New Year's Resolutions 2013

Every January 1st millions of Americans vow to better their lives and the world. The Top Ten New Year's resolutions barely differ from year to year, since few people realized their resolutions. I made no resolutions this year. At my age I've failed enough times to accept my rut with aplomb, but here are the perennial Top Ten;

1. Spend More Time with Family and friends
2. Exercise more
3. Lose weight
4. Stop Smoking
5. Enjoy Life
6. Quit Drinking
7. Get Out of Debt
8. Learn Something New
9. Help Others
10. Get Organized

After reading this list I figure I'm not so bad off.

There's some of them I do without the help of a resolution.

Hell, I must have quit drinking a hundred times in 2012 and I got out of debt by cutting up my credit cards in 2008. Two months of stress knocked off 15 pounds and I don't really smoke cigarettes, except when I drink at a bar.

I do feel good about life, especially when I'm with my kids.

Somehow I got to get over to Thailand more often.

The end of January is the next trip.

So don't worry too much about resolutions.

Most of them are unattainable, otherwise you wouldn't have to make them, so life for today. It's the best resolution of all.

Eyes In The Sky

The FAA announced plans to allow Alaska, Nevada, New York, North Dakota, Texas and Virginia to test drones for commercial use starting in 2015.

The BBC reported that the head of the FAA, Michael Huerta, said safety would be the priority as it considers approval for unleashing the unmanned aircraft into US skies to provide luxury realtors to show off multi-million properties with aerial views, deliver beer to music festival-goers, and make movies such as the recent SMURFS PART 2.

I like the idea of beer delivery, however my Chinese take-out delivery man will stop at the bodega en route with my moo she pork.

Truthfully drones will be used to spray poisonous pesticide over farmlands and aid police surveilling the public.

Hundreds of thousands of young men have already been trained as drone pilots thanks to AR PURSUIT and their kill counts number in the billions each day.

Drones, stay-at-home video geeks, Diet-Pepsi, and fast food are a perfect formula for the new fascist state.

"We see all, we hear all, and we are all."

Jeff Bezos of Amazon loves the idea of drones.

Drones will cut out Fed Ex and UPS.

Less humans = more profit.

The ACLU complained that, "Giving drones access to US skies would only ensure "our every move is monitored, tracked, recorded and scrutinized by the authorities."

Not that anyone listens to the ACLU.

"We are Devo."

To hear MONGOLOID, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2tZqXWa7no

THE SEASON FOR GIVING by Peter Nolan Smith

photo-roman, isle of wight, tennyson walk, lizzie mercier descloux, paris

Early on the morning of December 24, 1985 Vonelli, Lizzie and I boarded a train at Gard Du Nord. I could see my breath in the cold. The winter damp had a good hold on Paris. Lizzie exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. The singer liked her Gaulloises.

Lord Ventnor had invited us to spend the Christmas Holiday on the Isle of Wight. The train ran straight to Calais. It got to the Channel on time. Hovercraft was running a special holiday service to Portsmouth and I waited the arrival of the PRINCESS MARGARET on the tarmac.

Vonelli and Lizzie were drinking wine in the waiting room. The bearded art dealer must have told the singer a joke. She was laughing with a cigarette between her fingers. Lizzie was a good audience.

The SR.N4 hovercraft hoved into the harbor. The winter morning hummed with the power of the four gas turbine engines. I turned to the terminal. Lizzie came out of the doors. Vonelli followed buttoning up his camel hair coat.

Lizzie and I knew each other from New York. The petite Parisienne had been a hit on the punk scene. Richard Hell was her friend. The two of us had been having 'une affaire' since Armistice Day. Nobody in Paris bet on us lasting out the year. None of my romances seemed destined for forever.

I checked the sky.

The grey clouds bore no threat of snow and we boarded the Hovercraft from the 'flight 'across La Manche.

An hour later we disembarked at Portsmouth and I carried Lizzie's bags over my shoulder. The three of us boarded the ferry to the Isle of Wight. We stood at the stern railing. Portsmouth became small. Lizzie held my hand. Crossing the Solent took less than forty minutes.

Vonelli spoke about our destination.

"Queen Victoria lived at Osbourne House. During her reign The Empire was ruled from this island."

"So the Isle of Wight is like Rome after the Goths burned it." Lizzie was a virulent anti-royalist.

"Only here there are no ruins." Vonelli had left the USA in the early 60s without ever going back to the Land of the Free. Many people suspected that his art dealer calling was a cover for a more clandestine career.

We got off the ferry and walked to the Cowes Floating Bridge. The chain-drawn ferry was idling on the other side of the Medina. Vonelli suggested a drink at the Navy Bar. The narrow drinking establishment had been built to service quick drinkers. The barkeep was a relic of the glory years of the British Empire. Time stopped and we missed two crossings of the Floating Bridge.

The trip across the Medina was quick. Lord Ventnor was waiting on the opposite bank in a red windbreaker. His hair was regally coifed by the wind. He shook my hand and embraced Vonelli.

"Welcome to the Isle of Wight."

Vonelli and he went back twenty years. I knew Bob three.

Aristocrats have good manners and kissed Lizzie's hand. She attracted admirers with ease.

"I love your song OU SONT PASSES LES GAZELLES."

"I am recording a new LP about Soweto" The chanteuse had been in a Paris studio for the last two months.

I saw her a few hours a week.

"Maybe you will sing us a song."

"Only if Vonelli plays piano."

A good left hand on the ivories of one of Vonelli's hidden talents.

Ventnor drove us to his expansive house in Ryde.

Bob's wife installed Lizzie and me in the same room.

She was ancien regime from Sud du Loire. That haute class knew how to read the land when it came to relationship.

I opened the windows. Lizzie didn't mind the cold. That way she could smoke her Gaulloises.

After a long lobster dinner accompanied by a deluge of wine Lizzie entertained us with Vonelli at the piano. They were a good combo and at the end of OU SONT PASSES LES GAZELLES Lord Ventnor announced, "Our Christmas morning tradition is the Tennyson Walk. We're rising bright and early."

"Nous partons vers le 10." Ventnor's elegant wife had a better hand on the time. "A polite hour to be on the Walk, so bonne nuit."

We retreated to our rooms. I shut the windows. They steamed up with the heat generated from Lizzie and me celebrating a XXXmas Eve.

We woke to the tantalizing scent of bacon, beans, mushrooms, eggs, toast, and tea.

"Une petite dejeuner anglais." Bob's wife served us a sumptuous breakfast.

The clatter of knives and forks were not interrupted by conversation. Talking could come later in the day. Lizzie and I helped clear the table. Bob's wife waved us from the sink.

"The faster you reach the Walk, the sooner you will return to dinner."

She accompanied us outside to the van

Lord Ventnor was in no condition to drive.

I was in no better shape and Vonelli only had eyes for Lizzie.

Lord Ventnor's wife took the keys.

"I'll drive."

She wasn't taking 'No' for an answer.

She dropped us at the Needles.

Wind-spawn waves crashed on the sandy shore. Atlantic gusts gushed across the gorse.

"I don't see any Needles." Lizzie brushed back her hair. I had never seen her use a comb or brush on her mop. She liked to look natural.

"You can hear them." Ventnor's teenage son, Anthony, was joining us on the walk. He had a favorite Lizzie song, but wouldn't say which one.

"We don't have all day." The savage sea air had revived Ventnor and he tramped up the grassy slope to the edge of a white chalk cliff, as his wife drove away to cook a Christmas dinner of roast beef.

"Tennyson took his walk every day. He said it was worth six pence a pint," Anthony explained, as Lizzie and I reached the edge of the cliff.

"When will you English join the modern world?" Lizzie loved the metric system, since its math was easy for the workers. She was more than a punk.

A sudden gale off Watcombe Bay swept over the rim and Vonelli stood against its force. I could tell that she didn't like heights and held her close, as she used my body to shelter a light for her cigarette.

"Get back, you fool," shouted Lord Ventnor.

We descended to Freshwater Bay. A fox hunt party was gathering for "What Ho' before the pub.F

"The unspeakable chasing the uneatable." Lizzie was familiar with Oscar Wilde's description of The Hunt.

We set off again on the muddy trail. There was no sun in the sky. A raw surf rose over emerald kelp belts.

The previous summer I had swum at Brightstone. The ocean had been calm as a sedated clam.

"Now we are on the Military Trail. Once revenue gangs patrolled these cliffs for smugglers."

Anthony was at Lizzie's side.

"Wine from France. No tax." She was also an anarchist. "Or tobacco."

"Now drugs." Ventnor and Vonelli exchanged a knowing glance.

We tramped along the Military Road and the five of us shifted allegiances in companionship according to the pace.

A little before noon we arrived at Blackgang Chine.

A smugglers' tunnel funneled to the beach.

"Anyone claustrophobic?"

Lizzie plunged into the darkness.

I followed the cherry of her cigarette.

Wild waves crashed on the rocks to submerge the beach in a frothy surge of sea. Lizzie and I were alone and she said, "I think I like Vonelli."

"What's there not to like?"

Her definition of 'like' differed from mine.

We returned to the trail and the party turned inland from the Atlantic.

"You're not angry?" Lizzie stood an arm's distance from me.

"No." I had lost to the oddsmakers in Paris. "You have my blessing."

"Tonight?" She wasn't wasting time.

"You do what you want. It's my Christmas gift to you."

Lizzie kissed my cheek, then dashed up the trail.

Vonelli watched her approach. He shrugged his shoulders, as she passed him to join Lord Ventnor and his young son.

Vonelli waited for me.

"A rich industrialist built a 'folly' down in that valley."

I spotted a Roman ruin.

"What about you and Lizzie?"

"I can't explain it." Vonelli was contrite, but not sad.

"Boy meets girl is the simplest story in the world." Vonelli and Lizzie were Romeo and Juliette. "Have a Merry Christmas."

Ventnor's wife would accept the change in this evening's sleeping arrangement. Scandals were for the English. Not the French.

I lingered behind my friends and allowed them to walk out of view.

Losing Lizzie didn't seem like a loss, but it wasn't a win either.

And it wasn't anything in between either.

I walked a little faster and spotted Lord Ventnor's son.

I ran to Anthony.

"I think Vonelli has designs on Lizzie." The young teen was astute in the ways of love as would be expected from the son of Lord Ventnor.

"Cut me out like a bird dog."

"Bird dog."

"Barking at someone else's quail." I sang the chorus of the Everley Brother's BIRD DOG, then clapped Anthony on the shoulder. "It's no big deal. Lizzie and I are just friends."

Anthony was gracious enough to not question the truth of my statement and we sped up our pace.

The path was wet under foot.

We caught up with Ventnor and Vonelli.

"Where's Lizzie?"

"With my son."

"Watch out, Vonelli." My green light to Vonelli had given hope to the teenager. "This is a strange island for romance."

Vonelli was in his thirties. Anthony was a young man. The art dealer hurried to Lizzie. I heard her laughter. His jealousy must have seemed funny to the singer. Vonelli fell back.

"She told me not to worry."

"Then you've eliminated your rivals." I felt drops of rain. "They taught you well."

"They?" Vonelli was a specialist at being visibly perplexed by the simplest accusation.

"Your bosses in Washington." Ventnor smiled at his longtime friend's discomfort.

"You mean Langley." The Agency had a big building on the other side of the Potomac.

"I have no idea what you mean." Vonelli walked onto the grass.

The mud on the trail was too slippery to make good time.

a href="http://www.mangozeen.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/trip-18.jpg">

I knew that his ignorance was an act.

Ventnor too.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine."

"I have some special wine for dinner."

"Great." I had forgotten the date. "Hopefully a lot of special wine."

We had arrived at the end of the trail. Lord Ventnor's wife was waiting in the parking lot.

She looked at the new couple and then at me.

I shrugged with understanding.

It was a Gallic gesture.

Her smiling eyes promised me the best slice of roast beef.

And I couldn't have been happier.

I had no place to go other than to eat a good meal with friends.

Bob's wife cooked a feast. I filled myself to the brim and danced on the table to Lizzie singing FEVER. Everyone had a good laugh and while Lizzie and Vonelli might not last forever, I wished them luck.

We all drank to that.

After all there is no time for giving like Christmas.

Lord Ventnor aka Bob Souter passed away several years ago.

He remains alive in the hearts of his friends and family.

Lizzie also went to the other side of the Here-Before.

Her music survives in the Here-Now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHWYfzrv6G4

Or

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XoA_wLqBi7M&list=PL94A0E41CF1A30844

fotos by peter nolan smith

THE GIFT OF UNGIVING by Peter Nolan Smith

Most of my landlord's friends are married couples with kids. His wife and AP regularly invited them over to the Fort Greene Observatory for weekend lunches and evening drinks. I keep my distance from his guests, since my marital status is an enigma and after a few glasses I tend to recite a litany of my tales from around the world. AP and his wife have heard enough of these to last them a lifetime, so whenever I do join them at the kitchen table, I am mindful to only speak when spoken to. Silence is golden in children, but in older men reticence was a platinum hit to be rewarded with another glass of wine.

Last year AP, his wife and another couple were discussing their favorite toys.

"I would give anything to see my old toy boat." I had lost it in the early 60s. "It's probably in the Closet of Lost Things."

"What's that?" asked our neighbor's young wife.

"My 6th grade nun had comforted our sorrow over lost toys by saying that a closet of lost things awaited us in heaven." I had been too old to believe in miracles, but young enough to still expect miracles from the unknown.

"I have something like that in Chicago." The wife filled my glass with a clear Pinot Grigio. The woman was a doctor. Her husband worked for the NY Times. AP had smart friends. "Every Christmas my mother would put all the gifts under the tree. One each present had the contents written on the wrapping along with our names."

"Did your mother do that to keep you from opening the gifts?" I drank half the glass in one go. My kids were on the other side of the world. I missed them more than words could explain. This was going to be a sad Christmas.

"Let her tell the story." AP's wife scowled at my interruption with disapproval. In her eyes I would never change and she didn't want me to change too. We liked each other just the way we were.

"No, my mother wasn't that kind of woman. Christmas morning would come and she'd give out all the presents one by one. We had to read out our names and the contents. Halfway through the distribution she would give us a gift and then take it back saying, "You're not getting this one this year."

"No."

AP, his wife and I flabbergasted by this maternal Indian-giving. Her husband said nothing. They had been married over ten years.

"She'd take the gifts and put them in a closet with all the other gifts that she hadn't given us from previous Christmases."

"Did she say why?" AP's wife poured everyone some more wine. I had a thirst.

"No explanation. Just put them in the closet and locked the door."

"Were they empty?" AP was stunned by this admission.

"No, they felt like whatever she had written on the wrapping was inside the box."

"Wow." I was speechless until I sipped my wine. "And does your mother do that to your children?"

"The tradition lives on to this day."

"And your husbands don't say anything?" AP was looking at the NY Times editor. He was a big man in media.

"You don't mess with tradition." He must have tried to break the string of ungiven gifts without any success. Any man in his right mind would have tried to free the teddy bears and dolls. "Mother-in-laws are a world onto their own."

The three males at the table had at least one mother-in-law and we lifted our glasses to toast our wives' mothers. I excused myself from the gathering. It was morning in Thailand. My kids would be waking for school. Later in the day I would sent money for gifts. After all it was the season of giving and my toy boat had to be somewhere.

If not in this world, then the next.

AREA - NYC

Last month Area held a re-union party to celebrate the lives of the club-goers.

I skipped the event to babysit my landlord's two children.

Area wasn't really my scene.

I was living in Paris throughout its heyday.

The doorman Joe Breeze couldn't stand me, but the bouncers were part of my crew.

I entered without paying and drank for free.

I can't remember anything special happening there.

But most people can.

Both owners Eric Goode and Sean Hausman had a touch for fun.

Santa’s The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

And we all know who's been naughty without Santa shitting down the chimney.

At least I hope we do.

No More Santa

"Sorry, Virginia, there is no more Santa Claus." Parents will be sorely tested this December.

No money means no Santa Claus. Children crying, "Where are the reindeers?"

"They have been laid off due to the dire economic conditions."

"Same as the Detroit autoworkers?"

"Good boy." The parents will be glad that the home schooling is improving their children's intellect since the public schools have been shut due to no funds.

Sounds ominous?

Maybe it is.

But my sons and daughters still want a Christmas.

Who am I to tell them that there is no Santa, when they know Santa is me.

Richard's Ride

Back in the 90s I ran into Richard Hell in the West Village. He was getting into a purple Barracuda. Cynthia Sley from the Bush Tetras was wowed by the car.

Me too.

It was very cool.

Duck Dynasty Demise

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Why Then Matters

Several months ago I was at a party in Williamsburg. My tales of hitchhiking, bareback sex, and cocaine nightclubs mesmerized a clutch of true believers and a young girl holding a PBR asked, "When did then end?"

"Then?"

"Then." The question was shared her friends' inquisitive eyes. "There is nothing like then now."

"Nothing like it? You're young. You must have fun."

"Not like you did." Her words dripped of worship.

Not for me, but for time glazed by myth.

"Then ended in 1994 with the internet. It could come back, but you would have to give up your cellphones, cash cards, big screen TVs, and start living in collectives instead of paying $2400 a month to live alone." I was asking for a sacrifice which I wasn't willing to make.

They looked at each other and murmured, "Then."

"Yes, then." I joined them, because at their age I had a 'then' too.

TIME Man Of The Year 2013

I was baptized a Catholic.

I have been an atheist since the age of 8.

The scandals of Holy Roman Church has reinforced my decision over the years, however I like the new pope.

Francis I was once a nightclub bouncer in Buenos Aires.

I worked that job for over twenty years in New York, Paris, Hamburg, London, and LA.

Francis I is one of us.

I got his back.

He supports the poor.

"Human beings themselves are nowadays considered as consumer goods which can be used and thrown away. We have begun a throw away culture. This tendency is seen on the level of individuals and whole societies; and it is being promoted! In circumstances like these, solidarity, which is the treasure of the poor, is often considered counterproductive, opposed to the logic of finance and the economy. While the income of a minority is increasing exponentially, that of the majority is crumbling."

No pope has spoken like this in my lifetime.

None dared to challenge the rich.

Even the Pirnce of Rome knows the price of questioning the status quo. I know the cost of silence. Pacem in terris. Free the world.

Big Ears

The NSA has existed as an electronic intelligence organization since World War I. The Cipher Bureau sought to analysis the coded messages of the German High Command for the naval convoys seeking to evade U-boats in the North Atlantic. According to Wikipedia on July 5, 1917 the unit consisted of Herbert O. Yardley and two civilian clerks sitting in a townhouse on East 37th Street in New York City.

M-18 or the Black Chamber was disbanded in 1929 by the Secretary of State.

"Gentlemen do not read each other's mail."

The Communist threat changed the moral code.

American agents listened to everything with interest.

The NSA backed up the allegations of a North Vietnamese attack on the American destroyer USS Maddox during the Gulf of Tonkin incident as well as illegally wiretapped the phones of Senators Frank Church, Howard Baker, and Dr. Martin Luther King.

They learned nothing.

After 9/11 the NSA was given carte blanche to investigate the world.

Eric Snowden blew a whistle on the agency.

He gave his files to the Guardian.

We learned that the NSA listened to everyone. No one really cares about this intrusion of privacy. They have nothing to hide. Communications over the cellphone are bullshit judging from my eavesdropping on inane monologues of mobile phone users.

I regard them as victims or potential zombie food.

All their senses have collapsed into an atrophied coma.

See nothing.

Hear nothing.

Feel nothing.

Same as the NSA and the US Government.

No one can see the light when they stare into the darkness.

RICH BITCH Die Antwoord

I love Die Antwoord.

Happy Holidays from the Rich Bitch.

To listen to RICH BITCH, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bdeizHM9OU

John Water's 25 Days of Xmas

Day 1… Get naked and smoke.
Day 2… Ask a neighbor if they find it funny that every man in the neighborhood has a penis.
Day 3… Flash someone.
Day 4… Get your hair done.
Day 5….Go to a porn theater (or rent a porno movie)
Day 6… Whenever you hear someone say “shit” tell them you hate the brown word.
Day 7… Exclaim “What a day for an execution!” to strangers.
Day 8… Stomp on someones foot – laugh maniacally.
Day 9… Play “car accident.” (Be sure to have plenty of ketchup on hand.)
Day 10… Get a baby sitting job – throw wild destructive party. Trash everything.
Day 11… Admit to God that you are a whore.
Day 12… Tell your nephew (or other younger male relative) you’d be so happy if he turned nelly and found a nice beautician boyfriend.
Day 13… Seduce a bus driver.
Day 14… Refer to your daughter (or young female relative) as “that little MF”
Day 15… Write “I sniff jury underpants” (or other obscenity) in a bathroom stall.
Day 16… Have sloppy joes for dinner.
Day 17… Go to doctor and demand “a wang.”
Day 18… At the dinner table exclaim loudly “I’m so hungry I could eat cancer.”
Day 19… Tell someone that you’re a thief, a shit kicker and that you’d like to be famous.
Day 20… Condone first degree murder. Advocate cannibalism.
Day 21… Have sex with a midget in the back of a car.
Day 22… Be celibate for celluloid.
Day 23… Watch “Christmas Evil” with JW commentary.
Day 24… Send someone a bowel movement.
Bonus day – Return all your Christmas gifts for money because-”you can do that you know.”

Pagan Winter Solstice

2008

Today will be the winter solstice.

The shortest day of the year.

On December 21th I will wake at dawn and climb onto the roof of the Fort Green Observatory to bathe in the distant sun's light. The frost on my skin will the only human sacrifice within sight. After 30 seconds I will retreated to my bed and shivered myself to sleep for another half-hour before heading into Manhattan to work in the Diamond District.

Few people in the modern age and even fewer Christian realize that Christmas was lifted from the ancient pagans celebration of the winter solstice as the rebirth of the sun. This last chance to feast before the months of winter starvation coincided with the final stages of fermentation of wine and beer.

My friend the ex-model from Paris abhors Christmas as an orgy festival. Brigitte is a devout fundamentalist. The Bible is fact and she recently wrote on Facebook.

"Christmas is a disgusting pagan holiday that comes from Roman orgies where they would choose a scapegoat torture them by forcing them to eat and indulge in all sorts of excess and then brutally murder them."

She later added, "Some of the most depraved customs of the Saturnalia carnival were intentionally revived by the Catholic Church in 1466 when Pope Paul II, for the amusement of his Roman citizens, forced Jews to race naked through the streets of the city. An eyewitness account reported before they were to run, the Jews were richly fed, so as to make the race more difficult for them and at the same time more amusing for spectators."

Sounds like a good time had by all.

So happy solstice one and all.

I'll be drinking me some beer and not a little either.

Supreme Snow Lord

Last week North Korean leader Kim Jong-Un executed his uncle for treason. His crimes included not applauding his nephew with enthusiasm. Jang Song-Thaek was killed by a machine gun firing squad after the state media had declared that "despicable human scum Jang, who was worse than a dog, perpetrated thrice-cursed acts of treachery in betrayal of such profound trust and warmest paternal love shown by the party and the leader for him."

The execution was condemned by foreign governments.

"While we cannot independently verify this development, we have no reason to doubt the official KCNA report that Jang Song Thaek has been executed. If confirmed, this is another example of the extreme brutality of the North Korean regime." was the USA response without ant mention of a drone strike on a Yemen wedding party.

Meanwhile North Korea's Supreme Leader spent today touring the country's ski project at Masik Pass.

There are no ski lifts.

There is no snow.

North Korea has 5500 skiers out of 24 million people.

Even less people play hockey.

Kim Jong-Un is not one of them.

Opps - Wrong Email Address

My hometown south of Boston had ten churches, two temples, and seven traffic lights in 1960.

Milton was a dry town without a single bar within the boundaries of the trolley suburb.

My parents considered Milton a good place to raise kids.

People believed in God and America.

As an atheist and an anti-war radical I fled this town for Boston in 1970 to return only to visit my parents.

Only my older brother lives there now.

I travel north for holidays and keep explanations about my life in New York, Europe, and Asia to fifty words or less.

Some family members think I belong to the CIA, but my cover was blown by a sexually explicit email to a Pattaya friend attached to the address of a family friend.

I had asked my ex-babysitter to delete the email.

Being female Layla opened it instead and responded with vitriol, "What I read made me sick."

She was a true believer in God.

Whatever I wrote had nothing to do with perversity, because I have become a sexual square in my old age, however the passage must have been graphic and I apologized to her, especially since I had carried a decades-old torch for Layla.

"You are not who I thought you are. If you are in Boston for the holidays, it would be best if you didn't come to my sister's house for Christmas."

I was 'persona non grata, which is Latin for 'unwelcome'.

I have to be more careful about those emails in future.

Once more 'mea culpa' to my family friend.

That's Latin for 'sorry', which I learned it as an altar boy.

I looked pure in my cassock and surplice.

It was all a show.

Unlike my crush for Layla.

Peter O'Toole RIP

A great Irishman has joined the clans of the Connemara.

His name shall ring in the Seven Pins forever in the Here-To-Come.

O Toole.

To view a great bit from THE RULING CLASS, please go to the following URL

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

Nelson Mandela ad infinitum

Some people aren't scared to speak the truth and their voice lives on forever.

“If there is a country that has committed unspeakable atrocities in the world, it is the United States of America. They don’t care for human beings... If you look at those matters, you will come to the conclusion that the attitude of the United States of America is a threat to world peace.”

“Israel should withdraw from all the areas which it won from the Arabs in 1967, and in particular Israel should withdraw completely from the Golan Heights, from south Lebanon and from the West Bank... The UN took a strong stand against apartheid; and over the years, an international consensus was built, which helped to bring an end to this iniquitous system. But we know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians.”

“From its earliest days, the Cuban Revolution has also been a source of inspiration to all freedom-loving people. We admire the sacrifices of the Cuban people in maintaining their independence and sovereignty in the face of the vicious imperialist-orquestrated campaign to destroy the impressive gain made in the Cuban Revolution….Long live the Cuban Revolution. Long live comrade Fidel Castro.”

LITTLE AMERICA IN HOT WATER by Peter Nolan Smith

In September 1973 Nick and I stood on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley with a horde of other hippies flocking home after a California summer. Nick was headed to Oklahoma, where his BMW had been repaired after a crash in Tulsa. My destination was Boston to complete my final year of university.

I sat on my bag and surveyed a road map of the USA.

Our paths would separate either in Cheyenne or Denver and I pointed that out to Nick.

"Wyoming is one-third the way across the country." Nick glanced at the map and lit a cigarette.

"Looks a long way from here." No one was stopping for the hippies.

"We can crash in a hotel."

"I don't think so." Staying at a hotel tonight was out of my budget. "You want to lend me $50."

"Not right now." He had about $100. "But once we get to Tulsa, sure."

"Tulsa's out of my way."

"Not yet."

"You're right about that." I stuck out my thumb, hoping to get a ride coast to coast.

A battered Ford Maverick stopped at each set of hitchhikers. Each one shook their heads. A woman with long brown hair was behind the wheel. A young girl sat beside her. The small car was packed with bags. It rolled up to us and the driver said, "I'm going to Denver. I have space for one person. Either of you want to come with me? I need someone to help with the driving."

"Nick?"

The woman was attractive.

Her daughter looked scared of me.

"You want me to take the ride?" Nick's girlfriend was waiting in Tulsa. Vickie was a tall blonde. He didn't have to be anywhere for two weeks.

"Not really, I have to start school in four days. There's no way I'll make it, if I go to Tulsa."

"So you want to ditch me?"

"I only have $20." The cross-country trip took at least four days and $5 a day was starvation rations.

"Go. I'll see you in Boston." His smile was a green light and I threw my bag in the back seat of the Maverick.

The woman's name was Marilyn. She told me her story within ten minutes. Marilyn was leaving San Francisco, because her husband had joined the gay dance group THE COCKETTES.

"He's more a woman than me."

"Mommy didn't like his boyfriends." The daughter had seen too much for an eight year-old.

"We're going to see a friend, Dorothy, in Denver, then stay with her for a month before heading out to Boston."

"I'm from Boston." I had a cold-water apartment in Brighton's Bug Village. "If you need a place to crash, then you can crash with me."

"Cool." The daughter liked my hair.

We drove over the Sierras and crossed Nevada at the car's top speed of 92 MPH.

That night we stopped at a rest area in the Bonneville Salt Flats. A few semi-trailers were parked in the desolation. The salt pans stretching in every direction shone under a crescent moon.

Marilyn put her daughter in a sleeping bag, then took out a joint. We smoke the weed and admired the stars. Trucks

"Weren't you scared asking for someone to share the driving?" I traced Orion with my finger. The belt was easy to find in the cosmos.

"I was scared, but I spent the last two years with a man who didn't want to be with a woman, because he wanted to be a woman and ended up looking like Peggy Lipton."

"From MOD SQUAD." Everyone wanted her.

"Yes, and no one touched me in that time. San Francisco is going gay. They made me feel ugly. Am I ugly?" Her voice warned of tears.

"You're not ugly." Her face was kissed by the beauty of starlight and I touched her shoulder. I knew how gays treated women. The 1270 in Boston was my secret pleasure. The boys at that gay bar passed me off to the fag hags as 'on the fence'. I stroked Marilyn's neck. "You're beautiful."

"You're only saying that for one reason." She was thinking that reason was sex and shivered under my touch.

"Two reasons." I pushed her down on my sleeping bag and looked over to her daughter. She was dead asleep.

"Which are?" Marilyn hadn't resisted my slight show of force.

"That you want it as bad as me." I unbuttoned her shirt. Her nipples were hard. I licked them.

"More," she moaned under the blessing of the stars.

And I gave her more.

The next morning I woke with the sun rising over distant mountains. I pulled up my jeans and tapped her on the shoulder.

"It's time to go." Sleeping in the open wasn't safe.

"Give me a minute."

She got her daughter up. Marilyn understood the danger. We were in the Mormon lands.

Later that day we stopped at the truck stop in Little America Wyoming. Marilyn and her daughter went into the ladies showers.

The men's section was filled with truckers. Some of them were not straight. I stepped into a shower stall and turned on the hot water. It came out cold and then hosed my back with a scalding outburst.

I hit the wall like spam chucked from a catapult.

The man in the next stall asked, "Do you need any help?"

He was only wearing a smile and suds. His cock was enormous.

"None." I had been in a hot shower before and I knew that his smile was an invitation.

I exited from the showers without toweling dry.

"You ready to go?" Marilyn and her daughter were sucking down a milk shake.

"Whenever you were."

Cheyenne was only three hours away.

Marilyn dropped me on the highway.

"See you in Boston."

"See you then."

She drove south and I headed east.

I never expected to see her again.

As usual I was wrong.