno shops for any photos of Sherri Conti. A middle-aged clerk sadly shook his head.

“I know exactly who you’re talking about. I got nothing. That’s her first film, but trust me we ain’t seen the last of her yet.”

Since the porno industry was centered in LA, I figured that I would only see Sherri Conti in the movies or my fantasies.

I would be happy with either.

Three weeks later I was playing the SLASH pinball machine at an after-hour club in the East Village. My fingers twitched over the buttons and my hip banged the machine, as the ball defied gravity beyond any of Newton’s laws. The score fast approached ‘best ever’. The bar, the music, the people, drugs meant nothing. I was heading toward history, then when bumped into the pinball machine to tilt the machine. I was 50,000 short of my goal.

I turned to the right, fists clenched.

"You____"

My mouth stonified upon seeing the brunette in the shag-cut.

Sherri Conti in the flesh.

Her flimsy lingerie barely hid any skin or the fact that she appeared to have just fucked her way through the entire bar. Stiletto heels gave her another three inches of height and she regarded at me imperiously, as she asked, “What are you looking at?”

“You t-t-tilted the machine,” I stammered, but before I could tell her how much I enjoyed her film, she snapped her fingers loud enough to be heard over the Ramones and two gnarly bikers grabbed me by the arms. In less than three seconds I found myself out on the sidewalk, exiled from Eve.

Several thieves lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce on any hapless drunk. I scrambled to my feet to show that I was not worth the trouble. Skanky whores lined Third Avenue and junkies popped into the fleabag hotels for a quick shot. The arctic wind sent a shiver through my body, for I was wearing a thin leather jacket, a tee shirt, and torn jeans. Snow drifted in the air.

I didn’t care about the cold, for I was intent on waiting for Sherri Conti.

She exited a minute later alone.

A tight-high rabbit fur coat covered her near-naked body. A gust of chilled wind blew the bangs off her face. Her eyes coldly examined me before she stepped forward, opening her coat and pressing her fatless body to me. Her teeth nipped at my ear, before she asked breathlessly, “Well, where we going?”

I looked across the street to the Victor Hotel. It was a flophouse, but close. She smiled lewdly, “How romantic!”

“You have a problem with it?” I asked, fingering her ingrown nipples to erection.

“If it was warmer, I’d fuck you right here in the street.” The crude manner in which her hand rubbed my crotch told me neither of us should confuse this moment with love. We didn’t speak crossing the avenue or climbing the hotel’s creaking stairs to room 33. The 40-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling was enough light for the sordid room

Sherri shrugged off the coat and stood with her legs spread. I admired her body for several seconds. Sherri dropped to her knees. Her hands expertly undid my zipper and withdrew my iron-hard cock. One hand gripped my balls. The actress’ mouth slithered onto my shaft like a snake swallowing its prey, proving the scene in the film had not depended on special effects. Her tongue flickered under my cock’s throbbing vein, while her hands wantonly rubbed that nether area behind my balls. Normally I would have shot right then, but she fell back onto the floor and crawled onto the soiled bed.

“Get naked!” the brunette commanded, then swiftly undid her bra and slipped out of her panties. Her hands reached down to her vagina and the fingertips peeled back her labia to reveal a wet slick cunt.

My jacket hit the floor first. I threw my tee shirt in the corner. My pants came down to my knees and I shuffled across the dusty floor to the bed. Kneeling between her legs, my tongue torpedoed into her warm wetness, as my hands wrestled off my boots and jeans.

“Suck on my asshole!” Her middle fingers desperately scratched at her thickening clit.

The tip of my tongue ricocheted off the sides of her inner ass before striking at her wrinkled asshole. Each time I pressed the flat of my tongue to the coppery pucker, the muscle flexed in jerks. Her panting became more frenzied, as my tongue probed through her sphincter like a harpoon. “Oh, yeah, suck it! Suck, my dirty asshole!”

Thinking she needed something more inside, I enlisted my thumb for his anal expedition, only to have her knock my hand away. “Only your tongue. That’s all I need.”

Speechless I couldn’t argue and lapped at her now clean asshole, until she shivered uncontrollably and her free hand seized my hair to pull my face forward. He fingers were a blur on her clit, as she called out, “Oh, yeah, fuck! FUCK! FUCCCCCK!!!”

Her back arched and labia throbbed, as she came with a vengeance. I half-expected her to spend some time regaining her breath, instead she rolled onto her stomach and begged, “Fuck me with your cock! Fuck me like a mercenary!”

Both her hands gripped her ass, so there was no mistaking where she wanted my cock. I stabbed forward and buried my cock, till the head rammed against her cervix. I had never felt so big and she told me the same, cooing, “Oh, baby, it’s so big. Split me in half with that log. It hurts so good!”

I fucked her like a barbarian raping a nun who had been dreaming about her violation all her life. Her pussyjuice dripped from her cunt and formed a creamy froth around my shaft, as the walls of her steaming hole clamped on my member like we were two dogs in heat. The room stunk of her come and I bucked into her hole, as she screamed, “Fuck me harder!”

Someone was banging on the wall, but I kept ramming in and out, until a geyser of sperm boiled out of my balls and erupted from my cock into her cunt. She moaned slavishly, as I milked the last shutters of pleasure from my orgasm. When I rolled onto my side, my heart pounding, my skin sheeted with sweat, and my lungs sucked of any air, she immediately slithered down the bed to slurp up every trace of our mutual slime on my cock and balls. After she was through she licked her lips, then stuck a finger into her slit. Bringing the tip to my lips, I sucked the ooze from her digit. She kissed me with cum-stained lips and said, “You’re sweet. My name’s Sherri.”

“I know. I saw your film ABDUCTION OF JOY.” I groaned, as her fingers stroked my penis back to hardness.

“Oh, that was my first film. I wasn’t any good.”

“You were great.” I squirmed, as she pinched my nipple. I returned the favor, as she squealed, “I bet you say that to all the girls in fuck films.”

“Yeah, all the time.” I wished it was true, but she was the only woman I had ever met who fucked on film.

We fucked two more times before I crashed out between her thighs. When I woke, Sherri was dressed and at the door. I asked, “Where you going?”

“I got to do a film.” She posed like a tart, sticking out her ass before throwing on her coat.

“You need any money for a taxi?” I sleepily reached for my jeans, which seemed farther from the bed than I remembered.

“No, I’m good. We’ll see you around.” Sherri blew me a kiss and the door slammed shut before I could ask for her telephone number. I lay back in bed, then picked up my Levis. Going through the pockets I discovered why she hadn’t needed taxi fare. Sherri had ripped me off for every dollar and penny I had. Pulling on my jeans and boots, I swore madly, then ran out into the street, but person in sight was an old wino crumpled on the corner.

The winter sun was coming up and good citizens were walking to subway. They took one look at me and hurried on their way, because I was in no mood to be judged by squares. Across the street the dregs of the evening were stumbling out of the after-hours club.

I supposed I could have gone inside to see, if Sherri was there, but confronting her in a drug-maddened den of iniquity could prove a little more than dangerous to my health. She had fucked me and fucked me good, so I called it a night and walked home, thinking that she had gotten what she deserved. Next time I would have to make sure it was vice versa and next time wasn’t a long time coming.

Nature Imitating Art

Big Balls of Long John Silver

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Only the Strong Survive

Junkies have traditionally been the strongest members of society. Addicts survive the ravages of a drug existence with guile and sleath. Their bodies survive the catastrophic demands of heroin as if they were impervious to death and now an American woman is trying to exterminate this dominant gene group from rebirth by offering junkies $300 to be sterilized. Project Prevention has bribed 3,600 American dopers to lose their fertility.

"If I had enough money, there wouldn't be any pregnancies for drug addicts," said the controversial project director.

No junkies.

No future Johnny Thunder.

Of course Johnny Thunder's would have ripped her off for the $300 at least four times.

He was a junkie king.

Limitless Turbo Spending

DrudgeReport.com headlined a menu of bad news from the Democrats.

336 HOURS: SPEAKER FACES FORECLOSURE ON HOUSE

White Republican men stand out in early voting...

Republicans target 'witch' Pelosi...

LAST GASP: I won't run again for Speaker...

GOP takes aim at Reid for living at Ritz-Carlton...

Angle ad shows Reid 'hanging out with supermodels'...

The GOP challenger in Nevada accused the incumbent of dancing with supermodels at his luxury condo in Washington. To fat white men that image served more as a recommendation than a condemnation. Gary Hart the 1988 Democratic front-runner was busted with a 29 year-old model on a Miama dock. Neither was naked, however the National Inquirer published one photo. Hart denied the relationship. It was a bold-faced lie. No white or black man was saying no to Donna Rice. hart's campaign ended a week after the photo. He should have told the truth.

"I fucked her and enjoyed the hell of it. Vite for me."

22 years later special interest slush funds are whipping the fat white man party in a frothy frenzy. They envision the repeal of the anti-lynching and the right of a woman to vote. The 15th Amendment to the Constitution guaranteed the civil equality to black ex-slaves and the GOP has promised to honor their privilege, since the Republicans believed in the immortal words of Nixon's Secretary of Corn, as he explained why the party of Lincoln was short on blacks.

"I'll tell you what the coloreds want. It's three things: first, a tight pussy; second, loose shoes; and third, a warm place to shit."

Earl Butz led into that comment by telling the following joke to White House Counsel John Dean and the singer Pat Boone on a flight from the Republican Convention.

After a horrible forest fire, a baby duck and skunk orphan start a conversation.. all of a sudden, the duck asks the skunk what he looks like. the skunk replies “well, you have webbed feet, feathers, and a bill,…you're a duck”…the skunk then asks the duck what he looks like,..the duck replies, “well, you're white, you're black, and you smell,..guess you're a Puerto Rican”

White men who would be fat white men were angered by Earl Butz' forced resignation. Whites were banned from telling race jokes in mixed company and shunned should anything anti-Israeli passed their livid lips. The 1st Amendment or the Freedom of Speech was surrendered to nigger-lovers and liberal cocksuckers.

Not that fat white guy jokes ever came into vogue.

Googling 'fat white guy' jokes was a blank, but I scored tons with 'white man' jokes.

How do you stop five white guys from raping a white woman? Throw them a golf ball.

How many white girls does it take to screw in a light? None, white girls can’t screw

How many white men does it take to screw in a light bulb? One, white men will screw anything.

What do you call a bunch of white guys sitting on a bench? The NBA

What does a white man do at the club? Pout while all the colored folk are bumpin’ & grindin’ with all of his fine white bitches.

What’s the difference between a white whore and a bitch? The white whore would screw everybody in the room and the bitch would fuck everyone but you.

What’s the flattest surface to iron your jeans on? A white girl’s ass!

What’s white and fourteen inches long? Absolutely nothing!

Why cant white men jump? They were too busy making racist jokes.

Why did white people own slaves? They were not strong enough to pick cotton – weak bastards.

And lastly what's 12 inches long and white? Nothing.

That's bullshit, because the answer was, is, and will be John 'Wadd' Holmes, the champion of white cock. The blonde porn legend Seka swore Wadd's cock was the biggest in the industry. His manager had measured a fully-erect boner as 13.5 inches, although many actresses akinned his semi-erect penis to "doing it with a big, soft kind of loofah."

Is nothing scared?

Only the GOP knows that answer.

Pride of Man - Quicksilver Messenger Service / Song of the Day

"Of God Pride of Man broken in the dust again."

How apropos for these troubled times.

This song was written by Hamilton Camp. Quicksilver Messenger Service recorded it for their 1st album in 1968. On LSD John Cippolina's guitar touched every cells in your soul with the chagrin of greatness.

They were bigger than the Grateful Dead too and still are in my mind.

More proof I'm just an old hippie.

To hear this song click on the following URL.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3A6-1BNHio

Spend Spend Spend

New York City's 2009 mayoral election was highlighted by the record spending by the incumbent to defeat an unknown. Mayor Bloomberg shelled out over $100 million to convince New Yorkers that former comptroller Bill Thompson didn't stand a chance against his money juggernaut. The strategy succeeded and Bloomberg eked out 50% to 46% victory over the challenger to serve his 'third' term as mayor.

GOP politicians were quick to adopt the 'spend spend spend' tactic and their largesse distribution managers have showered the binary arms of the American media with millions of dollars to convince the American public that the Republicans will resume control of Congress to insure that a demonic black man will not infected white people with voodoo zombie blood. The ads don't really say that, but reading between the lines is much easier than the GOP imagine.

Limbaugh: Obama looks 'demonic' in new photos...
'An American president has never had facial expressions like this'...
ABCNEWS: 63 Dem House Seats in 'Serious Danger'...
Barone: Dems find careers threatened by ObamaCare votes...
GALLUP: Unemployment at 10.0% in Mid-October...

At least none are calling for a lynching of than in effigy.

"The truth can never be heard by people who only believe the lies." - James Steele

ps one more thing

Fuck Mayor Bloomberg

Heading West

Driving across country in the 70s was a rite of passage for hippie late-comers. Boston – Frisco could be driven in less than 50 hours, but a week on the backroads felt more like Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD. In 1974 my good friend Andy, a flaxen blonde coed from Harvard and I motored west in a drive-away car. A Station wagon. Its destination – Lodi outside of Sacremento.

The fifth day we crossed the Colorado border into Utah. US Route 191. Night fell fast on the high plains. Darkness erased the desert scenery. Two-lanes of black asphalt straightlined into Roosevelt, Utah. A speck on the map,except I spotted the lights of a bar. THE ID LOUNGE. I insisted on having a beer there.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Andy was a pot smoker. The coed agreed with him. She wanted to make time.

“I’m thirsty and we owe Freud the honor of drinking in his name.” I swerved off the road into the scrabble dirt parking lot. Mostly pick-ups. The clientele was a mix of farmers and cowboys. The jukebox was playing Merle Haggard. MAMA TRIED. I ordered a beers. Olympias. I sang along with Merle. Andy shook his head. he hated the way i tried to meld into the crowd like I came from nowhere.

Two men sat at the nearest table. A goat-roper and a sodbuster. They challenged each other to an arm-wrestling contest. The prize was the next round. The cowboy lost, but said, “I might have lost that contest, but I could kick your ass in the alley out back.”

The farmer retorted with a sucker punch to the cowboys skull. A general melee ensued between the two camps. The coed fled the bar well before Andy and I figured that these people probably knew each other from childhood and if they didn’t have any trouble fighting each other then they would even be more freehanded when it came to stomping hippie strangers.

Leaving Roosevelt Utah for the first and last time of my life the coed said, “Smart move.”

“None of us got hurt.”

I could say that then because back in 1974 most bar fight were with fists.

Happy Beermas

October is the high-holiday month for beer drinkers everywhere, especially in Germany where the nation celebrates the renown Oktobeerfest.

Your attendance is obligatory

Drink beer and drink it often.

It's good for you and if you have any difficulties, please refer to the above chart. It's a life saver.

Proposition 19 / California

Fat white males around America have rallied their support for the 'we are the people' Tea Party. They are angry about having Health Care, pissed about taxes on the rich, and think the President wasn't born in the USA. Fate white women are peeved about their children listening to rap, wearing provocative clothing, and watching too much TV. This election is driven by their collective wrath and to avoid of tidal wave of defeat the Democratic Party has rejected the 'seasons of change' for a more conservative agenda including tax breaks for the wealthy and rejection of gay rights in the military.

California steered through these difficult time with a referendum to legalize the sale, possession, and consumption of marijuana. The Regulate, Control and Tax Cannabis Act, also known as Proposition 19, is expected to pass with a majority. Pot smokers would be free from arrest as long as they uphold the regulations of the law. No penalties for 'bogarting the joint', however the Federal government ie the Justice Department has announced its intent to continue the persecution of potheads, although many voters are convinced that the Attorney General is flapping his jumbos just to make the administration very tough of drugs, a policy selling well in the crystal meth belt of the Midwest.

Personally I'm against any new taxes, but if the law keeps people out of jail, then let them be.

It's about time.

End the prohibition

ps

In the United States the first restrictions for sale of cannabis came in 1906 (in District of Columbia). In 1937, the Marijuana Transfer Tax Act was passed, and prohibited the production of hemp in addition to marijuana. The reasons that hemp was also included in this law are disputed. The Federal Bureau of Narcotics agents reported that fields with hemp were also used as a source for marijuana dealers. Other authors claim have claimed that it was passed in order to destroy the hemp industry, largely as an effort of businessmen Andrew Mellon, Randolph Hearst, and the Du Pont family. With the invention of the decorticator, hemp became a very cheap substitute for the paper pulp that was used in the newspaper industry. Hearst felt that this was a threat to his extensive timber holdings. Mellon, Secretary of the Treasury and the wealthiest man in America, had invested heavily in the Du Pont families new synthetic fiber, nylon, which was also being outcompeted by hemp.

from Wikpedia

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cannabis_(drug)

Remember, oblivion is much easier to attain than enlightenment. - James Steele

Fingerlicking Good

back in 1995 I was in Tibet with two Frenchmen laying fiber-optic lines across the steppes.

Spies probably

We spoke about food.

A lot, because Tibetan cuisine lacked 'je ne sais quoi'; rancid butter tea, hairy yak meat, and crunchy grilled buckwheat or tsampa. Day after day. Bleech.

We lived on cheap Chinese beer and argued about the best meal in the world. Lobsters at Lincolnville, moules frites at Cannes, and pig's feet in Les Halles. Lhasa was removed from the sea by thousands of miles and we agreed to deep-6 5-star cookeries. Keep it simple. It came down to baguette, pate, and sour pickles versus pizza. Pizza won hands down and the three of us drove over the Himalayas to Kathmandu. According to backpackers a pizza shop had opened not far from the Yak and Yeti Hotel. The only pizza this side of Thailand.

Two days of hard road.

There was a pizza shop.

We ordered a pizza each.

They sucked big time, but were better than tsampas

For dessert we ate apple pie from Kegbeni orchards in the shadow of Dalghiri.

Nothing better and no one would ever argue the opposite.

The Freedom of No Speech

Moses led his people out of Egypt without a map. The distance from the Nile to Palestine was a ten day walk, yet the prophet wandered through the eastern deserts for forty years. Like all men he wasn't willing to admit that he was fucking lost and neither are the Zionists of the occupied territories who have most recently declared that their seized lands are Jewish and that they also know how to identify a Jew like Josef Mengele the SS doctor.

"Jews to the right. Arabs to Gaza."

A facebook 'friend' posted a video from the Israeli Ambassador showing the normalcy of life in Gaza. Glittering buildings, vibrant street life, food in the groceries, and cars on the roads. I posted a riposte, "Welcome to the gulag of Gaza."

She defriended me for this comment, for like most people living a lie they do not want to see the truth.

Free Palestine.

As for Giselle, you are a hypocrite.

Here is the real story

http://vimeo.com/13714769

Gaslight Pinball

Pinball was banned in New York City until 1976 when a pinball wizard proved to a courtroom that pinball was not a game of chance but one of skill by calling out his shots to the amazed judges. The ace later acknowledged that his called shot was pure luck, however pinball machines once more populated amusement arcades and bars. Coming from Boston I had spent hundreds of dollars honing my skills on the slanted playing field. I beat most of the players in Times Square, but my favorite pinball machine was in the Gaslight Bar on 7th Avenue in Park Slope.

The bar was only a hundred feet from the apartment which I shared with James Spicer, a flamboyant jazz impressario who had once coupled with James Dean. The crowd at the Gaslight was straight. James bought the regulars drinks. They never questioned his largesse, especially since I was friends with Davie Corr, an insane bank robber, who once robbed three banks in Flatbush back to back to back. Whenever a stranger challenged me to a pinball game, Davie backed my play. A dollar for 1000 points. I sometimes won by 100,000. It was a good business for a game of skill.

One night I enter the Gaslight and order a drink. Jack and Black. A dark-haired skinny girl with big breasts was bumping the pinball machine with her pelvis. Her skin was white as a zombie. I watched her tilt the machine and asked, "Do you make love the same way?"

"Only one way to find out."

Her name was Fran. She took me back to her place. Her white skin was covered with baby powder. We fucked on the floor. Someone knocked on the door. Her boyfriend.

"Fran, I know you're in there."

"Don't stop. He'll go away." She humped upward and at that moment I knew that she did fuck like she played pinball.

Only I didn't tilt.

55 REMSEN by Peter Nolan Smith

New York is 200-plus miles from Boston. The two rival cities are connected by an interstate. The drive takes about three-and-a-half-hours. Not a long way and I had spent a little time in the city traveling back and forth to buy pot from Fat Eddie. The East Village dealer was a good connection, even if he stole my girlfriend. Sookie convinced him to lose weight and stopped dealing. She had succeeded on one out of two. Since then five years had passed and I could count my visits to New York on one hand.

Boston was my hometown. My rent for a Brookline basement apartment was cheap. Upstairs was a two-family commune. I had gone out with their 16 year-old daughter. Hilde had told me at the Hi-Hat Lounge that she was 18. We had lasted less than three months. Her parents had said that she was too young. They were probably right. I was 23, but they were a little bit wrong too, since her next boyfriend was a 30 year-old car thief.

My best friend AK had left his ex-girlfriend to be with Hilde’s older sister. Terri was almost twenty. She was very sexy as was to be expected of a Combat Zone stripper.

I was working as a substitute teacher at South Boston High School. The school system was torn by busing riots. Poor white kids going to school in poor black neighborhoods and vice versa. No one went to school, unless the TV crews showed up to interview a politician, then the kids went crazy. A riot, police, tear gas. I was getting $85/day. Life wasn’t bad. I wrote poetry. Hilde thought some of it was good.

My upstairs neighbor AK played in a funk band. Jump Street. AK was the only white boy. The group was popular, although gigs in white bars were tough due to the busing conflict. Jump Street got a weekend show at a club in the West Village. AK invited me to join him. His girlfriend was staying behind. He had an old girlfriend in Brooklyn.

An artist.

“She looks like an East European refugee.”

I painted my own portrait from this scanty description. Dark-hair, thin, feminine. I doubted I had a chance with her. AK was on the prowl. I had passed through the city on came to New York with my friend AK. He was playing keyboards for a funk band. The only white boy in Jump Street. They had a gig at a bar on 7th Avenue. AK invited several friends. One was Ro, a young painter, with a tendency not to finish here sentences. AK had hoped to rekindle their dalliance, however his girlfriend showed up unannounced at the show. Terri had smelled a rat. Ex-strippers are tough that way.

“Pretend your friends with Ro.” AK was plotting to meet her later.
His girlfriend was too smart to fall for any subterfuge and I accompanied Ro to a late dinner at David’s Pot Belly on Christopher Street. She worked at the small restaurant as a waitress. We spoke about art. Mostly I listened about her plans to study at the Sorbonne in Paris. .

“Bette Davis’ character wanted to do the same in PETRIFIED FOREST. Lesley Howard has the outlaw shoot him so she can collect his insurance. I thought it was very noble.”

“Anyone ever tell you that____”

“Tell me what?”

“That you like an angel____” She struggled for several seconds with the next words. “______under candlelight.”

No one had ever said anything like that to me and we went to her place in Brooklyn Heights.

55 Remsen Street.

Her apartment was over a Chinese whorehouse. A dragon lady stood at the door. Her chignon was sheer silk. I guessed her to be about 40. The red light over the doorway made her 20.

“You want good time?”

“No.” I had never paid for sex.

“Maybe sometime you not lucky. Come see me.” She hissed the invitation like a snake sliding through dry grass.

“I hate that____.”

“Woman.” Ro couldn't finish off that sentence.

Straight women hated those that aren’t and Ro opened the door to her apartment. She shared the space with a lanky West Virginian. He had a pad of paper in front of him. His hand scribbled numbers. Ro introduced him as Bix. He lifted sallow eyes from the scratching pencil point, but didn’t say a word, as Ro led me into the bedroom. I tried to be quiet, but Ro called out my name with each thrust nearing orgasm. Women were echoing other men’s names from the sex den below.

Every time I exited from the bedroom, Bix was seated at the kitchen table. An unlit cigarette in his hand. An empty beer to the left. Several piles of paper were scattered about the table. Numbers filled them to the edges. An expression of hurt paralyzed his face. Words were lost in his mouth. Finally on Sunday morning he said, “How does it feel to fuck another man’s woman?”

Ro had said nothing about their relationship, but I had guessed that they were more than roommates. Kindness wasn’t in my heart that early in the morning, plus he was holding a steak knife.

“Wait a few minutes and I’ll tell you.”

I locked the door behind me and said to Ro, “Your roommate said____”

“I know what he said. Don’t___” Her hands drew me back into bed to complete her sentence. Her first kiss swallowed my soul. “I love your lips.”

We made love twice more that day and on Sunday Ro escorted me to Penn Station to catch the train to Boston. I had no idea where AK and his girlfriend were. I kissed Ro on the platform and said, “I’ll see you next week.”

“I work on the weekends.”

“I’ll wait until you get out.”

“It will be late.” Hesitation rimmed her reply.

“I can wait.” The train conductor was calling ‘all aboard’. “After all this is the city that never sleeps.”

I started planning my departure from Boston. Its streets were empty after dark. The bars seemed provincial. None of the women shared the beauty of Ro. The next weekend I trained south to Penn Station. Ro waved from inside the restaurant. The cook Michael made me an omelette. Gruyere and mushroom. Afterward I drank at the Riviera Bar with a silver-haired jazz impresario. I recited a poem about hitchhiking. He said that I was almost a genius.

“How do you know?”

“I manage Cecil Taylor and Merce Cunningham.” He smoked a cigarette like Marlene Dietrich. The Riviera was loaded with gays, bi, straight. It was middle ground. James was 100% playing for the other team and proud of his sexuality. “I once made it with James Dean.”

“The movie star?” I had heard that he had been with Sal Mineo.

“He went with anyone. You care for a drink?”

I arrived at David’s Pot Belly at closing. I paid the taxi fare. The dragon lady smiled at my passage.

“You lucky man.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

Ro slapped my hand. She didn’t want me talking to her downstairs neighbor. Bix was waiting at the table. Unlit cigarette in his hand. The numbers had spread to the walls. None of them were equations. Ro and I retreated to her bedroom. She wasn’t in the mood for sex.

“I’ve had a long day______at work.”

“What’s with Bix and the numbers?” I had been a math major my first two years in university.

“He feels as if he can find the right number maybe he can turn back the hands of time and win back my heart.”

“And do you know the right number?” I had loved the poetry of math until LSD warped my perceptions of dimensions. Then words became my math. Maybe I was as crazy as Bix and didn’t know it yet.

“No, and neither will Bix. He’s crazy and that’s why I______stopped being with him.” She whispered from bed. We kissed under the sheets. She murmured with a cuddle, “I still love your lips. Go to_____sleep.”

“All right.”

I was too drunk to fuck and fell asleep reading TROPIC OF CAPRICORN. The profane writer had spent his childhood in Williamsburg. Brooklyn Heights was more for successful artists such as W. H. Auden, Truman Capote, Hart Crane, Bob Dylan, Norman Mailer, Carson McCullers, Arthur Miller, Walt Whitman, and Mary Tyler Moore. I woke to the screams of a Chinese woman fighting a man. Not everyone was happy in Brooklyn Heights.

The next day we brunched on Montague Street. Ro had to be a work at 4. We made love quickly on her bed. I liked her tongue more than her lips.

“That was better than good.”

Saturday night was a repeat of Friday night. Dinner at the Potbelly and drinking at the Riviera. Ro was off on Sunday. We went dancing at the Limelight on 7th Avenue. James Spicer came along with us. He bought drinks and we shared a taxi back to Brooklyn. His apartment was in Park Slope.

“You ever need a place to stay call me.” James blew me a kiss, as the taxi disappeared into Brooklyn.

“You know what______he wants?”

“Same thing as everyone. A little love.”

I didn’t even notice the dragon lady or Bix or the cries of pleasure from below. Ro and we the only two people in the world. I wrote several poems. Ro wanted me to read them to her. They must have made more sense than Bix’s numbers.

We ate in the city. I went to the train by myself, telling her that I would be back in two weeks. She smiled and said, “I’d like______that.”

That fall and winter I commuted between Boston and New York. The dragon lady’s name was Lee. I’d phone during the week. Ro rarely answered the phone. She was either at art school or work. She told me that Bix never picked up the phone. He was even deeper into his numbers. They infected the hallways.

“I like number. Maybe I find lucky number.” Lee followed the twisting cortex of numbers for a lottery winner. She was looking to get away from her mama-san job. “Open restaurant. Sell food. No pussy.”

I slowly formed a strategy to quit teaching in June and collect unemployment through the summer. I informed Ro about this plan on several occasions. If she said that it wasn’t a good idea, I didn’t care, because I no longer wanted to live in Boston.
My parents were sad to hear about my living. AK my neighbor said I should thank him for introducing Ro. “You owe me.”

I wasn’t sure how to pay him back. The two-family commune stood at the door and waved good-bye.

“You be careful.” Hilde was a teary-eyed 17 year-old high school student. Her car thief boyfriend was glad to see me go. He had arranged for me to drive a gas-guzzler to New York. $300 to ditch the Oldsmobile in New York. The owner couldn’t afford the gas and wanted to collect on the insurance. Once in New York I’d park the car by the Hudson, throw the plates in the river, and what to do. Drive to New York throw the plates into the Hudson and leave the keys in the ignition. Joyriders would steal the gas-guzzler within minutes.

Easy.

I phoned Ro several times that afternoon. No one answered the phone. I drove down the highway at 55. A state trooper might ask too many questions if I was stopped for speeding. The trip from Brookline to the West Side Highway lasted 4 hours. It took five minutes to unscrew the license plates and toss them into the black water flowing past the desolate docks. I walked up Christopher Street to her restaurant. I had $300 plus my savings in my pocket.

A new life awaited me and I entered the restaurant with a smile. Michael S the cook said that Ro had quit on Wednesday.

“See say why?”

“No.”

Brooklyn Heights was a couple of stops away from Christopher Street. I reflected on the unanswered phone and her quitting her job. That one and one didn’t add up to two, but a myriad of possibilities. Too many to count. Numbers and more numbers.

Just like Bix.

I arrived at 55 Remsen at midnight. I buzzed the doorbell a number of times without success. I tried the buzzer for the whorehouse. The door clicked open. I climbed the stairway with my eyes half-shut. This was no my dream world. The dragon lady was waiting under the red light.

“Today I lucky. Find good number.” She pointed to a scrawled number on the wall. “Tomorrow no work. You come back. Have good time. Okay.”

Bix was sitting at the table. A burning cigarette in his hand.

“You know that Hitler was anti-smoking. So was Ro. When Hitler killed himself in the bunker, the first thing the Nazis did was light up a cigarette.” he inhaled deeply and then crumpled up several papers jammed with numbers. “Ro’s gone.”

“Gone.” I hadn’t played that word in my head on the way over here.

“Off to Paris to study at the Sorbonne.”

“She said nothing about that.”

“I know. I was surprised too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I guess you’ll have to go to France to find out what it’s like to see another guy fucking your girlfriend. Not me. I already know.”
It was a shitty thing to say and I probably should have hit him, but I had said the same thing several months earlier, so I figured us even.

“You know she never kissed me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“How was it?”

“Good.” I had no reason to lie.


“I thought so.” Bix took out his pencil and paper. The numbers were his friends. I walked out of the apartment with my bags. The dragon lady looked at me, “Look you not lucky no more.”

“No not lucky.” Fucked was a better word, except that word had only one meaning in Lee’s bordello. I wandered onto the street. A plane flew overhead. I imagined Ro looking down. From that height people were not visible. Somehow I had ceased to exist for her. I couldn’t say why. I went to the corner telephone and called James Spicer. He answered on the first ring. I told him that I needed a place to stay.
“I thought you’d call me one day.” He sounded drunk.

“Why?” I wanted drunk too.

“Because that girl had heartbreak written on her face. More hers than yours. Get in a taxi and I’ll tell you more.”

“Okay.” I glanced back over my shoulder at 55 Remsen. A taxi was coming down Montague. I waved it down. Like Ro I was gone and I wasn’t coming back either. I stopped writing poetry. The words were letters, not magic.

I ran into Bix two months later. He was living on the street. I got him a job as a carpenter. He stayed about two weeks. The police found him dead below Brooklyn Heights. Starved to death. His ragged clothing was stuffed with paper. No numbers on any of them. He had buried that demon in the peace of his death. I exommunciate my demon by writing the same poem to Ro about a hundred times. Each ended as a crumpled paper. James Spicer called the pile of rejects 'the hill of THE END'. I didn't laugh at his joke. After that I stopped writing poetry. The words were simply letters, not magic.

Ro and I ran into each other years later. We had another affair. Very brief. She was working at a fish restaurant. Her paintings were of fish. They were very good. I mentioned Bix. She said that she knew about it. I couldn’t bring myself to ask why she had left me. I had always known the answer. It was in the movie PETRIFIED FOREST. Art was more powerful than poetry and numbers. Only life was stronger, although sadly not for everyone and Bix knew that better than most. I’m only glad not to know the same.

Palisades Amusement Park

My first trip to New York City was in 1964. My father had business with NY Tel, the parent company of New England Tel. He drove our Ford Station Wagon down from Boston. My mother sat in the front seat. My older brother and I were in the back. New York was a city that we knew from movies and TV. Nothing could have prepared my brother and me for that view from the Bronx.

Skyscrapers, bridges, and people.

My mother took us sightseeing during the day. The Empire State Building, the Hudson River, and Battery Park. We saw the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry. My father bought tickets to the Rockettes at Radio City and we ate at Tad's Steak House in Times Square.

I should have been a happy camper, however New York's attractions were a detour from my true destination.

Palisades Amusement Park across the river in New Jersey. Every one of my comic books had tickets for rides. I cut them out before my father tore the comic books to pieces. He hated them as low-brow entertainment. he never found the tickets and my pockets were bulging with the flimsy pieces of paper. They were valuable only one place and I begged my father to take us there.

"It's only across the river." Freddie Cannon had a hit song about the park in 1962. Rock and roll bands appeared nightly and I had heard three advertisements for the park on the radio.

My father refused on the grounds that it was too far away and that might I sat in the hotel staring westward. The park was on 130th Street. A long way from the Manhattan Hotel. I swore that I could see its glow. My brother told me to go to sleep. He was a light sleeper.

The next morning my father drove north, telling me that the following weekend we would go to Paragon park at Nantasket Beach. It had a great wooden roller coaster and fun houses.

"It's just as good as Palisades Park."

"How would you know?" No one had ever written a song about Paragon Park.

"Because I wanted to go there as a kid too. The closest I got was the same as you."

"So why didn't we go today?" Like any young boy I couldn't picture my father as a boy my age.

"Because there wasn't the time."

"Oh." It wasn't a good answer, but I had a feeling that it was the same thing he had heard from his father.

"Maybe we'll go to Palisades Park next time."

Only there wasn't a next time.

Palisades Park closed in 1971. The owner sold it to developers, who promised one more summer atop the cliffs. I was a hippie then. More into the Jefferson Airplane than golden oldies such as PALISADES PARK. Like my old teddy bear it disappeared from the now the the that that was.

There was a lot of that going around those days.

Park Slope Crash 1960

In 1960 two commercial planes collided over Staten Island. One plane tried to make La Guardia Airport. The DC-8 crashed several miles short of safety in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn. The crash site remained a haunting reminder of United Airlines Flight 826. An empty lot on Sterling Place and Seventh Avenue marked its fiery end. I was 8. My family watched the news about the disaster on TV. At the time it was the worst airplane crash in US history.

An 11 year-old boy survived the crash. He told reporters at his hospital bed, "I heard a big noise while we were flying. The last thing I remember was the plane falling."

Sadly he died the next day.

16 years later I moved to Park Slope. One block away from the crash site. The lot was still vacant.

It isn't today. Almost 50 years later.

Things change.

Even in Brooklyn.