Israeli Brilliance

Almost every nation is in competition for the most egotistical country on Earth.

I exempt Puntland, although I'm certain the Harti Darod and Mehri wanderers have conflicting views concerning their heritage, especially since Harti means strong man in Somali Arabic. Confidently I'm also certain that Mehri says 'strong smell men'.

Egotism isn't a bad thing, but some countries cross the frontier of decency.

They say it's for security reasons same as South Africa defended its apartheid state.

"Der kaffir ist nicht gut."

Nations can substitute any name for 'kaffir'.

Gypsies, Jews, and fags.

Micks, farang kee-nok, dan mistahs.

America brilliantly divided its populace into perfect segment of 'divide and conquer'.

Everyone has its place, although the Native Americans were fair game from the Arctic Sea to Tierra Del Fuego.

Comanche Chief Tosawi reputedly told Sheridan in 1869, "Me, Tosawi; me good Injun," to which Sheridan supposedly replied, "The only good Indians I ever saw were dead."

The other night at an 8th Street bar three bankers were discussing the best Civil War general and they agreed that Sheridan was the best. Something about that statement bothered me and it wasn't until I remembered his statement, "The only good Indian is a dead Indian." that I recalled my objection.

Ethnic Cleansing.

Micmac, Delaware, Nez Pierces, Cheyenne, Apache, and Abenaki.

The Irish and Scots and Welsh scoured from Great Britain.

Everyone feels the same way about their lessers and several weeks ago I received an email touting Israeli Brilliance.

TEL AVIV, Israel - The Israelis are developing an airport security device eliminating privacy concerns about full-body scanners.

It's an armored booth into which you step to be not X-ray you, but detonate any explosive device you may have on your person,

Israel sees this as a win-win situation for everyone, with none of this crap about racial profiling. It will also eliminate the costs of long and expensive trials.

You're in the airport terminal and you hear a muffled explosion. Shortly thereafter, an announcement:

"Attention to all standby passengers, El Al is proud to announce a seat available on flight 670 to London. Shalom!"

BRILLIANT.

Same as the Nazis in Dachau.

Traveling throughout the Far East innkeepers are wont to say, "If you want to avoid terrorism, avoid Israelis."

You are what you are.

Free Palestine. Free Ireland. Free the World.

Elegant Hands

This blonde on the Vespa in front of the Dakota says it all about the 1970s New York. A blue dress in front of a blue car. The blonde elegantly studying her nails and not a mobile phone. Big feet and you know what they say about girls with big feet? Big hands.

Me For Senator

If the GOP shuts down the government, then I propose America has no government at all or else we have an election, since both parties will have abnegated their mandates in congress and the White House. I will run for the position of NY Senator, but only if we move Congress to Frank's Lounge in Fort Greene. My seat is the last one closest to the door and I will listen to all. Now more than ever an Irishman in the Senate. To quote Mickey Rourke in BARFLY, "Drinks for all my friends."

GOP Shutdown

The GOP's hard-right members have refused to relent on their demand that Obamacare be delayed for one year or else they will not approve a budget to finance the government. House Speaker John A. Boehner has attempted to reason with the Tea Party representative, whose leaders are adamant on their stance against any form of public health care, which they consider a step toward socialism. As reported in the New York Times President Obama said Saturday: “Republicans in the House have been more concerned with appeasing an extreme faction of their party than working to pass a budget that creates new jobs or strengthens the middle class. And in the next couple days, these Republicans will have to decide whether to join the Senate and keep the government open, or create a crisis that will hurt people for the sole purpose of advancing their ideological agenda. The American people have worked too hard to recover from crisis to see extremists in their Congress cause another one.” Representative Cathy McMorris Rodgers retorted, “The president is now demanding that we increase the debt limit without engaging in any kind of bipartisan discussions about addressing our spending problem,” she said. “He wants to take the easy way out — exactly the kind of foolishness that got us here in the first place.” The government has been shut down seventeen times and here are those occasions; Shutdown #1: Sept. 30 to Oct. 11, 1976 when Gerald Ford vetoed a funding bill for the Departments of Labor and Health, Education, and Welfare in order to stop spending. Shutdown #2: Sept. 30 to Oct. 13, 1977 was against abortion, although more about funding for Labor and HEW. Shutdown #3: Oct. 31 to Nov. 9, 1977 was another dogfight about abortion. Shutdown #4: Nov. 30 to Dec. 9, 1977 was the GOP refusing to fund Medicaid payment for abortion of rape victims. Obviously there's a trend here. Shutdown #5: Sept. 30 to Oct.18, 1978 Carter regarded funding for a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier as wasteful along with more pork to Congress. Shutdown #6: Sept. 30 to Oct. 12, 1979 Carter fought against a pay raise for Congress, while the GOP wanted to cut funding to abortion. How long did it last? 11 days Shutdown #7: Nov. 20-23, 1981 reagan refused to approve any budget that didn't include his wish for $8.4 Billion. Shutdown #8: Sept. 30 to Oct. 2, 1982 Congress forgot to fund the government. Opps. Shutdown #9: Dec.17-21, 1982 Jobs were cut to finance nuclear missiles. Shutdown #10: Nov. 10-14, 1983 Reagan wanted money for Israel. The Democrats wanted money for schooling. Guess who won? Shutdown #11: Sept. 30 to Oct. 3, 1984 Crime versus college funding. Police won and black students lose under Reagan and every other president. Shutdown #12: Oct. 3-5, 1984 Reagan wanted it his way or no way, especially if the case of money for the anti-Sandinista forces fighting an illegal war in Nicaragua Shutdown #13: Oct. 16-18, 1986 Ronald Reagan and Tip O'Neill of the Democrats faced off over Big Oil versus education. Once more Big Oil won. Shutdown #14: Dec. 18-20, 1987 More money for the Contras who shipped cocaine to America which was then processed into crack. Thank you very much, Mr. Reagan. Shutdown #15: Oct. 5-9, 1990 Daddy Bush wanted to cut the deficit. No one thought about shutdown of the Pentagon. Shutdown #16: Nov. 13-19, 1995 Clinton versus Ginrich. The GOP wanted to cut health benefits to the people in order to give tax cuts to the rich ie the trickle-down effect. Shutdown #17: Clinton v. Gingrich Part II Dec. 5, 1995 to Jan. 6, 1996 The GOP wanted to cut more money from social services. Same as now. Fuck the GOP. They suck. But not the Beach Boys' song SHUTDOWN. To hear the live version please go to this URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxXWjR6q5u4

The Importance Of Size

Judging from the number of spam emails that I have received over the years about adding length and girth to a penis, I would have to assume that the typical porno-surfing male's sense of inadequacy is much greater than their anxiety of hair loss, obsession with obesity, and fear of impotency. Most online XXX films feature male performers possessing truly biblical Staffs of Moses. These seemingly impossible proportions are the goal of many men purchasing pills, pumps, and medical herbals from internet sites to enhance their girth and length.

I'm happy with the size of my penis, but just once I would like to hear a woman say, "Not with that you don't."

Many women say that size doesn't matter.

Last year I was at the Welkom Inn on Soi 3 in Pattaya. The girls there see a lot of action.

When asked if they liked big the most popular girl said, "I like small and fast too. Not hurt. And not take too much time."

Another libertine admitted, "Sometime when really horny. I like big. Good. But can't work later. Small better."

This doesn't prevent them from massaging the male ego.

The fellatio expert says, "Man always love to hear he have big penis. If not big, he believe big you tell him big. Stupid kwai."

My cousin Sherri did over 2000 XXX films, professed, "Size isn't important. Well, if it's a cashew then it's a problem, but otherwise most girls in the industry like a normal penis. Nothing too awe inspiring. And quick too. Guys with bog ones, not many of them know how to use it, plus when a guy with a giant cock gets an erection most of the blood leaves his skull so he grunts like a caveman. Gimme a nice Irish or Jewish guy any day. Cut too."

Of course there's the old joke about the size of President Clinton's penis.

"How do we know that Clinton has a big penis?"

"It had to be big to get beyond Paula Jones' nose."

The presidential mistress had a huge honker, but Clinton was no John Holmes.

So there you have it.

Here is a list of the average male Erect Penis Lengths for 10 species;

1. Humpback whale 10 ft.

2. Elephant 5-6 ft.

3. Bull 3 ft.

4. Stallion 2 ft 6 in.

5. Rhinoceros 2 ft.

6. Pig 18-20 in.

7. Man 6 in.

8. Gorilla 2 in.

9. Cat 3/4 in.

10. Mosquito 1/100 in.

Just remember, an ejaculation is never premature as long as you get it in.

OLD BILL NEXT TO ME by Peter Nolan Smith

New York's Plaza Hotel has been a world-famous destination for decades and its 2008 reinvention as a condo-palace and demi-hotel failed to tarnish the reputation of Grand Lady on 5th Avenue.

While the newly opened Retail Plaza in the basement had been an abject failure, the Oak Bar continued to attract power brokers, celebrities, and faces from the front covers of the newspapers and magazines.

When Susan Lucci, the soap opera queen, entered our subterranean jewelry store, my young 'work wife' asked the diminutive TV actress, "Does anyone tell you that you look like Susan Lucci?"

"All the time." Her mouth expressed a sweet smirk at my blonde work-wife's innocence.

"Are you Susan Lucci?" Vanessa gasped like she had been tossed out of the Space Shuttle into zero atmosphere.

"Most of the time." Susan Lucci exuded the internal beauty beneath her botoxed skin.

"Congratulations." My work-wife stammered out her best wishes to Lucci being Lucci. Her face was a nice color red.

"Thank you." Susan wheeled a turn on her spike heels without which she would have been less than five feet tall.

We later realted this encounter with the star of ALL MY CHILDREN to the other salespeople trapped in the doomed Plaza Collection.

They laughed at my work-wife's offering 'congratulations'.

"I didn't know what else to say." Vanessa had worshipped Susan Lucci from her couch for years.

Several days later David Beckham and his wife Posh visited the hotel. The paparazzi rioted outside the entrance. Fans screamed out his name. The madhouse lasted for hours.

Celebrity has its perks, but power demanded different accommodations from the public and one February evening the Secret Service locked down the hotel for the arrival of Bill Clinton, the former president of the USA, who had a table reserved in the Oak Room.

Agents in black suits roamed the hotel. They surveilled guests and workers with suspicion. Bill had been a popular president, but men in high places retain their enemies after retirement.

The secret service agents ignored me, judging a fifty-five year old diamond salesman to be harmless. They were right. I was no assassin.

I thought about going up to the Oak Room to gawk at Clinton, but customers kept me and at the closing hour I went to washroom at the rear of the Retail Collection. The owner of Leather Spa said that the ex-president stopped for a shoeshine.

"He tipped Segundo $10."

"He wore handmade loafer from England." Segundo knew his shoes.

"A good tipper." A shine cost $4 at their stand. "Is he still in the Oak Room?"

"Far as I know."

"Maybe I'll stop up there for a drink after work."

I headed into the men's room.

There wasn't an attendant on duty, but the facilities were clean.

I stood at a stall and unzipped my fly.

Two seconds later a taller man joined me. His shoulder almost touched mine.

Male toilet manners require strangers neither touch nor talk to another man before the porcelain god, so I dropped my eyes to the floor, only to notice that my neighbor's shoes were highly buffed loafers with tassels.

I lifted my gaze.

The ex-president was peeing next to me. I checked the toilet area. There were no Secret Service agents in sight. Some things a man has to do on his own.

The former president smiled at me and I involuntarily peeked into his urinal.

Bill frowned and lowered his broad shoulder to block my view. He shook his member and then strode out of the men's room after washing his hands.

Exiting from the men's room I expected to be accosted by his security detail. The only people in the hallway were Segundo and his boss. They pointed upstairs to indicate the direction of Bill's departure. I nodded and returned to my shop.

Vanessa was ready to go.

"What took you so long?"

"I ran into Bill Clinton in the bathroom."

"Hillary's husband?" Women looked at men different from men.

"I peed next to him."

"And did you look at him?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know look at his schwanze?" Vanessa was a nice girl from Moscow, but she wanted to know. "My husband says all types of men check out him in the bathroom. Did you look at his penis?"

She was my work-wife, not my real wife, so I told her what I would have told anyone.

"No." A gentleman never talk about woman's age and other things too.

"Oh." She was disappointed. "Were you scared about being gay?"

"With the president of the United States?"

"Ex-president." Women were experts at putting men in their place.

"I don't look at men's penises."

"Liar. All men look at porno. Don't tell me there aren't any penis there?"

"That's different."

"Right." Vanessa huffed and picked up her cell. She spoke in Russian. I heard the name Clinton, then pietska. It meant penis in her language. My co-worker smiled at me. She knew the truth.

I had looked at Bill's crank.

And checking another man's schlong isn't a gay thing.

It's just something you do.

Of course my gay friends think that all men are gay.

Given the right circumstances.

Bathroom, ex-president, New York?

Not a chance.

Then again Bill's not my type and I'm certainly not his, because he never bothered to look at mine.

Holy Windbag

Yesterday GOP senator Ted Cruz spoke for over twenty-one hours before Congress in hopes of getting his fellow law-givers to reject the much-maligned Obamacare. At one point the Texan read from a popular children's story to fill the time during his marathon anti-Obamacare speech according to the BBC. Other Republicans were not amused by the young Tea Partyer grandstanding against a passed law, but Cruz doesn't care if John McCain calls him a wacko bid and his twenty-one hours at the mike was three hours short of Senator Strom Thurmond's oration against the Civil Rights Act of 1965. I can't speak for more than two minutes without gasping for breath of thought. What a windbag and I mean that in a good sense.

Big Big Big

Scary as heck. There be dragons. And man will ride them. Surfer Garrett McNamara catches what could be the largest wave ever surfed, off the coast of Nazare, Portugal, on Jan. 29. The estimated 100-foot wave, if confirmed, would beat the current world record of 78 feet, which McNamara has held since 2011. According to SurferToday.com: Foto by Tó Mané

YOU BET I COULD Uschi Obermaier

The other day Duncan Hannah posted a black and white photo of Uschi Obermaier. I was struck by her free beauty and the fact that I had never heard of the 1960s icon. In an article from the Independent Uschi railed against working-class Munich and said, "I used to wish for a plane crash, just for a bit of action. Where I lived, I felt nothing happens and nothing ever will happen." Like many youths of that time I knew this feeling of spiritual displacement. Uschi escaped a dour existence to become Germany's #1 groupie. Of Hendrix she recounted their affair at the Kempenski hotel, "He was the most beautiful of all my men. Making love with Jimi was one of the most profound experiences for me." Excuse me while I touch the sky. Later a radical she left Europe with a pimp. They were a cool couple. Now more than ever. ps

GOING WEST by Peter Nolan Smith

Several years ago week my young nephew left Boston to drive to California. A good friend was accompanying Franka on his cross-country trip. Knowing the highways of America from coast to coast,I called to offer advice on a route.

"We're first driving to Pittsburgh to see my grandmother." Zsa Zsa was in a nursing home there. Seeing his face would make her happy.

"Are you passing through St. Louis?" I wanted to tell him about the Cahokia Indian Mounds.

"No, we're stopping to see Tina Nguyen's cousins in Iowa City."

"There's a great dive bar there. The Deadwood." I had drunk there with Rockford and Brock Dundee in May of 2009. "Plus down the river there's a statue honoring the future birth of James T Kirk, captain of the Enterprise."

"I'm not really a trekkie."

"Okay, but the next day you're hitting the Rockies. There's a great motor lodge in Thompson Canyon and there's nothing like driving over the mountains from there."

"We already have a motel booked and We're trying to hit LA in five days." This was his friend's summer vacation.

"So no Grand Canyon, Zion Canyon, or stopping for steaks in Fort Kearney." Grandpa's Steakhouse was almost worth a trip to Nebraska.

"No, but I'll see them another time."

"Okay." I was let down by his lack of adventure and then recalled hitchhiking from Boston to San Francisco in two days in 1972. My friend Peter Gorr and I hadn't stopped to see anything other than the scenery off the highway. "Have a good trip."

"I will, Uncle Bubba."

And I followed his voyage on Facebook.

Day 1: Milton, MA to Painesville, OH...also complete! Oops. Daily updates from now on.

Day 2: Painesville, OH to Iowa City, IA...complete!

Day 3: Iowa City, IA to Westminster, CO...complete! Number of states traversed on this journey: 10. Number of bugs consumed by the windshield: innumerable.

Day 4: Westminster, CO to Las Vegas, NV...complete! Now, for a nice, peaceful slumber--NOT.

Day 5: Las Vegas, NV to Los Angeles, CA...complete! Showtime. (Or HBO!)

I would have loved this trip.

It's been almost twenty years since I last cross the country in Meg Grosswendt's Studebaker.

We stopped everywhere, because the real pleasure is in the going.

Tough Skateboard Girls

foto from gwen o'neill i love tough girls.

CHINESE ROCKS - Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers

Nothing says 1970s Lower East Side better than Johnny Thunders performing the classic CHINESE ROCKS.

"I'M LIVING ON CHINESE ROCKS. ALL MY BEST THINGS ARE IN HOCK."

He was a legend on the Lower East Side.

"I take smack because I enjoy it. I enjoy all it makes me feel. I don't do it to be in with the in crowd. I can rock out with it."

He was no quitter.

But some of us loved Johnny, because he was the strongest of the weakest.

For a listen to the Heartbreakers' version of Dee Dee Ramone's classic junkie tune, please click on this following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3gPaSsCAiI

Hopper's Lower East Side

So little left of the Lower East Side. Hopper's View from the Williamsburg Bridge.

The William Burroughs Museum

Yesterday lame-duck mayor proposed plans for the long barren tract south of Delancey Street. Bloomberg envisioned over 1000 multi-class housing units, office space, a refurnished Essex Market, a cineplex, and New York City's very own Andy Warhol Museum.

The tenements along the broad thoroughfare to the Williamsburg Bridge had been demolished by city planners in the 60s, however the city's near-bankruptcy prevented development for decades. The Lower East Side was a DMZ throughout the 70s and 80s. The gentrification of the East Village in the 90s forced artists below Houston into the old Puerto Rican and Dominican barrios. Shooting galleries were replaced by art galleries and derelict blocks were renovated for pricey hotels and trendy bars. Bloomberg and his cohorts are eager to turn this city-owned area into another bright spot of ethnic cleansing in Manhattan with the promise of jobs, jobs, jobs.

It is all a lie, then again rich people are good at promises.

Bill DeBlasio the current front-runner in the mayoral race has criticized the ethnic cleansing of the poor and middle-class from Manhattan.

The rich don't need to live on the Lower East Side.

They have the Upper East Side.

All of the Essex Crossing housing for the 99% will be a battleground and the best way to preserve the Lower East Side would be the opening of the William Burroughs Museum.

The beat writer popularized heroin for hundreds of thousands of suburban youth and during the 60s and 70s, the blocks of Lausida were hot with drug trafficking controlled by Little Italy.

Junkies.

Their presence protected us from the rich.

Their absence opens the door to 'them' and truthfully they ain't fun unless they are spending. CLASS WARFARE.

Victoria Selbach Show

SEE YOU THERE

TIN TIN DEO - RAY BARRETTO

I love this song from the 1969 FANIA LP TOGETHER. Baretto's band rocks. Bass – Andy Gonzalez Bongos – Tony Fuentes Congas – Ray Barretto Piano – Louis Cruz Timbales – Orestes Vilato Trumpet – Papy Roman, Roberto Rodriguez Vocals – Adalberto Santiago To hear TIN TIN DEO please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SY8GRTectS8

Ken Norton RIP

In 1973 an unheralded heavyweight from San Diego fought a 12-round match with Muhammad Ali. The former champion was a huge 5-1 favorite against Ken Norton, but from round 1 the ex-marine dominated his opponent, breaking Ali's jaw in the 12th round. The judges gave the upset decision to Norton. He was not so lucky in the two rematches or his WBC championship fight with Larry Holmes. For some reason the boxing gods didn't like him. I think of him as one of the great heavyweights in my lifetime. I wish him well in the Here-After. To view the Norton-Ali fight, please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbYtHaduVZ8

8 Years

My good friend Shannon and his lovely wife celebrated eight years together. We had a drink at a Myrtle Street bar. "I have to ask you. Sex must be boring, so why don't we have a menage a trois?" "I'm game," Charlotta replied without hesitation. "Tonight?" "Errr." I was in no condition for sex, especially with a good friend. "Maybe another night." "Loser." Shannon was absolutely correct and I watched them leave for a romantic dinner, while I held hands with a glass of beer. It tasted good.

Dido The Wonder Dog

Dido the wonder dog wandered the gardens of the Luxembourg Residence. She roamed the parapets and barked at the crows. They burst into flight at the sound of her claws scrabbling across the pebbled driveway. At night Dido slept in my rooms, when her mistress was away. I liked her fine and she loved my slipping meat under the table. The ambassador was not as happy, but Dido had a winning smile. Sadly she was promoted to dog heaven this last weekend. The ambassador, her family, and I have lost a good friend. Arf Arf Dido. ps I miss my dog Champoo

THE DAY AFTER fotos by Stephane Sednaoui

Early morning i went to the Jarvis Center to register as a volunteer. But quickly i realize it was best for me to go downtown my own way, avoiding all the check points. I finally reached ground zero at sunset. This is the first image I took.

I was first assigned to remove water on what used to be westside highway. Then later on when i felt a bit more confident i joigned the chain of rescuers in the rumbles and digged, filling up buckets with dust, mud and debries.

The firemen were restless. They would stop for a while until they had enough force to go back and search. Out of all the differents forces they were the most intensed,maybe i could say the most emotional, they were looking to save people, but also they were looking for their team mates.

After resting I left the west side to search and help on the south east side. But the place is unsure as we keep having alerts that the building next to us is moving and might fall. I leave the site around 4-5 am. My camera, probably because of water and dust, stopped to work for a while, the images turned out blurred. I was in the most remote place in ground zero, north side. We were a team of only 10-15 people. Not digging but searching through the metal beams for survivors...

I digged and search with different teams until around 2-4 am when I was completely exhausted and could not lift anything anymore.

Ground Zero, night of sept 12 to 13 th. Leaving the site. Looking east from broadway

When i look now at those blurred images i feel that it is those that express the best what i felt then. A complete state of shock. As if it was too much to see.

September 10, 2001

September 10, 2001 was a stormy day. My Thai dok-toi called for money. I had none. That night Michael Jackson performs his second 30th anniversary concert in New York. I went to sleep sober.

The Order Of St. Tranny

My friends accuse rt.com of anti-American bias. I don't blame them. They have reporters reporting reportages, instead of talking heads reading words from a teleprompter in front of a blue screen, however I had to admit that RT has a pro-Russian slant on Syria. Since the Cold War the Assad regime had been supplied with Russian munitions to counterbalance Israel's addiction to US arms and the Kremlin has dealt with 'internal' Muslim unrest with an unbridled ruthlessness. There will never be a Free Chechnya. Today RT released an interview from a Syrian Christian nun contesting the White House accusations of the Assad regime gas bombing civilians on the Damascus outskirts. Please read http://rt.com/op-edge/mother-chemical-attack-footage-fraud-509/ Mother Agnes Mariam el-Salib claimed that the attacks were fraud. Laissez-faire Western Media accepted 'her' claims as the truth. None of them commented on the size of her shemale hands, although once I posted the Order of St. Tranny's photos the very beautiful Emily R remarked 'she looks just like Soeur Marie-PIERRE haha the meanest one--had a moustache too-- I had back when i went to Mont-Olivet in Switzerland...Made me stand on top of a desk so she could measure the length of my uniform skirt that was too short (i had rolled it up at the waist)made me stand there for an hour!" I liked the image and asked, "Not with your arms out?" "No, she had those tied behind my back." As an atheist I stopped breathing in delight of her Corporal Catechism mirage. Bad Catholic schoolgirl. We loved them ad infintum.

Beautiful Weekend

The sun is shining on Fort Greene. The sidewalks are crowded with young people. The bars are serving drinks to football fans. There is not a cloud in the sky. New York is at peace. Syria is at war. cnn.news headlined 'Men sprawled on a tile floor, shirtless and convulsing. Children, too, seemingly unable to control their flailing. These are the images Obama has shown some senators in closed-door briefings.' Having been burned by GW Bush's WMD and two long brutal wars Americans are as desirous of isolation as a Trappist monk. Silence. The Huffington Post reported that 'a decent society would put people to work -- even if this required more government spending on roads, bridges, ports, pipelines, parks and schools....yet while attention is focused on Syria, food stamps for the nation's poor are being cut. House Republicans would eliminate food stamps for more than 800,000 Americans who now receive them but still do not get enough to eat or have only a barely adequate diet.' This is all true. The Atlantic published a badly-written article on Arab thinktanker William Polk's view on the civil war. The venerated politician cast doubt over blame for the gas attacks and asserted that the insurgents are corrupted by Al-Qaada, echoing the opinions of naysayers in the Land of the Free. No one wants another war. Not me and neither do most generals in the Pentagon, because the military's fragility matches that of the USSR after Afghanistan. Mutiny. Defeat. Dissolution. And then Putin, but no one can believe the truth, until they are ready to reject their belief in lies. And the truth is more obvious than a dog's balls. Someone bombed Syrians' with gas. My money is on Assad. Why? Once scum, always scum. FREE SYRIA, FREE PALESTINE, FREE THE WORLD

NOT A CHANCE by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1984 I flew home from Paris for Christmas in Boston.

After the holiday I headed south to New York.

The East Village to be exact.

New snow prettified Tompkins Square Park.

Tomorrow it would be cold dirty slush.

I had $200. Florida was 1200 miles away. Hitchhiking to Miami Beach took as long as the Le Mans Classic race and most of the trip would be cold.

My phone rang. It was Clark Hoseman, a New York fashion photographer.

I had assisted him at the Paris pret-a-porter in October. He shot the fashion models back stage. At night Clark bought the girls to the Bains-Douches, where I worked as a physionomiste or doorman. The French were experts at having at good time.

"What are you doing in New York?" asked Clark and I told him, "Waiting to sublet my apartment and then going back to Paris."

"You ever been to Jamaica?"

"Only in THE HARDER THEY COME." I had seen the reggae movie in 1973 at the Orson Welles Cinema on Mass. Avenue in Cambridge. Jimmy Cliff transported me to a world far south of Florida. A world of Jah, guns, and ganja with a few palm trees and white sand beaches.

"Do you know how to scuba-dive?"

"Sort of. Why?" I had snorkeled in Florida and the South of France.

"Because I'm shooting the cover of Life Magazine with a young movie actress in Jamaica." He mentioned the very American name.

"Never heard of her."

"She's going out with Jackson Browne."

The singer was on the cover of the Rolling Stone. He had protested against the nuclear plant in Seabrook. Ground zero was about 40 miles from my hometown of Boston. Jackson Browne was cool.

"Is she good-looking?" .

"She was in BLADE RUNNER."

"Ahhh, the Blonde clone." I loved her performance as an acrobatic killer in Ripley Scott's transformation of DO ANDROIDS DREAM ON ELECTRIC SLEEP? by Philip K. Dick. "She was very cool. "

"So how'd you like to come to Jamaica, because I need an assistant who can dive and handle a camera underwater."

"Then I'm your man." I was an ace at faking expertise.

Three days later we departed from JFK to Kingston, Jamaica, where Clark hired a small prop plane to fly Bernadette, the Life reporter, Irwin, the make-up artist, Deb, the hair stylist and two of us to the northern side of the island.

"Where's Darryl?" My eyes scanned the grassy runway for a blonde movie actress.

"She'll be here tonight." Clark was clearly disappointed by her no-show and said, "She's having troubles with Jackson, which might give me an opening."

"An opening."

"I want a shot at her. You help me and I'll double your bonus."

"Help you?"

"You're a poet. Make me look good."

"I'll do what I can." I was no pimp and a failed writer stood no chance with movie actress.

An actor friend had once explained the pecking order of Hollywood.

"At a party the producer has first shot at the actress. 15 minutes later it's the director's chance. A half-hour is slotted for the leading man, but a writer never gets any play. An actress would rather go with the parking valet than a writer."

A quick rain burst drove us into the terminal.

A driver appeared in a van. His name was Dave. He took us to the Trident Villas and pointed to a flowered villa. "That's where Errol Flynn lived. He was good for Port Antonio."

Errol had been a star in CAPTAIN BLOOD.

Jamaica had been a pirate island.

Port Antonio had history.

At the Trident Villas we headed to our rooms. Mine overlooked a cliff. The waves smashed on the rocks. Next door was staying a famous Broadway choreographer. We knew each other from the old days. Tim was leaving the following day and gave me a bag of pot weighing over a pound.

"I'm not taking it. It's yours and give whatever's left to the next person."

Tim and I hit a bowl.

That evening's dinner was a mist, but there was no movie star.

Only Clark and the crew from Life.

The next morning I woke wanting to sleep more. Someone had been talking in my dreams. It wasn't me and the room smelled of an old woman. I opened the doors to the Caribbean. The sea was blue and the sky was overcast with unthreateningly clouds. I felt no rain in the air.

It was time to get ready for the shoot.

Clark appeared on my balcony. We examined the four cameras and seven interchangeable lenses. All the batteries were charged to the max. The light meters were working well and our film had nicely chilled in the minibar.

"Ready?"

"All systems go."

"Is she here."

"She?" I was thinking of an old woman.

"Darryl." Clark shook his head. I was a bit of a fool in his eyes. "Let's get breakfast and hit the road. We have photos to take and remember what I said. She's mine."

Darryl appeared tired from her trip. No one introduced me and I sat with the driver. Our first location was on a wave-tossed beach. Erwin the make-up guy lightly powdered the actress' face. The hair stylist let the wind do his job. I checked the light. It was 5.7 f-stop. Clark hadn't been lying. She was a goddess.

Clark was nervous and shot hundreds of photos.

None of them were overkill, because Darryly possessed an unquenchable beauty.

That night we ate spiny Jamaica lobster.

They had no claws.

Clark said, "My assistant's from Boston. They have the best lobster in the world there. Tell her."

I replied with New England pride.

"This is wicked Lobstah."

It was not true.

The only wicked Lobstah came from Maine.

Back my my room I smoked a big joint.

Paul Newman was staying at the villa across the rocks.

The iconic movie star looked small in the dim tropical night and I wrote a poem about COOL HAND LUKE.

After I fell asleep, a woman whispered in my ear.

It was not Darryl and I fell asleep in a Ganga stupor.

The next morning I ran into Erwin, who said, "I didn't sleep last night. Fucking ghost." He looked tired.

"Ghost?" Coming from New England I was familiar with ghosts, even though I had never seen one.

"It came to my room and wouldn't leave me alone." Erwin was gay and I asked, "Did it try and get into bed with you."

"Thankfully no," Erwin sighed with relief, then added, "Say nothing to anyone else. They'll think I'm crazy."

His secret was safe with me.

The sky over Port Antonio cleared after breakfast.

Dave the driver had found a trampoline, which the hotel set up on the lawn.

Darryl had been a gifted high school acrobat and Clark shot two hundred shots of her bouncing in the air. I changed film like a machine gun ammo boy during a kamikaze attack. We broke for lunch at noon. Clark had me clean the cameras.

"I think I have a shot with her."

"Of course you do." I ordered a rum and coke from the bar.

It ended up being my lunch.

That afternoon Clark photographed Darryl on the rocks. Erwin struggled to freshen her make-up after every suit change. I checked the lighting and changed film with increasing skill. I was a fast learner.

During a break Darryl said, "I heard you're a poet."

"A bad one."

"Could I read something of yours?"

"Maybe later." I shrugged harmlessly, for Clark glared at me, as if I was poaching on his turf.

Darryl went back on the rocks.

Darryl and I didn’t speak the rest of the day.

Clark made sure of that.

“Your friend have his eye on that girl.” Dave the driver wasn’t blind. “But she have no eye for him.”

“Who she have an eye for?”

“Who know the mind of woman?” Dave shrugged with a laugh.

"Certainly not me."

"Then you are a wise man."

I laughed with him, because no man is wise when it comes to women.

After a long day we returned at the Trident Villas I smoked a big joint before joining everyone in the restaurant.

During dinner Clark told the table about his shooting the Rolling Stones, Lou Reed, and Iggy Pop.

"I love Iggy." Darryl hummed I WANNA BE YOUR DOG.

Clark winked at me and I left before dessert.

Three was a big crowd in this group.

Something woke me after midnight.

There was nothing in my room and the night was quiet.

I went out on the terrace with the joint.

Across the cove Clark's room was dark.

Someone whispered behind me.

"Darryl." It was wishful thinking.

I turned. There was no one there, then Dave the Driver appeared out of the deep night.

"Nice sky." The Milky Way split the heavens.

"Lots of stars.

More than any man can count."

"“Is that man your friend?” He meant Clark.

"Yeah, why?” Whatever Clark's faults were mine were worst.

“Because he don’t talk to you like friend.”

“Yeah, he my boss now. You want some.” I handed him the joint.

And like that we grooved on the cosmos.

The next morning the clouds broke into threads of gray and the blue heaven ruled the sky. I took breakfast in my room. Clark showed up ten minutes later and drank my coffee.

“So this is the big shot.” Clark was breaking out the underwater cameras. “Have you ever buddy-breathed, because you’re going to be sharing your air with Darryl underwater.”

“Sure.” I had seen Lloyd Bridges save a friend on the TV show SEA HUNT using the same method.

"It's like soul kissing without the tongue. Let's go to Blue Lagoon."

Every island in the Caribbean has a Blue Lagoon.

Brooke Shields had starred in a film of the same name.

Darryl had auditioned for the role.

"But I turned it down. I thought I was too old," Darryl declared getting out of the van.

I did some quick math. She was 24. BLUE LAGOON was shot in 1979. She was 19 then. Brooke Shield had been 14. Darryl had been right.

“You dive before, man?” Dave stood with the boatman. I shook my head. Dave’s friend give me a five-minute lesson.

"You got it, man." A Boston accent couldn't fake Rasta.

The boatman steered to a sheltered cove.

"Not to worry. Easy water dis." Ernest was on my team.

Irwin was back on shore. He had trouble with mal de mer.

“I couldn’t sleep last night. There was a ghost in my room.” Bernadette wasn’t joking.

“Ghost?” Clark stifled a laugh.

"Yes, she kept on speaking to me and wouldn't go away."

"Old lady?" asked Ernest and Bernadette nodded her head. The boatman said, "No ghosts on water. Sleep now. We dive."

Underwater was another world. Sea turtles floated past us. Fish wore vivid colors. Darryl posed as a mermaid. Clark frantically snapped shots. I passed my mouthpiece to Darryl. Her spit tasted better than mine.

After thirty minutes we returned to shore.

I packed the equipment while Clark walked down the beach with Darryl taking candid shots.

She wasn't getting close to him, but we had three days left on Jamaica and three days was almost half the time it took God to create the world.

We got back to the hotel at sunset.

During dinner everyone discussed the ghost.

Darryl asked about my poetry again.

Clark cut short my reply and said I had to clean the cameras.

I stood up from the table and said my goodnights, but I had already cleaned the cameras and went outside to our van.

"Where's there to go?" I asked Dave. "For fun?"

"The Roof Club." It was reputed to be trouble.

I got in the van.

I liked trouble.

I rub-a-dub with fat women and skinny girls to old school reggae. I sang along with JOHNNY TOO BAD. I drank with everyone in the bar; rum and Red Stripe beer.

I didn't remember getting home, but recalled passing an old woman by my bed.

She didn't say a word, but shook her head with disapproval.

The next morning was bright and Clark woke me with a shove.

"Where were you?"

"I wandered off the reservation to the Roof Club," I recounted the evening to the best of my ability.

"Lucky you. I'm getting nowhere with Darryl." He sat on my bed next to the camera bag. "I ended up alone."

"You're trying too hard. Chill your jets. Girls like cool."

"Maybe you're right."

I could only be right or wrong and we left my room for the day.

On an idyllic beach Clark caught Darryl in the money shot. She was wearing a red bathing suit. The light was 5.7 f-stop.

"That's the cover."

"I think so too." Darryl understood the power of her beauty on camera well.

On the way back to the resort we stopped to pet some goats.

"Dave told me you went to the Roof Club. Clark said it was dangerous."

"I was the only danger to me last night." I recalled dropping a split to JOHNNY TOO BAD.

"Maybe we can go tonight. You have some weed?"

"A little." I didn't want to say how much.

"I'm dying for a puff."

"Tonight then." Clark was signaling me to get away and I obeyed his command, but not before saying, "And maybe we can go to the Roof Club later."

"I'd love that."

She wandered off to where Clark was playing nice with a baby goat.

I stood with Dave.

"Nothing better than baby jerked goat." He smacked his lips.

Before we got into the car, Clark came over to me.

"What were you talking about to Darryl?"

"She wanted to go into town. She's bored with the hotel." I didn't mention the Roof Club or reefer.

"So we'll go after we get back to the resort. I think your strategy is working."

"I know women." In truth I knew nothing about them, but he didn't want to hear that.

Back at the resort I showered and dressed in a white shirt and jeans.

Dave was at the desk.

"Where's Darryl?"

"She left with your 'friend', but I know where. You want to go."

"You bet I do." I had two big spliffs in my pocket.

Dave drove into town like I was James Bond chasing Doctor No.

"That girl is an island beauty. She deserves the best."

"Me?"

Dave's laugh hurt in a good way.

I found Darryl outside of a record shop. Clark was inside flipping through LPs and 45s. Nothing that was in New York. He loved his music.

We're going to the Roof Club." I waved to Clark and we wandered to the docks.

Darryl spoke about her life.

"It's not easy being this beautiful. Everyone wants me." She dragged heavy on the joint and her eyes rolled into her head like cherries on a broken slot machine. "Your friend thinks he's going to get me. Not a chance. You probably think the same."

"Not me. I'm a poet." Dave's laugh echoed in my ears. "I know my place."

"Good, let's go to the Roof Club."

We were the only white people in the bar.

Darryl bought two rum and cokes.

"My back's killing me."

"Let me give you a massage."

"Please."

Her muscles were pliable to the touch and she moaned with pleasure, as we danced to THE HARDER THEY COME.

Everyone was having a good time.

Then Clark walked through the door. He took one look at Darryl and me rubadubbing and strode up to us and said, "We have to go. The others are expecting us back at the hotel for dinner."

"I'm cool here."

"Then you can stay here alone." Clark glared at Darryl and they left with me following them.

I didn't walk back to the hotel.

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Back at the restaurant Bernadette asked me to order wine.

"Why me?"

"Because you lived in France."

I read the wine list and choose the most expensive wines, figuring them cheap at 8 Jamaican Dollars to the US Greenback.

At the end of the meal Darryl sidled up to me and asked, "You mind if I come to your room. You can finish your massage.

Everyone at the table was surprised by her request, but none more than Clark.

In my room I tried to tidy up the bed.

"No worries. I live in squalor back in LA." She stripped off her shirt and lay face-down on the bed with my journal in her hand. "Is this your poetry?"

"Yes." I kneaded her shoulders. The tropical breeze was soft.

"On a heel I turned to the hell of here."

That was the only line she read of my hitchhiking poem.

Clark burst into the room.

"We have to clean the cameras."

"Darryl was a good actress and read this moment as her time to 'stage left'.

Once she was gone Clark was livid.

"You tell me to chill my jets so you can zoom into my place. Thanks a lot. By the way the price of wine was in US Dollars, not Jamaican.

"Opps."

He slammed the door shut and I totaled the bill.

My attempt at showing sophistication had cost the price of a second-class ticket to Paris.

I went down to the bar.

I was the only one there.

Each of the five rum and cokes tasted better than the last and I staggered to my room around midnight.

In my room I crashed into bed like a 747 running out of fuel.

I dreamed about Darryl and me on the road. She was a good travel companion.

A hand touched my shoulder.

I opened my eyes.

"Darryl?"

It was not her, but a shimmering woman.

She moaned in pain. I tried to speak to her in French and German. Her speech was indecipherable and I said, "Listen lady, I'm too drunk to deal with this now."

I closed my eyes and the ghost was gone.

The next morning the sea was calm.

Dave was waiting by the van. Clark was packing the bags into the back. I threw mine in the front.

"You ready to go?" He acted like nothing had happened last night.

"I guess I am." I turned to Dave. "I saw the ghost."

"What she say?"

"Don't know."

"That what everyone say."

"What about Darryl?"

"She left with the rest of them. It's just you and me." Clark slapped my shoulder to show there was no hard feeling.

It was snowing back in New York.

Clark paid my wages and gave me a bonus.

"You did a good job."

"Thanks."

Clark became a big success and Darryl was a hit in SPLASH.

I had never stood a chance with her, but neither had Clark.

But it had been close.

I went back to Paris and remained a failed poet, which suited me just fine, because poets knew their place in the world and the City of Light was made for people like me.

Toujours. fotos by Peter Nolan Smith and Dustin Pittman