Barney Johnson LIVING FOREVER

Last night I attended a wake for a fellow atheist. The service was at a Ukrainian Funeral Home in the East Village. Barney and I had met in 1978. He was my boss at Hurrah, a punk disco on West 62nd Street. He survived the era of erros to be a proudly gay man with beautiful boyish locks into his 60s. I would have killed for his colorist. I was shocked to see him lying in the coffin. Not because he was dead. Dead happens to us all in the Here-Before and to those in the Here-Now and the Here Beyond. More I was aghast at how the funeral beautician had swept his hair off his forehead. Fucking no way. But it was not my place to say anything. Barney was a good-looking gay man dead or alive. More disturbing was the Cyrillic Priest moaning about god and the after-life. Barney was more into after-hours than the after life. I had to flee the viewing room to grouse with my fellow non-believers. 3 out of 100, because the rest of the atheists were respecting the family's faith. I was giving homage to Barney's devout non-belief. After the homilies and tearful good-byes I said fuck it and walked to the coffin. "This man is Barney Johnson. He loved his family, his daughter, and his friends. We met at Hurrah. Barney loved the nightlife and he is loving it in the demi-eternity of the Here-Before." I related how Barney was still alive back then and alive in our hearts of the Here Now and will exist thanks to that love in the Here Beyond." I told a story about tracking him down. Barney was a recluse. I didn't mention that I was trying to score some blow from his dealer. It didn't seem the place or time. I ended my eulogy, but saying, "Barney was a gentleman and a gentleman is someone who makes everyone comfortable." I will miss him forever.

PIMPMOBILE Isaac Hayes

Great demo derby through LA from TRUCK TURNER, a 1974 blaxploitation film starring Isaac Hayes and Yaphet Kotto, Dig those bongos To view PURSUIT OF THE PIMPMOBILE please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMO2Titwv88

Blonde On Pink

4-7-07. PHOTO BY BOBBY BUSNACH — with maya luz and bobby busnach photographe

No Rain In Sight

As far as I can ascertain from my research there has been no rain on the planet Mars for over billions of years, although the Xanthe Terra highlands on the equator shows signs of water flow. The heaviest rainfall on Earth has been recorded in the following locations according to Answers.com; LLoro, Colombia, averages 13,300mm (523.6 in) per year Mawsynram, Meghalaya, India, averages 11,873 mm (467 in) Mt Waialeale, Hawai'i, USA, annual average 11,684 mm (460 in) Cherrapunji, also in Meghalaya; yearly avg 11,430 mm (450 in) Tutunedo, Choco, Colombia, annual avg of 11394 (448 in) New York City weathermen predicted heavy rain for 5pm this evening. As we pulled the jewelry from the front window, my partner at Smith and Love Diamonds shook his head and said, "Fantastic, I get to walk home in the rain and I don't have an umbrella." "Don't worry, it will hold off." "How do you know?" Hlove trusted meteorologists more than me. "Because my fingers aren't crackling." I had fought about 200 times over my life. Not all of these bouts were one on one and not all of them were entered into the W column, but I always threw a punch. "Busted knuckles are a damned good barometer." "If you say so." Hlove is a guitarist, but he's also a fighter. "Clench our fist." "And?" "You hear anything?" "Nothing?" "So you'll get home high and dry." "I don't know about high." HLove's doctors had ordered him to take the cure. We had never drank together and I never say anything about his choice. It's life versus death and not a question of wet feet. "But if you say so I'll be dry." We shut the safe and left the exchange. I was the last to go, because it took me three minutes to find my cell phone. The train ride to Fort Greene was twenty-three minutes on the B. I exited at Atlantic Terminal and stepped outside onto Hanson Place. The rain had yet to come and looking out my window at 8:05 there's none in sight. High and dry. Except my the glass of wine in my hand is expecting a downpour. "The drops of rain make a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling." Lucretius Same goes for wine, since all liquids find the fastest path to the sea.

Beauty Most Fair Yo-Landi Vi$$er

Weebly.com is holding an online vote for most beautifful woman of 2013. Some of the women are familiar from screen, TV, and music. Others are succubus from the other side of a generation gap. Sadly none meet my citerion for beauty. Not Aishwarya Rai, Angelina Jolie, Nurgul Yesilcay, Adrina Lima, Mahlagha Jaberi, Miranda Kerr, Candice Swanepoel, Tuba Büyüküstün, Doutzen Kroes, Megan Fox, Irina Shayk, Alessandra Ambrosio, Mila Kunis, Ana Beatriz Barros, Jessica Alba, Katrina Kaif, Slita Ebanks, Maryam Zakaria, Haifa Wehbe, Claudia Lynx, Jennifer Lopez, Scarlett Johansson, Tyra Banks, Catherine Zeta Jones, Beyonce, Jacqueline Fernandez, Dia Mirza, Candice Boucher, Minka Kelly, or Cheryl Cole. Aishwarya Rai received 9,359 votes, but I placed my vote for Yo-Landi Vi$$er, from the South Africa White Trash rap band Die Antwoort. Let's make my one vote many. To do that go to the following URL http://2013mostbeautifulwomenintheworld.weebly.com/

The New GOP

After the GOP's defeat in the presidential and senatorial election Louisiana Governor Bobby Jindal criticized his party for promoting a platform based on stupidity and not electability. “It is no secret we had a number of Republicans damage our brand this year with offensive, bizarre comments -- enough of that,” Jindal told Politico. “It’s not going to be the last time anyone says something stupid within our party, but it can’t be tolerated within our party. We’ve also had enough of this dumbed-down conservatism. We need to stop being simplistic, we need to trust the intelligence of the American people and we need to stop insulting the intelligence of the voters.” Recent bills brought up for a vote across the States have suggested that the GOP has declared its recommitment to being the Party of the Dumb According to pathos.com a group of Arizona Republicans have proposed House Bill 2467, which would require public high school students to recite the following oath in order to graduate: I, _______, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge these duties; So help me God. No atheists need apply. Another GOP state legislator demanded that Tennessee cut food assistance to kids with bad grades, while Governor Rick James has vowed to arrest any federal officers attempting to enforce a gun control law. Stupid? You bet they are and they like playing 'dumb' too. If only we could get them to roll over and play dead.

Howling At The Moon

Susan Hannaford on Berlin posted on Facebook that this evening's full moon was known as the Wolf Moon. The title comes from Native Americans of the Northern Forests, because of the lupine choirs heard around their villages and encampments in the depth of winter. The Sioux called January the time 'when wolves run together'" Th howling of wolves cast a chill into the marrow of humans, since the howls are often sounded to assemble for the kill. In ideal conditions a wolf howl can be heard over 50 sq. mi. according to Wikipedia. As for howling at the moon this legend arose from the Neolithic coupling of wolves with the moon and the hunt, although the Seneca believed the moon was created by the serenade of wolves. My father had a favorite joke, which could be told to all ages. What's gray, howls at the moon, and is made of concrete? Most people are stumped by the query and are angered to hear the answer, "A wolf." "But why the concrete?" And here comes the punch line. "That's to make the joke harder." Ha ha ha.

Finish Line in Thailand

"I finish only with you." These words almost sounds true coming from the lips of a Soi 6 short-timer. She doesn't know your name. Your penis will be forgotten shortly after the apres-sex shower, but farangs inevitably ask, "Really?"

"You #1. Big too." This compliment can earned her a tip for a man, whether he be Thai or Farang, since we like compliments about performance as much as a woman enjoys foreplay.

"Really?"

Saying the right thing could earn another 100 or 200 baht.

"You make me finish. Never finish with man before."

And this is almost the truth. My friend Ort worked Soi 6 and she said, "I never finish. Not one time."

Ort was cute.

She had customers all the time.

4 a day. 5 days a week. 200 men a year.

Not one orgasm and I believed her, since a survey by the condom maker DUREX revealed that 54% of Thai couples failed to reach satisfaction.

"Men only care about men." Ort told me. "Uh uh uh. Finish. Not care about lady."

"I want finish I tok-phet." This was Thai for how a lady masturbate and has something to do with a duck. "Or maybe have other girl help me. Not gay. Not lesbian. Sometimes want finish too lazy to do myself."

"What about with me?"

"You different. I know you long time. We have sex many times. I finish with you because you know what I want."

"I'm a stud." I like hearing the lie, but if you spend 3.9 minutes more on foreplay according to that survey you can be a stud too.

But why bother?

I am a man.

Cleaver Penis Pants

Eldridge Cleaver had a troubled youth in LA, but a rape spree earned the 18 year-old a long sentence to San Quentin and Folsom prisons. His book SOUL ON ICE was published by Ramparts Magazine. Controversy followed his stating that he initially raped black women in the ghetto "for practice" and then embarked on the serial rape of white women. He described these crimes as politically inspired, motivated by a genuine conviction that the rape of white women was "an insurrectionary act" He never expressed any contrition for these crimes and upon his 1968 release from prison Cleaver joined the Black Panthers as Minister of Information. A failed ambush of police officers in Oakland forced him to flee the country to Cuba and then Algeria. His return to the States in 1975 was timed with his conversion to born-again evangelism. Many within the radical movement questioned whether Cleaver had been police plant within the Black Panthers. While in France Cleaver tried his hand at fashion, inventing the penis pants, which allowed a man's cock to hang out of his trousers in a sox. "I want to solve the problem of the fig-leaf mentality. Clothing is an extension of the fig leaf -- it put our sex inside our bodies. My pants put sex back where it should be." I can't recall anyone wearing one. Certainly the police have never mentioned them when looking for rapists, although Bas Kosters Studio are selling penis leggings costing $151. The print has thousands of penises on them and are a little square in comparison to Clever's penis pants. their website notes, they are "also available for men." But I wish I had a pair of the Cleaver Classics, but none were for sale on ebay, meaning either that no one bought them or anyone who has them isn't through with them yet. Classic.

DISCO INFERNO The Tramps

The Phillie group The Trammps burned up the charts and dance floors with DISCO INFERNO in both 1976 and 1978.

A friend posted this another white boy's story on his Facebook page about DISCO INFERNO.

Back in the day I went to the Boston Arena to see the Trammps. I went with a friend. We were the only two white people in line. There was a huge crowd outside (without tickets). Someone grabbed my ticket out of my hand and ran into the crowd. I tried to follow him the crowd ganged up on me. A policeman broke it up asked me for a description. Realizing the futility of the moment, the officer escorted us to Mass Ave. We were upset so...nipples to the wind...we scurried over to The Shed for drinks.

Within the next hour, at the directive of the Tactical Police Force, the bar went into lock down with the few of us inside. There was a huge riot, as the unruly crowd without tickets tried to force their way into the Arena and went on a rampage through the neighborhood. Same thing happened at the Music Hall when Labelle played there.

Other than a couple of bruises, I was fine and ended up having a great time at the bar. We got SHITFACED with the bartender. I kept my crackah ass outa that area for a long time after that. See what you did to me with that post Bobby?......(I hate that fucking smiley face) But I'm smiling so there it is...IJS

Even the Trammps weren't all-black.

Their horn player was white to get them gigs at white clubs.

That's the way it was in the post-apartheid era in Amerika.

To hear DISCO INFERNO, please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-opY4qcidFk&feature=share

THE BOUQUET OF RUINS by Peter Nolan Smith

Dec 1982

Some cities are best defined by songs such as APRIL IN PARIS or AUTUMN IN NEW YORK, but Hamburg defied music, as the North Sea's winter besieged the harbor city with endless rain, cold, and darkness. Every day the night conquered a few more minutes of light and our once-popular club on Epperdoffer Weg was deserted by the attractive youth, the esoteric intelligentsia, and the wicked rich, who sought comfort in their homes rather than BSirs.

The sleek nightclub had been designed to mimic CLOCKWORK ORANGE's milk bar.

THe fashion people of Hamburg had loved it throughout the summer, but they had been replaced by pimps and off-duty prostitutes from the Reeperbahn. Neither liked to pay for their drinks and my share of the profits shrank to nothing.

Henri, the DJ from Paris, and I were counting the days until we called it quits, only I wasn't telling management about my departure in case I wanted to come back after the holidays. Good-paying jobs for foreigners without the proper papers were difficult to find in Europe.

Only one person deserved an 'auf wiedersehen'.

I had been seeing Astrid since early October. The blonde twenty year-old was studying fashion at the University. Her dramatic overbite and an aquiline nose stole any chance at being called beautiful, but Astrid was very accommodating in bed.

"I may be leaving," I told her after a lengthy session nearing dawn.

"Are you going for good?" She dressed conservatively for school and stuffed her night clothes in a large leather bag.

"Yes." I lay in bed thinking that I'd miss her in Paris.

"And you are not coming back?" Her body belonged on a runaway model.

"Not a chance." I had had enough of Germany for this year.

"When?"

"Soon."

Claudia kissed me on the lips and I returned to sleep.

That night SS Tommy showed up at the bar early. We had few customers. All of them avoided the six-foot enforcer for the GMbH. Astrid stood at the door dressed in a fur with very little else underneath. She normally never showed until after midnight.

"What's this." The total came to almost 10,000 DMs or $6500 US.

"A bill." His scarred finger jabbed the top of the 'rechtung'.

"I can see that." I had learned German in high school. The list consisted of charges for sex. "What's it have to do with me?"

"This is what you owe for the nights with Astrid." With his long blonde hair and steroid muscles SS Tommy resembled a monstrous transvestite bulldog.

"Astrid? I didn't know she worked for you."

She smiled at me with a crooked grin. I hadn't seen this coming.

"Not all our girls work the Eros Center." His gang ran a string of 200 women on the Reeperbahn. Each one had sex five times a night. 200 DMs times five times two-hundred women came to $100,000 a night. SS Tommy owed three Ferraris. "Is everything in order?"

I checked the bill again. Each act was itemized by date.

"She never said anything about working for you," I said in rough German.

"Everyone in Hamburg works for someone." Zuhaleters were well-known for their violence and SS Tommy had a well-earned reputation for a short fuse.

I had to offer him a gesture.

"Here are the keys to my car."

SS Tommy took the car keys for 5000 DMs. I had paid 7000 six months ago.

"Where's it parked?"

"At the mechanic shop."

Two days earlier I had driven the orange VW into a tree. The mechanic said last rites over the chassis. It was a total write-off,

"Warum?" asked SS Tommy.

"Just getting a turn-up." It was an easy lie to tell.

"Das ist gut, but morgen 5000 more." SS Tommy grabbed my arm in a claw grip to insure that I had to pay him the rest of the money tomorrow or else.

"Of course." My shoulder muscles went dead, as his fingers dug into my flesh. The pain radiated through my body. He wanted money not a car.

"I'll give you a free night with Astrid." SS Tommy clicked his fingers. "Stay with him. I don't want him running out on me."

"Jawohl." She was good at taking orders as are all Germans.

I told the manager that I was going home early. I rubbed life back into my arm, as we left the club. Everyone avoided me, as if I had the plague. No one had friends, when SS Tommy was your enemy.

Back at my apartment Astrid acted, as if nothing had changed between us and I suppose that it hadn't, except I had 5000 DMs were under my bed.

SS Tommy wasn't getting a pfennig.

Neither was Astrid.

After a glass of sekt she went to take a shower, promising me a night to remember.

"Maybe I do 1000 worth."

"That would be nice." I smiled sipping my glass of pesudo-champagne.

As soon as the bathroom door shut, I grabbed my cash and wrapped a wire hangar around the doorknob, trapping Astrid inside. Within minutes I packed a bag with my clothes. I didn't have much to show for six months in Hamburg, but I didn't need much in Paris.

I heard thumping on the bathroom door.

Shouts followed.

"Chus," I shouted heading for the door, leaving a note on the kitchen table to SS Tommy.

The bed, chairs, table, and everything else were his.

I liked this deal better.

I bent over to take Astrid's underwear. I liked her smell.

A minute later I caught on Mittelweg.

"Bahnhof." It was only ten minutes away from Mittelweg. No one was in the station. The night was cold. I bought a ticket for the 2:34am train to Paris.

After that I hid on the platform like a spy fleeing Nazi Germany.

The southbound train pulled out of the station on time. My compartment was empty. The train stopped at every station. The towns sounded like battlefields. I didn't sleep until we passed through Dutch customs.

Dawn brightened the gray skies on a landscape of ruined steel factories of the Low Countries. These industries had been destroyed by Japanese competition. The decay stretched from border to border into Belgium. The wet of the winter carried the corruption of rust and concrete. It smelled of death and I pulled out Astrid's panties. They were French silk.

The conductor announced our ETA in Paris was 9:23am.

After arriving at Gare Du Nord I took the Metro to St. Germain, where I booked a room at the Hotel Louisiane and then breakfasted at the Cafe de Flore

Cafe du lait, croissant, and a Calvados said Paris and I sang APRIL IN PARIS to myself. SS Tommy would never find me here.

Astrid's panties were still in my pocket. I stole a whiff and inhaled the fading fragrance of cinnamon and sweat with a tang of herring. We had had a good thing for a few months and I smiled thinking that I would never see her crooked smile again.

And that was a good thing for this winter, especially since I couldn't see that far into summer.

For that was Hamburg's season to shine.

Fantico Im Deutschland

Go see the show. Jorge wears g-strings.

Madonna At 18

Three years later Madonna came to sublet my apartment on East 10th Streeet. The walls were as smooth as lumpy pancakes. The bathtub was in the kitchen and the WC had an overhead chain. "I'll think about it." I never heard from her, but she was in my apartment for ten minutes. I bet she has no memory of that moment, but I remember everything, even though she wasn't as cute as this photo.

Hail To The Chief

My Man. President again. Yesterday I tried to name all the presidents. I got George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, John Monroe, John Quincy Adams, Martin Van Buren, Willima Harrison, Andrew Jackson, John Tyler, Zachery Taylor, Millard Fillmore, James Buchanon, Abraham Lincoln, Andrew Johnson, Ulysess S Grant, Rutherford Hayes, William McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt, William Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren G. Harding, Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Harry S. Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H Bush, Bill Clinton, George W Bush, and Barack Obama. That was only 38. I was missing a few. Like James K. Polk, Franklin Pierce, James A. Garfield, Chester A. Arthur, and Grover Cleveland. Maybe some other too.

Fox News Shutdown

Today the Borowitz Report announced that Fox News Channel would shut down for what it called “routine maintenance” Monday morning at 11:30 E.T. Fox News president Roger Ailes explained the timing of the shutdown, which will be the first in the history of the network: “We wanted to pick a time when we were positive nothing would be happening that our viewers would want to see.” Mr. Ailes said that Fox had considered shutting down only once before, exactly four years earlier on January 20, 2009, and later regretted the decision to continue broadcasting that day: “It turned out that no Fox viewers wanted to watch TV that day. And I mean none.” According to Mr. Ailes, for the twelve hours Fox News is off the air on Monday the network will broadcast a continuous photomontage of white people. “Regular viewers of Fox probably won’t notice anything unusual,” he said. After the routine maintenance is completed, Mr. Ailes said, Fox News will return to the air Tuesday morning with its regular broadcast schedule: “For Fox viewers, it will be like Monday never happened.” It was a joke. If only the closing of Fox News was a truth.

All Inclusive

In his 2008 inaugeral speech Barack Obama declared that the USA was a country of Christians, Jews, Muslims, and non-believers. "Non-believers." I hadn't ever heard anyone mention 'non-believers' without adding 'hang em' and for the first time in my life since renouncing the God of my ancestors I realized that I was part of the mix of this great country. Today Obama righted another inequity by announcing from the steps of the Capitol, "We, the people, declare today that the most evident of truths – that all of us are created equal – is the star that guides us still; just as it guided our forebears through Seneca Falls, and Selma, and Stonewall." Stonewall? The first rebellion of gays against the repression of the straights. Squares throughout America asked themselves, "Did he say Stonewall?" They didn't have a chance to get an answer, because the President upped the ante by saying, "It is now our generation’s task to carry on what those pioneers began. For our journey is not complete until our wives, our mothers, and daughters can earn a living equal to their efforts. Our journey is not complete until our gay brothers and sisters are treated like anyone else under the law, for if we are truly created equal, then surely the love we commit to one another must be equal as well." The Tea Partyers asked themselves, "Did he say 'gay'?" And the answer is yes, because we are America. All of us together. E pluribus unem.

FREEBIRD INDEED by Peter Nolan Smith

My youngest brother's health suffered a precipitous decline in 1995. The doctors at Beth Israel along the Fenway spoke about turning the corner on AIDS, but the experimental drugs failed to stem the ruthless ravages of his aliment. His life was shrinking from years to months, but in January Michael made enough of a comeback for me to contemplate of West Coast job offer. "We're opening a Milk Bar in Beverly Hills." The original club in New York had been a success lining my pockets with cash. "Swimming pools, palm trees, and movie stars." My brother painted a pleasant picture. "Something like that. Do you want me to stick around?" "No, I'll be fine." Michael was living with my parents on the South Shore. My father drove him to his radio station twice weekly for his show promoting gay life in Boston. "But if you see James Brolin, I want you to get his autograph." My baby brother loved swarthy men. "You got it." I left for LA and the futuristic club opened that March. Beverly Hills had never seen such a place and I earned four times more in tips than my salary. Everyone wanted to be inside, but by July the nightlife was taking its toll on my body and soul. I wasn't twenty anymore. It was time to quit and I had enough money to travel to Tibet for the rest of the year. The morning after the 4th of July the telephone rang in my rented North Hollywood studio. "Who is it?" Few people called me. "Me." It was my younger brother, Padraic. "Michael isn't well." "How unwell?" "I don't think he'll make August." "Fuck." The next day I was on a plane to Logan. My family was waiting at the hospice on the South Shore. I had seen friends die of AIDS. None of those passings prepared me for the sight of my brother's condition. His only nourishment was a morphine drip. I guessed his weight to be 120. Our family sat by his bedside. My mother patted his hand. My sisters wet his lips. My father faced the tragedy with a noble stoicism. He had done his best. Tears were for another day. My older brother read from the Bible. My youngest brother responded to none of this. I sat my his bed and didn't leave his side for days, except to eat in the hospice's canteen. They made a nice meatloaf. One night I entered Michael's room and my younger brother was playing FREEBIRD on his guitar. Paddy was a kind soul, but my youngest brother was more into show tunes and disco than southern rock. "You know Michael hated this song?" "I know, but in his state I figure that he would hear this song and know it was me." My youngest brother strummed his guitar and I joined his singing the song. I was more a punk than anything else, but I knew every word. FREEBIRD had been a huge hit for Lynard Skynard in 1972. If I leave here tomorrow Would you still remember me? For I must be traveling on, now, 'Cause there's too many places I've got to see. But, if I stayed here with you, girl, Things just couldn't be the same. 'Cause I'm as free as a bird now, And this bird you cannot change. Lord knows, I can't change. Bye, bye, its been a sweet love. Though this feeling I can't change. But please don't take it badly, 'Cause Lord knows I'm to blame. But, if I stayed here with you girl, Things just couldn't be the same. Cause I'm as free as a bird now, And this bird you'll never change. And this bird you cannot change. Lord knows, I can't change. Lord help me, I can't change. My younger brother put down his guitar and kissed his emaciated brother on the forehead. I kissed the other side. His skin was waxen. Michael had only a little further to go in this life. "Let's take a photo." "Now?" Paddy knew how vain Michael was. It was a family trait. "If not now, then it will be never." Michael had hours left in his heart. I positioned my camera on the bureau. The timer ran for thirty seconds. The camera snapped a shot of Paddy and me with my baby brother between us. He died a day later and we buried him in the town cemetery. I fled to Asia and mourned my brother at the holiest temples in the Orient. Upon my return I developed the roll of film from Michael's last days. I didn't show the shot on the bed to anyone, but Paddy. He shook his head. "What? You thinking about how thin he was?" I asked, taking the photo back from his hand. "No, just thinking about how fat we were." I looked at the picture and laughed at the truth. Michael would have laughed too and probably did someplace in the afterlife. He was out there somewhere in the Here-Before as we all are with the ones we love. FREEBIRD INDEED. To hear FREEBIRD please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OiB-MG49spw

The Cardiac Danger of Illicit Sex / Asia

Several years ago while surveying 5,529 heart attack deaths in Asia, Dr Wong Teck Wee discovered that 34 fatalities occurred during sex and 27 of those deaths occurred while the male was engaged in an act of illicit sex i.e. adultery. The Universiti Putra Malaysia cardiologist concluded from these findings that stress of illicit sex could lead to sudden death due to the narrowing of the artery and insufficient blood supply to the organs or even worse your merciless wife walking into the hotel room with a shotgun or machete.

That’s a shock to the system.

But all things considered kicking off in the sack is not a bad way to go as long as you come before you go otherwise it’s coitus interruptus fatalis, which is how Nelson Rockefeller, the former US President, departed from this mortal coil. On January 26, 1979 Nelson was riding male superior atop his mistress, Megan Marshak, when his heart overloaded from adrenalin, stopping almost every body function other than breathing.

Nelson was a big man and the 26 year-old aide had to squirm from underneath the portly politician, but rather than dial 911 for help, she telephoned her girlfriend, news reporter Ponchitta Pierce. Neither helped the ex-VP from his sprawled position on the floor as they discussed for the better part of an hour.

“To 911 or not 911.”

911 won in the end.

Too late for Nelson Rockefeller who expiated in the ambulance.

His corpse was cremated 18 hours after the coroner pronounced him DOA, mainly since his wife, Happy, was anxious that the Medical Examiner might find traces of sexual activity, however everyone in New York understood how Nelson went out of this world.

In the saddle.

I wish that his demise could have been at the hands of his wife Happy or a mob of rioting convicts, for Rockefeller's draconian laws have ruined millions of lives in the Empire State and his order to retake Attica prison resulted in many senseless deaths.

Law and Order.

For an adulterer.

Even better would have been for Nelson to suffer death by stoning.

That's the old punishment in the Bible.

And I would not hold my hand, for I am not a sinner like him.

Faithful to Mem forever, and not only because she dosed me with a Thai love potion.She swears that's not true, but I know better. She's the only one who I want to kill me with sex. And believe me we've tried and will try again. Love potions cost the giver too.

THE BLESSING OF THE LIZARD KING by Peter Nolan Smith

Monitor lizards are native to SE Asia. These carnivorous predators are related to the famous Komodo Dragon and varanid lizards are cooperative hunters like raptors in JURASSIC PARK. According to the Bangkok Post monitor lizards cluster in the city’s secluded water pipes and up to two hundred of the two-meter long beasts reside in each city district.

Many urban Thais regard the sighting of a hia or monitor lizard as the harbinger of bad luck in spite of the legend about warning humans of crocodiles. Down south on the Isthmus of Ka country folks keep the miniature monsters as domestic pets, for crocodiles still wander the mangrove swamps lining the peninsula.

”They keep increasing in numbers because these reptiles have few natural enemies, and their food is always plentiful,” a Thai reptile expert said, “Water monitors eat almost anything; fish, eggs, and even rotten meat.”

The only lizard in my hometown south of Boston was Jim Morrison singing 'crawling king snake', but in 1991 I stopped at Malaysia’s Tioman Island in the South China Sea, which the Lonely Planet referred to as a tropical gem. Jungles blanketed the hills and the sea was an invisible sheet of clear gin with beach sand gleaming white in the midday sun.

European backpackers overstayed their visits on this paradise. The beer was cold and the bungalows were cheap.

On my second week there I met a Swedish blonde traveler. She liked my poetry and we spent four nights together.

“This means nothing.” Velda was telling the truth. Nothing meant anything to devotees of the sun other than the next highlight on their world tour. On the fifth morning we were through.

“I want to sleep alone," the slim Swede announced on the fifth morning. Velda didn’t even kiss me good-bye and I expected that she would leave on the morning ferry for the mainland. I slept in late and hit the bungalow bar at noon.

“Beer for all my friends.” There were only three Germans at the bar, but I loved that line from BARFLY.

Before the beers arrived, a scream screeched through the trees.

Velda ran into the bar. Her long blonde hair was a Medusa snarl and her voice hit a soprano high on every word, as she explained, “There’s a lizard in the bathroom.”

The Malays working at the restaurant laughed about a lizard. Tioman was crawling with lizards and snakes, but I understood her fears, for my mother was scared of insects. If one got into the house, she would cry, “There’s a monster in the bathroom.”

I figured that Velda was just as hysterical as my mother and grabbed a broom.

“I’ll get rid of the lizard.”

“He's more bigger than Gecko.” The terror had stripped away her high school English.

“I’ll take care of it. Show me.” I followed her down the path to her bungalow. The A-frame stood in a palm grove perched next to a tidal inlet. Mangrove trees sank their roots into the brackish swamp water. It was good breeding place for lizards. The buzz of mosquitoes hummed from the swamp and Velda pointed to the bathroom door.

"He's in there."

"Don't worry, this will only take a second." I figure she had discovered a little gecko. Lizards were non-existent in Sweden.

“Be careful.”

“It's my middle name.”

I peered inside the room. The bathroom door was shut. I heard nothing and figured that the gecko had escaped through the ceiling. I tiptoed across the floor, broom in one hand. I yanked on the bathroom door expecting to find only a toilet, instead thick-chested monitor lizard bared slimy teeth with a hiss.

The broom dropped to the floor, as I slammed the door shut.

“That is a big lizard." I ran outside to Velda. "You want to stay at my place?”

“Yes, but no sex."

"None at all." I grabbed her bag and she moved back into my place for another week.

I thanked Jim Morrison the Lizard God for those extra days and nights.

I had seen the Doors at the Boston Tea Party in 1968. I didn’t tell that to the Swedish girl. Velda didn’t realize that I was in my late-30s. The twenty year-old's skin was as smooth as river-polished stone. After her departure to Koh Phi Phi, I spotted the monitor lizard lazing in the sun.

I bought a dozen boiled eggs from the warung and fed them one by one.

It was the least I could do for a cousin of Jim Morrison.

Anything else would have been bad luck.

Singapore NO NO

Back in the 1950s more adventurous western travelers to Singapore frequented Bugis Street to view the Pearl of the Orient's notorious cavalcade of beautiful transvestites. The laissez-faire atmosphere of the sex entrepot was an affront to the city-state's puritanical President and by the late 1980s Bugis Street had been sanitized of perversion and by the 1990s Singapore was considered the least sexy city is Asia. Tai-pei came in a close second.

In 2004 I missed a connecting flight in Tokyo. The passengers from my 747 were transported to a Narita hotel. We were given drink and dinner chits. I dined with two attractive Singapore business women coming back from New York. We drank several beers in the bar and I asked the about their lives at home.

"We work and ship. That's what Singapore girls do?" Suzee had lines growing in the corners of her eyes. She was pushing 35.

"What about boyfriends?"

"No boyfriends." Suzee shook her head in disgust. "We work too hard and Singapore men work too hard to have time for us."

"Do you go to clubs or bars?"

"No, we shop, we eat, we sleep and in the morning we go back to work." Suzee's friend was in her late-20s. Something about her thin lips said that she had never been kissed by a man or woman.

"And what about when you were in New York?"

The two laughed together and Suzee fingered the rim of her beer glass. "We worked, shopped, and ate, but not too much, because we don't want to be fat like Americans. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about." My countrymen were verging toward a majority in obesity, but even the fat people were having sex. "What about another beer?"

"Sorry, no, we have to go work a little before we sleep."

They excused themselves, giving me their extra drink chits. I went to bed with a good buzz and in the morning caught an early bus to Narita to catch my flight to Bangkok.

Singapore gained further attention for their inherent prudishness when Singapore Airlines announced that sex would not be tolerated in the luxury suites of the new Airbus A300.

"Passengers will be asked to refrain from sex," an official explained to a press member examining the double beds in the giant jet's 12 luxury suites. "All we ask of customers, wherever they are on our aircraft, is to observe standards that don't cause offence to other customers and crew. Nothing different applies for our Singapore Airlines Suites customers."

This proclamation must have disappointed sexual adventurers seeking the thrill so eloquently described in Erica Jong's novel FEAR OF FLYING.

"So they'll sell you a double bed, and give you privacy and endless champagne and then say you can't do what comes naturally?" Tony Elwood said while flying with his wife with aboard the inaugural flight from London to Singapore. Julie Elwood added, told The Times of London. "They seem to have done everything they can to make it romantic, short of bringing around oysters. They shouldn't really complain, should they?"

People have been having sex in airplanes without the luxury suites.

Mostly in the bathrooms, which are very cramped quarters like the backseat of a VW, only you can't stand in a Bug.

The ban is useless, because people will do what they want and the beds in Airbus A300 have already been baptized by Airbus employees.

They are French and Paris is tres sexy.

If Singapore Airlines is serious about the sex ban, then they will have to hire sky marshals to enforce their edict.

Impossible?

Not for a city-state that requires everyone to wash their hands after going to the bathroom and where the police have dogs to sniff out violators.

The canines could easily be trained to sniff out something else too.

The crime of high-altitude sex.

Bad people.

Woof-woof.

Other Singapore laws

No chewing gum

No spitting

No jay-walking

No gay sex

No bungee jumping

So obviously no chewing gum to work up a spit to lubricate your gay partner's nether gate before engaging in sex whilst bungee jumping.

Very bad people, but they were fun and sexy too.

Maybe one day the past will catch up to the future.

GRAY VINYL LP RELEASE PARTY

In 1979 New York was an open city for artists and the greatest rising star of the downtown scene was Jean-Michel Basquiat. The iconic grafittist branched out from painting to form GRAY, a noise band with friends Shannon Dawson, Michael Holman, Nick Taylor, Wayne Clifford and Vincent Gallo. They played at Max's, Tier 3, CBGB, Hurrah, and the Mudd Club. I saw GRAY more than once and more than once was enough for me, but the band had a dedicated following and their music was featured in the film Edo's DOWNTOWN 81. The band dissolved as the members pursued various paths; Vincent Gallo to Hollywood, Michael Holman to hip-hop impressario, and Shannon Dawson to play trumpet for KONK. GRAY faded into the woodwork of memories until Nick Taylor and Michael Holman resurrected the group for a performance at the New Museum on the Bowery. I attended the concert expecting the worst, but was impressed by impact of the the Holman/Taylor collaboration in resurrecting GRAY through a collage of images, movies, voice recordings, and live music proving that yesterday can re-exist today. This Sunday GRAY will be released a vinyl LP I sadly will be upstate pruning an apple orchard. The things I do for money. But if you have the time, check out GRAY. GRAY VINYL LP RELEASE PARTY! SUNDAY, JANUARY 20TH! 9PM-2AM @ NURSE BETTIE, 106 NORFOLK STREET (BETWEEN DELANCEY & RIVINGTON) F TRAIN STOP “DELANCEY/ESSEX” STATION (917)434-9072) $4.00 DRINKS, FREE ADMISSION, SIGNED LPS ON SALE FOR $15.00! D.J. HIGH PRIEST & MONEY MIKE HOLMAN WILL BE SPINNING RECORDS ON THE ONES AND TWOS! HOSTESS: BRYN

Guns For Everyone

Obsessed with twelve year-old Jodie Foster portrayal of the child prostitute John Hinkley saw TAXI DRIVER fifteen times in a row. He stalked the actress to Yale and wrote her many letters including this one from 1981. "Over the past seven months I've left you dozens of poems, letters and love messages in the faint hope that you could develop an interest in me. Although we talked on the phone a couple of times I never had the nerve to simply approach you and introduce myself.... The reason I'm going ahead with this attempt now is because I cannot wait any longer to impress you. On Monday, March 30, 1981 John Hinkley attacked newly-inaugerated President Reagan after a speaking engagement at the Washington Hilton Hotel. Reagan was seriously wounded and his Press Secretary James Brady was severely paralyzed by the fuissilade meant to reward the shooter with a fairy tale ending to his erotomania. Reagan was surrounded by Secret Service and Washington Police. Each was armed to protect the President. They failed in their task and the only person to shot a gun that day was John Hinkley, who was later declared 'not guilty' on grounds of insanity. In the wake of the Sandy Hook massacre the USA has seen growing opposition to sales of assault rifles and the resistance of the NRA to restrict access to such weapons. Their spokesman Wayne la Pierre has proposed arming janitors and teachers in order to prevent mayhem in our schools, since the creation of a no-gun zone around our schools has left an opening for a mass murderer. “With all the foreign aid the United State does…can’t we afford to put a police officer in every single school?” An excellent idea, except it might be cheaper to ban assault weapons or enforce existent background checks on gun buyers. The NRA doesn't see it that way. To their thinking guns save lives, even though four times more suicides by guns and accidental shootings occured than criminals wounded or killed in the act of a crime. No way do I think of Wayne Lapierre as innocent. But inane. You know it.

Black Always Beautiful

"Black is beautiful." was a phrase coined by John Sweat Rock in 1858.

Steve Biko resurrected the words during his struggle against apartheid in South Africa and American blacks adopted the slogan for their liberation movement in the 60s and 70s, however judging from the lack of black models on the covers of fashion magazines any dedicated follower of fashion would have to recognize that the world's leading fashion houses are still practicing Old Dixie's color line when the choice comes to white or black girl to sell beauty.

Every day I take the C train from Lafayette Street in Brooklyn. I see beautiful sisters of every description, some of them are skinny as the runway models. Their faces resurrect the souls of Nefettitti.

If I weren't so old, I'd hit on them. Designers blame agents and agents blame fashion editors for this Jim Crow throwback.

"We're just following orders."

Fashion Nazis.

Wabbits Of The NYPD

A secret organization in the USA government is in pursuit of an escaped mutant rabbit. They finally corral the beast in a suburban woods, but it's impossible to catch him, because he's so fast. The intelligence organization sends out an offer of $10,000,000 bounty for its capture.

Within hours the CIA, FBI, and NYPD show up to help get the rabbit.

The CIA go first.

Two hours later the black squad emerges out of the woods empty-handed.

"We found the rabbit, but we had a team rendition him to Gitmo." The CIA agent tell the G-Man. "Where's our money."

"No rabbit, no money."The search leader is no fool and points to a group of men in black suits and white shirts. "FBI, you're next."

The FBI go into the woods. Two hours later their team exit from the woods.

"We got him but he's in the witness protection program. Where's our money?"

"Bullshit, you didn't see any rabbit." The lead agent sends them away and turns to the NYPD.

"Don't worry, we'll get your rabbit." The NYPD sergeant leads his partner into the woods.

Two minutes later the trees shake from the ferocity of a fighting. The screams are horrifying and after ten minutes the NYPD drag a battered and bloodied bear out of the woods. The lead agent looks at the cops and asks, "What the fuck is this?"

The NYPD sergeant nudgess the brutalized bear, who says through broken teeth, "I'm a wabbit."

Repentance Of Guilt

Repenting for the sins of others is a crime against the innocent. - James Steele Yesterday the Middle East Media Research Institute or MEMRI released a three year-old video of Mohammed Morsi, then-Muslim Brotherhood leader and the present Egyptian President pitching defiant Anti-Zionist talking points on several unidentified TV broadcasts. Under siege by the GOP for appointing a purported anti-semitic Chuck Hagel as Secretary of Defense the White House was quick to issue a statement harshly criticizing the 'unacceptable rhetoric'. "We believe that President Morsi should make clear that he respects people of all faiths and that this type of rhetoric is unacceptable in a democratic Egypt," White House spokesman Jay Carney told reporters at a White House briefing. In the speech Morsi categorically rejected the two-state solution and called the USA and Zionists 'bloodsuckers who attack Palestinians' as well as describing Zionists as "the descendants of apes and pigs." Zionist leaders have not been kind in their words judging from the following quotes, which are online, but in redacted form to reform their meaning. "We must expel Arabs and take their places." -- David Ben Gurion 1937 The actual quote according to Wikipedia reads as follows; "We do not wish, we do not need to expel the Arabs and take their place. All our aspirations are built upon the assumption — proven throughout all our activity in the Land — that there is enough room in the country for ourselves and the Arabs." Ben Gurion did say, "Why should the Arabs make peace? If I were an Arab leader I would never make terms with Israel. That is natural: we have taken their country. Sure, God promised it to us, but what does that matter to them? Our God is not theirs. We come from Israel, it's true, but two thousand years ago, and what is that to them? There has been antisemitism, the Nazis, Hitler, Auschwitz, but was that their fault? They only see one thing: we have come here and stolen their country. Why should they accept that? They may perhaps forget in one or two generations' time, but for the moment there is no chance. So, it's simple: we have to stay strong and maintain a powerful army. Our whole policy is there. Otherwise the Arabs will wipe us out." Sound reasoning, but words are words and sometimes they can be more deadly as a lie than the truth. "[The Palestinians] are beasts walking on two legs." - Menachem Begin 1982 supposedly in reference to the PLO and not the Palestinian people. "(The Palestinians) would be crushed like grasshoppers ... heads smashed against the boulders and walls." - Yitzhak Shamir 1988 This statement allegedly was derived from these two statements as reported by Andrew Sullivan. Mr. Shamir, standing atop an ancient West Bank castle, told reporters: "Anybody who wants to damage this fortress and other fortresses we are establishing will have his head smashed against the boulders and walls." Then in remarks aimed at Arab rioters, the Prime Minister said: "We say to them from the heights of this mountain and from the perspective of thousands of years of history that they are like grasshoppers compared to us." And then there was Einstein - “It would be my greatest sadness to see Zionists (Jews) do to Palestinian Arabs much of what Nazis did to Jews.” This is also reputed to be false, then again not once in the speeches was the Arabic word for Jew 'yahud' mentioned by Morsi. Neither is there a single mention in the BBC, Huffington Post, or New York Times that the ex-IDF colonel of the counter-terrorism brach Yigal Carmon and the current-director of MEMRI said of torture in 1995, "Pain is not taking life. Pain comes and goes. Pain disappears. You know, everyone experiences that. Unwillingly, of course." No mention of their connection to hardline Likud Party, but that is expected in the light of shoddy jingoism of the western media as well as According to the Huffington Post a group of senators, including Sens. John McCain, R-Ariz. Lindsey Graham, R-S.C. Kelly Ayotte, R-N.H. Kirsten Gillibrand, D-N.Y. Richard Blumenthal, D-Conn. Sheldon Whitehouse, D-R.I. and Christopher Coons, D-Del., are currently in Cairo and a pro-Israel White House spokesperson said she expected they would make their views known to Egypt's leadership. Expect these hot dogs to have plenty to say on TV. They love the limelight. The AP reported that the Muslim Brotherhood refused to comment on Washington's reaction to Morsi's remarks. $3 billion dollars in US aid is coming their way this year and while $3 billion might not be what it once was it ain't a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, so saying nothing is almost as good as never having said nothing. This rehashing of old news to re-ignite the interests of the ignorant has a purpose even beyond what is written between the lines. We the people can only watch and wonder what 'they' are saying to each other and we will never know who they are. Dank Himmel. ps no one is ever innocent. Just talk to the NYPD. They know best. Everyone is guilty of something.

Fawn Versus Maureen

The other day the former owner of Danceteria emailed a youtube link showing the FOX NEWS correspondent on patrol with a Marine squad in Afghanistan. John's nephew was also on this mission as a combat soldier. The squad came under fire and Oliver North maintained his cool having served as a marine in Vietnam. After viewing that episode I remembered Oliver North's conviction for his part in the Iran-Contra plot, his indictment on sixteen felony counts and subsequent convictions accepting an illegal gratuity; aiding and abetting in the obstruction of a congressional inquiry; and ordering the destruction of documents via his secretary, Fawn Hall. His conviction were later overturned with the help of the ACLU. The liberal rights organization will protect the Devil himself, but no more than Fawn Hall, North's accomplice in destroying the evidence. This long blonde beauty bedazzled the Senate hearings and boosted ratings for the daytime drama. In the end none of those guilty for crimes against the government of the USA went to prison and that was partially, because of the pardons by Reagan's successor, George Bush, as well as that the illegal activities took place outside the USA, and lastly because Fawn Hall was so damn pretty. If the men in America are shallow, then the Senate is a mirror of our weakness. The bookend to Iran-Contra was Nixon's Watergate. A number of his closest associates were sentenced to prison for their offenses in this scandal. Richard Nixon resigned to save himself from the same fate and he said upon leaving the White House, "I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body. But as President, I must put the interest of America first...therefore, I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow." The nation breathed a sigh of relief to end this political controversy, but I was saddened by the disappearance of Maureen Dean, the wife of Nixon's Special Counsel, John Dean. The blonde ice queen had mesmerized the male viewers with her elegant beauty in pearls. She was a goddess unattainable to mere mortal men and to this day Mrs. Dean has escaped the notice of the public. There are no Wikipedia references to her in regard to Watergate. She remains as mysterious as a spook, but I know who I would call for a good time in given the choice between Maureen Dean or Fawn Hall. Always go with the square.

The Star's Speech

In the winter of 1986 my cousin Sherri invited me out to North Hollywood to write screenplays for her XXX films. The athletic brunette was moving from before the camera to behind the lens. While not MGM her proposition appealed to me. I was living in Paris. It was cold. LA was sunny, even the Valley, and I packed my bags and flew West to make my mark as porno's Hemingway. I should have tried to be more like Jacqueline Susann. The producers criticized my scripts as 'too smart' for their all-male audience. I dumbed down to PIZZA CHEESE AND ME followed by CUM TOGETHER. Even these stories based on sex, sex, and more sex were too intellectual for the powers-that-be in the adult film industry. Sherri apologized for having wasted my time. "Hey, I got to come out to LA in the winter." It was snowing back in Paris. She gave me a hug and took off for a shoot in Sherman Oaks. I booked a flight back to New York and then got in my rented car to drive to the Pacific. Traffic on the Ventura Freeway was light, but a VW Golf convertible cut across the lane in front of me. I cursed the female driver, until the blonde turned around with a smile. It was Jody Foster. I had loved her since TAXI DRIVER. I called out to her, as she exited from the Freeway. She continued on her way. She was a true movie star and they don't associate with failed writers for XXX films. Our paths have yet to recross, but I have followed her career through FIVE CORNERS, THE ACCUSED, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, CONTACT and even her brief stint as Marge Simpson's voice in the TV show THE SIMPSONS. Her sexuality was no secret to the public. Jodie like women and women liked her. She had been in a relationship for decades, but the actress never came out of the closet, as if she had been in the military under the orders from the Pentagon, 'Don't say, don't tell.' Last week her silence came to an abrupt end at the Golden Globes Award, during her acceptance remarks after receiving the Cecil B. DeMille Award. "I already did my coming out about 1,000 years ago back in the stone age, those very quaint days when a fragile young girl would open up to trusted friends and family and co-workers, and then gradually and proudly to everyone who knew her, to everyone she actually met." Some gays and lesbians criticized Ms. Foster for taking such a long time to tell the truth, especially since her speech seemed to be off-the-wrist (she was wearing a dress), but better late then never and I applaud her courage to ell it like it is no matter what the time. I still will call your name out whenever I'm on the Ventura Freeway. I know she heard me. To see Jodie Foster's speech please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efYg0vQyPGA

Fight Scene in GIANT

James Dean fought Rock Hudson in the epic Texan film GIANT. Dean's character Jett Rink comes out on top in the first encounter after Hudson's Bick lowers his guard. A second fight doesn't come off as Jett passes out in a wine cellar dead drunk. "You're not even worth hitting. ... You're all through." Bick leaves the room and Dean. Personally all my money was on Rock. Too much height and weight against the frail Dean. To see the first fight, please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5P5CKsbphA&playnext=1&list=PLBA32ECF0A3828183&feature=results_video

In The Face Of The Enemy

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&client=safari&rls=en&q=chuck+hagel+quote+israel&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.r_qf.&bvm=bv.1357700187,d.dmQ&biw=1213&bih=627&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&ei=qG7zUPOaA4680AGZ24HwCg On January 7, 2013, President Barack Obama announced his choice of former Senator Chuck Hagel to replace ex-Spook Leo Panetta as Secretary of Defense. While a top GOP leader during his years in the Senate, conservatives were quick to attack Hagel for his statement, ""Let me clear something up here, if there's any doubt in your mind. I'm a United States senator. I'm not an Israeli senator. I support Israel. But my first interest is: I take an oath of office to the constitution of the United States. Not to a president, not to a party, not to Israel." GW Bush's Secretary of State Colin Powell praised Hagel on the rightwing NBC’s MEET THE PRESS for his service as a soldier during the Vietnam War as well as cottoning up to the Zionists by saying that Hagel was a “good supporter of Israel.” The GOP's 2008 presidential candiate rejected Powell's assertions and reanimated his dispute with Hagel about morality of bribes and assassinations in the 2007 surge in Iraq. Hardliners of the right have accused the former senator of pandering to Iran. Click on Google's images for Chuck Hagel. Israeli hackers have already downloaded thousands of hit of images of him as a Commie or Arab army officer. All I can say to these extremists as well

as Huffington Post and CNN is go fuck yourselves. As for his anti-gay statements. Chuck said that he was sorry. Only the Log Cabin GOPers care about that issue and they don't want gay rights to avoid paying alimony attached to their trust funds. He's the only person strong enough to stand up to the Pentagon's unrelenting desire to fight in Afghanistan forever. I have friends on their 5th tour their. I don't want to see them go on a 6th. Bring the troops home. Confirm Chuck.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE Marlene Dietrich

Marlene Dietrich achieved international acclaim with her 1930 performance as Lola the gold-digging cabaret singer in BLUE ANGEL. Paramount Studios promoted the German actress as a rival to MGM's Greta Garbo. Von Sternberg guided his star to success in MOROCCO, DISHONORED, BLONDE VENUS, and SHANGHAI EXPRESS by heightening her beauty through the illusions of light and shadow. Her swift rise in Hollywood was followed by the fall and she was declared 'box office poison' in the mid 1930s. Offered lucrative contracts by the Nazis, Dietrich remained in the USA and became a staunch supporter of the Allied War Effort. After the war she wowed audience around the war with her stage performance and few songs were better than her version of Pete Seeger's WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE. Where indeed? A great lady and a great song. To hear WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE by Marlene Dietrich please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KKxaMAxC3Go

TOUCH OF EVIL Opening Scene

According to Wikipedia many critics considered TOUCH OF EVIL's three-minute, twenty-second tracking shot as one of the greatest long takes in cinematic history, especially considering it's the opening scene.

On the U.S.-Mexico border, a man plants a time bomb in a car. A man and woman enter the vehicle and make a slow journey through town to the U.S. border. Newlyweds Miguel "Mike" Vargas (Charlton Heston) and Susie (Janet Leigh) pass the car several times on foot. The car crosses the border, then explodes, killing the occupants. To see the opening scene of TOUCH OF EVIL PLEASE go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg8MqjoFvy4

NO MAN'S LAND by Peter Nolan Smith

Farangs consider themselves smarter than Thais. This superiority complex is based on the centuries of Western domination over the rest of the world. Foreigners boast about their education and well-paid jobs to each other with pride. The Thais regard farangs kee-nok or bird shit. The West never conquered Thailand. Farang food is tasteless and the men are drunks.

Western prestige means nothing.

Thais love Thais.

Farangs come and farangs go.

Thailand forever.

I had moved to Thailand to raise a family . Her mother betrayed my trust by signing another man's name on our daughter's birth certificate. She told me it was her cousin. I refused to marry the farm girl at the wat or city hall, but stayed with her to raise our daughter. I loved Angie every second. Her mother none.

After three years her mother went up-country with the car. I kept asking about her return. Her excuses for staying varied from month to month. I didn't lift them to the light, because the truth is an onion with many layers. Once you peel them all, you have nothing.

Neither did I question her returns, which coincided with my wandering farther from home. I was happy to end my pseudo-philandering, because their arrival meant I got to spend time with my 3 year-old daughter.

During my 'wife's' visits, my friends understood that they wouldn't be seeing me at the Welkom Inn or Buffalo Bar. My daughter and I swam at the Shaba Hut and rode around town with our little dog in the motor scooter basket. No bars, no late nights, and I laid in bed reading WINNIE THE POOH to my little angel in horrible Thai. I was happy and my 'wife' wore her misery like a chador.

Five years ago the monsoon season had given way to the glorious weather of November. My 'wife' had been in town two weeks. She wanted to see her older sister. Pi-yai and I had nothing in common. The fishmonger was after my money and I wasn't giving her any. Her little sister suffered a lost of face and her older sister berated her for having found a farang without money.

"You go out. I go see sister. See friends. Get mao with farangs."

A freedom pass was an easy command to obey and I busted out of the house off Soi Bongkot with a fugitive's dispatch.

Sam Royalle was waiting at Heaven Above A Go Go.

His girlfriend had a posse of girlfriends retired by out-of-town boyfriends. They were stars on Walking Street. Men surrounded our table offering drinks and money to the trio of beauties.

I was soon bored by the action. They were too loud to speak over the boy band disco and ’suck-my-dick’ rap. Naked girls held no thrill. Not when they’re shuffling the old bored one-two step, but Sam kept ordering tequilas. After three my tongue reverted to Neanderthalism.

As Sam called for a round of Kamikazes, I escaped from Heaven and staggered down the stairs to Soi Diamond. Every step was a challenge and I wondered how to negotiate the two blocks to my parked bike. A catapult seemed my only solution, until a New York voice commented, “Man, are you really that fucked up?”

"Fuck you."

"Are you sure about that?" It was Jamie Parker. "You're in no condition to fight."

The ex-con slipped his arm under mine. My legs regained partial use.

“Tequila on an empty stomach.” I tried to pull myself free. My head hit the headrest wall. Jamie caught me before I hit the pavement.

“Are you thinking about driving home?” Jamie had a good hold on my arms.

“I’ve driven in worst condition.” I hadn’t seen the Lower East Side native since the memorable 9/11 opening of his defunct PIGPEN A GO GO.

“Which is why your wrist looks like a Klingon warship.” He was referring to my near-fatal motorcycle crash on the Burma border.

“I wasn’t drunk then, only distracted.” My concentration had been distracted by the ageless scenery of opium fields.

"You're drunk now and you're not getting on a bike. You have a daughter, remember."

"And a 'wife'."

"Another reason you're not going home." Jamie and I went back to New York. Our tempers were well-known in East Village. Few expected us to live past 30. "You're not getting on that bike until you can walk in a straight line."

"Straight line no problem." Free on his grasp I veered right and then left with my arms swirling to regain my balance. I hugged a wall like a mountaineer clinging to a cliff and lolled my head back onto my neck. "Jamie, I'm all yours."

Jamie frog-marched me over to the Jennie Bar, famous for the world's most beautiful TVs in the world. He ordered a gin-tonic and a soda water. A tall kathoey sat next to me.

"This is Glaie. She will nurse you back to sobriety." Jamie tipped her 200 baht.

Glaie was the spitting image of a young Beyonce minus 20 kilos.

"Dhim." She held the glass of soda water to my lips. Her hands were devoid of veins.

"Yes, m'am." I obeyed Glaie without hesitation. She was six-feet tall in three-inch heels. I would do anything she asked me to do, which wasn't a good sign.

"I saw something weird today."

"Only one?"

"I was on a visa run to the Cambodia border this morning. I get on the minivan. 6:30. Crack of dawn. Sleep two hours. Listen two hours to the various bullshit from the other visa-runners. The only one not speaking was this old guy. Maybe 65. He’s reading a book. I like reading like you and ask him what he’s reading. He says with a German accent, “Zarathusa, but this version is called BANGKOK 8.”

"We spoke about the ubermensch and the untermensch. The old guy originally from Austria. Fled the Nazis but he wasn’t a Jew. Father was a commie or a criminal. He’s been out here since before electricity. Runs a restaurant in Made in Thailand.p

“I know the place.” His wife made a great veal schnitzel. “His name’s Frank.”

“Yeah, that’s right, but I have bad news.”

“What?” I was expecting him to ask me for money

“Frank’s dead

“Frank’s dead?” He was only 65. I knew his daughter. She was beautiful.

“Yeah, we crossed the border into Cambo. No problem. He’s fine. Gets his visa stamped and lowers his head into his book. I thought he was asleep and went to get a bottle of wine. Nice Bordeaux. I come back and see he hasn’t changed position. I touch him and he’s cold.

“Frank's Dead."

“Deader than a bucket of nails.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I told the guide and he said the same thing. We had a little conference and decide to risk taking him back across the border. I mean, I didn’t want him stuck between the borders like Orson Welles in A TOUCH OF EVIL.”

“No one would have wanted to take responsibility for him.” Frank could have been stuck there for days. “Bad luck

“The guide wasn’t too happy about the situation, but we got him upright. You ever notice how heavy dead people are?”

“A bucket of mud in a plastic bag.” I had worked as a janitor in a terminal ward during university. The orderlies were my friends and I helped them move the dead to the gurneys. The difference in pay was five cents an hour.

“You know the border. Shitty muddy waiting area. Crappy bridge.” Jamie downed his drink and ordered a refill for my soda water. Glaie poured it down my throat, as if she had learned her trade from a CIA water boarding school.

"Get him another." Jamie sipped at his gin-tonic. "So where was I?"

"Frank's stuck in no-man's land between Thailand and Cambodia."

“We get to the passport control. The officer looks at Frank and asks what’s wrong. We say he’s drunk. The officer knows drunk. Frank is more than Mao-kah and he signals us to come to the side.”

“How much he want?” Thai border officials are quick on the take.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

The guy had been stamping Frank's passport for years. One more newer visa was no big deal, but only if we declared him dead in Thailand.”

“Good guy.”

“That’s why we live here. Thais understand reality.” A Britney Spears look-a-like TV sat on Jamie’s lap. “We carry Frank’s body into Thailand. Everyone waied his corpse. They respect him as an old man who loves Thailand. The minivan driver sat him in the front seat. The other farangs never noticed he was dead."

"Good." Nosy farangs were a pain in the ass. Glaie made me drink a 3rd bottle of soda water. I was about 50% and thanked her for her ministrations with a 200 baht tip.

"How Frank's wife take it?"

"She cried a bucket.”

They had been together more than 30 years.

“Guess we’ll be going to the wat for cremation.”

“Better than being buried in a box.” Jamie and I never thought we were going to die. We clinked glasses and I headed home to sleep on the couch. It was the final refuge of the unloved, but my daughter would understand why I got drunk.

She was my blood and flesh.

As for her mother.

I didn't give a shit what her mother thought.

And that was a good thing.

The Shadow Of The Man

Orson Welles achieved fame early in his life with the controversial radio broadcast THE WAR OF THE WORLDS in 1938. He was only 23. Three years later CITIZEN KANE was acclaimed the greatest movie of all time. His success freed him from the reins of the Hollywood studios, although the movie moguls were experts at repressing rebels and his subsequent films were hacked by editors according to the whims of the producers controlling the market from screenplay to popcorn. Orson Welles responded to this treatment by gaining weight at an alarming rate during his forties. In LADY FROM SHANGHAI he supposedly ordered the cameraman, "Shoot me from the fifth rib up." Welles sought solace from the studio's mistreatment by dining for three or four a gourmet restaurants around Europe. At home in Hollywood he was no slouch at the dinner table. His housekeeper said, "It was not unusual for me to prepare him a couple of big Porterhouse steaks, a dozen eggs, a plate of biscuits and a pot of coffee. Orson Welles could really eat." In order to play the role of the portly King Falstaff the actor had to go on diet to get down from his epic 400+ pounds. After his death in 1985 a rich friend of mine found a cape of the late great Welles at a Martha Vinyard antique shop. The fabric was black cashmere with a equally black silk lining. The director name was sewn above the interior pocket. My friend was tall as Orson. 6-1. He tried on the cape thinking that it would make a good conversation piece, however the expanse of material was so immense that my friend thought that he looked like a circus tent under the cape. The salesman told him that everyone felt the same way and my rich friend thanked him for the experience of wearing Orson's cape. I wish I had been there, for at times in my life I've tipped over to the fat side of weight, but that's no sin as long as you aren't shy, for as Orson said, "Gluttony is not a secret vice." He was a good eater.

NORTHERN MAINE by Peter Nolan Smith

Bing Crosby couldn’t have sung WHITE CHRISTMAS on December 25, 1991.

The New York sidewalks were bare of snow, sleet, slush, and ice. They stayed that way through the first month of 1992 and the population of the Northeast celebrated the end of winter.

Scientists had been warning about global warming the publication of a SCIENCE article in 1975. This ‘inadvertent climate modification’ was gobbledygook to the normal man terrified by the threat of a 'nuclear winter' after an atomic bomb exchange between the USA and USSR. American oil producers pooh-poohed the National Academy of Science warnings of carbon increases in 1979 and it wasn’t until 1988 that ‘Global Warming’ was mentioned before Congress. Our representatives shelved the warning of the impending climate shifts changes the eagerness of a football fan changing the channel from PBS to the SuperBowl.

At the end of January the New York Giants beat the Buffalo Bills 20-19 in Tampa and every trendy Manhattan fled the city for a weekend in Miami Beach. I rejected the exodus to the newly discovered art-deco district east of US 1. Too many people who regarded themselves VIPs were crowding on Ocean Avenue for my tastes.

I came from New England and wanted to see snow.

My friend Philippe ran a nightclub in the Meat Packing District. The long-haired Englishman was equally put off my the fashion elite’s transformation of old Miami.

"I liked it better when no one knew it."

"So what about doing the exact opposite of everyone and head north until we find snow." I showed him a map of New England and pointed to Moosehead Lake in Maine. "Winter is always winter up there."

"How we get there?"

"I have a car in Boston. We drive up the coast to Bar Harbor and then swing inland hoping for the best." I had phoned for the weather up north. The temperature was below freezing in Portland.

"Count me in. The Eurotrash can have Miami Beach. We're going for the snow."

Two days later an Amtrak train transported us from Penn Station to Boston. My father met us at the 128 station and drove us to my family home in the Blue Hills south of the city.

The grass behind our house was a withered yellow. My mother was cooking beef stew in the kitchen. I looked at the thermometer outside the window. The dial was stuck on 45 F.

"Did you get any snow yet?"

"Not once." She smiled at me. "You boys hungry?"

"For your stew? Always." Her recipe came from my Irish grandmother. It was a good winter meal, even if the season was more like autumn.

"Smells delightful, m'am." Phillipe had good manners.

"Let me show you our ride."

My car was in the garage. The gray 1982 Cutlass had good heat and a working stereo. The passenger window was paralyzed by faulty wiring, but the V8 was tuned for a long road trip.

"I only use it on weekends in the summer." I told Philippe and we entered the den where my father was watching TV. He liked road trips and I asked, “You want to come with us?”

“I know what winter looks like in Maine.” The seventy year-old Maine native had spent two of the long seasons in Jackman for the phone company. “The trees crack from the cold. They sound like cannons. Why can’t you be normal and go to Florida?”

“I want to see Lake Manicouagan.” A five-kilometer meteor had struck the Laurentian Shield to create a ringed impact crater.

“The roads that far north will be closed for the season.”

“It has been a warm winter.”

“Nothing is warm north of the St. John’s River.” The four-hundred mile stream served as the border between the USA and Canada.

“And that’s why were going there. To see winter.”

My mother understood my reasons. She loved to see the world. We ate her stew for dinner and drank wine on the sun porch. My father and she went to sleep and I showed Philippe his room. "Have a good night's sleep. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."

I went to my old bedroom and lay on my bed to read Kenneth Roberts ARUNDEL, a forgotten novel about the invasion of Canada. My eyes shut before I reached page 25.

In the morning my mother made us breakfast. The sky was clear and the temperature had risen to 48.

"You won't see snow until after Bangor." My father put down the newspaper. He subscripted to the Boston Globe. A blizzard had buried Northern Europe. Scores were dead.

"We're not stopping there." I wanted waist deep snow.

"A waste of time, but have a good time." He walked Philippe and I into the garage. We loaded the car with our bags and I hugged my mother.

“Be my eyes.” She kissed my cheek and pressed $40 in my hand. “Buy yourself a nice lobster.”

“Drive safe.” My father was firm believer in defensive driving.

“I’ll keep the car between the lines.” I hadn’t had an accident since 1974.

Getting out of Boston took the better part of an hour. We took 95 as far as Portsmouth, then exited onto Route 1.

Philippe and I listened to NEVERMIND skirting the coast. Nirvana was as good on US 1 as it had been on the highway. Wells Beach, Old Orchard, and Portland were devoid of snow. In Falmouth I pulled off the Route 1 to see my old house.

“When I was a kid, my older brother and I jumped from the roof into the snow drifts.”

“You would break your legs doing that today.” The grass was as yellow as that in our backyard south of Boston.

“My grandfather used to say there were two seasons in Maine; the season of good sledding and the season of bad sledding.” I got back in the car. “He never said nothing about the season of no sledding.”

A half-hour later we stopped at LL Bean where Philippe bought real winter clothing good for -20 Fahrenheit.

“Better to be prepared.” He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy in his new down jacket. The temperature in Freeport was 40. Sweat poured from his face in the parking lot and he stashed the jacket in the back seat before we continued along on the old two-laner through Bath, Wicassett, and Rockland. Each town held a story from my childhood.

I told Philippe each one.

We arrived in Camden at dusk. The motel cost $40 for two. The picturesque seaside resort was asleep for the winter. The temperature was below freezing and hoar frost rimmed the rocky harbor.

We ate at a restaurant overlooking the falls. The heavyweight bartender in her late-twenties weighed in excess over 300 pounds. She wore a flannel shirt and overalls. The fashion sense for the other women in the bar varied between shabby and manly.

“Is this the norm for women up here?” Philippe lifted his head from the plate of broiled halibut. The waitress promised that it was fresh. In Maine fresh meant an hour off the boat.

“"This isn't up. This is Downeast, but any woman in Maine is twice the man either of us will be.”

A man at the bar was eyeing Philippe in a funny way. The Englishman was near-sighted same as me, but refused to wear glasses. I didn’t mention the attention of the stranger.

The next day we drove farther down the coast. The temperature hovered over freezing. Patches of snow hid in the woods along US 1. We reached Bar Harbor mid-afternoon. After finding a cheap motel Philippe and I headed over the Shell Beach. The polar air was crisp as a potato chip. Small waves rippled through the tidal ice.

"This was the first time that I had been cold this year." Philippe was happy in his down jacket.

"It will get colder soon enough."

That evening we ate lobsters in Bar Harbor. Philippe and I were the only two diners. No one was drinking at the bar. 

The fat woman serving beer looked like she had been spawned by salmon. The bleached blonde waitress at the restaurant in Bar Harbor was missing two front teeth. The skinny thirty year-old had a big nose. I was attracted to her and pushed my short hair into shape.
Philippe had stopped my flirtation by ordering the bill.

“I liked her.” Skinny was better than big in my book.

“You were only leading her on.” The bony Brit was into petite Asian women. New York had plenty of those.

“And she me.” I hadn’t expected it to go anywhere further than holding hands. 

“She’s uglier than sin.” Philippe had eaten every morsel of lobster. His shirt was unstained by butter or stray meat. Mine was spotted with morsels which hadn’t made it into my mouth.

“Nothing wrong with ugly.” I had drunk enough to make me good-looking in the bathroom mirror.

“You’d regret it in the morning.” He was scared of having to share the room with rutting Mainiacs. As I paid the bill, the bartender asked Philippe, “You want some fun.”

“He’s with me.” I thumbed at Philippe.

“Then have a good time.” The fat bartender winked, as if she wanted to watch us

“Aren’t there any attractive females in this state?” Philippe asked under his breath.

“Not many.” I was pissed at him for having ruined my chances with the skinny girl. She was talking to the chef. He looked, as if he thought he was going to get lucky tonight.

“I’ll regret nothing.” I started for the kitchen. “You’re a buzzkill.”

Philippe dragged me out of the restaurant before I could do something stupid. A million stars traversed the clear sky. My breath was the only cloud in the air. The temperature had to be in the 20s. My fingers felt the cold and the car had a hard time starting. It was a good sign. We were getting north.

The next day we traversed the barren potato fields of Aroostock County. The snow deepened past Dover Junction. The grey skies didn’t renege on their promise of snow. Thick flakes clotted the air. The highway was plated by the tire-trampled residue of a recent blizzard. The temperature was hovering around 10F.

Old US 1 ended at its northern terminus of Fort Kent. Key West was 2377 miles to the south. Snow drifted chest-deep against the houses. Philippe tested his new jacket.

“It works.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from LL Bean.” I was wearing layers. Heavy boots were a must. We had reached winter and night was falling fast this far north.

We got a room at the motel nearest the ice-clogged river. The grinding floes filled the frozen air with horrid crunches.

“Tomorrow we’ll drive to the St. Lawrence and catch a ferry to the other side.” Icebreakers opened the seaway for ships throughout the winter. “We can reach Manicouagan Lake in two days. If the road’s open, I can make Newfoundland. It’s no Miami Beach.”

“I can’t go to Canada.” Philippe held his hands over the motel’s radiator. The interior surface of the windows were glazed by ice. A naked man wouldn’t last thirty minutes outside.

“Why not?” He was English and I thought he might have a prejudice against French Canadians.

“I have a visa problem.” He avoided eye contact.

“What kind?” French Canadian women were attractive. Their Gallic beauty came from not eating potato chips. Winter would only get more winter farther north.

“My visa is out of date.” He was embarrassed by this admission.

“How long?” Mexicans were called ‘wetbacks’. Up this far north illegals were known as ‘snowbacks’. They were mostly Canadian.

“Two years.”

“Damn.” We were 673 miles from Manhattan. I had a car and money in my pocket. I had dreamed on standing on the shores of Manicouagan Lake for years. I grabbed Philippe by his arm.

“Put on your coat.”

“It’s cold.” He protested without conviction.

“This is northern Maine. Of course it’s cold.” I forced Philippe to get into the bulky parka that he had bought at LL Bean. We walked down US 1 to a snow-covered steel truss bridge. The wind off the frozen river was twenty degrees south of zero and Philippe’s long hair whipped across his face.

‘That’s Quebec.” I pointed to the black bank across the St. John’s River.

“I know.” He refused to look at the other side.

“They have good food in Canada.” The French had colonized the region over four hundred years ago. I appealed to his weakness for good food. We had eaten lobster the previous evening. Fort Kent’s cuisine consisted of doughty pizza and greasy burgers. “There’s a great French restaurant in Clair. The Resto 120.”

The restaurant had been recommended by the motel manager. Her last name was Quelette. Fine cuisine was a specialty of the lost tribe of France. She wore her weight well.

“Tourtires, soupe aux pois, et pommes persillade. Cheese. Wine. Good bread.”

“Really?” Philippe was a hearty eater for a thin man.

“And French girls are cute.” They ate ‘frites’ not potato chips.

At Old Orchard Beach the sexiest girl in the summer were from Quebec City. They looked like either Brigitte Bardot or Francoise Hardy. Philippe was almost sold by my sales pitch, but he had a girlfriend back in New York.

“I can’t risk it.” They were in love.

“What’s the risk?” No one was guarding the bridge. “On the way back you can hide in the trunk. It’s heated.”

If the technique worked for millions of wetbacks, it couldn’t be too much trouble to run a snowback operation at a sleepy border crossing.

“No way.” Philippe shook his head. His nose was red from the cold wind.

“It’s either that or burgers.”

“Sorry.” He walked away from my grasp.

“Sorry?” I trailed him thinking about dragging him across the desolate bridge.

“You can come back in the summer.” 

“I have no idea where I will be in the summer.” Kidnapping was out of the question.

“Me neither, but it won’t be a deportation cell. Burgers and fries tonight It’s on me.” Philippe stormed over to the nearest bar. Neon signs FOOD and LABATT BEER flashed in its window. I stared across the icy river with disappointment. This was as far north as I would get this year.

“Fucking Brits.” I joined Philippe in the Moose Inn. It had a pool table, jukebox, and wooden bar with draft beer.

He didn’t take off his hat. Everyone in the bar was wearing theirs. I couldn’t tell the difference between the men and women and threw my watch cap on the bar.

“Fuck the Resto 120.” There were no pommes persillade on the Moose Inn’s menu.

“What?” Philippe asked to appease my anger.

“Shut the fuck up.” I was in a bad mood. I ordered a beer. The Labatt went down in less than thirty seconds. The second took two minutes. The third lasted almost a quarter of an hour.

We ordered burgers and fries. My fifth beer washed down the hockey puck of a paddy and the sixth took care of the sodden fries. At least I was warm.

The bar filled with loggers, snowmobile sledders, and the state road crew.

A storm was due in two days, so everyone was getting in their drunk tonight. I bought drinks for the road crew. Philippe played DJ on the Jukebox. The crowd danced to LOUIE LOUIE. My battery was on E. A thickly bearded drunk tapped my shoulder.

“What?”

“You mind if I dance with your date?” The man had a cross-eyed squint. One lens of his glasses was cracked. For a second looking at him was like seeing my personalized ‘Portrait of Dorian Grey’. We were both forty.

“My date?” I was confused for a few seconds, until he glanced over his shoulder at Philippe.

Long hair hid his face.

“You’re saying that you want to dance with my date?”

“She’s better looking than any of the other girls in this town.” He lit a cigarette with a match. It flared over his thumb. The townie didn’t register any pain and said with a dull vice, “Girls around here weigh as much as moose in a peatbog. I like them skinny. You mind?”

“Be my guest.” The Englander’s illegality in America had halted my exploration of the North and I smiled as I said, “Just a dance.”

“You got it.” The townie staggered off to Philippe.

His mouth mouthed ‘you wanna dance’. I put down my beer before I spit it out laughing. The Brit came back to the bar and picked up his beer.

“Some guy just asked me for a dance.” Philippe was outraged by the offer.

“And you said no?”

“Of course I said no.” He was horrified by the thought that I presumed that he might say ‘yes’.

“Just so you know, he had the politeness to ask me if it was okay.”

“And what you say?”

“I said okay. Let’s face it, you have to be the prettiest girl in northern Maine by a long shot.” I figured that we were even.

“Thanks.”

“Did he offer to buy you a drink?” We were running low on money.

“Yes.” Philippe had said the magic word.

“So get to it, Thelma.” I went over to the jukebox and dropped two quarters to play KC and the Sunshine Band and Nirvana. They were good dancing songs.

Philippe gave me the finger.

I returned the favor, for I was ready to party along the St. Johns. The meteor lake was for another day or year. I ordered tequila. The logger gave me a joint and everyone joked about him asking Philippe to dance.

“I’m not gay.”

“Only blind.” I tossed down the tequila.

Philippe danced with a fat woman.
He laughed with the drunk about being mistaken for a woman.

No one asked me to dance.

I wasn't their type, then again I wasn’t the prettiest girl in Northern Maine.

The dead of winter was 2200 from Miami Beach was a good place to be a man and I didn't see anything wrong with humming WHITE CHRISTMAS.

Even if I was off-key.