Sunday, April 28, 2013

Big Mouth White Boy

The Boston Celtics had assembled the Big Three to win the NBA Championship.

2008 my team won the title behind Paul Pierce, Ray Allen, and Kevin Garnett with help from center Kendrick Perkins and the playmaking sensation Rajon Rondo. The Celtics met the LA Lakers in 2010 to repeat their success. Kobe subbed Perkins with a knee and Boston lost its inside threat. Perkins was traded to OK City in 2011 for Jeff Green and Nate Robinson. This season Rondo fucked up his leg. The Celts were old and slow as if the old age truck had opened its doors for Paul Pierce and KG. The other night at Mullanes I was lambasting # 4 for the Celtics. I knew everyone at the bar and for some reason I said, "I wish the KKK were still around to lynch Jason Terry." The entire bar heard my statement. I have a big mouth. No one said anything, but I knew in their hearts I had become a cracker motherfucker. Saying sorry was not enough. Listening to Sly Stone didn't matter. Somehow I had dove into my soul to come up with a racist statement. I apologized and readied myself for a well-deserved beating. No one did nothing. Mullanes was a white bar. NO one does bad there. Except for me. Mea Culpa.

Go For It KIDNAP ZUCKENBERG

The economy is in the shitter. Billionaires are worshipped as gods. The masses are cowered by their desire to be wealthy. Last week according to yahoo.com Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg reaped a gain of nearly $2.3 billion last year when he exercised 60 million stock options just before the online social networking leader's initial public offering. I have about $500 in the bank. Less tomorrow after I send money to my kids for the new school year in Thailand. But we could all become rich by kidnapping Mark Zuckerberg for an afternoon. Every hour of his life is worth $365,000. Holding him for three hours would net the kidnappers $1 million for the realization of the 'trickle down theory' to really work in favor of the poor. Better yet would be to grab the Brothers Koch. Those two scumbags are worth billions.

Simplicity Of Sanity

THIS IS HOW 'THEY' THINK 1. the Manitoba Legislative Building – this is the “eye” looking over the us. Also, if you are standing looking down at the us, it forms an upside-down pentagram. If you have the time, watch Scott Onstott’s 10 min video on youtube about this place. It doesn’t get any more overtly masonic than this. 2. Denver, Colorado – the suburbs around Denver are: Littleton (Colombine) and Aurora, Colorado. Also, the notorious Denver airport 3. Waco, Texas – on April 19, 1993, 82 people were killed by the ATF, (I think 11 of 82 could be ATF people, or 11 in addition to 82 were ATF, I need to check). Also close by, In Oct. 1991, George Hennard crashes his pick up truck thru a Luby’s cafeteria then shoots and kills 23 before shooting himself. This was in Killeen, TX, and, he was at one time in the US navy. Also, remember the shooting at Ft. Hood (same vicinity), in Nov. 2009 by Major Nidal Malik Hasan, army psychiatrist, who shot & killed 32 before officer killed him – 33 total dead. Waco area is a real hot spot. I think its because the points between Waco & MLB (see no. 1) form a line straight down to give form to the pentagram. 4. Oklahoma City – there happened to be a drill that day (sounds familiar) when Timothy McViegh allegedly bombed the federal building on patriot’s day, Apr. 19, 1995. 5. Atlanta, Georgia – 1996 summer olympics Eric Robert Rudolf (double R), member of the army of god, kills 2 with bomb. An officer discovered the bomb and alerted people – I think its ironic his initials are ERR. Also of note, Atlantis (I mean Atlanta) is on the 33rd parallel. 6. Tucson, Arizona – Gabrielle Giffords shot, 6 killed on Jan. 8, 2011. This one is so recent, so you know the details & know it has false flag written all over it. 7. 101 California Street killings – (note 101, or 11) on July 1, 1993 in San Francisco, Gian Luigi Ferri kills 8 then himself at a law firm at this address In Stockton (suburb of san francisco), Jan. 17, 1989, Patrick Purdy (PP), goes to Cleveland Elementary School and kills 5 kids then himself. It was reported that he hated Asian Americans. All 5 were asian. Also of note, his father was in the military and his mother abused him. 8. Indianapolis, Indiana – June 1, 2006 – shooting at 560 N Hamilton Avenue (11), suspects killed 7 people, they are in prison, maintain their innocence. Strangely, the house where it happened was burned down (arson) in 2008. 9. Deepwater Horizon oil spill – April 20, 2010 – you know all about this one. 10. Not in the pentagram, but clearly a false flag operation – May 21, 1998, at 333 N 58th Street at Thurston High School, Kipland Kinkel (KK), killed 4 then himself in Springfield, Oregon. the school colors are red and black.

OFF WITH THEIR HEADS Aquarium

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxU2xmjaRqE During my trip to 2009 trip to Russia I was lucky enough to Seve Gakkel, the celloist of the famous Soviet era band Aquarium. The band dated back to 1972, when Boris Grebenshchikov and Anatoly Gunitsky joined forces with several musicians to play art at Leningrad restaurant. The KGB hated rock, but somehow the band flourished in the Brezhnev era and to this date are highly regarded as a voice of freedom for the masses in the USSR. I don't understand a single word, but love their music. I'm an old folkie. To hear Aquarium please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PCNJp1X0N5Q

Flirting With Death


In 1988 I exerienced a series of dreams about nuclear annihilation. The first one was situated in New York. The sirens sounded the alarm and thousands of East Villagers headed to the subway for shelter. There wasn't room for all of us. Someone pointed to the sky and I spotted a black missile falling earthward.

White flash.

The next dream was situated in Moscow. The populace filed into trains with calm order and got off at the next station to allow other passengers to repeat our hopeless exodus to safety.

White flash.

The third dream occurred at a Siberian airfield. I was making love with a Red Air Force female pilot. The sirens sounded once more. The Comrade Pilot excused herself from my embrace and ran to the bomber parked outside the dacha. I watched her take off moments before mushrooms clouds rose over the tundra.

White flash.

I liked the last dream best, but I always thought that you weren't supposed to die in your dreams.

Guess I was wrong.

But I woke up to survive on all three occasions, because luck asleep or awake runs in my family.

We're half-Irish.

Moscow Taxi Touts


New York newspapers frequently report about naive visitors paying excessive taxifares into Manhattan. The record was set by a Japanese tourist. The cab driver extorted $2500 from the hapless visitor and ropped him Harlem when he wouldn't cough up another $500.

Things have improved at JFK, however the age-old practice of soaking the uninformed voyager has a global reach.

Back in 2009 I deplaned in Moscow's Terminal 2. My connecting flight to St. Petersburg was in Terminal 1. No signs suggested how to reach that destination, although a taxi tout was willing to drive me the 5 kilometers for $60.

"Sorry. I don't have to be there that bad."

"Special deal. $40." He showed a price card. $60 for Terminal 1

"Why so cheap?" I figured that rate was from Moscow.

"Because I liked George Bush."

"Fuck George Bush."

He wasn't my president and I walked away from the taxi tout.

An old bababuska cleaning lady was heading home. I followed her outside and we boarded the free transit bus. Free, which got me to the other terminal in plenty of time. I even was able to drink a beer.

$5 for a large stein of Stella.

It was a good place to drink beer.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Fast Healer by Mark Kamins

The headlights reflected off the rain-scarred streets. I saw her eyes,twisted, bloodshot red, dazed, as she looked at me. She didn’t see the gunshot wound. It wasn’t the first and I know it wouldn’t be the last. I had fucked up. It's fucking hard trying to make a quick peso, a fast G, in the back streets of Marseilles. I sipped the last drop of bouillabaisse, took a long taff, and asked for another nasty Richard.

Enough, I was bleeding,

I asked the Marocaine toiletgirl to call her sister.

She had stitched me up before.

It wasn’t a problem, I’m a fast healer.

None Of The Above

Millions of Americans are without work. Congress set up a hearing to deal with long-term unemployment this week and only Sen. Amy Klobuchar (D-Minn.) showed her face for the meeting. According to the Press Sens. Robert Casey (D-Pa.), Mark Warner (D-Va.), Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.), Martin Heinrich (D-N.M.), Dan Coats (R-Ind.), Mike Lee (R-Utah), Roger Wicker (R-Miss.) and Pat Toomey (R-Pa.). Reps. Kevin Brady (R-Texas), John Campbell (R-Calif.), Justin Amash (R-Mich.), Erik Paulsen (R-Minn.), Richard Hanna (R-N.Y.), Carolyn Maloney (D-N.Y.) and Loretta Sanchez (D-Calif.) also did not attend. Congress and the government don't give a flying fuck about anything. For the next election vote for NONE OF THE ABOVE. Better no one than these thieves.

Adam Clayton Powell Jr. State Office Building

This afternoon I was rolling across 126th Street in Harlem. The traffic on 125 was brutally slow for a sunny day. Upon nearing Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard or 7th Avenue I ogled the Adam Clayton Powell Jr. State Office Building and pulled over to the curb and stepped out of the pick-up truck to take a photo of the tallest building in Harlem. "You." A shout from behind. "What?" "Are you taking a photo?" A female security guard emerged from her cubby hole. "Yes, I am." I was a big fan of the brutalist architecture of the African-American architecture firm of Ifill, Johnson & Hanchard, which had also designed St. Martin's Tower. "Then you have to delete the photos." The unsmiling woman was not kidding about this edict. "I'm not a terrorist." "I don't care who you are. I'm just doing my job. No photos means no photos, unless you want the PD to come down here." I hate the police. "No, you don't have to do that, but it's a sunny day and I love this style of architecture." "Don't mean shit to me." "Okay." There was no sense in argument or sweet-talking. I deleted the photos and went on my way. I was a working man and in the words of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. "A man's respect for law and order exists in precise relationship to the size of his paycheck. Ain't that right. In the words

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Anita Pallenberg You Bet I Would

Why are bad girls so delightful?

Knock Knock It's Henry At The Door

I was listening to Michael Pollan on NPR talking about how nobody cooks anymore. I was cooking chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner. I still cook. It's not three-star, but it's better than Chinese take-out. My friend Emily Armstrong said, "I make smothered pork chops, oat bran apple muffins, and five pounds of mashed potatoes." That was a lot of mashed and if she lived closer I would have knocked on her door. In Tropic of Cancer Henry Miller wrote about showing up to his friends' houses at dinner time and upon seeing the food on the table, apologized, but they set him up with a plate. It was a brilliant stratagem for a writer. And also a plan for any hungry man. “I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive.” ― Henry Miller

Koh Tao

In 1990 I traveled around the world.

NYC-LA-HONOLULU-BIAK-AMBON-BALI-JAVA-SUMATRA-SINGAPORE-BANGKOK-NEPAL-DELHI-PARIS-LONDON-NYC

The Singapore to Bangkok segment of the trip was overland and I detrained in Suranthani to catch a midnight ferry to Koh Samui. I stayed at Coral Cove for $5 and after two weeks boated over to Koh Phanghan then finally took a little boat to Koh Tao where I slept on an idyllic island with 3 beaches. It had once been a penal island. A fisherman cooked fresh grouper under a billion stars and we drank beer until dawn.

23 years later the world is much different and so is this little island.

The coral is dead. The fish are gone. Only the beer is cold.

I do miss the old world.

Dewi Sukarno - Dragon Lady

Several years ago the 4th wife of Indonesia's 2nd President accused the recently-departed 2nd President of shortening her husband's life. The 19 year-old fiery entertainer had met the 57-year-old Sukarno during a state visit to Japan. She has always denied the rumors of her geisha background. Her non-conciliatory declaration was the sole voice of dissent during the mourning period for the long-time Javanese ruler.

No stranger to controvesy Dewi fought the daughter of a former Filipino president at a party in Aspen over the rumor that Dewi had risen to power from the redlight district. This gossip earned the PI heiress a wine glass in the face. 

37 stitches.

"So you wanna play rough?"

Dewi also scandalously posed nude to display a tattoo at the age of 53.

You can't find one on the internet, but she remained a beautiful woman for her age and if she goes to Palm Beach this April she can meet me at the Breakers.

I'm game, Dragon Lady.

Napa Redux

In the summer 1971 my friend Peter and I hitchhiked across the Golden Gate Park up into Napa. We stopped at a winery. A keg of red was shaded by an oak tree. Tin cups lay on a battered wooden table.The midday sun was strong. Peter and I drank our fill and some more before setting out for the Arcadia. That night we crashed in the redwoods and watched the evening become a night of stars in the golden land of California. Photo by Shannon Greer

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Mission Underwear Control


Four summers ago I was living in Palm Beach. The off-season population of that wealthy enclave shrank 10% of its winter height. Few of the fabulously rich resided in their mansions and they appeared once a day to shop at the Publix supermarket.

The only poor were the dutiful off-island workers tending to the vacant estates.

Actually I was the poorest person on the island. My income was $350/week. $300 of which went to my family in Thailand. Living on $50 a week was nearly impossible and my revenge on the idle rich was to abstain from bathing in sweet water.

My daily ablution was in the ocean. A sabbatical from shaving enhanced my scruffy appearance as well as my torn jeans and shredded shirts. The rich would wrinkled their noses in the supermarket aisles. I smiled politely, as I picked out my weekly jug of wine.

$5.99 for 2-liters.

Funny, but I didn't smell dirty to me and neither did a Japanese scientist orbiting in the International Space Station who wore the same experimental underwear for a month. His fellow astronauts were ignorant of this test and he said, "The station crew members never complained, so I think the experiment went fine."

The underwear were supposedly antistatic and flame retardant, which must have been helpful against dingleberries and wet farts. Still the racing stripe must have been impressive.

He had to have smelled worst than me.

But maybe in Space farts don't smell bad.

I doubt it, then again I never smell dirty in Palm Beach.

Rocketman Redux


Over the centuries the Greek myth of Icarus has appealed to earth-bound children with the desire to fly.

As a kid my friends and I would steal large sheets of plastic from the nearby suburban construction sites. We would then climb to a wind-blown hilltop and spread the plastic sheets to capture the wind like a parachute. The lightest of us achieved lift-off. Landing were always rough for youthful thrill seekers and even worse for sky-drawn adults as a Brazilian priest fatally discovered after setting off to heaven in a lawn chair attached to 1000 helium colorful party balloons in an attempt to raise money for religious truck drivers.

"Excuse me while I touch the sky."

His body was found in the Atlantic.

Several years ago this dream of flight was shared by another sky-worshipper in Wisconsin, who developed a jetpack for the upwardly-mobile.

"There is nothing that even comes close to the dream that the jet pack allows you to achieve." The 48 year-old designer from New Zealand planned to market his contraption at $100,000 each.

At that price the skies will remain relatively uncongested, however one has to remember that in 1904 there were only two cars in all of Iowa and they had a collision, so aspiring jetpack aviators will have to make way for birds on their 30-minute flights at 110 dB thanks to its twin rotors and its 200-horsepower.

Zoom.

The inventor's wife called the noisy 250-pound engine 'a beast' and the designer has yet to quit his day job, but the jetpack does have a parachute in case of emergency.

So far only 12 people have gone up and come down.

None have had to press the panic button.

The inventor had a vision for his device. One he can't explain, but according to him when Ben Franklin first saw a hot-air balloon, someone asked, "What good is it?"

Ben Franklin too a second and answered, "What good is a newborn baby?"

In other words he didn't know, but as a new father I can tell you the real answer is happiness.

HELP ET HELP

World leaders are increasingly concerned about the collapse of the global economy. No one has an answer to the global dilemma, mostly because the problems multiply every day. I personally have been looking to the sky for our redemption. Not in the form of angels blowing clarion horns, but UFOs piloted by ETs looking to pay retail for everything we have on Earth.

This is a wild dream, since our planet is located on the fringe of the galaxy far from the flow of interstellar traffic, however the universe is changing shape all the time and we can only hope that one day a fleet of entertainment-hungry aliens notice the third rock from the Sun.

Last month this hope was crushed by the sighting of a UFO flaming through the stratosphere over Russia.

Government officials claimed the phenomena was caused by a meteorite.

I know better.

It was a friendly mission from the farthest reaches of the stars. They wanted to buy SUVs at the going rate. McMansions too. Instead their spacecraft struck low-orbit debris and we watched its fall from grace with awe.

Oh, poor ET come to our home.

The Danger of Asteroids


Several years ago a NASA spacecraft passed the planet Mercury. A transmitted photo clearly revealed the effect of meteor strikes on the surface. Their impacts of Earth were not so apparent from the Space Shuttle, unless you know where to look like in the Yucatan or polar areas, but most astronomers are more concerned with incoming asteroids or comets as a threat to life on Earth greater than Man.

"Civilization killers" of 1 kilometer, or about 3,300 feet are veering closer and closer to Earth due to the planet's increased magnetic pull. Some have missed our planet by 29.8 million miles or a third the distance to the Sun. Smaller objects can crash into onEarth with various degrees of destruction from not being able to watch TV to the flattening of Kansas and something as small as a semi-trailer could achieve that effect.

NASA has reckoned such events occur once every 300 years, but the odds favor an ocean landing, since Earth is 2/3 water.

One way to defuse this problem would be for Americans to lose weight, since the Earth's gravity pull is directly effected by the mass of the planet. NASA has been warned about the dangers of obesity, now is the time to act before it's too late.

Not only is losing weight for the planet, it's good for you.

I'm cutting down on beer.

Every little bit helps.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Stars And Stars Above

To celebrate its 23rd anniversary, Space Hubble Telescope released a new spectacular image of the Horsehead Nebula, the dark nebula located in the Orion constellation. The large cloud of hydrogen laced with dust is approximately 1500 light years from Earth and its 'height' is about 5 light-years. The molecular cloud, known as a stellar nursery, contains over 100 known organic and inorganic gases as well of dust consisting of large and complex organic molecules.

'This nebula is a very well-known object and a popular target for observations, most of which show the Horsehead as a dark cloud silhouetted against a background of glowing gas. This new image shows the same region in infrared light, which has longer wavelengths than visible light and can pierce through the dusty material that usually obscures the nebula’s inner regions. The result is a rather ethereal and fragile-looking structure, made of delicate folds of gas — very different to the nebula’s appearance in visible light.'

Dancing Fool

Late Wednesday night at the Mark Kamins Celebration of a Life Michael Holman introduced Lady Kir from Dee-Lite and remained on stage for the first song to dance his feet off. The artist, writer, avant-garde musician, hip hop impresario and filmmaker showed that old dogs are forever young. I was stunned by his mixture of Marvin Gaye cool and Hip-Hop breaks. His stamina allowed him to finish the entire song without losing steam. He came off stage a little breathless and said, "Damn, how long that song last?" "About four minutes." "Show me to the bar, man, show me to the bar. Drinks on me." Mt dancing skills might have been left behind in the last century, but my sense of direction is undiminished by the years. Especially when someone else was buying. Bravo Michael. ps I have a short video of the dancing fool, but I promised Michael to keep it off the internet and I la a man of my word.

Mark Kamins Lives

Wednesday night Santos Party House hosted a celebration of DJ Mark Kamins' life. Hundreds of friends, family, and admirers gathered to enjoy an evening of music, dance, drink, and fun. Coati Mundi, Konk, and Lady Kir of Dee Lite entertained the crowd from the nightclubs of the 80s, while countless DJ spun tunes for the revelers. Stories were retold, old friendship re-united, and memories of Mark were shared by the party-goers. He was there in spirit and remains with us for the Here-to-come. Kudos to Walter Durkarcz for pulling off the memorial extravaganza.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Celebrate Mark Kamins Tonight

Tonight Lower Manhattan celebrates the life of Mark Kamins, legendary nightclub DJ. Everyone will be there. DJs, dancers, bands, old friends, and a few fiends. I'll be working the door early. Entrance is $20. The money goes to his kids. See you there @ Santos Party House - 96 Lafayette Street below Canal. From 8pm to 'I can't believe it's this late'.

CNN Opps Again

Americans have a low opinion of the news media. According to Gallup 55% of Americans have little or no trust of the press. This afternoon CNN's John King verified this negativity by declaring that the Boston Police had 'a dark-skinned male' in custody for Monday's Boston marathon bombings. AP followed CNN's lead and their news-breaking claims were quickly reputed by city and state officials. As for the Gallup Poll, no one trusts them after the 2012 Presidential Election.

Redcoat Suspect

AP and I were sitting in the garden of the Fort Greene Observatory, discussing the lack of a video declaration from the Boston Marathon bomber(s). I had bought us big cans of 'Gansett beer. It came from New England. "It was only one person," I voiced my hunch. "He carried the two bombs in bags and dropped one and then the other." "Why four hours after the first runners?" AP had attended RISD. He had an analytical mind. "Because it was too crowded. Someone walking with two bags would have attracted attention." "And it didn't four hours later?" AP was a New Yorker. "The cops were standing down. The spectators were friends and family. No one was paying attention to a forty year-old white male with two bags over his shoulder." I knew my Boston, but didn't say that the police were in a bar on Newbury Street. There isn't anything more agreeable to any working man than getting paid to drink on the job. "One man? Those bags were heavy." The FBI said they were constructed out of pressure cookers loaded with household chemicals and ball bearings. "30-40 pounds each." I carried heavier bags, while smashing knives this winter. "He dropped the first up the street and then the second, which he detonated first and then blew the second." "And you're sticking with either a single bomber? The 42 year-old white guy from New Hampshire." "Missing a front tooth." "But not a Muslim." "A Muslim would have gone for a suicide mission, but there is another suspect." I put down my beer. It was empty. Luckily I had bought us two each. "The descendant of a redcoat officer from the Battle of Concord. Those Brits have a long memory." "That's the Irish in you speaking." AP was familiar with my blood. "Maybe you're right, so my money stays on the white guy from New Hampshire." "With the missing front tooth." We clunked our 'Gansett cans together. I hope they catch the bastard. Dead better than alive. And that's the Irish in me too.

The Iron Lady Restem In Infernum

This morning the funeral cortege of Margaret Thatcher was taken from Westminster to a funeral service at St. Paul's Cathedral. Millions lined the streets of London to pay homage to the Old Lady, who was Britain's longest serving prime minister of modern times. The funeral service was simple in accordance with the deceased' wishes. Members of the family and Conservative party were bereft with grief for Thatcher, who sat at 10 Downing Street through the Falklands War, the Poll Tax riots, the privatization of public housing, the escape of Chilean dictator Pinochet, the IRA hunger strikes, and the violent police repression of the coal workers. Britons proudly claim that Mrs. Thatcher put the 'great' back in Great Britain. She certainly had a way about her and that way wasn't to the pleasure of many, however no large-scale protests marred the proceedings, even though DING DONG THE WITCH IS DEAD is # 1 on the BBC. And they have that right. Even iron melts in a fire.

Boston Suspect # 1

On Monday two bombs exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. Three people were killed and over 170 were injured by the infernal devices. The explosion took place four hours after the start of the beloved race from Hopkington to Boston Garden held every year on Patriots Day commemorating the Battles of Lexington and Concord. My friend Eric was waiting for his wife on Columbus and Berkeley. She was in the changing room at the corner of Arlington and Boylston. His 82 year-old father-in-law went out to search for Meredith. They are both Boston natives. Two minutes later Eric heard a sharp boom and then ten seconds afterwards a smaller thud. "Bombs." He deducted within a second and called his wife. She was okay and he ran outside to get her father, whom he found standing in the rush of screaming people. "It was like 9/11." Eric collected his wife and got on the Mass Pike to drive west to Springfield before the police shut down the highways. East-bound traffic was dominated by first responders and black Ford SUVs with lights flashing within the shaded windows. I was glad to hear that he had escape harm. My older brother was fine. He worked on the other side of the Commons. Nobody I knew had been hurt, but my heart as well as many of those across the nation felt for the families of the dead and wounded, while asking, "Who?" Fox News was quick to accuse an Arab extremist, but upon seeing the footage on TV I immediately thought 'white male, 42, angry at liberals, pro-gun, anti-abortion and from New Hampshire'. Why New Hampshire? Just a hunch. Suspect # 2 a lone Muslim angered by the hunger strike at Git-Mo. I have no # 3. Two days later the FBI haven't a lead other than the bombs themselves. "It will take time... but we will find whoever harmed our citizens and we will bring them to justice” President Obama vowed, as the FBI transported the evidence to Quantico for further investigation.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

CCTV SOI 6

Several years ago I was out with the boys on Soi 6.

Strictly for sociological research.

Nick was drinking vodkas. Sammie was searching for Ms. Perfect, and young Marton was wrestling with an undersized bargirl on the sofa for what seemed to be about an hour. He weighs in at 85 kilos and she couldn't have been more than 42, however he was never able to pin her without coming across with a 200 baht bar fine.

In the end Marton was out of breath.

Noticing a CCTV in the corner I asked the mama-san if she could play the last 30 minutes. She wasn't sure how to accomplish this, however Sammie is an electrician for the Aussie Post Office and within a minute we were viewing Marton's wrestling match..

We wanted to buy a copy to send his wife.

Marton outbid us with a 1000 baht tip to the mama-san.

These CCTVs are meant to survey the bars for any wrong-doings; sex, drugs, and violence.

Mostly the footage is old men drinking beer.

Not a crime anywhere but Saudi Arabia, although later that month an interesting hoax email popped up on teakdoor.com with a farang complaining about being stopped at Cobra Swamp Airport for questioning.

Here's his email:

I had a big problem going home. Via the internet, I discovered a few bars had streaming web cams. I wanted to show off a bit to my mates back home, so I arranged a time for them to view me in the bars getting pissed and frolicking with all the pretty birds. I made sure I “hammed it up” with the ladies right in front of the web cams. That was the biggest mistake I’ve made in my life, and at the time, I had no clue. Here’s what happened.

All went well during my trips to Bangkok and Pattaya, but the problems started at the new airport upon leaving for home. I arrived at the exit visa desk and I was soon escorted by three Thai police to a private and strange room. They kept me in the room for almost an hour asking me all sorts of personal questions about my holiday in Thailand.

They queried me about where I had visited; which bars I had patronized; which girls I had brought back to my hotel room; and more silly questions. I gave all very honest and forthright answers, since I knew I had done absolutely nothing wrong.

Then, the three police took me to some official who took my passport and stamped it with the wording "persona non gratis Thailand” (in Thai) Then, I was taken into some horrible holding cell for several hours. After that I was escorted to my flight and sent home.

Upon arrival back into the UK, customs did a complete search of me, my camera, laptop, everything. This searching took most of the day, and finally I was released. Then it gets much, much worse. Two days later the police arrived at my place of employment with a search warrant and seized my work computer and all my external hard drives. Trying to explain to my employer what this was all about was a major challenge and disaster, and I was soon relieved of my job.

Then, the police arrived at my flat with a search warrant and examined the entire contents of the flat. They seized my computer, and to this day it hasn’t been returned. I was then escorted to the local cop shop for further questioning about my Thailand holiday.

________________________________________________

The consensus on the teakdoor forum was this email was a fake.

But people are watching so wear clean underwear just in case it was the truth.

Pi-Sow Yai is watching.

1984 Plus 29

CCTV was used instituted by Siemens AG at Test Stand VII in Peenemünde, Germany in 1942 to observe the launch of V-2 rockets according to Wikipedia. After the defeat of Nazi Germany the technology was adopted by the West to protect military and security installations. In 1973 the NYPD installed several cameras in Times Square to combat crime. In the 90s police departments expanded CCTV surveillance, however nowhere took to the Big Brotherism like Orwell's England. # 1 was in King's Lynn, Norfolk. The present number stands at 4.2 million or one for every 14 people in the Britain. Surveillance cameras blankets the country's schools, street, hospitals, prisons, sidewalks, sports venue, bars, and highways, so that a British citizen appears on TV up to 300 times a day, which the BBC reported earned the UK the dubious dishonor of being the most surveilled nation in the West. Advocates of CCTV claim that these cameras prevent crime, but there are other factors to be considered for the drop in car thefts and robberies i.e. the rising age of the population, better lighting, and a repressive political order. Most people do nothing wrong, however their guilt or innocence is determined by police watchers. On July 22, 2005, Jean Charles de Menezes was shot dead by police at Stockwell tube station, who feared he was carrying a bomb. He had nothing in his bag and according to brother Giovani Menezes, "The film showed that Jean did not have suspicious behavior". Opps. CCTV can prove innocence as well as guilt, but never to a legal system which regards its citizens as the enemy.

Bobbing For Apples

My son Fenway loves to throw cellphones into the toilet. I don't understand this fixation and I keep my phone out of his reach. His mother isn't so lucky, since Mam needs the phone by her side. Last summer Fenway dropped an iPhone in the toilet. I admonished him and he sulked the rest of the day, as if I didn't understand the method to his four year-old madness. "Tor-la-sap sia." I told him in Thai. It's his native tonuge. "Torlasap mai dai wai-nam." "You're right. The phone can't swim." My father would have tanned my butt, but I can't be mad at my children and that's part of my madness. I went down to Tuk-Com where the service people at Apple comfirmed my fears. "Phone sia. 100%." Thanks, Fenway. I put the phone in my bag and brought it back to New York. The Apple reps told me the same thing as their compatriots in Sri Racha. This week Apple announced that they will pay out $53 million to settle with disgruntled iPhone and iPod owners turned down for replacements of 'water damaged' devices. Upon hearing this news I called Apple. "Sir, this settlement has to do with faulty 'liquid contact indicators'." According to the Mail hundreds of thousands of customers who brought their malfunctioning devices to Apple, only to be told they were no longer covered by warranties because a little sticker inside had turned a shade of pink or red. No matter the problem, the company refused to replace any device with a pink or red sticker and must now pay what amounts to about $200 per claimant in the suit. "Oh." Fenway's predilection to give phones a bath wasn't covered by the legal judgment. But it was worth a try.

A Night Without Northen Lights

From my roof I sought the northern lights The moon shone silver in the clear night keeping the aurora borealis out of sight banning the promised show from a city too bright. clouds soon blanketed the heavens with a soft white disappointed I descended from the the roof's heights to my room and drink beer to soften the plight of man's futile search for the northern lights and I don't have to rythme anything with beer, because the dance of the sky is always there after the sixth beer.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

BOOMBOX @ The House of Art / Bed Stuy

I liked two galleries in New York and one of them is the House of Art on 409 Marcus Garvey Boulevard in Bed Stuy. The curator Richard Beavers learned his licks from his mother, who bought him to museums and art shows, and this instilled love shows in the artists flocking to his gallery. BOOMBOX honors the masterblaster, jambox, boomblaster, Brixton briefcase or radio-cassette, whihc revolutionalize the music for the inner city. According to Wikipedia the first Boombox was developed by the inventor of the C-Cassette, Philips of the Netherlands and their first 'Radiorecorder' was released in 1969. Bigger models came quick. Bigger meant louder. Models like the JVC RC-M90 and the Sharp GF-777 ruled the street and they ate D batteries wholesale. The Walkman killed the Boombox, but today on the Fulton Street Mall a young boy was singing to his Technic monster. It was love.

Aurora Borealis - Jack London

“With the Aurora Borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself--one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad.” Jack London

We Are Not Alone

Last week the National UFO ALERT Rating System has been updated April 4, 2013, with California, Florida, New York and Texas moving to a UFO Alert 3 as the highest reporting states during the month of March 2013, filed with the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) according to Huffington Post. California had 59 sightings in March. New York had 30. I've never seen a UFO and I have looked for space ships since my youth. Sometimes I would lay on the back lawn. The grass wasn't as thick as the front yard, however our house shielded me from curious eyes and I watched the skies for any signs of extraterrestrial traffic. I was praying an alien might take me to Space. It had to be more interesting than my suburban hometown south of Boston. One night my father came out of the house. "What are you doing?" "Looking at the sky." "There are a lot of stars up there. No one knows how many?" "No one?" I thought Klattu and his robot Gort from THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL might have a good idea. "No one." My father believed in infinite space. "Not even God." I was only saying that to camouflage my puerile atheism "Maybe Him." My father reached down and lifted me to my feet. "Go to bed. If the Martians come, we'll hear their death rays." "Okay." I walked inside the house up to my bedroom. My brother was asleep. I laid in bed and joined him, dreaming of the stars. One day they would be mine.

Tonight's Light Show

In the Spring of 1963 my father called us out of our split-level ranch house in the Blue Hills south of Boston. He excitedly pointed to the sky. My brothers, sisters, mother, and I scanned the night for UFOs and I was the first to spot the reason for us standing on the lawn in our pajamas. Candy colored light curved to the North. The majesty of its beauty silenced us. Other families stood outside in awe of this phenomena and my father said with a humbled voice, "That's the northern lights." "The Aurora Borealis." My mother hadn't been to college, but the nuns had instructed her in the glory of the heavens. "Plasma hit the magnetic poles at the speed of light." "Is that fast?" We hadn't gotten to the speed of light at Our Lady of the Foothills. "Almost four million miles an hour." My father was an electrical engineer. He had a good head for calculations. "Faster than a speeding bullet," my older brother said with his eyes wide open. "A lot faster than that." I imagined that I could hear the forces of the cosmos sizzling in the sky. Being near-sighted I had better-than-average hearing. The solar flares disappeared from the night and we returned to our beds. I could hear my mother and father in the next room. They were very much in love. 1963 was fifty years ago and I've only seen the Northern Lights once since then. Tonight might be the third time I've witnessed the celestial phenomena, for the astronomers are predicting a high atmosphere light show for tonight. TAccuweather's Hunter Outten has been updating this latest aurora borealis watch on the company's Facebook page. At 3:35 p.m., he wrote: "Still have not seen any key signs yet of the CME close to hitting the planet. Looks like the time is shaping up right on schedule for anywhere from 5-9PM EDT." The Sun is 93 million miles from the Earth. The CME or Coronal Mass Ejection can cover that distance in twenty-three hours. The clock is ticking. I will be ready with my beer goggles.

Friday, April 12, 2013

THE FLIGHT OF A FAT MAN by Peter Nolan Smith

Man has aspired to flight from time immemorial.

In the winter of 1971 my New Yorker friend Eddie fantasized about soaring in a glider. He had one big problem. Eddie weighed 450 pounds.

THE FLIGHT OF A FAT MAN recounts Eddie's achieving his dream thanks to a teenage girl from the South Shore. Sookie had the opposite eating disorder. She ate nothing and she helped Eddie do the same.

Here's a sample of this tale.

THE FLIGHT OF A FAT MAN By Peter Nolan Smith

CHAPTER 1

Fat people were a rarity in 1970. Jonathan Winters was the only one on TV, none resided in my suburban neighborhood south of Boston, and only a few attended my university. I had one fat friend. His name was Wayne.

We worked together at a chain discount store next to the Quincy Shipyard. Our duties consisted of restocking the cosmetic aisles with mouthwash, shampoo, deodorants, and toothpastes along a multitude of menial tasks. This job required little physical exertion and even less mental strain, which suited the chubby 22 year-old Bronx native just fine.

My parents had higher expectations for their second son and one December afternoon, as we collected shopping carts from the snowy parking lot, I asked Wayne, “Aren’t you looking to get more from life than working at this dead-end job?”

“Don’t knock it. My salary covers my needs. No one gives me shit, plus if God expected me to make something of my life, then he would have given me a rock star’s body instead sticking me with one better suited for a sumo wrestler.” Wayne weighed over 240 pounds. He was the only employee without a store uniform. None of the light blue shirts were sized for a XXX body.

“Too bad you weren’t born in Japan.” Sumo wrestlers were honored in that country like football players were in the USA.

“Then I’d have to eat raw fish.” Wayne shivered with revulsion and steered the line of shopping carts across the uneven asphalt. Perspiration stained his shirt. It didn’t take much for him to sweat.

“I ate whale once.” A fish shop in Haymarket Square offered it for sandwiches.

“That’s almost cannibalism. Whales are mammals.” He cleaned his smudged glasses with a paper towel. “You wouldn’t eat Flipper, would you?”

“No, and I only had whale once.” The meat tasted better than beef.

“Glad to hear it.” Wayne guided the carts into the store. “You coming over after work?”

“I really should get home.” I had to study for my German 101 exam.

My parent’s house was nine miles away. No buses ran to my hometown from the store. Hitchhiking home could take two hours.

“I’ll get my old man to give you a ride.” Wayne’s stepfather worked the late-shift at Shipyard. “I have the new Love LP.”

“Okay, but just for a little while.” I loved Arthur Lee and figured that translating Kafka’s DAS URTEIL could wait till midnight.

The store closed at 9 and we tramped up the hill to his street. Thousands of stars swam in winter sky. Wayne huffed every step of the way. It was a good thing he didn’t smoke cigarettes.

Wayne lived in a double-decker house with his parents. His mother was hillbilly thin and his stepfather was a sliver of muscle and bones. He welded steel plates on Navy ships.

Wayne gave the old man a bottle of Boone’s Farm and his mother $30 every payday. The rest of his income was spent on his extensive record collection.

“How was work?” His mother was happy to see us.

“Work sucked.” Wayne spoke his mind with her.

“Better than sitting on a park bench.”

His mother reheated meat loaf and mashed potatoes. They tasted good after the cold. Wayne had two helpings.

After dinner we went upstairs to his bedroom. It accommodated a bed, table, two chairs, a sofa, black-and-white TV, and a stereo. The windows overlooked the Fore River. His Pioneer stereo system was light-years ahead of my parents’ Zenith Hi-Fi. Nearly 2000 LPs were alphabetically stacked against one wall according to genres.

Wayne picked up a double LP from his coffee table and pushed back his greasy long hair. I had never seen him use a comb.

“You know I could steal records out of the store real easy.” My friend, Mitch, headed the record department.

“I don’t want any trouble and I got money for records.” Wayne unwrapped the plastic from Love’s OUT HERE and placed the LP on the turntable. The first song was SIGNED DC. I had heard it once on WBCN.

“I’ll do it then.” I owed him a good Christmas present.

“Don’t be stupid.” Wayne joined me on the sofa and lit up a joint.

“I won’t be stupid.” I should have realized that ’stupid’ was every 18 year-old boy’s middle name.

The next morning I took my final exam of the semester. I needed the full two hours to fill out everything I knew about Kafka in the booklet. I could speak German, but my spelling in that language was as bad as it was in English and I was counting on my teacher’s warm heart to avoid a failing mark.

Professor Klein knew my high school teacher, Bruder Karl. They both hailed from Bavaria. I handed in my test and wished Fraulein Klein ‘Wieher Christmas’.

The next day of school wasn’t until January 10.

A few days later my test results arrived in the mail. I had passed all my courses and Professor Klein had given me a C- in German. I was safe from the draft board for another six months.

There was still two weeks till Christmas and the store needed extra help for the holiday, so I worked double shifts Monday to Saturday. Wayne was also pulling overtime.

Three days before Christmas we punched out at closing. He buttoned up a thick overcoat with a fake fur collar and pulled a cheap Chinese Army cap with flaps onto his head. I wore a ski parka, jeans, and Fyre boots. As we passed the records department, I grabbed two LPs; Wes Montgomery’s A DAY IN THE LIFE and the Mother’s of Inventions’ FREAK OUT.

“You said you weren’t doing anything stupid.” Wayne waddled toward the exit. He moved fast for his size.

“No one will stop us.”

I waved to the two girls at the cash registers. They were counting out the night’s take. Marie was sweet on Wayne. Sookie was skinnier than the super-model Twiggy and I liked the way she looked, but twenty year-old girls weren’t so interested in teenage boys.

“You’re on your own.” Wayne opened the glass door. The air was cold and he cursed under his breath. “Shit.”

The twenty year-old assistant-manager was trailing us into the parking lot. His title added 30 cents to the minimum wage of $1.45/hour. This extra wealth gave him the delusion that he was a big deal with the checkout girls. They called him ‘Mr. Pizza-face’ behind his back.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Wayne was holding an ounce of pot. Possession was a felony in the State of Massachusetts and I flicked the LPs under a black 1965 Thunderbird.

“Stop right there.” The assistant manager shouted behind us.

“What for?” Wayne’s words turned to frozen mist.

“I saw you steal those records.” The assistant-manager eyed our hands.

“What fucking records?” Wayne was tough for a fat boy. His older brother ran with a biker gang in Pomona.

“You can’t talk to me like that?” The assistant-manager stepped within Wayne’s reach.

“I can talk anyway I want once I punched out.”

“Tell me where those records are or you’re both fired.” The assistant-manager’s voice peaked an octave.

“Then fire me.” Wayne bumped into the skinny twenty year-old’s chest.

“That’s assault.” The assistant-manager spun toward the store. His loafers lost traction and he slipped on the snow, hitting the ground face-first.

Both of us laughed, as the assistant-manager scrambled to his feet like a duck running on ice. Blood streamed from his nose.

“I’ll show you funny. I’m calling the cops.” He stomped off to the store.

“It was funny.” Wayne pointed to the T-bird. “Get those records.”

“Are we giving them back?” This was my first act of larceny.

“Fuck no.” He walked off to his house. “We’re getting rid of the evidence. You take the back way to my place.”

I crawled under the car. A little snow was on top of the records. I brushed them off and then ran from the parking lot in a crouch.

Wayne was waiting on his porch. He checked the street for the cops and then ushered me inside. His mother had food on the table; a tuna-and-cheese casserole. We ate without talking about work.

After dinner his stepfather watched HARPER’S VALLEY PTA on the TV. A cigarette died between his fingers and Wayne plucked the smoldering butt out of the old man’s fingers. His mother waved for us to leave them alone and we climbed the stairs to his room.

“Merry Christmas.” I handed him the two records.

“And Happy New Year to you.”

Wayne laid FREAK OUT on the turntable and loaded the bong with Panama Red. We listened to HELP I’M A ROCK in a reefer haze and harmonized to the chorus.

Two hours later the checkout girls entered the bedroom. Marie threw off her long sheepskin coat and sat on Wayne’s lap. I hadn’t realized that they were seeing each other. Her friend, Sookie, stood in the corner like she had passed a curfew.

“You guys are lucky.” Marie’s breasts were nearly popping out of her store uniform. Some boys might have called her chubby. To Wayne she was the new Jayne Mansfield. He liked his girls big.

“Lucky how? We got fired.” No one in my family had been fired in two generations.

“The assistant manager wanted to call the cops.” The blonde cashier had graduated from Weymouth High School last summer. She planned on attending beautician school in the Spring. Her make-up was impeccable. “He said you beat him up. I told the management that he had slipped on the snow. The manager ordered him back to work.”

To read more on Kindle please go to the following URL and order THE FLIGHT OF A FAT MAN by Peter Nolan Smith http://www.amazon.com/THE-FLIGHT-FAT-MAN-ebook/dp/B00CAXAY1U/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1365771982&sr=1-1&keywords=the+flight+of+the+fat+man

The Perfect Martini by Luis Bunuel

To provoke, or sustain, a reverie in a bar, you have to drink English gin, especially in the form of the dry martini. To be frank, given the primordial role in my life played by the dry martini, I think I really ought to give it at least a page. Like all cocktails, the martini, composed essentially of gin and a few drops of Noilly Prat, seems to have been an American invention. Connoisseurs who like their martinis very dry suggest simply allowing a ray of sunlight to shine through a bottle of Noilly Prat before it hits the bottle of gin. At a certain period in America it was said that the making of a dry martini should resemble the Immaculate Conception, for, as Saint Thomas Aquinas once noted, the generative power of the Holy Ghost pierced the Virgin's hymen "like a ray of sunlight through a window-leaving it unbroken." Another crucial recommendation is that the ice be so cold and hard that it won't melt, since nothing's worse than a watery martini. For those who are still with me, let me give you my personal recipe, the fruit of long experimentation and guaranteed to produce perfect results. The day before your guests arrive, put all the ingredients-glasses, gin, and shaker-in the refrigerator. Use a thermometer to make sure the ice is about twenty degrees below zero (centigrade). Don't take anything out until your friends arrive; then pour a few drops of Noilly Prat and half a demitasse spoon of Angostura bitters over the ice. Stir it, then pour it out, keeping only the ice, which retains a faint taste of both. Then pour straight gin over the ice, stir it again, and serve. From LAST SIGH by Luis Bunuel

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Warm Weather

Warm weather bluffed the coming of Spring Cold winter rejected the season’s brief fling. Azaleas shivered under black lightning. Yellow jonquils fought off their floral fading. Today the gray clouds carried a day of foreboding. Tomorrow I pray for one thing, the sunshine. Same as everyone. I want warm. A POEM BY PETER NOLAN SMITH

Dominoes With A Chicken

“How, unless you drink as I do, could you hope to understand the beauty of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken?” ― Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

Golden Smile

Fabo got fucked up in his motorsai accident. He's lucky to be alive. A dentist replaced his lost smile. His teeth are all gold. In the afternoon he faces the west and his smile lights the soi of the Welcom Inn, where the the girls call him 'yim thong' or Gold Smile. They know their business. I wish I was there to know what they know. it makes an old man feel young.

Un Fils De Charleroi

My nephew Fabo is back in Pattaya. On his last trip I wobbled off the motorsai taxi. He lost a lot of teeth. Fabo is from Cherleroi. People dont' beed much teeth in that city. Beer doesn't acquire chewing. I wish I was there with him. I like drinking beer too, but not Heinekin.