The High Cost of the Thai Drug War

Last month over 300 Thai cops invaded Soi 6 off Pattaya's Beach road in search of evil-doers. No search warrants. No habeus corpus. No rights for the sex workers of that inglorious street. The cops conducted urine tests of hundreds of women and after the test results came in positive, they arrested almost 16 women and transsexuals on charges of consuming a Class 1 drug. The total amount of drugs seized by the raiders was worth about 5000 baht.

300 cops had to cost about 200 baht each.

60,000 baht to capture less than $200 worth of drugs.

Last week a VIP Justice official along with 100 police officers and police volunteers followed up the success of the Soi 6 raid with a drug sweep on Pattaya's Sunee Plaza. bars. Piss tests were conducted on the staff of the mostly gay go-go bars and the investigators brought to justice 46 men and women on suspicion of drug possession and under-age drinking. The total value of contraband seized approached nearly 70,000 baht and officers were proud to participate in the Prime Minister's mission to lower crime in Thailand by 20%.

Relentless in their pursuit of evil-doers over 200 police officers and volunteers staged a midnight visit to Pattaya Soi 13/3. Go-Go boys were escorted from their venues and 15 young men out of the 200-strong naked dancing corps were discovered to have speed in their pee. An online gambling casino was also the victim of this police endeavor. 15 computers and 2000 baht were seized thanks to the diligence of the uniformed officers.

So squares of Pattaya sleep safe and sound.

Your city is a better place with those criminals off the streets and I'm sure that that have learned that crime doesn't pay big money. Hopefully the police learned the same lesson and actually pursue real criminals.

Then again that would be real work.

Thai School Uniforms

Memory is in details and I can remember exactly what I was wearing the day JFK was murdered in Dallas. A white shirt, sky-blue tie, navy-blue trousers, a black belt, and black shoes. Every boy in my class wore the same outfit. In fact the uniform was mandatory for each male attending Our Lady of the Foothills. No deviations were allowed by the nuns and that edict was issued to the girls in their powder-blue pleated skirts, dazzling white shirt, and dull black shoes. Mother Superior had banned shoe polish in fear that boys would gaze at the shoes' high gloss reflection to discover the hidden treasure up a girl's skirts. Our imaginations were stronger than her mandate and to this day the sight of a Catholic school girl uniform transports me across time to 1964, unfortunately school uniforms are uncommon in the USA, however the tradition remains strong in Asia.

Every nation has their specialty, however most males would agree that Thailand dominates the schoolgirl uniform race and this month the Japanese Press declared that
the Thai university uniforms of a short-sleeve white blouse and short black skirt was the world sexiest student uniform. Thailand for all its brothels and sex tourism is a very puritanistic country and the local media and politicians expressed their outrage about this dubious honor with the deputy education minister going as far as announcing a pogrom against sexiness in school.

Chok dee, you fool, for kids will be kids and the girls in Thai universities are a cultural treasure admired by men all across the world\, especially anyone from the USA, for many coeds are so fat that they would look better in a chador.

Long live the Thai schoolgirl uniform.

Another Wonder of the Modern World under threat from the Thailiban.

Antha Thikarnta Mubarrak

In the autumn of 1982 I drove north from Paris toward Hamburg where I was working as a doorman at Bsirs. My journey was stalled outside the city limits by a massive police presence on the Autoroute. CRS police and French Army soldiers lined the exit ramps and guarded the overpasses. My orange VW Bug was the last car on the highway. Two cops waved me to the shoulder of the road. They pulled their guns and searched my car like I was an operative for the terrorist, Carlos the Jackal.

They refused to answer my questions as the purpose of their investigation. Sirens sounded in the distance. A motorcade of official cars was speeding north. Lights flashing a warning. No one and nothing was stopping them. Motorcycle escorts raced past my car at 160 mph. The police cars at the same speed escorted an armored limousine flying the flag of Egypt. The tinted windows prevented any glimpse at the passenger, but I knew who was in the back seat.

"Mubarak." I mumbled the name of the Egyptian president. He had been visiting Mitterand in Paris. The strongman had taken power after the 1981 assassination of President Sadat and the French security forces were dedicated to the former Air Force General's safety as long as he was on their soil. Once the motorcade had disappeared from sight, the two police officers waved for me to continue on my way. I was no threat to anyone but myself.

That was the closest I came to President Mubarak.

The long-serving president moves in different circles than I do, but then no one is surprised by that.

Certainly not me, so I don't expect a collect phone call from an octogenarian in Cairo. He might be an ally of America, but we're not friends. Sorry, dude, you should have waved at me from your limo. Maybe then I could help you.

Otherwise kel khrak omak which means eat shit for your mom in Arabic.

Zionist Welfare State

Each year Israel and Egypt are given nearly $3 billion by the USA. No one has had the balls to criticize these boons to two of the world's most oppressive states, however newly elected Kentucky congressman Rand Paul has exhibited the chutzpah to suggest the USA cut aid to Israel. Supporters of the Zionist nation were quick to protest this suggestion, despite America's overwhelming debt. The share per Israeli family comes to $25000. No one in America is getting that much money from the government, unless you're rich and then it's a lot more.

Free Palestine.

Straight Lines

No country in Europe has a straight-line border. South and Central America are devoid of such national boundaries. The USA once was the only nation with a straight-line border, however after World War I the French and British divided up territory of the defeated Ottoman Empire with a ruler and pencil. The Arab tribes of Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Saudia Arabia, Kuwait, Egypt, Sudan, and Libya suffered chaos thanks to these arbitrary frontiers. The disorder was enhanced by the West's support of dynastic dictatorships. Free thought was suppressed by secret police, assassination, and torture. Generations of young were given no hope of change, except for radical Islam, whose prophets preached the reincarnation of the caliphate.

America and Britain protested the lack of human rights in these nations while selling their rulers weapons to arm the military not against invaders, but to contain uprisings of the masses. Egypt has long been an American ally. They received an annual stipend of $3 billion to act as a buffer against any aggression toward their Zionist neighbor. In return the West turned a blind eye to the repression visited on the common people. In fact they regularly honored Mubarak as a progressive Arab, however this week Egypt is in flames as the young, Muslim Brotherhood, students, and workers have taken to the streets to overthrow the long-standing dictator.

No freedom, no jobs, and no future fuel the heat of the moment for the demonstrators. They have nothing to lose but their lives and the army has killed scores of protesters over the past few days. 62 dead; 2,000 injured. The BBC has announced that Mubarak's sons have fled to London. The Cairo airport is closed to international flights. Anarchy on the streets and the Saudi King has criticized the upheaval, because his country is next on the list.

Americans are calling uprising a new dawn for the Middle East, however people are battling the upper classes rather than governments. The rich have impoverished everyone across the globe and this year will be one of revolution.

Sadly revolutions are destined for failure, because in the end everyone wants to be rich and most people will never betray their dream of being better than the rest of the world and it has nothing to do with straight lines. At least for the moment.

$148 Levis

My mother dressed my older brother and me in jeans for most of the 1950s and early 1960s, however when the hippies adopted the western trousers as part of their unofficial uniform my mother refused to buy them for us. Cardinal Cushing of the Boston diocese had banned them on his evening rosary program. A fierce Catholic my mother believed that Levis and long hair were signs of Satan. One afternoon in 1966 I got off the school bus to discover her burning my treasured jeans and suede Cuban heel boots.

"No son of mine will be a slave to the Devil." She spoke with a heavy Boston accent as would anyone reared in Jamaica Plain.

"I don't worship Satan." I had tried to sell my soul on several occasions to the Fallen One without his appearing with an offer binding my eternity to Hell. The Devil like God was a myth, except for in the mind of my mother and the nuns of Our Lady of the Foothills south of the Neponset River. Beelzebub also existed as a villain in many movies, but neither their belief nor Hollywood's depiction of Lucifer made him real. "I'm a good boy."

"You better be." My mother had no clue to my shitcanning her god. My father was ignorant of my apostasy too. Atheism was unacceptable to the vast majority of Americans. Thankfully the government wasn't burning heretics such as myself at the stake, but I thought it better for my mother to think that I was a good Catholic boy.

My grade for religion at school was an A. I served as an altar boy at Mass. Latin was my second language. I earned $10 a week from my paper route. My mother banked most of it. I kept the tips and after a few weeks my savings came to almost $12. My next door neighbor and I took the trolley into Ashmont and then the Reed Line into Park Street.

Chuckie Manzi and I walked across the Commons into the Garden over to Walker's Western Store on Boylston Street. The store ran a radio ad on WMEX for jeans. Levis were $6. I bought a pair of jeans. The salesman sold me a paisley shirt too. Chuckie got a bucksin jacket. Our hair was a little over our ears and we strolled over to hippie corner in the Commons to listen to Ultimate Spinach. Mel Lyman played harp. The messianic leader of the Fort Hill Commune was famed for his 30 minute solo of ROCK OF AGES after Bob Dylan's electric performance at the Newport Jazz Festival of 1965. The girls danced in the sunshine. They smelled of patchouli. Chuckie and I left at 5. My father was on the same train. He looked at my jeans and said, "You better change out of them before you get home."

I did in the woods behind our house and I hid them in the garage. My father never snitched me out, which was a surprise for a man 30 years older than me. All he cared about was that I scored good grades and didn't cause my mother any problems.

My waist size back in the 60s was a 28. It's more than that now and so is the price of Levis. Most stores offer them for $40-60. I buy mine in a second-hand stall in Pattaya. They come from aid shipments to Cambodia. Americans don't realize that Cambodians don't fit into big jeans, so the relief foundations sell them to Thai traders. I pay $10 for used Levis. A good price, however the Wall Street Journal reported that Barney's on Madison Avenue are selling American-made Levis for $148 and investment bankers are buying piles of them. I went up there to look at these high-priced jeans. They felt the same as my used jeans and the $6 jeans from Walker's Western Store.

Some things never change.

Only the price.

To hear The Lyman Family with Lisa Kindred - James Alley Blues, please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ezeArQMWWhA

Back In The Land Of the Ice And Snow

My flight from Incheon Korea lasted over 13 hours. Our landing at JFK was delayed by an hour. The airport was only operating one runaway. Snow plows were still working to unbury the other runways after a 19" snowstorm. During the final approach I stared out the window at the ground. Most of the major streets were open for traffic, although not many cars or trucks were visible. Thursday was an obvious snow-day.

The second of the winter.

The Korean Air 777 landed on runway # 1 at 11:20am. The plane taxied slowly to the arrival gate, the stopped short of its goal for two hours. Thick ice covered the tarmac. The passengers sat patiently for the next 2 hours, except for one smoker who tried to sneak a cigarette in the toilet. The alarm rang and the stewardesses busted the 50 year-old smoker in the act. He returned to his seat exhaling the last puff. Few people on the plane were old enough to remember 'smoking areas' in the back of aircraft. This world has nothing to do with the 20th Century.

Finally we were towed to the arrival gate, Everyone was happy to exit the plane after 15 hours, except for the smoker, who was met by the police. They cuffed him in the jetway. A fine of $2000 awaited him in TSA court.

My bag was one of the first onto the carousel. I exited from customs without any questions from the inspectors. My bag was clean. Only a blood test could reveal my crime and even the Patriot Act didn't give the government that right of invasion. I exited from the terminal and headed for the Skytrain.

It wasn't running to Howard Beach. Most of the people on the platform were freaking out as only an American can freak out when they aren't getting their way. It was 1:30pm. I'd get to Fort Greene before sunset.

Cool calm collected, until my pocket was filled by my cell phone's vibration. Richie Boy was calling from 47th Street. He was packing jewelry for a show in Miami.Against my better judgment I answered the phone. Richie Boy needed my help.

"Are you whacked out?" He had once flown to meet me in Bali. The semi-global flight had knocked the stuffing out of his Raggedy Ann Doll. Richie Boy understood jetlag.

"Not bad, I'm heading your way, but the situation at the airport is chaos." I walked out of Terminal 1 and caught a city bus for Brooklyn. I had been on the ground over 4 hours and hadn't traveled more than 2 miles. New York was not prepared for this much snow. The A train took one hour from Howard Beach to West 4th Street. I arrived at work late. Richie Boy was happy with the extra help. His father stiffed me for the 2 hours of work.

I arrived on 47th street at 5pm. Richie Boy was happy to see me. I was his right-hand man, although he paid me like I had no hands at all. Short commishes and no raise in salary for two years. He liked to joke, "Your bonus is that you keep your job."

I didn't think the joke was funny, but Manny and Richie Boy let me come and go as I please and not many employers would put up with that behavior. I worked for an hour and a half, knowing Manny would stiff me for the time. Like most men in old age they become either fascists or communists. Manny was a commie in every aspect except worker's rights, so I left the exchange as soon as we were packed for the show.

The F train to Brooklyn took 30 minutes. A transfer train to Lafayette Street cost another 5 minutes. The walk to South Oxford lasted less than two minutes. I entered the houses and dropped my bag on the floor. My landlord and his wife were tasting wine for his 50th birthday party this coming Friday. I cracked open a bottle of Thai whiskey. His wife drank with me. AP was dedicated to wine. That decision made him feel free and later that night we broke into his wine stash. The crime must fit the punishment. I was guilty of many things. Innocent of a few.

Welcome back to America.

No longer then the Home of the Brave.

Only the Land of the Ice and Snow.

Some called it home.

No Tattoo in Heaven

I've been a non-believer since 1960, when my best friend drowned in Sebago Lake. He was a good boy. No god would have let him die. My mother refused to believe any son of theirs was an atheist and prayed that the the nuns at Our Lady Of The Foothills would teach me religion.

They failed to resurrect my faith in their holy trinity, however my 6th grade teacher, Sister Mary Goretti, was more tolerant of my puerile apostasy.

"Just lower your head and say what ever you want, except when you're on the altar."

I was an altar boy at our local church. It made my mother proud. She dind't need to know that there was no changing how I felt.

Sister Mary Goretti was as ancient as dust. The old nun had taught school in Egypt. Her tales of children running over stalks of harvested crops without touching the jagged tips was a magic miracle. Her students loved her and she loved educating us.

One day she said that if any of us had a tattoo that we would never get into heaven.

Going to heaven meant worshiping the man in a dress and hell was a burning oven. I was more interested in purgatory. Nothing bad ever happened in Limbo.

After scoring straight As for the year, Sister Mary Goretti gave me a mother of pearl rosary and said, "I know you don't believe, but that doesn't make you a bad boy. God loves us all."

I was lucky to have her as my teacher and while I don't believe in either heaven or hell, I have refrained ever getting a tattoo.

Out of respect for an old nun.

And only a little bit the fear of hell.

GOP Ties at Obama Speech

The GOP leadership must have sent out a memo to their members of Congress that a red tie is mandatory for tonight's State of the Union Speech. Only a few Republicans ignored the call to arms. Maybe they don't own a red tie, because in Western thought a red ties is connected to sin, blood, jealousy, and sex.

In Chinese culture red symbolizes money, fertility, and luck.

A red tie was called a power tie during the 80s. Americans admired the ruthlessness of Wall Street. Wealth became the American dream in the 90s. Everyone felt that they were rich in the 21st Century based on the value of their property. They were wrong. The red ties of Wall Street raped them like cheerleaders on ludes.

I have no red tie and not only because I don't say 'yes' to Chairman Mao, but since a red tie says bad man to me.

No salesman wears a red tie when it comes time to close a deal - James Steele

So go figure the GOP.

They are the red tie party.

Go Mao go.

The Birth of the Bouffant

The bouffant coif supposedly gained popularity thanks to Marie Antoinette whose coiffeur sought to camouflage her early balding by upsweeping her thin tresses atop her head to cascade over her ears. The style lost its popularity after the overthrow of the Bourbon dynasty and the Queen's decapitation by the guillotine, however Jackie Kennedy, JFK's fashionable wife, reincarnated the fashion with the help of her hayrides Mr. Kenneth.

Everything Jackie was fabulous in the early 60s and women across America sought to imitate the First Lady's glamour with a visit to the local hair salon whether they lived in New York or Iowa. The country was awash with bouffants. Movie stars such as Audrey Hepburn and Kim Novak furthered the cause of the extreme hair-do. Only the nuns at Our Lady of the Foothills rejected the trend. They cropped their hair to the skull, but none of their students ever saw what was under the dimple, so they could have been sporting bouffants too.

The bouffant died out with the coming of the hippie era. Women wore their hair long and the the style seemed slated for extinction. It has staged several rebirths. One with the lead singers of the B-52s and another with the English singer Amy Winehouse and the TV Show MADMEN.

Several weeks ago a woman walked into a New york bar. Her bleached blonde hair was piled high on her head. She looked so very 60s. I was sitting with Jamie Parker, recently back from Thailand and the 50 year-old ex-con said, "She looks like a 1960s transvestite."

"You don't like the bouffant?" The hair style brought me back to my youth and my first yearnings for women instead of girls.

"Not at all, this Mr. Kenneth who re-invented the hair style for Jackie Kennedy was gay." Jamie smirked at the passing beauty. She must have been a model. Her stiletto heels were almost as tall as her hair. The scent of her skin smelled of Chanel No.5.

"You have something against gays?" Back in the 60s they were called homos. People to be feared by young men, unless they were looking for a good time. Pedophile priests were another story altogether with their secret sacrament.

"Me, I love gays, but I looked at the bouffant hair style as a strategy gay hairdressers to make straight men not want to have sex with their wives or girlfriends. It even turned Kim Novak and Leslie Gore gay." Jamie spoke with no trace of rancor. His first love was drugs. Even back in the 60s.

"I liked the bouffant." I met a girl from Mattapan at the Oriental Theater. Her name was Jo with dirty blonde hair as stiff as a store mannequin's wig. She was my Kim Novak.

"Figures."

"How does it figure?"

"You're from Boston. Men from Boston love Jackie Kennedy. You probably went to bed jerking off to her."

"Not that I can remember." Jackie O was above my class. She rode horses and spoke French. Women like her were destined to marry rich regardless of their hairstyle. "I know my place."

"Don't we all." Jamie was only in the States to visit his mother. She lived in the Bronx. She thought that he was teaching school in Thailand. His real job was running the Pigpen A Go-Go. Fat pretty bar girls and skinny ugly pole dancers. A man of the street no matter where he lived on this Earth.

"Easy to know your place when it's only us and them." The them was the rich. The US was the rest of the world. No bouffant would make any of us a queen, except in Thailand, where the boys are girls and twice the girl any woman would be, even with a bouffant. Jackie O would love them.

State of the Union Speech 2012

My prediction for Obama's speech this evening is that there will be no announcements about the legalization of marijuana or a ban on torture or an immediate withdrawal from Afghanistan or the outlawing of potato chips and fast food. The President will instead try to rally the nation around the idea that our eyes have to lift off the ground and as a nation we must gaze into the stars.

The media are calling this a sputnik speech referring to Eisenhower's challenge to this Nation that we will not fall behind Russia in the Race into Space. Our new rival is China. The Red Middle Kingdom has spent our trade deficit on improving its infrastructure and their military weaponry. The USA produces little of its consumption thanks to the off-shoring of industry, the yuan's low value to the dollar and a cowered work force.

I'm watching the speech on CNN online. Thousands of miles away on the other side of the world. It's 9:05 PM. The President is making his way down the aisle of Congress. A sustained applause from both parties and the audience. He's wearing a soft blue tie. Hands extended to him and he offers comments to the representatives and senators. Another few minutes and he'll be live from Washington DC.

The President of the USA.

I still like him.

WHY MEN HAVE BETTER FRIENDS

This joke comes from the Old Roue in Bangkok

WHY MEN HAVE BETTER FRIENDS

Friendship Between Women: A woman didn’t come home one night. The next day she told her husband that she had slept over at a friend’s house.The man called his wife’s 10 best friends. None of them knew about it.

Friendship Between Men: A man didn’t come home one night. The next dayhe told his wife that he had slept over at a friend’s house. The woman called her husband’s 10 best friends. Eight of them confirmed that he had slept over and two claimed that he was still there.

How true

Why Boys Read National Geographic

As I came of age in the 1960s, my older brother and I relished a visit to my grandmother’s house in Westbrook, Maine, since piles of National Geographic were stacked chronologically in her attic. We would disappear into the dusty atelier for hours, poring through the years for photos of naked women; mostly African, Asian, Melanesian, or Amazonian. It was our first exposure to naked women, however neither of us understood why white women were racially unacceptable to the editors of the National Geographic and their exclusion from my early years of sexual awakening meant that the only other source to see naked white women was in stroke books and those women accepted everything. To this day a white woman clothed or naked conjures up a succubus of deviant behavior. Maybe if national geographic had published photos of naked white women on a beach in the South of France I'd hold my females of my racial make-up in higher esteem.

At least sexually,

Skinny Legs and All

In 1967 Joe Tex scored a #10 hit with SKINNY LEGS AN ALL on Dial/Atlantic records.

The lyrics told the tale of a good fun nnight.

“I don’t want no woman with no skinny legs
Look here!
I thought about givin’ this woman to Clyde
But, no
Say, I know the kind-a women Clyde like
Leroy’ll take her.
Say, LEROY!
You got her!”

Amazing to think that those lyrics were hit the airwaves, but many young men have had a hankering for skinny girls, for in the words of the immortal Jack Flood, the hardened heavyweight from Seattle, “The closer to the bone the sweeter the meat.”

To check out these skinny legs, go to www.girlsontape.com and marvel at Stefania Fumo’s self-photos, otherwise please go to this url to check out lie version of SKINNY LEGS AND ALL by Joe Tex

www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Sdib6gd190

ps my wife has skinnier legs.

As Jack Flood said, "The closer to the bone the sweeter the meat."

Whitey You Dog

The name Whitey belonged to one man in Boston for the last fifty years.

Whitey Bulger, arch-criminal out of South Boston, had lived in the Old Colony, America's first housing project. His first arrest for larceny predated my birth by nine years. He sold heroin in the projects. He killed friends, family, and Mafia. The FBI entered his name into the MOST WANTED list on 1999, despite his status as an FBI informant for several decades.

Whitey Bulger had remained at large all those years. Police sources had cited the fugitive as living in a number of countries without extradition to the USA. Some had even mentioned his hiding out in Thailand. The Land of Smiles has always been friendly to a man on the run, since Thais see every farang the same. Some foreigner who doesn't belong here, but they'll tolerate as long as he has money and doesn't make any Thai lose face.

Whitey Bulger and I never crossed paths. I stayed out of South Boston except for St Patrick's Day. My criminal activities in Boston were limited to simple traffic violations. The FBI could beat me with rubber hoses without my saying a single word to harm the fugitive. It was easy to hold your sand when you know nothing, but back in 2007 I adopted a white dog in Sri Racha. Khao or 'White' had belonged to Mam's step-uncle. The truck driver treated the dog like dirt. We adopted Khao and I thought to change his name to fit his new life, except he didn't answer to Jo Jo.

I always liked the band Jo Jo Gunne.

Mam and Uncle Nai and Fenway called the dog 'Khao'. Fighting for Jo Jo was futile, however I Americianized 'Khao' into Whitey, although he doesn't look a thing like #458 on the FBI's Most Wanted list and I'm glad about that. The last thing I need in my life are the FBI. They are always a bore and Whitey Bulger is a rat murderer.

Always.

adn I am happy he is dead.

The Happiness of a Vespa

"Riding a Vespa is like having sex with a transvestite. It's a lot of fun until one of your friends see you doing it."

Of course it's always fun if you have a naked girl riding behind you.

That wasn't the case in the summer of 1966, when I rode on the back of a friend's Vespa down to Wollaston Beach. My brother was on the back of another friend's motorcycle. The beach wall was packed in front of the Clam Shack. Teenagers from around the South Shore flocked to the hang-out, although most of them were from Quincy and a good percentage of those were greasers and greasers regarded anyone on a Vespa as a sissy. I didn't even get a chance to get off the back before someone sucker-punched me in the head. Luckily I was wearing a helmet.

I got off the Vaspa to face my attacker. He was not alone. The greaser has three friends. I was only 14. I turned to my friends and brother. They acted like they didn't know me.

"Take off the helmet." The greaser had a bloody fist. His knuckles scuffed from contact with the helmet.

"I don't think so." I had done nothing to deserve their hostility and had no intention of letting them punch my unprotected head. "I'm fine the way I am.'

"Great, then we'll just kick you a little." The greaser wasn't wearing shoes, but even barefooted kicks could break a rib. Their assault was cut short my another teenage boy. He threatened the quartet with a broken beer bottle.

"Step the fuck back or else I'll cut you." He was wearing cut-off jeans and his hair was long for the time. The other boys took a look at the bottle's jagged end and swore under their breath. My saviour chucked the bottle in the trash. "Kid, better be going. They'll be back for you, if you don't and another thing."

"What?" He was my hero.

"Never ride on the back of another guy's bike." It was sound advice, although he said nothing about riding behind a beautiful woman. That's a lot of fun too.

Incommunicado

Back at the end of the last century there was a short time when the world was devoid of cell phones and computers. Communications between distant countries was a chore. While in Bangkok I would hire a tuk-tuk for the short trip from the Malaysia Hotel to the Bangko GPO on Charoen Krung Road. The main building was dedicated to mail. Many travelers used this PO's post restante as their address. I picked up several letters at the desk each time through Bangkok, however my main purpose at the GPO was to call home from their telephone center.

One minute to the USA was 50 baht.

International calls were possible from a phone box, although most of them sucked coins without connecting to your caller. Only the GPO telephone service was secure and even better they offered collect calls from AT&T. The office was air-conditioned for comfort of the callers. A luxury in the sweltering heat of Bangkok.

I would sit in the little glassed-in cubicle and dial that AT&T number with great pleasure.

I loved speaking with the operator. Mostly they lived in the Midwest. Their flat-accented voices soothed the home-sick heart and they were eager to forward your call to a loved one.

My parents in most cases.

Friends sometimes.

No one ever refused the charge.

We'd speak for several minutes. I respect their acceptance of this expensive call and said my piece fast. Once I hung up, I'd head out into the torrid heat, not knowing when I might next make a phone call to the USA or Europe. The world had distance to it. Places were unknown. Destination were a mystery.

Nowadays everyone around the world is reachable via a cellphone or an email. I can google every place for a hotel. The world is a much smaller place. I can't recall the last time I made a collect call and I suppose my friends and family are happy to not be hit for an extravagant charge on their telephone bill.

Strangely no one ever picks up their phone in the USA.

Here too. People look at caller ID and decide whether or not to answer the call. Many times they do not. Conversation is dead. Too much phone accomplished the impossible. It shut up mankind, proving the closer we are the farther we grow apart.

This story is an excuse for my silence of the last couple of days. I had no internet service and I enjoyed that freedom from the constant barrage of information while at the same tiem suffered the jones from cold turkey.

I'm back online again, although tomorrow I'll be flying back to the States from Thailand. Work and winter. That's what I have waiting for me in New York.

And I was expecting nothing less.

THe Curse of Khruschev

After my youngest brother's death from AIDS in 1995 I traveled to the Orient with the intention of visiting several holy sites to help send Michael's soul into the aether. I landed in Bangkok and booked a flight to Kunming in Yunnan, China's southernmost province. I skipped the offered tours of the Shalin Stone Forest and caught the evening bus to Dali, an ancient walled city in the shadow of the Cangshan Mountains. Its roads end in the shallows of Erhai Lake. I stayed at a humble worker's hostel and drank at a backpacker cafe.

Few of its citizens spoke English. The owner of the cafe was a fierce traditionalist. His pride of China's past had been freed by the New Economy and one night he said to me, "You westerners fear our power."

"More, we fear your chaos." I thought that was a clever put down. The Chinese Cultural revolution had set China back twenty years, however that stumble was fast being erased by the industry of the present-day Middle Kingdom. The ten-year plan of the 90s catapulted the country into the position of the world's leading manufacturer, as Western corporations off-shored tens of millions of jobs to China.

Nothing is made in the USA anymore.

Or anywhere else.

This week the Chinese Premier visited Washington on an official visit to the White House. Obama hailed the progress of the visitors' economy, while criticizing the nation's poor standing on human rights. Premier Hu was polite enough not to mention Git-mo, Abu-Ghabib, our two-million strong prison population, or draconian drug laws. Our two nations are linked in a death dance to see who will be #1 by mid-century and the odds are on China, as we have spent our treasure of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

We are not friends.

Not the USA and the Chinese Communists who rule their country with an iron fist.

They remember the words of the Russian Communist leader, Khruschev.

"We will bury you."

Almost no one in America can place who said this sentence, but I know on whose side rides the future.

Hi-yo Silver Away.

The Lone Ranger will come to the rescue.

Either that or the end of the world in 2012, because no one in America will like to cheer at an international sporting event.

"We're # 2."

ps Khruschev's shoe had slipped off on the way to the podium. His secretary had handed him the shoe wrapped in a handkerchief. He kept it under the podium until reaching those famous words with a famous shoe.

Kingsley Amis - Quote of the Day

“I have a hang-over bad enough to think I’m sprouting antlers.” - Kingsley Amis

And I like many know that feeling.

A STORY OF O by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1994 Crazy Santa Klaus had a special go card to the Russian Baths on East 10th Street. Opening time was 8Am. The steam room crew began to heat the river boulders at 6am. The two-ton stones glowed red by 7:20. Crazy Santa Claus was in the dry steam room at 7:21. He was a rich junkie. The last family member of an 18th century fortune. Heroin had not ruined his sense of entitlement.

As a permanent member I could have entered the Baths at that bastardly hour, except my alarm clock was set for the opening. A towel over my shoulder and I exited from my apartment building into the morning. I read the seasons with every step.

Fall’s surrender to Winter. Snow on the sidewalk. The ornamental pears blooming in Spring. Summer hot and sticky.

I liked the look on the faces of the day workers headed to the subway. Their eyes asked where I was going. The Baths weren’t for everyone. A temple to cleanliness and rejuvenation. The weight of a night’s hard drink evaporated after 30 minutes in the 180F heat. Crazy Santa Claus was always on the top tier of the heat room. His white beard fluffy despite the Venusian temperature. His body fat ranged at zero. I knew the Jersey heir to a deodorant fortune through my Uncle Carmine. Crazy Santa Claus had a small room in Uncle Carmine’s basement. The walls were covered with hippie posters.

Crazy Santa Claus’ real name was John Lyon. His other alias for the addicts of the Lower East Side was Junkie John. He was a sucker. His family had big money. Crazy Santa Claus had assets

I helped him turn $80,000 of stock into gold coins. Not an easy thing to do in 1993. The Feds were hunting drug dealers laundering money. Collecting the coins took a little time. I asked Uncle Carmine, if I should fuck him.

“He’s going to get $2 million at 50.” Uncle Carmine was patient. “We’ll get him then. He promised to take care of me.”

Trusting junkies was a losing proposition.

Crazy Santa Claus lost the gold coins to his crackhead girlfriends within a month. We hadn’t spoken since the sale.

The near-albino nodded, as I sat opposite him on the highest row of the Baths. The air scorched my skin. Vodka was fuming from my pores. Crazy Santa Claus’ skin was parched dry as a Death Valley corpse. Junkies like vampires don’t sweat, unless they are jonesing.

“Hot, huh?”

“Always hot this hour.”

“You wanna smoke some O?” Somewhere in his head I suspected that I had ripped him off. He wasn’t man enough to blame himself, but he must have needed me for something. Something no good. He stood up with a towel around his waist.

“It’s a little early.” I was wearing a matching towel and my own flip-flops. The ones at the Baths were cheap. Like wearing wooden shoes.

“No one’s here and anyone who is here let’s me do what I want. My money buys freedom.”

I remembered how he talked about his money. I should have left, but followed him to the front of the Baths. I hadn’t smoked opium for years. We entered the bathroom and he pulled out a glass stem. We lit up a small ball of black tar. The Chinese had run thousands of opium dens in New York. Chinese rocks had closed most of them, but this morning Crazy Santa Claus had opened one on East 10th Street. The aroma was Golden Triangle, however the country of origin was Mexico.

Tijuana black.

I faked my inhale. John like most junkies only cared about his high. The heroin flitted through his blood and he sagged against the wall. His rush lasted 30 seconds. I went upstairs to say my good-byes to the owner.

“Where is Crazy John?” The owner had another name for Crazy Santa Claus.

“In the bathroom?”

I nodded wiping the sweat from my face. A little of the D was running in my arteries. Work would be tough for the first hour.

“High?”

“Yes.”

“I will make sure that he doesn’t die.” Dead people were never good for business.

“I could care less.” That was the drugs talking and a little bit me too. We both spoke the same language. Selfish to the bone.

Brown Mixture

800 kilometers north of SriRacha is the Golden Triangle. Tourists tend to identify this fabled name with the confluence of the Mekong and Ruak Rivers. The term more accurately referred to the opium-growing regions in Burma, Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. Most of the world's opium was grown by the tribesmen living beyond the law. Back in the 90s the highlight of many backpacker's mountain treks from Chiang Mai was a night's stay at a remote village, where the headman would offer opium or fin to the farangs. More enterprising westerners attempted to ship the narcotic back to Europe. Some only made it as far as a Thai prison.

Viktor Bout, infamous arms dealer most recently extradited to the USA from Thailand said, "Prisons inn the state are like mental hospitals and here they're like a zoo."

Even money won't save a farang, but this doesn't prevent westerners from challenging the gauntlet of police snitches, DEA, and custom inspectors. I haven't seen opium or 'fin' in years, although last night I went to the local pharmacy and asked the chemist for medicine to cure a persistent cough of the last month.

The druggist gave me a small bottle labeled 'Brown Mixture'.

20 baht or 60 cents.

I figured for a generic drug and returned home, where I took a slug, then read the read the label. The last ingredient was 'tincture of opium'. In other words I was drinking laudanum. The drug of choice for the 19th Century. I finished the bottle in one go. I slept like an angel. A good destination for a man my age and my cough is gone too.

Good old Brown Mixture.

Nothing like it in the States.

The Birds and the Bees

Please click on image to enlarge.

The Xmas Drunk

I had a great job over the holidays being invited to Xmas parties as the Xmas Drunk. $500 an appearance and all I could drink. Bad behavior was a must. Insulting the boss was a showstopper. Punching out the hated brother-in-law was most requested extra. $100/punch. Insulting a wife's obesity was a secret request by many husbands. I refused this boon. Punching a jerk is one thing. Hurting a fat woman's feelings is bad taste.

Big Dave from the diamond exchange was my back-up in case a situation spun out of hand. I knew the limits. Big Dave never had to save my ass.

None of my clients knew my real name. I was always James Steele.

"Who was that drunk guy?" Most guests asked at the end of a successful performance.

"The Xmas Drunk." The host would answered with pride. I made everyone feel good about getting drunk.

My popularity increased as the shopping days shrunk to single digits. I couldn't handle the demand. I boosted my rate to $200/hour. No one complained about my performance. By December 21st I was at the top of my game.

At a Hedge Fund soiree atop a skyscraper I ambushed the ruling CEO in the bathroom. I pointed a gun at him. Actually it was only a finger in my suit pocket. The capitalist fool was drunk enough to not question me.

Either that of very guilty.

I accused this czar of finance of impoverishing the world. He swore that he was simply doing his job.

"I'll give you a check for a million if you let me go."

"Money means nothing to the Xmas Drunk." I grabbed him by his tie and dragged him into the main office, where his fellow execs ridiculed his surrender to a besotted revolutionary. At most parties people were people. Here these investment bankers consider themselves better than anyone else. I left to applause and superglued shut the doors of the office. They didn't get out until 3am.

The next morning I received a complaint from the banker who had hired me.

"What do you expect from the Xmas Drunk? Emily Post manners. Fuck off." I had a wicked hang-over. I probably should have apologized, but he had paid me in cash. Everyone did, because there's only one person worst than the Xmas Drunk and that the guy trying to seek revenge by stiffing me, so I'm a strictly cash enterprise and the Xmas Drunk knows where these jerks live.

Being naughty and not nice all part of the Xmas Drunk's job.

His co-workers laughed at his surrender to the Xmas The only downside was that I had to be drunker than anyone else at the party so the family members and guests and co-workers could say the next morning, "At least I wasn't as drunk as the Xmas drunk."

I didn't have the heart to say that I was faking it.

Nothing says asshole better than the Xmas drunk.

You Bet I Would # 4

A little white trash with that lap dance?

She ain't no cheerleader.

Buddy Ryan - Quote of the Day

"If Plan B was so good why wasn't it Plan A?" Buddy Ryan NFL Football Coach

The Cost of Morality

In 1977 a Beacon Hill lawyer hired me to vanish his gas-guzzling Oldsmobile. $300 to never seen the Detroit pig again. It was grand-theft auto, but the risk was minimal. He'd report the car stolen the next day and collect on the insurance within a month.

I had disappeared three of his friend's lemons during the winter. My technique was to drive the car to New York and park them along the West Side Highway. I'd chuck the plates in the Hudson and leave the keys in the ignition. This was my last job, because I was leaving Boston to share my life with a starry-eyed painter in Brooklyn Heights.

There was no looking back. I had quit my teaching job at South Boston High School, emptied my basement apartment in Brookline, and called Ro to tell her that I was coming her way. My future as a poet married to an artist ended when her roommate told me that she had departed for Paris in the morning. He shut the door in my face and I didn't blame him. he was her ex-boyfriend.

My two options were to return to Boston in heart-broken defeat or stick it out in New York. My decision was settled by a phone call to James Spicer, who was the manager for the jazz pianist Cecil Taylor. I had $600 in my pocket and James had a spare bedroom in Park Slope.

I spent most of the rest of my life in New York, which wasn't easy for a Boston fan. I watched Bucky Dent's home run at the Empire Hotel and Bill Buckner's error at the Milk Bar on lower 7th Avenue. While these two games against the Yankees and Mets were bitter defeats, the late 70s, 80s, and 90s were not kind to Boston fans anywhere.

Only the Boston Celtics brought us to the promised land in the mid-80s. The Bruins languished as almsot-rans in the NHL. The Patriots came close on two occasions to be blown out in the Spuer Bowl two times against the Bears and the Packers. The Celtics descended into chaos under the coaching of Rick Pitino and ML Carr. Despite the lack of success I remained true to my home teams and was rewarded by the Red Sox's miraculous shucking of the Babe Ruth Curse in 2004 and the Celtics' winning the 2008 NBA championship.

The true glory belonged to the Patriots, winners on 3 Super Bowl. They would have won a 4th in 2008 if it weren't for Placido Burgess' incredible catch in the last minute of regulation. I had seen the game in Thailand. Early morning. The only Boston fan at the bar. The New Yorkers hooted with joy. They are poor losers and even worse winners. My business failed later that winter and I returned to New York with $100 in my pocket.

There was no thought of making a new start in Boston.

That city might be deep in my blood, but I don't like living in the past. My friend AP offered me a soft landing at his brownstone in Fort Greene. Richie Boy and Manny gave me my old job on 47th Street selling diamonds. Same salary as when I left in 2000, which was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Everyone in the exchange was a Giants or Jets fan. As much as the Giants win rankled my pride, the Patriots' true NFL rival was the Jets. Their fans clutched onto Jim Namath's stunning upset over the Baltimore Colts in 1969 like the Holy Roman Emperor Otto IV. He had continued to sleep with his teenage bride for 13 years after her death. They seemed no threat to the Patriots' domination of the AFC East, even though their record improved from 4-12 in 2007 to 11-5 this season.

Our two teams met twice in the regular season. The Jets winning the first and the Patriots routing New York in the rematch. The Jets barely made the playoffs, but their road victory over the Colts forced a rubber match in the quarterfinals. The Jets were a brash team. Their coach a fat big mouth. Trash talking was the order of the week for the Jets. Almost no one of the Patriots bothered to respond to the attacks. Their coach Bill Belichik was the strong quiet dignified type. His squad did their talking on the field and the Jets were underdogs, even though both teams were even matched across the board.

That was the case until Old Bill announced the benching of his star receiver for his comments about the wife of the Jet's coach. She was into foot fetishism. His calling the Jet's Rex Ryan's foot soldiers was a cardinal sin in the playoffs.

"Never say anything that might piss off the opposing team."

Old Bill sat the wide receiver for the first series, which ended in an interception without his favorite target on the field. Tom Brady never looked sharp during the first half. Old Bill's punishing Welsey Welker had fucked with his head and the rest of the game Old Bill fucked up time and time again. The Jets won the game 28-21 and all because Old Bill took the high road.

Obviously he had not forgotten Vince Lombardi's old adage.

"Winning isn't everything. It's the only thing."

Football coaches are sometimes stupidly poetic.

Of course Old Bill apologized for nothing.

And now when I come back from this short family visit to Thailand, I will only be able to say, "Wait until next year."

Thanks Old Bill.

Halfway Around the World

The first recorded circumnavigation of the world was completed by Magellan's fleet in 1522. The Portugese explorer's trip ended in a bloody beach battle in the Philippines. Of the five ships and 237 men only 18 survived this epic journey thank to the captaincy of Juan Sebastián Elcano. His name is forgotten by the masses, who have mostly forgotten Magellan too, however the spices in the hold of the Navidad reaped a fortune for the investors and world-wide travel was established to conduct trade between the far-flung nations of the world.

Ships from New England crisscrossed the globe for centuries. My great-grand-aunt Bert sailed in her father's clipper ship to exotic ports in the Orient. Her house in Falmouth Foresides was crowded with mementos from China, India, Hawaii, and Japan. She lived to be 103. At her 100th birthday she told me with a voice dusted by time, "Siam was the most beautiful place I ever went, but the women there all had black teeth from chewing betel nut."

No one else the next two generation accomplish this feat, although my Uncle Russ invaded Japan, Uncle Dave fought in the naval battles off Biak, and my Uncle Jack fought his way out of Korea's Chosin reservoir. Two Christmases ago he told my cousin and me about shooting hundreds of Chinese and losing dozens of friends.

"I never had any interest in ever going back to that continent." The 80 year-old ex-Marine Lieutenant wiped away several tears from his eyes and lifted a glass of whiskey. Jamison. We toasted his bravery and he put down his drink. "Took our ship almost a month to reach Japan. How long is the flight now?"

"About 22 to 25 hours." I have tried every variant of the trip.

Over the pole. East to West. West to East. There's nothing short about the flights.

"Although Thai Airway used to have a 17 hour non-stop ticket from JFK to Bangkok." My legs were swollen from the high-altitude pressure and I hobbled from the 747 like a broken-down horse.

"I can stand being on a plane for a minute." Uncle Jack's wife, my aunt, hated flying. They were very well-off, but during their 70s they only traveled by bus.

"I have no choice." My children live over in Thailand. A sea voyage would take months and Manny, my boss on the diamond exchange on 47th Street, doesn't permit me the luxury of long vacation. At 83 he needs as much help as possible, but understands the call of family having raised four children of his own.

Upon his return from a two-week holiday in the holy city of Miami Beach, Manny looked at the calendar and said, "Go see your kids. Leave on the next flight and come back before the show in Florida."

His son Richie Boy was traveling south for a trade show. I usually organized the packing of the jewelry. There was no way of asking for a few extra days, so I planned an early departure and called PanExpress Travel to book a flight. Every flight on the better airlines were sold-out, leaving only China Air and Korean Air.

The first had the worst in-flight food on ancient 747s. My last trip with Korean Air wasn't much better. A horror show 747 out of the 60s, however Sonny, the travel agent, said, "Kprean Air much better now. Fly new 777s and have new airport. Only $1205 and the flight leaves tomorrow."

"Make it a green light." I thought Sonny might be lying. I had no choice. "Korean Air."

I called Mem with the news. We hadn't seen each other in 6 weeks. She was unhappy with her living situation. Her aunt was calling Fenway, my son, a bad boy and my wishes for him to be a superstar would be shattered by such negativism.

"We're moving house as soon as I land."

These words made Mem happy. Nothing she loves more than her three kids. I rank a good #4.

That night I drank beer at Franks and in the morning headed out to JFK on the A train. I passed through the TSA security without a problem and walked to the gate fearing the worst. Something was wrong with the plane. It wasn't a hump=backed 747. Our sky-cruiser was a new Super 777. Decent food. Good seats. Pretty stewardesses. Scads of entertainment.

Even better was Inchoen Airport.

Brand new.

A 2 hour lay-over.

Then another 777 to Bangkok.

28 hours door to door. Fenway was asleep on the bed. Mem kissed me once. I joined them in dreamland. I beat Magellan by three years and congratulated myself on finding a new route to the Orient. My name won't be in any history books, then again no one remembers Juan Sebastián Elcano. At least no one I know.

Obama's Speech

Sometimes the best things to do in a moment of chaos is shut up and listen. - James Steele

To hear Obama's Speech please go to the following URL on BBC News

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-12179336

Squares

At one time I thought that the world would consist of long-hairs driving GTOs with skinny blondes at their side. The music on the radio was Grand Funk Railroad. Once I graduated from college my delusion of grandeur narrowed to an aspiration of driving a motorcycle around the Lower East Side high on heroin with a raven-haired temptress. Paris with a movie starlet. Blonde thin and a good cook. Our car was a Fiat. Thailand. A go-go girl. Yamaha 400 cc. Beach sun beer. Forever cool.

Sadly my friends along the way have become square.

They worry about their position. They think they are important. Some of them really are VIP. Some of them could call a number. The next hour I would be dead.

If I was someone other than who I am that might be true.

But I have remained faithful to my code of ethics.

"No commercial value. No sellout."

Those are the words of James Steele and he knows the truth.

He ain't no square.

DRUNK DRIVING HOUR by Peter Nolan Smith

My college tuition in 1973 was $2000 for the year. I hacked a cab for Boston Taxi to support myself. Our garage was next to the old Boston Arena. If a driver booked more than $100 a night, the payout jumped from 45/55 to 50/50. My classmate Hank Watson and I were the top earners for the company. We caught the 12am operators from the NET&T building and ended the night with a final ride for the strippers of the 2 O’Clock lounge. The drinking age was 18. Hank and I rendezvoused at 1:30am to watch the headliners finish the night.

Tuesday night was the best.

The girls got paid their commission for the drinks to the suckers.

We The 3-piece band played our requests. We tipped them with our tips. IN DA GADDA DA VIDA was priceless on a stand-up Hammond organ.

One evening we stayed after hours.

Neither of us were aiming for magna cum laude.

The strippers taught us life.

My favorite was Claudia. She was 17. Blonde. Marilyn Monroe could have been the mother who abandoned her to the nuns. Claudia lived in Jamaica Plains. We drank three tequila and smoked a joint with the band. Frank was driving his favorite, Shaleen, to Roxbury. My first class RADICAL ECONOMICS with Barry Bluestone was scheduled for 9am.

6 hours away.

“If you want to go, then we have to go now.”

Claudia was glad to go. She had a jealous biker boyfriend. I had her sit in the front. Anyone sitting in the back triggered the meter. The Combat Zone to Forest Hills was $7. Better in my pocket than the greedy owner.

Claudia talked about her childhood.

Nuns. Beatings. Priests. Wandering hands.

“A-huh.” I was having trouble staying on the road. Smoking weed and tequila was a deadly combination and Claudia asked at her address, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” My head was strapped to the end of a helicopter prop.

I headed back to the garage ignoring the radio dispatcher. Anyone in Dudley Station was stuck in Dudley Station until the train opened at 6am. I stepped on the gas. Columbus Street was naked of traffic. My Checker cab had some tiger. I hit 70.

Too fast to stop for a Mustang burning the stop sign at Centre Street.

I t-boned the Ford at the doors. My car snaptailed across the intersection at 1000 rpm. The car came to a stop against a curb. The driving wheel was in my hands. The windshield shattered by the impact of my head. I dropped the steering wheel and touched my forehead.

No blood.

No missing parts.

I saw the Mustang. It was bent in half. A black man lay out the door.

I walked over to the wreck. Steam vented from the engine. People were exiting from the nearby projects. Blood was leaking from the man’s ear. This was not a good sign.

“That look like my Uncle Milton.”

“That white boy killed Milton.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” I leaned over Milton. He was wearing a red silk suit. Wilson Pickett style. “Can you hear me?”

“White boy you done kill me.” Crimson bubbled from his lips.

The crowd was getting bigger. Someone had a gun at his side. I eyed him as if I were not white. He didn’t buy the lie. Mob. Riot. Headlines.

I stood alone. A Boston cab drove between us. Frank was behind the wheel. Shaleen stepped out of the back in pink hot pants slendor.

“Leave the white boy alone. He’s good people.”

This future was detoured by the whoop of a police car. The crowd backed away from the crushed Mustang. Shaleen had done her job. Frank drove away in a hurry.

“Get in the car.” The officer behind the wheel ordered with urgency. I obeyed his command and we escaped, as an ambulance pulled into the intersection.

“I think I killed that man.”

“Not at all. And besides he was just a nigger. We’ll write it up in your favor. You’re from Boston right?”

He could tell from my accent. I was free. No manslaughter, because Milton survived the crash. He had been drinking too. The cab company was angry. Milton was suing them for damages. They fired me. Six months later his lawyer called my house to ask me to testify against the cab company.

$100.

I received a check.

No one showed for the court date, but ever since that night I’ve always thought that the state should have a drunk driving hour. No one on the road but drunks.

2am to 5am.

Made sense to me and probably Milton too.

We were survivors.

For that night and beyond.

Quote of the Day - Sheik Auda from LAWRENCE OF ARABIA

I work selling diamonds. Some big. Some small. People ask me why I'm not rich. it's not my business, but the real reason is that I take care of my family and I always like quoting Sheik Auda from LAWRENCE OF ARABIA

"I carry 23 great wounds, all got in battle. 75 men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I scatter, I burn my enemy's tents. I take away the flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure yet I am poor, because I am a river to my people."

To see this clip please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abI8cdLvJp8&feature=related

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN SUCKS

In 1990 a radio station in St. Petersburg decided to play STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN for 24 hours to kick-off their all-Zeppelin format. A New Mexico station repeated the feat in 1991. For the longest time STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN was the #1 rock song of all time an scored #3 as recently as 2000 in the Rolling Stone's Best Rock Songs. By 2004 it had dropped to 31th. I don't listen to Zeppelin after they sold out their music for a Cadillac commerical and no one ever really talks about how they lifted the opening from Spirit's TAURUS

100% rip-off

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJUdnTKlP1E

There is no greater compliment than plagiarism.

I have no idea who said that, but I wish someone would plagiarize me.

It would be a great honor.

RUN MOTHERFUCKERS RUN

During the ECAC hockey tournament at old Boston Arena BC High was playing Somerville. The year might have 1968. My older brother attended BC High. I was at Xaverian. His classmates hated my school. We were a new powerhouse on the South Shore, but his friends accepted my support for this game. The Somerville fans were underneath the elevated seats. BC High students dropped M-80s on the opposing fans.

Good Catholic schoolboys to the core.

The Somerville football team tried to charge up the stairs, but we beat them back with fists.

It was a fair fight.

BC High scored an upset victory and at the end of the game hordes of cops separated the two rival groups of supporters. Somerville left first, furious at their loss and our behavior. The police let us out to face hundreds of Somerville fans. They were big boys and it seemed like all the entire town was waiting in the alley.

Our friends gave the Somerville fans the finger. I shouted out obscenities. My brother nudged my ribs.

We stood in a gauntlet of teenage thugs.

My brother, his friends, and I turned to retreat back into the arena.

Clang. The cops had shut the doors to stop the possibility of a riot. We were on our own. The Somerville fans were slow to react to this advantage.

A clear path ran up the middle of the alley to Mass Ave.

One of my brother's friends shouted out, "Run, motherfuckers, run." We didn't need to be told twice.

I ran the 440 for my high school. My older brother the 880.

Our best times for a dash were that night, as we outraced our enemies to the safety of Mass. Avenue and Kelly's Bar at the bridge. I knew the bartender there. He came from Jamaica Plains.

Like the wind we ran with fear on our heels. I reached Kelly's first. The bouncer saw the approaching horde and said, "Let inside quick." Jimmy was 6-8 and connected to the Winter Hill Gang. I bought him two beers as thanks. "JP." He clinked my glass. I had been drinking there since I was twelve. Run motherfuckers run was a good joke for years to follow, this day whenever someone says that they are from Somerville I never mention the word 'hockey' or run motherfuckers run.

It was better than way.

RED HOT RED / Bet On Crazy by Peter Nolan Smith

Last night I was sitting with a mystical friend at Frank's Lounge. We were watching the end of the Jets-Colts playoff game. Rooting for the New York team surprised Wilson. He knew my life-long ties to Boston and I told him. "If the Jets win, we get to beat them again and other than winning the SuperBowl nothing is better than beating the Jets."

I hate Jets fans, except for Bob Wolfkowitz. This family friend is a season ticket-holder in the Meadowlands. Their last championship was in SuperBowl III. I hope that another hundred years go by before the Jets win the championship.

"Never the gold for the Jets." I said this loud enough for the benefit of Tyrone. He too is a die-hard fan. I wish that I could wish him good-luck, but when the Jets upset my team, the Patriots, in the first match-up between the AFC East rivals, Tyrone was crowing about how the Jets were going all the way.

My phone was ringing. I looked at the number and put it back in my jacket. It was Richie Boy, my boss.

"We'll see next week." Wilson was a Giants fanatic. He was praying for both our teams to crash head-on in their buses, so the Jints could sneak into the playoffs. Football fans are devoted fools. "Two strong teams. Evenly matched."

"Dirty Sanchez is no Tom Brady." I imagined the Jets' QB to be a modern-day Paris of Troy looking to steal Helen from New England. There was only one Giselle and she had a big nose. My phone started ringing again. Richie Boy must have finished skiing in Vermont.

"Who's calling you?" Wilson was curious since the only person that ever called me this time of night was Fenway's mom from Thailand and I always answered her. Mam was 26 and as beautiful as the first day I met her four years ago.

"My boss from the diamond exchange."

"Doesn't he know that it's a Saturday?" Wilson worked as a building inspector for the city. 38 years on the job. "Ain't no one working at my job on Saturday unless it's double overtime."

"My bosses don't understand the concept of overtime." I was 58. Finding a new job was impossible for men my age. I was the only one on the subway in the morning. The phone started ringing again.

"You boss?"

"No, a friend." It was Isaac. He had a store in the Plaza Hotel. We had met two years earlier when Richie Boy opened a shop in the new Retail Collection. The experiment had been a disaster. One partner was a thief and his Persian backer was broke. I saved the sinking ship by selling a million-dollar ruby. Isaac admired my effort and my cool demeanor after our Persian backer stiff half my commission. I answered the phone.

"Man, you've got to tell Richie Boy to chill." Isaac and I were trying to sell a 2-carat red diamond to a sheik. So was everyone else in town, but Isaac had sold the client before, giving him the inside track. "He's calling me every 30 minutes."

"Me too." Richie Boy had a bad habit of thinking every sale was a done deal as long as you showed the stone. I walked out of the bar onto the sidewalk. The night air was cold. Across the street General Fowler's statue was covered in blinking lights. Some sport had draped him in a cape. The wind gave the Civil War hero life. "Isaac, did you speak with the Arab today?"

"No, I told you and told Richie Boy that I wouldn't be speaking to him until Wednesday. He has to relax."

"Did you call anyone else for a stone?" I hoped that he hadn't.

"Someone showed me a pinkish red." I knew that Isaac couldn't stay off the phone. Richie Boy wasn't the only person that was crazy.

"Pinkish red is a garbage stone. You show that to someone looking for a red diamond and they'll think you're an idiot. How much they asking for the pinkish red?"

"A bargain. $1 million a carat."

"A piece of shit more like it." The colored diamond and gem trade are controlled by Afghani Jews. I know most of them. They are good people, but no one has an idea how much they pay for their stones. I figure that they're doubling up on the purchase price.

"If someone says 'red' show them red." My phone buzzed with another call. I knew who it was. "Do yourself a favor. Stop calling around. Every time you call for a stone, the price will jump. Tell the Arab that too. It's the truth."

"How much can we make on this stone?"

"Enough for me to stop working for two years." I could live on 50K a year. "Let me answer this call."

"Okay, but tell Richie Boy to leave me alone."

"I wish I could tell him the same for me." I switched calls.

"Why didn't you answer my call?"

"I was on the line with Isaac." I explained to him everything about the deal and how Isaac needed space.

"Space? This isn't a marriage. This is a diamond deal. I have people holding a red diamond for him." Richie Boy ranted for several more seconds about how he didn't need people to be a prima donna. He was right, but I didn't need to hear this on the weekend, since nothing and is supposed to happen on the weekend.

"It's shabbath. The broker is at temple. Where are you?"

"Just getting home." Richie Boy and his wife had a trailer on a river. I had seen the photos. A fire and glass of wine with a view of a snowy river. Some called it paradise.

"Then have a good night. I'm watching the end of the football game." I hung up and shut off my phone. I returned inside the bar and sat next to Wilson. The Jets had scored a TD.

"What your boss want?"

I explained about the red diamond sale. Wilson was unimpressed. He was looking at a good pension in two years.

"What makes a red diamond red?" It was a good question.

I had a good answer. The truth.

"No one knows." It could have been elemental. Maybe a weird radiation from the earth's core or the the vastness of the cosmos. All I knew was that I wasn't selling it this weekend and I bought Wilson a beer. Frank's is good for that. Drinking beer and not worrying about work. Paradise for some. Almost home for me.

And General Fowler too.

You Bet I Would # 3

Don't need a time machine for this blonde.

Only a diamond necklace.

I'm sure that she would warm to that gift.

BET ON CRAZY – The Blue Diamond Affair

Two years ago the Plaza Hotel’s Retail Collection was a disaster. No signs were posted on the entrances of the hotel to inform passers-by about the score of high-end stores in the basement of the landmark hotel and few hotel guests strayed down to the renovated boiler room.

Weeks passed without my consummating a sale at our jewelry store. My 60 year-old co-worker was having a nervous breakdown. Her husband had leveraged the value of their dream house in Jersey to zero. Everyday my work wife spoke about suicide and I wondered what crime I had committed in a previous life to be punished by imprisonment in this purgatory.

The only redeeming aspects of the Retail Collection were a weekly salary, the cakes of Demel’s Pastry Shop, and an after-work beer at the Oak Bar. The bartender was an old friend and I would sit at the historic bar, happy to be away from the subterranean room of gloom underneath my feet.

The clientele of the Oak Bar was a mixture of nostalgic guests, loud tourists, and hard drinkers not offended by the management’s edict to measure out the alcohol in shot glass. I mostly minded my own business, but one night an Arab man took the stool next to me. He was young, fat, and effeminate. He asked the time and commented on my Omega.

The automatic dated back to the 40s.

“I love watches.” He was sporting a Audemar-Piguet. It cost $45,000 retail.

I explained about my diamond store in the Retail Collection and he mentioned that he had a 4-carat blue diamond in his hotel room along with some jewelry to sell.

“Would you like to see it?” His gestures were extravagant. His clothing expensive without any addiction to fashion. His lilting speech had been sculptured by English private schools. Everything about him said royalty or fake. “It’s a deep blue. 4 carat-plus. You want to see it”

“Sure.” I wasn't scared of his questionable sexuality. Gays didn’t hit on out-of-shape 57 year-old men plus I was very curious about his stone, since I had only seen a few blue diamonds in my 20-year career as a diamantaire and none as big as his. “Are you staying here”

“Not in this hotel.” He laughed with a lisping disdain and signaled for his check. “I don’t stay here anymore. Only the St. Regis.”

"I love the King Cole Bar." I paid $9 for my Stella with a ten an dropped another $2. Orlando was good with that tip. We went back to the Blackout of 1977, although he arched an dubious eyebrow about my companion. I shrugged with a smile. No way I was turning a trick. That is a game for young men.

It was a winter night, but not too cold, so we walked over to the St. Regis.

Mubarah came from the Gulf. His family was connected to an emirate royal family. The Islamic right to have multiple wives led to big families and his country was crowded with princes. The doorman greeted Mubarah with practiced deference and we went over to the elevator with getting a key. He didn’t make any moves on the ride up to his suite.

It was bigger than my lost East Village apartment by several hundred square feet.

“One minute.” He took off his coat and sat on the brocaded couch. I shucked my cashmere coat and positioned myself opposite on an elegant chair. Mubarrah reached into a bag and pulled out a box of jewelry.

“Looks like someone is getting rid of their unwanted possessions.”

"A friend needs money."

"Who doesn't these days."

All the necklaces, bracelets, and ring dated back to the 80s and 90s. None of the pieces were stamped by Cartier or Tiffany. Our store on 47th Street brought such merchandise for 20-30% of value. Most people imagined their treasures were worth more. After my brief examination I said, “There’s not much money in this.”

“I know, but there is in this.” Mubarrah unfolded a small diamond parcel. An iceberg blue diamond flashed in the low light. and Mubarrah handed over the loose emerald-cut gem for a closer inspection. My revealed that the stone was clean. I had never seen a stone this beautiful and lifted my eyes off the diamond.

“I want to sell this.” Mubarrah gestured at the diamond, as if pointing was ill-mannered

“Is it yours?”

“I used to wear in a ring.” His voice betrayed the loss of privilege. Mubarrah was 25. His open palm bore no signs of having worked a day in his life.

“Have you shown it to anyone else?” It was a stupid question. No one would take a stone of this value out of a ring, unless a dealer wanted to find out the true weight. Playing dumb was a trick, but I had a good idea that Mubarrah was as skilled at this game as an old camel dealer.

“No one.”

“And how much do you want?”

“2.3 million.”

“A good price.” The Hope Diamond was on display at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington. The grayish-blue gemstone had been stolen from the statue of Sita. It was supposedly cursed from this act of sacrilege. The 31.06 Wittelsbach-Graff Diamond had been sold at auction for a fortune.“Any takers?”

“You’re the first person to see it in New York.” His roundish face was devoid of deceit.

“I feel honored.” I believed him. My boss Manny would think that he was a liar and Manny was rarely wrong in these matters. The Brownsville native had worked in the jewelry trade for over six decades. He had heard every story and considered most of the bullshit. “Can I show it to some privates?”

"Only here." He obviously wasn't letting it out of his sight.

“Here’s the GIA certificate. Show them that.” His fingers plucked the parcel from my grasp with the delicacy of a tiger. It disappeared inside his jacket. “I’m here for a week and why don’t you take the jewelry? Get an offer from your friends.”

“Now?” We barely knew each other an hour.”

“You’re not Jewish. right?”

I had spent over 40 years with the Chosen People in the nightclub and diamond businesses. I understood Yiddish. Hassidim and I argued the dietary strictures of the Talmud. Some of this exposure had rubbed off the good way, but I had to admit, “No, I'm a gentile.”

“Then I can trust you.”

“Thanks.” The #1 rule on 47th Street was ‘trust no one’ and that adage worked for the rest of New York too. Even Staten Island, however the young Arab’s confidence was based on the fact that none of the out-moded jewelry belonged to him.
We said good-night and I rode the elevator downstairs to the lobby where I telephoned Manny’s son, Richie Boy. I rattled off my find without mentioning the blue. I’d tell him about that after speaking to Jakob, an Afghani diamond broker. That market was controlled by that tightly-knit group of exiles. If one of them had seen the stone, then each of them would know of the gem.

The next day I excused myself from the Plaza. My co-worker was high on Valium. I doubted whether Janet had registered my presence or departure. Bernie Madoff had stolen her American Dream. She wasn’t alone. He hadn't robbed me, because I had no money to give him.

I strolled down 5th Avenue. The sun was bright and the wind whipping around the edges of the buildings was very cold. A good cashmere coat and hat kept me warm and I arrived at the colored diamond dealer within ten minutes. Jakob greeted me in his office. It was on the 17th floor.

“You seen this stone before?” I handed him the certificate for the blue.

Jakob was a small man. He had a big family. They had fled Kabul before 1975. There were very few Jews left in Afghanistan, but those remaining were family.

“The certificate is interesting. How much he want for the stone?"

"$2.4 million."

"How did he get that price?"

"Probably since someone offered him 2.3." It was only logical. “It is a beautiful stone.”

“And you have seen so many blues?” Jakob was big in his field. Hundreds of diamonds passed under his eye every day.

“Not many, but I can recognize something special.” I had sold a million-dollar ruby for him the previous spring. Its color was blood-red and clear as a fine burgundy wine. “This is not a fake. It’s a real diamond. Blue as an iceberg.”

“Deep blue. 4 carat.” Jakob handed back the certificate. “Someone was showing this stone in Switzerland. The same numbers. Tell him I’m interested at 2 million. At 2.3 no one makes money, but him. Understand?”

“Of course.” I wasn’t getting involved in this sale for my health. I had two wives and two kids in Thailand. They liked eating every day. I bid Jakob good afternoon and walked over to our diamond exchange on West 47th Street. Richie Boy was unimpressed with Mubarrah’s dreck.

“A waste of time.”

“What about this?” I handed over the certificate. My commission on this sale would in five-figures. “I saw it last night. A beautiful stone. Worth about 2 million.”

“Still sounds like a waste of time. You have a buyer for it?”

“Jakob said it was worth 2 million.”

“Yeah, but how much would he pay for it? Not 2 mill.” Richie Boy got on the phone. He knew Jakob’s number by heart. The conversation was short and not so sweet. Jakob was still owed 90K for the ruby sale. Richie Boy changed the conversation and asked, “Does the Arab really want to sell the stone?”

“Says he does.”

“Then get him down here.”

It was more an order than a request and my friend’s tone said that I would get cut out of this deal by Jakob and Richie Boy. I would have loved to back-door the deal to another broker, but the other Afghanis were even more untrustworthy than Jakob. I called Mubarrah to tell him about the jewelry and the offer for his diamond.

On the way back to the Plaza I stopped by the St. Regis.

Mubarrah was in the lobby. He smiled upon seeing me and bid me to sit down.

“Tea?”

“Please.” I passed over the bag of jewelry. He understood their disinterest as well as the appeal of the blue diamond. “It is rare. Clean and so blue. 2 million is an honest offer, but I have a better one from a friend in Geneva.”

“Oh.” My big commission evaporated with the confirmation of his shopping the stone. He had wasted my time and I sought to regain the upper hand.

“I lived the last twenty years in Thailand.”

“Selling and buying rubies and sapphires.”

“Something like that.” Actually it was counterfeit shirts and jackets. “I arrived in 1990. A year after the Blue Diamond Heist. Are you familiar with this story? About how a Thai janitor stole $20 million worth of jewelry and gems from the Saudi Royal Palace. He smuggled the loot back to his native province and started selling the jewelry at a 1000-baht each. A Bangkok jeweler discovers the treasure trove and buys it for nothing. The janitor buys a new tractor and some rice fields.”

“I’ve heard some of this story.” Anyone from the Gulf knew what happened next. “Go on.”

“The Saudi King considers this theft an insult to his throne and send two diplomats and a royal thug to find the jewelry. The royal thug thinks he’s tough, but not as tough as the Thais and he gets shot dead. The investigating police commander arrests the janitor and jewelry, but another two Saudi ‘diplomats’ get whacked in Bangkok. It’s a dangerous town and bodies are piling up. Finally the police handed over the stolen jewelry in a public ceremony. Only most of it is fake. A month later the Thai media photograph many of the cops’ wives wearing the swag at a Red Cross functions. This was not a shining moment in Thai-Saudi relationship and it gets worse with the Saudis sending back 250,000 guest workers. The cops kill the jeweler’s son and wife looking for a 50-carat blue. Bigger than yours, but maybe that’s where yours came from.”

“It’s been in my family for years.”

“The certificate is new, but that’s unimportant. Heads rolled in the police hierarchy and the thief exited prison after serving two years. His family and tractor are waiting in Lampung. The head cop got convicted for the murder of the jeweler’s wife and daughter. His death penalty was lowered to 25 years. He claims to be innocent.”

“A bad story.” Mubarrah toyed with his jacket. The blue diamond was inside a pocket.

“Behind all big gems are a bad story.” I could have punched him once. A quick hand and then out the door. A taxi to JFK. 747 to Bangkok and my wives. The fence’s price of 20% would last 10 years, except Thailand had a special method of re-writing happy endings into bad endings.

“Cursed like the Hope Diamond.” Mubarrah tightened his grip on the hidden parcel.

“You know your gems. If you can’t get your price in Switzerland, give me a call.” I thanked him for the tea and wandered back up to the Plaza. My co-worker was crying behind a People magazine.

“What’s wrong now?”

“I can’t pay for my Botox.” Janet was inconsulate and I brought her with a glass of wine from Demel’s. I had one too. She popped a Valium and asked, “Where were you?”

“I had to go to the bathroom.” I had to have been gone over three hours.

“I hope you washed your hands.” Janet was too loaded to have notice the passage of time and I thanked her for the advice. She was a good work wife. She knew men. We were all alike and my wives thought the same. Women were all alike too. They would have loved that blue diamond. It was magic, then again so are all things of beauty.