Far From Home - Frank Hewetson

Frank is from London, United Kingdom.

He is a father of two.

Frank has worked for Greenpeace in the UK and Australia since 1989. His commitment to environmental activism is tireless, and he has taken part in many Greenpeace campaigns over the years. He is a respectfully determined and intelligent man.

Frank is a loving husband and father. He plays ping pong as a hobby, and gets intense pleasure from planning outdoor adventures with his family and their dog Pluto.

Frank was motivated to join the trip by his passion for protecting the Arctic from dangerous drilling for fossil fuels.

External websites and media

Menus and mundanity in Murmansk: A letter from Greenpeace activist Frank Hewetson from behind bars in Russia.

The Independent on Sunday, 26 October 2013

He's in a cell 23 hours a day, he's worrying about me and the kids — even in his sleep.

The Evening Standard of London, 9 October 2013

Free Frank Hewetson and the Arctic 30

Last month my friend Frank Hewetson was arrested for hooliganism by Russian authorities. 27 other Greenpeace activists and two photographers were also incarcerated for taking part in a protest against Arctic oil exploration. Initially they were charged with piracy. Hooliganism is the same charge levied against the punk band PUSSY RIOT.

They got seven years.

His wife hasn't heard from Frank in a month.

Greenpeace is trying to free them.

Please help by going to this URL and signing the petition for the Arctic 30.

http://www.greenpeace.org/international/en/campaigns/climate-change/arctic-impacts/Peace-Dove/Arctic-30/

Thank you.

SKIN COLD AS ICE by Peter Nolan Smith

Lou Reed died last week.
A friend called to ask, if I knew the singer.
I said, “no.”
He then asked if I thought Nico was a good fuck.
“I don’t know,” I replied and hung up thinking one thing.

The Velvet Underground’s singer was probably great in bed.

Once in Paris I had a Nico lookalike girlfriend.
Maribelle was a blonde aristocrat junkie model.
I was working at the Bains Douche as a doorman.
One winter night Maribelle came back to my flat on the Ile St. Louis.
Heroin sang us to sleep.
Neither of us took off our clothes.
There was no sex.

The next morning I woke to the bells of Notre Dame.
The windows were open and I shivered with the cold.
Maribelle’s skin was ice to my touch.

I thought she was dead, then her lungs drew a shallow breath.

Maribelle was alive.

I closed the window and fucked her with the dawn.
It was like making love to a beautiful corpse
And she gave a death rattle as a moan.

"Good?" I asked from on top.

She simply pleaded, "Encore."

I gave what she wanted,
Because Mirabelle was very good for such a bad girl
And I bet Nico was the same.

A godess best undressed in the cold.

METAL MACHINE MUSIC

In 1975 RCA demanded an LP from Lou Reed and the ex-Velvet Underground frontman gave Clive Davis METAL MACHINE MUSIC.

"I don't see a single in this." Clive Davis

I doubt he listened to it all, but supposedly only the sound engineer accomplished that stygian feat.

Rolling Stone's review said METAL MACHINE MUSIC sounded like "the tubular groaning of a galactic refrigerator" and as displeasing to experience as "a night in a bus terminal".

Lester Bangs wrote that "as classical music it adds nothing to a genre that may well be depleted. As rock 'n' roll it's interesting garage electronic rock 'n' roll. As a statement it's great, as a giant FUCK YOU it shows integrity—a sick, twisted, dunced-out, malevolent, perverted, psychopathic integrity, but integrity nevertheless." Bangs later wrote a tongue-in-cheek article on Metal Machine Music titled "The Greatest Album Ever Made", in which he judged it "the greatest record ever made in the history of the human eardrum."

METAL MACHINE MUSIC has been listed as LP # 5 in worst records ever recorded by a great musician.

It still sold 100,000 LPs.

I lasted ten minutes.

I doubt many can last longer.

To Hear METAL MACHINE MUSIC please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-Vy4VRRO30

Manhattan's Vanishing Gas Stations

The other day my boss and longtime friend Tem were driving along Houston Street to a job site on East 10th Street. The Californian had moved here in the early 80s and I had come to the East Village in the 70s. We spoke about the changes to the neighborhood, pointing out what was still where it was and what wasn't. Most of it was gone and turning onto Lafayette the architectural metal worker said, "There used to be a car wash here."

"With a gas station."

All the gas stations are vanishing from New York."

"The ones on the Bowery have been gone for years." I used to walk under the shelter of the 4th Street gas station in the rain.

"Like the one where I bought my old Soviet bike." It had been a bright orange.

"Or the one on the FDR."

"That's still there, but most will become skinny luxury condos."

"Like the rest of Manhattan." The borough had been undergoing a radical economic cleansing during Mayor Bloomberg's three terms.

"Soon motorists will have to get gas in Brooklyn."

"Unless there are no cars in the city." My dream for a carless society was not so farfetched without gas in a city.

"There'll always be cars." Tem came from California and the Golden State was the birthplace of America's love with the car.

"There are no cars in STAR TREK."

"And there's no STAR TREK on TV now."

"No, there isn't." For the first time in decades the Enterprise wasn't exploring the cosmos.

Tem dropped me on 10th Street to bondo the cracked metal door frames and I thought about a gas station on 10th Avenue which sold for a fortune. The developer planned a 12-story, 15-unit condo. Each one had to cost $5 million for him to break even.

Maybe more.

“Developers like these sites for the same reason gas stations wanted to be there originally,” Mr. Shvo said. “Lots of people and lots of traffic.”

Like laundromats, gas stations can be tough to sell because of concerns that the soil beneath them may be polluted, brokers say. A glance around any suburb can reveal stations that have sat empty for years, in part because the sites may be brownfields, requiring the cleanup of chemical pollutants — or at least the fear of that possibility makes it hard to get loans for redevelopment.

Often, deed restrictions have been placed on properties by sellers or long-ago owners, which can ban residential development to avoid health problems and potential lawsuits.

Those restrictions can be lifted before a deal closes, however, if the buyers reassure the sellers by excavating several feet of soil, for example, or installing protective shields.

Restriction like that is now in place at 718 11th Avenue, where a Mobil station on a corner lot at West 51st Street is for sale at $9.5 million. If affordable housing were included, a developer could put up a 29,000-square-foot apartment building on the site, which has a lease in place till 2015, said Matthew Nickerson, a broker with Massey Knakal Realty Services.

While cleanup and insurance can be expensive for these sites, the development potential of land in a bustling Manhattan neighborhood far outweighs those problems, said Mr. Nickerson, who was also involved in Mr. Shvo’s deal.

Still, “between construction and insurance,” he said, “this is not like building on a typical site.”

Next year, a BP station at 300 Lafayette Street, at East Houston Street in SoHo, is expected to close, to make way for a planned seven-story, 75,000-square-foot office tower from the LargaVista Companies, according to someone with knowledge of the project who requested anonymity to avoid damaging the project’s chances of getting city approvals.

LargaVista has owned the site since 1976, though gas has been pumped there since the 1930s, and plans to take advantage of the site’s prominent location by putting stores on the building’s three lowest floors, the person said.

It is not the first time the firm has hung up its nozzles. In the mid-2000s, it turned a nearby Gaseteria into a 23-unit condo called One Avenue B, although it had to shoehorn the project into a triangular lot.

In addition, at the nearby intersection of East Houston and Avenue C, where a Mobil occupies a trapezoidal parcel, a rental building will rise on the site when the station’s lease expires in two years, according to HPNY, a development firm that is a partner in the project.

The 12-story rental building will encompass 43,000 square feet of apartments, as well as 6,000 square feet of ground-floor stores, which will wrap three sides, HPNY said.

With so many gas stations going the way of Model T’s, crimping supply, holdouts may end up thriving, a possibility not lost on Vasilios Hondros, a manager of a Mobil that opened in May on Eighth Avenue and Horatio Street in Greenwich Village.

Replacing what was most recently a Lukoil, the station has, according to Mr. Hondros, tripled the size of its store, which sells candy, e-cigarettes and lottery tickets. Taxicabs provide three-fourths of the business, he said.

At $12,000, the monthly rent is not cheap, Mr. Hondros said, though he has no plans to leave before the end of his 15-year lease.

“They’re just trying to put condos everywhere, to make it so just rich people can live in New York,” he said. “I feel bad for the people who have to drive.”

Lou Reed 71 RIP

I never saw the Velvet Underground or heard Lou Reed live.

Those gaps were added to missing Woodstock or opting to see Sha-Na-Na instead of David Bowie in 1971, but one spring night in 1970 I was lying on the sofa with my high school sweetheart. Kyla's mother was out with her Portugese boyfriend and her ten-year brother was upstairs asleep. She and I were graduating at the end of the semester. We had been going steady for two years and the seventeen year-old cheerleader resisted few of my above-the-waist advances that evening.

Our future was written in the stars.

It was past 10pm and the radio was turned to the FM.

WBCN.

Charles Laquidara cued up a new Velvet Underground LP and announced the track ROCK AND ROLL.

I stopped fondling Kyla's breasts and listened to every word, as if they had been written for me and thousands of other mes around the world. The singer told a story I wanted to live and that desire meant change.

At the end of the song Kyla asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

And I kissed her knowing that we weren't going to the senior prom or getting married and that I wasn't getting a job at the telephone company.

All, because of ROCK AND ROLL.

And it was all right.

Today Lou Reed, the writer/singer, of the Velvet Underground left the Here-Now.

For all of us marginals he was a giant and will be missed, but his music will live in the Here-To-Come as long as live and breathe and everyone else knows it's alright.

Long Live Lou Reed

Lyrics to ROCK AND ROLL

Jenny said when she was just five years old There was nothin' happenin' at all Every time she puts on a radio There was nothin' goin' down at all, Not at all Then one fine mornin' she puts on a New York station You know, she don't believe what she heard at all She started shakin' to that fine fine music You know her life was saved by rock 'n' roll Despite all the amputations you know you could just go out And dance to the rock 'n' roll station

It was alright It was allright Hey baby You know it was allright It was allright

Jenny said when she was just bout five years old You know my parents are gonna be the death of us all Two TV sets and two Cadillac cars - Well you know it ain't gonna help me at all Not just a little tiny bit Then one fine mornin' she turns on a New York station She doesn't believe what she hears at all Ooh, She started dancin' to that fine fine music You know her life is saved by rock 'n' roll, Yeah, rock n' roll Despite all the computations You could just dance to that rock 'n' roll station

And baby it was allright And it was alright Hey it was allright It was allright Hey here she comes now! Jump! Jump!

Like Jenny said when she was just bout' five years old Hey you know there's nothin' happenin' at all Not at all Every time I put on the radio, You know there's nothin' goin' down at all, Not at all But one fine mornin' she hears a New York station She doesn't believe what she heard at all Hey, not at all She started dancin' to that fine fine music You know her life was saved by rock 'n' roll Yeah rock 'n' roll Ooh, Despite all the computations You know you could just dance to the rock 'n' roll station

Allright, allright And it was allright Oh, you listen to me now And it was allright C'mon now Little better Little bit It was allright It was allright And it was allright, allright It's allright, allright Baby it's allright, now Allright, baby it's allright, now Baby it's allright, allright now Baby it's allright Baby it's allright now Oh baby,oh baby Oh baby, Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah It's allright, now Ooh, it's allright now All, allright.

To hear ROCK AND ROLL please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hs0BxTmQXA0

Not Recommended Price

In the late-1970s I haunted the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The suggested admission was $5. I gave the cashier a quarter, since a fiver bought a nice meal at the Dorothy Draper's elegantly designed Fountain Restaurant.

Over the years I might have been to the museum a hundred times.

I know the Asmat sculptures, the Thomas Coles, and El Greco's VIEW OF TOLEDO.

Back in those days no one went to the museum.

I had it to myself on many occasions, but over the years the public sought Art and thronged to the 5th Avenue institution in the millions.

The suggested admission has risen over the decades to the present $25, but I fight that inflation by staying true to my 25 cent contribution. Few people know that you give what you want to give and the confusing placard at the museum's several ticket booths are not designed to enlighten the public that they don't have to pay a single cent.

Two lawsuits are challenging that deception and Mayor Bloomberg has signed a lease to the Museum that permits whatever entrance charge the board members deem appropriate. The lame-duck mayor signed similar contracts with the American Museum of Natural History and the Museum of the City of New York.

According to the Daily News Lawyer Michael Hiller, who has filed one of two lawsuits against the Met claiming it duped museumgoers, blasted the new lease. “The museum‘s effort to arrange a lease amendment, in the dead of night, without notice to the public and without regard to the democratic process, is nothing but a desperate stunt by the museum to defeat claims its lawyers must know are valid. It won’t sell politically. It won’t pass muster legally, and if anything, merely reinforces the fact the museum has been violating the lease for the last 43 years and that it must stop.”

The mayor’s office declined comment.

More proof that Mayor Bloomberg serves the rich.

After all they let him become a billionaire.

And we the people can only react as sheep or enter the Met with a shiny quarter in our hands and say, "Admission for two."

The revolution starts small.

25 cents small.

General Fowler's Statue

Last weekend an exhibition portraying the possible renovation of General Fowler's Triangle was presented to the residents of Fort Greene. The proposed alterations included new trees, larger public space, and changing the location of the General's statue.

"I don't know about that. I like the General just the way he is," I told one of the reps for the plaza's restoration. "I sit in Frank's and stare out at the General and he stares back at me. He certainly is a comfort."

"Moving him would create more room on the other end of the plaza." The well-dressed man showed me the plans. He was right. There would be more room.

"Would you change the direction of his gaze?"

"Some people suggested down Fulton Street." The middle-aged man must have sat at board meetings.

"Into the sun?" I shook my head. "Secondly all Civil War statues face the South to remind the living of those who fought to free the slaves."

"I didn't know that."

"In New England every town has a statue facing south." At least I thought they were facing south. "And every southern town has a Confederate facing north. Those things aren't supposed to change."

I recalled in Lewiston, Maine a florist raised money to redirect the Civil War monument from looking East to the City Hall to a southern gaze.

"I'll mention that to the committee."

I wandered away thinking that the committee had already decided what they were going to do without ever telling the public of their plans until now.

Later that afternoon I researched General Fowler. He had served as a colonel with Brooklyn's 14th Regiment or the “Red-Legged Devils. His regiment fought at the First and Second Battles of Bull Run. At the later engagement the regiment suffered 90% casualties. After recovering Fowler was appointed commander of a military hospital, earning the gratitude of wounded soldiers from throughout the Union. Fowler returned to active service in the summer to 1863 to capture the Mississippi Brigade at Gettysburg. Subsequently his regiment fought with distinction during the Wilderness Campaign and the battle of Spotsylvania. He mustered out of the Army in late-1864 to reside in Brooklyn at 178 Fort Greene Place.

I also learned that the General had originally been erected in Fort Greene Park, however several attempts by scrap metal thieves to steal the statue from its lonely posting forced his relocation to the present setting in 1976.

That evening I was sitting at Frank's Lounge with LA Larry and told him about the plans for the plaza and he laughed before taking a sip of cognac.

"Two years ago some of the new people to the neighborhood protested that the statue should be moved, because it was looking at Frank's Lounge like he wanted a drink."

"You're joking?" Some people have nothing better to do.

"Not at all. I can't blame the General for staring at Frank's. It's been here as long as he has and standing in all kinds of weather can work up a man's thirst."

"Better than pigeon pee." Rosa quipped pouring me another Stella beer.

"But what's starnge is that until that protest I hadn't even noticed the statue." LA Larry turned his head and raised a glass to the General. "Ten years of sitting on this stool and not even notice him. It's not like it's a small thing."

"You watch other things out that window." Rosa worked Sundays and Monday. Everyone liked drinking with the Chinese bartender. Her beauty was a sight for sore eyes and her sense of humor was as sharp as a meat cleaver.

"Not so loud. My wife had good ears."

"All women do." We clinked glasses and back home I checked about the protest thinking LA Larry might have been funning me, because I'm one of the new people too ie white ofay.

Sure enough a Martin Horowitz was urging the city to rotate a statue of Gen. Edward Fowler about 90 degrees so that he’ll properly greet oncoming traffic from his perch at the intersection of Lafayette Avenue and Fulton Street instead of Frank’s Cocktail Lounge.

I like seeing the General looking my way.

He was a good man.

And every time I see him I raise my glass to Old Ned.

It's a good thing.

An American Romance

America was the first nation to fall in love with the car. Henry Ford's assembly lines produced affordable vehicles for the masses. Gas was cheap and roads were open. The number of automobiles rocketed from hundreds to thousands to millions. The present number of cars in the USA is over 300 million, however more and more young Americans are abandoning this form of transportation. The percentage of 18-years-olds with a driver’s license plunged from 80 percent in 1983 to 61 percent by 2010 according to an analysis by Advisor Perspectives.

See the NY Times' “The End of Car Culture.”

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/30/sunday-review/the-end-of-car-culture.html

None of my young friends have a car.

Many don't know how to drive.

Of course I live in New York, but for suburban teens a car is beyond their means.

'Dollars for Clunkers' effectively exterminated the possibility of buying a car for under $1000. In the late 60s Ernie LeClaire on Dorchester Boulevard sold weekend specials for $10. They were guaranteed to get out of the lot. My friend Moon Mullins bought a Ford Fairlane. The engine lasted until Sunday morning. He pulled off the plates and walked home.

Those were the times.

Free and easy.

Smoother Streets

Hundreds of ghost bikes are spread across New York City to commemorate the bikers and pedestrians killed by motorists. Biking is difficult on the city's rough road. Potholes and repairs force bikers into the path of cars and trucks. Bikers were win this contest, however I noticed over the last six months that the Brooklyn streets have been smoother. I mentioned this improvement to LA Larry at Frank's the other night and he said, "That's because Mayor Bloomberg doesn't want the CitiBikes to get fucked up on the streets. He has a piece of them you know."

Everyone in the bar nodded their assent.

"Mayor Bloomberg is no pal of mine." I hated him for the racist policy of 'stop and frisk' and the record number of marijuana arrests aimed at blacks and Hispanics. "BUt I don't see him owning the bikes."

"He don't own them, but he gets his piece." LA Larry worked for the city. He had insider poop.

"He's a billionaire."

"Don't mean he leave small change at the bar. Rich people are rich, because they take all their money."

"Amen to that." The bar was vocal in their agreement.

"Well, I'm happy that the streets are smooth." I rode back and forth to work in Greenpoint every day.

"Well, lucky you." LA Larry didn't drive a car and he did ride a bike. His mode of transportation was the subway.

"I guess I am." We clinked glasses and changed the subject to baseball.

It was World Series time and the Red Sox are in it.

Time to see how lucky I am.

Safer Biking In NYC

Two nights ago I was bicycling up to the Williamsburg Bridge. A small crowd of bikers were gathered opposite the old Williamsburg Bank. I slowed down and spotted several city officials handing out night lights for bikes.

Free.

I got into line and a young man came up to me.

"We're from the DOT of New York and we're giving out these lights to prevent accidents." His eyes checked out my bike. "Good, you have a bell. We want pedestrians to hear you as well as see you in the darkening hours of winter."

It was barely 5:30 and the sun was setting behind the towers of Manhattan.

"Have we hit Daylight Savings Time yet?"

"No, so it will be even darker earlier." He attached a white light for the front and a red light for the rear.

"Thank you." I was pleased by this gift from the city, until he added, "We want people to ride bikes safer. To have lights and bells. To not drive the wrong way down a street or through a red light, which is a $200 fine."

"How much for not having a helmet?"

"Nothing yet." He smiled with sincerity, but I saw behind the guise of graciousness.

This was another attempt by Mayor Bloomberg to create revenue by going after scoff-laws and I said, "I probably put up a good $2000 worth of traffic violations in a day. I try not to endanger any good, but myself, however breaking the law makes me feel rich. Thanks for the lights."

"Ride safe then." The young man went to the next biker.

I rode off into the sunset, wondering how much the light batteries cost to replace, then realized that they would be stolen long before they hit E.

New York is that kind of town.

My kind of town.

No matter what Mayor Bloomberg wants.

Big Boys Don't Cry

The GOP revisionists collapsed in the face of the federal budget default.

Ted Cruz vowed to fight Obamacare to the last breath of his body much as Charlton Heston had sworn to uphold the right to carry a firearm into the grave.

John Boehner survived the crisis to continue as the party whip, even though the extreme right are fomenting a rebellion against his leadership.

They want to undo change.

John doesn't know what he wants to do other than cry cry cry.

I don't blame him.

Government as usual in the USA, bringing new meaning to the 4 Seasons' classic hit BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY.

Please to go to this URL to hear that song;

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

The Punch Bowl - Boston

From http://archive.guidemag.com

Steps away from Park Square, in Bay Village, gay patrons poured into Mario's, a restaurant with an upstairs bar; Jacques, a drag venue that still exists; Cavana's, a boisterous women's bar; and, in a former speakeasy space, the more formal Napoleon Club. Not far away, straddling the block between Providence and Boylston Streets, was a 24-hour Hayes Bickford Cafeteria known to its regulars as "the Gay Hayes."

A short distance from Mario's was the Punch Bowl, Boston's foremost gay bar from World War II to Stonewall. Joseph McGrath, Prescott Townsend's secretary during the '60s, remembers pub crawls that would begin near South Station, continue through Playland and Twelve Carver, and "always wind up at the Punch Bowl." The two-level operation had a dance floor in the basement. Like other pre-Stonewall nightspots, it was subject to police harassment, but whenever Boston's finest came through the front door, upstairs staff would flash a signal light warning dancers below to switch to partners of the opposite sex. The Punch Bowl's employees included a waitress known as "Tex," who became a den mother to Boston's gay male community, and Sidney Sushman, who later earned infamy as drag diva Sylvia Sidney. The bar figures prominently in reminiscences collected by Boston's GLBT History Project.

I NEVER WENT THERE OR AT LEAST I DON'T THINK I DID.

FOR THE LOVE OF HOCKEY by Peter Nolan Smith

FOR THE LOVE OF HOCKEY are six stories about my love for the fastest game on ice.

During the 1980s my aunt from Maine bought season tickets to the Rangers. To her hockey was hockey as long as the Black Bears of U Maine weren't playing for the Frozen Four, however As longtime Boston Bruins fan I have suffered through decades of living in New York under the tyranny of Ranger fans and FOR THE LOVE OF HOCKEY follows my devotion from childhood to the present day.

Needless to say I love pond hockey and hate global warming.

Every October I wait for the sound of Bauer or CCM steel on ice.

It makes me feel forever young.

To purchase the Kindle version of FOR THE LOVE OF HOCKEY by Peter Nolan Smith for 99 cents US, please go to the following URL;

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FVGSB2C

Thanks

Peter Nolan Smith

CBGBs Festival 2013

Last week the CBGBs festival reincarnated the spirit of the Bowery birthplace of Punk.

CBGBs the movie debuted in New York.

I missed all of it.

Broke and exhausted from my working day.

I fondly remember my years at CBGBs.

And all my friends

Like Excessive aka X aka Jahn Xavier, the guitarist for the Ghost and Richard Hell.

He was a star and still is.

ps we used the toilets for more than their original purpose.

Early Phone Sex

In the summer of 1968 I worked in a Boston phone exchange. There were hundreds of cable banks corresponding the working numbers. My friend and I would eavesdrop on thousands of conversations. Few people said anything of importance, but one couple practically invented phone sex and spoke at the same hour every day.

One afternoon my friend wrote down the address and we drove over to Dorchester to spy onto the woman. She was an attractive brunette. She hailed a taxi.

We followed her to a motel off the Southeast Expressway. She went into second-floor room.

We drank a beer.

Ten minutes later a Valiant pulled into the parking lot. A tall man in a suit climbed the stairs and knocked on the motel room door. She opened it and they went inside.

My friend turned to me and said, "I like it better on the phone." "Me too." We drove over to the Hi-Hat Lounge. They served anyone with money.

Even sixteen year-old boys.

October 13, 1492

FROM THE DIARY OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

SATURDAY OCTOBER 13, 1492

As soon as it dawned, many of these people came to the beach—all young, as I have said, and all of good stature—very handsome people, with their hair not curly but straight and coarse, like horsehair; and all of them very wide in-the forehead and head, more so than any other race that I have seen so far. And their eyes are very handsome and not small; and none of them are black, but of the color of the Canary Islanders. Nor should anything else be expected since this island is on an east-west line with the island of Hierro in the Canaries. All alike have very straight legs and no belly but are very well formed.

They came to the ship with dugouts [canoes] that are made from the trunk of one tree, like a long boat, and all of one piece, and worked marvelously in the fashion of the land, and so big that in some of them 40 and 45 men came. And others smaller, down to some in which one man came alone. They row with a paddle like that of a baker and go marvelously. And if it capsizes on them then they throw themselves in the water, and they right and empty it with calabashes [hollowed out gourds] that they carry.

They brought balls of spun cotton and parrots and javelins and other little things that it would be tiresome to write down, and they gave everything for anything that was given to them. I was attentive and labored to find out if there was any gold; and I saw that some of them wore a little piece hung in a hole that they have in their noses. And by signs I was able to understand that, going to the south or rounding the island to the south, there was there a king who had large vessels of it and had very much gold. I strove to get them to go there and later saw that they had no intention of going. I decided to wait until the afternoon of the morrow and then depart for the southwest, for, as many of them showed me, they said there was land to the south and to the southwest and to the northwest and that these people from the northwest came to fight them many times.

And so I will go to the southwest to seek gold and precious stones. This island is quite big and very flat and with very green trees and much water and a very large lake in the middle and without any mountains; and all of it so green that it is a pleasure to look at. And these people are very gentle, and because of their desire to have some of our things, and believing that nothing will be given to them without their giving something, and not having anything, they take what they can and then throw themselves into the water to swim.

But everything they have they give for anything given to them, for they traded even pieces for pieces of bowls and broken glass cups, and I even saw 16 balls of cotton given for three Portuguese ceotis [copper coins], which is a Castilian blanca [a copper coin worth half of a maravedi]. And in them there was probably more than an arroba [around 24 pounds] of spun cotton.

This I had forbidden and I did not let anyone take any of it, except that I had ordered it all taken for Your Highnesses if it were in quantity. It grows here on this island, but because of the short rime I could not declare this for sure. And also the gold that they wear hung in their noses originates here; but in order not to lose time I want to go see if I can find the island of Cipango.

Now, since night had come, all the Indians went ashore in their dugouts.

A River To My People

After taking Aqaba in the epic film LAWRENCE OF ARABIA TE Lawrence confronts Anthony Quinn's character Auda abu Tayi about payments from their Turkish enemy.

Auda Abu Tayi tells Peter O'Toole the truth in front of hundreds of tribesmen extras.

Auda abu Tayi: I am Auda abu Tayi! Does Auda serve?

Howeitat tribesmen: NO!

Auda abu Tayi: Does Auda abu Tayi serve?

Howeitat tribesmen: NO!

Auda abu Tayi: [to Lawrence] I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I scatter, I burn my enemies' tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure, yet I am poor! Because I am a river to my people!

Having a large family I know the feeling.

To see this short monolgue, please go to the following URL

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

Redhead - You Bet I Would

Galileo's Eternal Salute

Galileo Galilei helped restore science to Europe with his telescopic exploration of the solar system and stars. The Holy Mother Church in Rome was confounded by his heliocentric beliefs that the Earth revolved around the Sun, which was contrary to geocentricism. His Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems attacked the ignorance of Pope Urban VIII's Vatican. The Pope had him tried for heresy by the Inquisition. Galileo was found guilty and sentenced to house arrest for life. For an additional punishment the Holy See required his reading seven penitential psalms once a week in the presence of papal representatives.

Upon his death in 1642 the Grand Duke of Tuscany wished to bury the great astronomer in splendor. The Pope refused him and Galileo's remains were stuck a small chamber of the Basilica of Santa Croce.

In 1737 his corpse was transported to better surroundings and during transportation his middle finger was snapped off for veneration.

Upright it says everything a heretic would want to say about the Church.

Which is 'Fuck you.'

Now more than ever.

See it at the Florence History of Science Museum.

It's there.

Among the more famous of its collections is the middle finger from the right hand of Galileo Galilei, which was removed when Galileo's remains were transported to a new burial spot on April 12, 1737.

Along with his thumb

It is a remarkable bit of irony, the finger: venerated, kept in a shrine, subjected to the same treatment as a saintly relic. But this finger belonged to no saint. It is the long bony finger of an enemy of the church, a heretic.

As with a fine wine, it took some years for Galileo’s finger to age into something worth snapping off his skeletal hand. The finger was removed by one Anton Francesco Gori on March 12, 1737, 95 years after Galileo’s death. Passed around for a couple hundred years it finally came to rest in the Florence History of Science Museum.

In 2009 two more fingers and a tooth belonging to Galileo were discovered at at auction. The spare parts had disappeared in 1905, not seen for 100 years. But then the purchaser was able to deduce their origin, and has returned them to the Science Museum where they match a detailed description from when they were last seen.

Today the middle finger sits in a small glass egg (presumably soon to be joined by the newly discovered fingers) among lodestones and telescopes, the only human fragment in a museum devoted entirely to scientific instruments. It is hard to know how Galileo would have felt about the final resting place of his finger. Whether the finger points upwards to the sky, where Galileo glimpsed the glory of the universe and saw God in mathematics, or if it sits eternally defiant to the church that condemned him, is for the viewer to decide.

The Hudson Milliner Guesthouse and Inn

This autumn the Hudson Milliner Guesthouse and Inn opened as a refuge for urbanites in search of refined comfort in classical surroundings. One step inside the newly-renovated 19th century hat shop transports the present to an ageless luxury designed to captivate time. The refined details of each room heighten the awareness of precious moments passing into a weekend of bliss accompanied by the innumerable pleasures of the modern world.

The Hudson Milliner is located on Warren Street, the main thoroughfare of Hudson. This proximity to the town's restaurants, shops, and bars allows guest to enjoy a car-free and carefree getaway a mere two-hours from New York City.

The Hudson Milliner was opened by my good friends Shannon Greer and Charlotta Jansenn.

I highly recommend it for a getaway or a long stay.

Please visit their website and then head on North.

Any time of the year.

http://www.thehudsonmilliner.com/

Bowie Ball

This afternoon I received an invitation to the Bowie Ball.

A homage to David Bowie's Glam Years on Columbus Day at Le Poisson Rouge or Red Fish.

I have nothing to wear.

My gold Elvis suit is history. My platform shoes were tossed in 1975. I'm so out I can never be in for the In Crowd, unless I showed with quaaludes.

And those I do have.

Three from a 1974 jar of Rorer 714s.

Those originals pleasure pills grant credence to everyone.

Even to old queens.

"Oh, I love 'ludes."

And I have.

Mr. Glam himself.

But let's not forget Slade.

RUN RUN AWAY

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

WE RIDING LIKE WE RIDE

Driving on the weekend is a bad idea. Traffic is in anarchy-mode. Yellow lights mean go fast. Red lights say go faster to drivers trapped in dead-end jobs. Sunday behind the wheel they drive according to size. Traditionally Chinese have been deemed the worst driver, however they have been superseded by Hassidim in mini-vans and even worse by Yiddish school bus drivers who must scare Yahweh into the young passengers.

Last weekend a Chinese driver on the Westside Highway entered the headlines, as Mssr. Lien drove uptown with his wife and one year-old son.

The media reported that they were celebrating their first-year anniversary.

The newspapers had no information about their destination.

It could have been the Jersey malls or a coke corner in Washington Heights.

There is a video of Lien slamming into a biker.

The media has declared the bikers' guilty.

I defended them on huffington-com

Here's the responses.

billswan173 October 5, 2013 at 9:35pm

If you ride like this biker gang then expect to get run over.

they were already cornering him, he had no choice since he was their targeted vehicle. They said they didn't like the way he was driving right and left, annoying them. Probably, he was trying to avoid the maniacs?

Hey, these biker punks could have had guns!

He panicked because a group of bikers surrounded his SUV, which had his 2 year old child in the back set. This was not just a random accident. The bikers approached, taunted and chased him.

I had one defender.

"I agree on the SUV's but I've had more minivans move me out of my lane or off the road than any other vehicle when I'm riding my motorcycle.

"Loud pipes do indeed save lives. If they don't see you or bother looking for you at least they might hear you if your bike is loud. Unfortunately mine isn't loud but after several close calls this year, I'm going to go to a louder exhaust next riding season."

Everyone else was a KKK member from Indiana.

"We're sorry you don't own an suv, but purchasing one is a better long-term strategy than attacking people who already own one."

"What are you smoking?

Are you not aware of the circumstances that preceded Lien's actions?"

"You are sooooooooo wrong. Almost everyone who's commented on this issue would have done the same; the only weapon he had with which to protect himself and family was his SUV."

Sorry, folks, but I hate rushes to judgment.

Free Frank From Murmansk

In January 2012 Frank Hewetson and I raced in Hampstead Heath. 50 yards. The Greenpeace activist leader beat me by a foot. "Barely." I crowed, since Frank was 42 to my 59. "But I spent the last two months in a Greenland prison." He had been arrested by Danish police for storming onto an Arctic oil rig. "24 hour sun with sullen Inuit convicts." "No excuse." We had started at the same point. Unfortunately Frank has once more been arrested along with 29 other Greenpeace members charged with piracy. This time by Russian authorities. I'm good friends with his wife. "Frank is an environmental activist trying, on behalf of us all, to defend the Arctic from exploitation by the oil companies through peaceful non violent protest. His children and I are very concerned for him but know that he will be cheered by the support of millions of people worldwide which is bringing the destruction of the Arctic to international attention." Frank's a good man, but the Russians don't like anyone stepping on their toes, so the pirates have been imprisoned above the Arctic Circle in Murmansk. Winter is close. The Zeks in the prison like fresh meat. Numerous celebrities such as Jude Law, Paul Simenon of the Clash, and fashion designer Vivian Westwood have protested in front of the Russian embassy for the release of the arrestees. please go to this URL to sign the freedom petition. http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/10/05/greenpeace-demonstration_n_4049131.html?just_reloaded=1 We thank you.

Johnny Romero PR Parisian

Johnny Romero owned les Nuages, a St. Germain nightclub frequented by James Baldwin and James Jones. I was living with his daughter, Candida. She was 17 and I was was 32. He said nothing about our age difference, but after hearing that I lived on the Lower East Side, Johnny asked, "Are there still Puerto Ricans in New York?" "Plenty, but the Dominicans are taking over?" "Everyone gets their time in the sun, even chocha Dominicans." Johnny had a temper, but was tough. He had survived a fall from an airplane. His parachute had failed to open. He hit the ground from 2500 feet. One night he told me, "Felt like I got hit by King Kong." Johnny had run a New York club on Minetta Lane catering to white women hanging out with colored men. He left the city because of the Mafia. "They were tougher than a fall from an airplane." Johnny was rough around the edges of cool, mais 'un vrai mec' and they don't make them like that anymore. Or Candida

Dearest Claudia Summer

Dearest Claudia Summer Issey Miyake's Bodywork, 1983. Photographer: Marcus Leatherdale.

Fight Club Pussies

A couple of years ago Big Al told me about a bar in the Valley.

"Where people like to fight. You wanna go?" Big Al and I had met in Pattaya. It was the Last Babylon on Earth.

"Do I have to fight?"

"No, you can watch, you pussy." Big Al was 300 plus and 5-11. His arms were bigger than my thighs and his thighs were larger than my chest.

"Good." I had no problem with him calling me a pussy. Big Al robbed meth dealers. It was good to have him as a friend.

After a twenty minute ride from Sunland, Big Al directed me to an industrial zone. Pick-ups and Harleys were parked on the sub-bleached street. I got out of the rented car and almost walked into the first floor.

"Not here." The extreme fighter led us upstairs. A crowd was drinking beer and watching the cctv from the first floor.

You only go there if you want a fight and you have 30 seconds to start one or else you get the shit kicked out of you. Watch."

Ten seconds later two men fisted hard knuckles into their skulls. The fight lasted almost a minute. The losser bought the winner a drink.

"You wanna a try? Winner drinks for free."

"Not a chance." I knew my limits, but Big Al said, "I'll be back in a minute."

T 300-pounder lumbered down the stairs.

Five seconds later he entered the first-floor bar and took on everyone there. A minute later he came back upstairs not even out of breath.

"Pussies." Big Al was tougher than a bag of bricks, but like THE FIGHT CLUB he mentioned this bar to anyone and I don't know where it was.

Someplace in the Valley and that's a big place and Big Al is a big man.

44DDD - Liz Renay

Several years ago I attended an opening for THE ART OF

Several years ago I attended an opening for THE ART OF LIZ RENAY curated by SCOTT EWALT at the 76 Grand Street Gallery. The late artist's contributions spanned two centuries in exotic dancing, literature, and film most notably as Divine's co-star in John Waters' 1977 paean to bad taste DESPERATE LIVING, but the starlet was much more than that role of a dogfood-eating murderess. Her 2007 Washington Post obit listed her many careers as 'gangster's moll, ex-con, author, painter, stripper, Hollywood Boulevard streaker, actress and charm school instructor'.

A sexual pioneer too.

"Well I don’t think anything is wrong with sex. I think it’s a beautiful thing to be enjoyed! Some people want to get married and stay married forever and not cheat on their spouse or whatever. While other people just like to be sexual adventurers (she laughs) and I’m one of those."

Ms. Renay owed her status as an ex-con to a perjury conviction in LA for refusing to snitch out Mickey Cohen. This loyalty earned the actress a stint in prison.

Not jail.

Prison.

"It sure knocked the hell out of my career when I went to Terminal Island. I would have been a big star had I not gone to prison." The actress did the time without complaint and was released after 27-months for good behavior.

With her 44DD-26-36 measurements she must have driven the guards and inmates crazy. She exited from prison a cult figure, whose persona was tawdryized by writing the classic exploitation novel, "My First 2,000 Men."

A good title, although Ms. Renay issued a calm disclaimer. "It wasn't really anywhere near 2,000 men. I led a wild life. But 2,000? C'mon, that's too many, even for me!"

Her show was packed with downtown illiterati gawking at the deceased diva's art and collection of newspaper clippings. Several transvestites showed up in Liz Renay drag. Big breasts were a must. Her paintings were simplistic, but touching, especially a portrait of an angelic little girl. I thought it might have been the actress herself, but suspect that the young girl was actually Ms. Renay's daughter, who had stripped with her mother for many years until her suicide.

Photos were taken of the attendees. Each aspiring to acheive the greatness of Ms. Renay, if only for a few minutes. I stared at her S&M gear; a shabby whip, leather cuffs, and black undies. If I was into that kind of thing, then she would have been my mistress, instead I wandered from the gallery into the cold night, dreaming of 44DDD cups and having been one of 2000.

I doubt I could have survived an hour with her, let alone a night.

Then again I'm a square.

Rue St. Denis Ancien

Back in the 80s voluptuous valkyries lined Rue St. Denis to sell their bodies for sex. Their wardrobe favored tight leather sheaths and plastic dominatrix outfits. Most of the whores on the old Roman road were not young, few were beautiful, however their faithful clientele sought satisfaction in droves. After work at the Bains-Douches I walked the darknarrow street as a voyeur. The women under the streetlights recognized me from the nearby nightclub and called out, "Amerlot, let me make you happy." I contemplated sex on the serpentine Passage Lemoine without ever succumbing to the temptation from these 'putes', yet those over-sized leather queens lingered in distant lanes within my memory and this week stylist Sascha Lilac's posting of the fashion doyenne's Zana Bayne's provocation pret-a-porter show in Paris reincarnated my old fantasies. Easy to see why. Ah, les putes des Rue St. Denis. Gone but not forgotten. painting by anne howeson

You Dumb Motherfuckers!

Tomorrow is Day 2 of the Us government shutdown. Are you all cowards? Tomorrow tell your fucking bosses not to extract fed taxes from your pay. No government. No taxes. Drink more beer. FUCK THE GOP

No Government. No Taxes

Spend your money on fun. foto by gwen o'neill

Anarchy In The USA

This morning the GOP Congressional reps refused to finance the US government and the federal bureaus of America shut down one by one. No national parks or museums. 800,000 workers will go on furlough, although the nation's 1.4 million active-duty uniformed military personnel will stay on duty. The National Nuclear Security Administration will be down to less that 400 employees controlling the nation's nuclear weapons and naval reactor programs, but traffic controllers are at their desks. Homeland Security will be down 20% and the Justice Department will be at 20% capacity, while the fucking DEA will be close to full strength, including their dirty snitch bastards. Federal prison employees are expected at work without any guarantee of pay. The post office and Amtrak, which are self-funded, will remain open. Day 1 of US anarchy is coming to an end. I see no burning buildings or crashing planes. Lights illuminate the Brooklyn skyline. All is good from the Fort Greene Observatory, but have a listen to Motley Crue's ANARCHY IN THE USA At this URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLw158z1jUw It's all good and break as many federal laws as you can. It's your duty as a freedom loving American. The first is to stop paying federal taxes. No performance. No pay. Simple, n'est pas?