Friday, January 31, 2014

WHAT IS HAPPINESS by Totie Fields

Totie Fields is a lost genius of Borscht Belt comedy.

I reincarnated her from the past this evening, finding a 1974 clip from the Mike Douglas Show on which she puts Gene Simmons from Kiss by saying after he denied being Jewish, "The hook don't lie."

See this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHTz3sJOqSQ

I then sought out more Totie Fields and found WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

Check out this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbjoFFlY2Tg

The big girl knew her stuff and acceding to Wikipedia Ed Sullivan gave Fields her first big break when he booked her on his show after seeing her perform at the Copacabana in New York. She made multiple appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show, The Mike Douglas Show, and The Merv Griffin Show, as well as a fifth season episode of Here's Lucy starring Lucille Ball.

In 1972, Fields wrote a humorous diet book titled I THINK I'LL START ON MONDAY: THE OFFICIAL I'll Start on Monday: 8½ OZ. MASHED POTATO DIET.

Laugh laugh laugh.

Black Ice

Yesterday smug northerners ridiculed the snowbound paralysis of Atlanta.

"There was only two inches of snow," sneered Jon Stewart of Comedy Central.

'Maybe we should airlift Maine drivers down to the South to teach them how to drive in winter conditions," joked a friend at Frank's Lounge.

My grandfather once said, "There are two seasons in Maine, the season of good sledding and the season of bad sledding."

No one south of the Swanee River ever entertained thoughts of good sledding or bad sledding, but it wasn't a question of snow.

The goal accumulation in Fulton County was from 2-5 inches.

The real problem was two-fold.

The mayor of Atlanta and the governor of the Peach Tree State advised their people not to worry.

"We have it covered."

And they might have, if the temperature at commuter departure time hadn't dropped to 7 degrees Fahrenheit, which froze the melting snow to black ice.

Black ice is a terror.

According to Wikipedia black ice, sometimes called clear ice, refers to a thin coating of glazed ice on a surface. While not truly black, it is virtually transparent, allowing black asphalt/macadam roadways or the surface below to be seen through it—hence the term "black ice".

Tires glide like hockey pucks on black ice.

In Atlanta, New York, Boston, or Montreal.

No one can drive on it.

Back in the winter 1974 I was hacking for Boston Cab to pay for my college tuition.

One frigid night I rounded the corner at the Christian Science Building to pick up a fare on Clearway Street. The rear of the Checker glided left and I corrected the veer with ease. The customer was waiting on the sidewalk at the end of the street. I rolled at a safe 5mph and tapped the brakes to stop, however the street was glazed by black ice and I passed the fare without losing speed. Directly in my path was a parked Boston Police cruiser in which sat two cops eating donuts. They saw my headlights. I pressed lightly on the brakes. The Checker slid into a slo-mo diagonal vector aimed at the driver's door.

Momentum took control and the cab stopped inches from the cop car.

My fare sat in the back.

The officers shook their head.

I shrugged an apology and drove the customer to the 1270 Club on Boylston without a scratch.

So I understand the Atlanta shutdown.

Southerners can't drive for shit in the snow.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Atlanta Driving School

The polar vortex stabbed south and wreaked havoc with traffic in Atlanta. The mayor should have called off school, because thousands of students were stranded by the storm. People down there don't know how to drive in snow. But they're going to learn.

Fire Fire Fire

It's cold outside.

23F.

Yesterday was even colder.

10F.

I wish I had a fireplace.

I dream of fires.

Fires of any kind.

And all that's left is ashes in the winter wind.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Christmas Tree Burning

When I was a kid in Maine, every family on Falmouth Foresides, Maine dragged their desiccated Christmas tree to the town dump. My father unloaded ours from the rear of the Ford station wagon and dumped it over the snowy bluff to join a score of orange spruce trees. My younger brother was a pyromaniac and Frunk lit a piece of paper on fire.

It floated afire into the pile of trees and the brittle needles caught blaze as if they had been sprayed with gasoline.

Whoosh.

All the adults and children gaped at the brilliant bonfire.

My brother stuck his hands in his pockets.

My father looked at him.

I almost said, "He did nothing.", but that sentence would have been an admission of guilt, so Frunk and I stared at the fire with admiration.

It was a sight that I've never seen before, but in Fort Greene there are countless piles of Christmas trees.

I do have a book of matches.

If only I had the nerve.

9th Floor by Jessica Dimmock

My friend Shannon Greer sent a link for THE NINETH FLOOR by Jessica Dimmock.

The site describes the series of photos as documenting a group of addicts who moved into the apartment of a former millionaire in a wealthy neighborhood in downtown Manhattan. Joe Smith, in his mid 60s, allowed a young addict to move into a spare bedroom in his large three-bedroom apartment in hopes of gaining rent. Several years later, a fully addicted Joe no longer had a bedroom and as many as 12 to 15 young addicts stayed at any given time. All electricity and hot water had been turned off and anything valuable had long been sold to feed habits.

This project documents the residents of this space leading up to their eviction and follows several of them after as they face jail and sickness, fight and love, attempt to get clean, sink deeper into addiction, go to jail, start families and struggle to survive.

This photo series doesn't pull any punches of a world without glamor.

I had lived through the 1970s. Every junkie in the East Village thought they were indestructible.

Youth dared death.

Heroin dared back so many times the winner.

Friends refused to believe a drug could be stronger than them.

They were proven wrong in so many way and THE NINETH FLOOR by Jessica Dimmock shows a world lost by the lost.

To view THE NINETH FLOOR please go to the following URL

http://viiphoto.com/articles/the-ninth-floor/

Boom Boom

Last night I heard a rumble from the river. The thunder sounded like a battle. I worried that the Canadians had attacked New York City. I called several friends living on the Hudson. The growling grew louder. Finally Rod Longprong answered his phone.

"I heard the same thing. It's fireworks."

"Fireworks for what?"

"For Super Bowl Weekend." I was thinking some rich banker's engagement party.

"Oh." I felt foolish about fearing an invasion, then again The Patriots weren't in the Game, so I could care less about the SuperBowl in the Meadowlands.

Broncos versus Seahawks.

I'm picking the Seahawks.

Anyone but Peyton Manning.

A SENSE OF LOSS by Peter Nolan Smith


American women are fairly unforgiving about adultery. If their husband cheats on them, they rape him for 50% of everything. American men cry about this loss of material goods, however Thai women react in the extreme to their mate's infidelity.

Back in 2008 I was sitting in a West Palm Beach Thai restaurant with my friend Lisa, who was berating my indecision about whether I should tell my wife about mia noi, with whom I was having a baby.

"I'm 9000 miles away from Thailand. Who knows when I'll be back?" I ordered a Singha beer from the patroness, a 50ish woman from Bangkok.

"You can't avoid the situation forever." Lisa was a single mom. Her husband hadn't dropped a dime on the upbringing of his son. She had a right to be angry at men. "You're going to have to tell them both."

"Not good idea," the restarurantowner said with a shaking head. "Thailand not America. Man tell wife he have mia noi. Wife cut off penis."

"Yes, cut off penis. Feed penis to ducks."

"Why ducks?" Lisa was acquainted with Japan, who are more like Swedes to the Thais.

"Feed to duck, because pigs not eat penis. Duck eat everything else, but not penis."

Lisa didn't believe her and I told the owner that I was keeping my mia noi a secret.

She smiled a blessing, since it was common knowledge that I was taking care of both families.

I barely had enough money to afford bad wine, but I had no intention of telling either wife anything.

Just recently a Belgian tourist had his penis mutilated by his jealous Thai girlfriend after he stupidly told her about having a 'geek' or girlfriend as she was fellating him. The doctors at Pattaya Memorial Hospital re-attached the organ. Police are seeking to arresting the woman on charges of aggravated assault.

The Thai Visa Forum was abuzz with the usual wankers castigating the Belgian for thinking he was a sex god. Their holier-than-thou attitude remains a sore on the Gulf of Siam. Maybe someday the killjoys will be rescue by Jesus and taken off this Earth for good.

That day can't come too soon.

Meanwhile all you infidels sleep with one eye open.

I know I will on my upcoming trip to Thailand.

Malay Ban on Smiling Pigs

This weekend The New York Times published a small fluff story about how Switzerland has banned ownership of one guinea pig since they suffer from loneliness. This law is very protective of porkers, however not everyone loves pigs. Seal Beach in Orange Country has banned household pigs, which was directed at the one pet-owner in possession of a 240-pound pig named Bubba.

“We’ve had numerous complaints from citizens in the area about it making a lot of noise and odor."

No one in the City Council mentioned the pollution from the many oil rigs dotting the ocean.

This summer the pig ban hit England with an edict against pictures of pigs, since they were considered offensive to Muslims and Malaysia has joined Lesser Britain by blacking out two pigs in the International New York Times.

"This is a Muslim country, so we covered the pigs' eyes," a New York Times worker told the AFP news agency. "We usually do that for the International New York Times - also for pictures of cigarettes, weapons, guns and nude pictures."

I spent a lot of time in Malaysia throughout the 1990s.

The Chinese restaurants in Penang offered lovely pork dishes.

The Muslims kept their distance, but I never saw one eating babi, which is Malay for pig.

It is very haram or forbidden.

The same goes for Seal Beach.

Pigs are out, unless they are human and Orange County has plenty of them and I bet they're good eating for cannibals.

John DeSilvia / Builder

Last week my good friend John DeSilvia appeared on Katie Couric showing her viewers how to save money when building a house.

Here's his bio:

John DeSilvia is a tough-as-nails Brooklyn native and a former union carpenter. A licensed contractor, “Johnny D” earned a degree from the Pratt Engineering School. After graduation he learned the ropes with two of the world’s leading construction firms, then took the plunge and opened his own company, Brooklyn's Design Tech, for which he’s currently working on a high-end, two family home in Brooklyn. On DIY Network's new Run My Renovation series, John leads renovations for 13 different homeowners whose design fate is left up to DIYNetwork.com users. In Under Construction he demolishes, builds, renovates and refurbishes projects all over the Big Apple. And watch him show real homeowners how to cut up to $10,000 from their renovation and remodeling projects on DIY Network's series 10 Grand in Your Hand. In 2010, John also serves as the host of television’s first-ever interactive home building series, Blog Cabin.

Here's his website.

http://www.johndesilvia.com

Monday, January 27, 2014

Page 45

A friend of mine wrote that if you pick up the book closest to you and open to page 45, then the first line will describe your life.

The Taschen John Lennon book was at hand and I opened the paperback to page 45.

"Foreign-made pornographic material." summed up my life in a nutshell, but then I am an open book and so was John Lennon.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

Playing With Fire

My young friends sometimes complain that these times are no fun.

Gwen O'Neils' comrades aren't like that.

To quote the band ART, "Our fun begins where other peoples' fun ends.

And they know how to play it safe too.

Notice the plastic cup filled with something.

Opps, I guess it was gasoline.

Burn baby burn.

Of course the best song for this is PLAY WITH FIRE.

Pyromania never goes out of fashion.

Fotos by Gwen O'Neill

To hear The Rolling Stones' Play With Fire, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HX3ZTRte6VI

Spam Appreciation

I get spam letters all the time.

Most are promoting viagra, baldness cures, penis enlargement, porno, or oxycontins.

There must be a tremendous market for those products in my demographics; white, male, 35-65, wanting to get fucked up.

Today this computer-generated comment appeared on mangozeen from an over-40 pregnancy counseling site.

"What I do not understood is in fact how you are now not actually much more neatly-appreciated than you might be now. You are very intelligent. You know therefore considerably relating to this subject, made me for my part consider it from a lot of various angles. Its like women and men are not involved unless it’s one thing to do with Girl gaga! Your individual stuffs outstanding. At all times care for it up!"

Not bad grammar and very appreciative of my efforts.

I could only hope that like the movie HER that my admirer was a nice succubus.

They are much easier to delete than a worm.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

OLD BROWNIE - BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

Yesterday was a quiet day on 47th Street. A winter snow was having its way with New York City. Snow piled up on the street. The porters had a hard time clearing the sidewalk and I was having difficulty looking busy. There was nothing to do.

No one came into the store.

No dealers, no gypsies, and no customers.

"I don't know I had you come in." Manny was at his desk. The 84 year-old had taken a taxi to work.

"Hlove is at the doctor and your son is stuck in Vermont." My work partner wasn't feeling well and Manny's son was trapped by snowdrifts in Stratton. Richie Boy was a better than good skier. "Of course we could close early and go home."

"You'd like that." Manny thought that I hadn't worked a day in my life, even though an eight-hour shift with him was like a week at a steel mill.

Heavy intensive labor like in A DAY IN THE LIFE OF IVAN DENISOVICH.

"Why not?" It was Two O'Clock. Everyone else was packing up early.

"Because we're the only store open. Something has to happen."

I looked out the window. The snow was pelting pedestrians.

"You're right, but don't bother me."

"Why should I disturb you from doing nothing?"

"My thoughts exactly." I was here. I actually wanted to make a sale. I needed money.

Same as Manny.

"The next customer is mine," claimed Manny.

"Not a chance. You can't even hear what anyone is saying."

Manny had lost his hearing aid at his favorite bar.

"I can hear fine."

"But only when you're in a foul mood."

Then he heard what he wanted.

"A hero. That's what I have. A fucking hero." Manny and I went back over thirty years. We could say what we wanted about each other. It was never personal, only on this day an hour passed without us saying a word to each other. Manny was talking on the phone to his girlfriend in Fort Lauderdale. It wasn't snowing in Florida.

Only Big Dave was in the exchange. The other stores had closed for the day. Commuting was going to be hell.

Luckily I only had to go to Brooklyn.

Around 4 the door opened for a woman in a down coat. She was nearing 50. Her face was red from the cold. She shook off the snow and approached our counter. Her brown hair was streaked with gray. I liked her green eyes. They said she was a good person.

Manny struggled to get up from his desk. His hip was shot and I beat him to the shot.

"Can I help you?" I was wearing a suit and tie with rubber boots.

No one could see them from the other side of the counter.

"Yes, I'm looking for a 5-carat diamond." She took off her gloves.

A small diamond ring was on her wedding finger. The band squeezed her flesh. I sized the stone for under a carat. She was looking for a long-overdue upgrade.

"I have a beauty in the window. A JSI1 for $65000."

"I don't want to spent that much."

"How much do you want to spend?" Diamonds were a commodity. Price was determined by cut, clarity, color, and cost.

"$5000."

"$5000?" exclaimed Manny. "There's no way you can buy a 5-carat diamond for that much money."

"I have one stone for that much, but it's really brown."

"We have a stone like that?"

"Yes." I knew everything that was in stock and recalled an ugly stone hiding like a troll in the safe.

"It's a five-carat brownie oblong-cut." There was no designation on the GIA charts for its color.

"What's its clarity?"

"XB."

"XB?" the woman and Manny asked at the same time.

"Yes, extremely bad." It looked like someone stuck a cigarette out in a cup of coffee, which froze overnight.

"I'll show you."

I went into the safe and pulled out the diamond ring.

It was dreck and Manny examined it, "If you had that much black in you, they'd take you to the hospital."

"What's your name?" I asked putting the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly.

"Marjorie."

"I don't mind selling this to you, but it would be wiser buying a smaller stone on better quality."

"Like a one-carat? I already have that. I want a 5-carat diamond." She pointed to the stone. "That's five, right?"

"Yes."

"And it cost $5000."

I checked the tag.

Manny had paid $4000 for it.

"It's yours.

"I wouldn't buy it," said Manny.

"Then how did it get in the safe?" Marjorie pulled out a wad of $100 bills. They were all new.

"I did someone a favor."

"And I'm doing this woman a favor." I warned him with a glare to shut up.

Manny might have been old, but he knew that getting that much money on a snowy day was close to a miracle.

After Marjorie left, Manny warned, "She'll be back."

He hated giving back money.

"Maybe." Manny had a funny way of being right and the next day Marjorie showed up with a bald man in tow.

Her companion looked very contrite.

"See, I told you." Manny was happy to be right.

"Don't be so sure."

She was wearing the ring, which was a good sign, and she introduced the man.

"This is my husband. We've been married for 25 years and for the last two years he's said he'd get me a 5-carat stone for our anniversary, didn't you, honey?"

"Yes." His voice belonged to a beaten man.

Manny minded his business and dug through his papers.

We weren't giving back the $5000.

"And?" I had to ask.

"Last night we had a party for our 25th anniversary and I showed everyone this diamond. "

"I haven't heard the end of it." The man was beyond misery.

"25 years and this is what you got your wife? And that was from his family."

I could only imagine what the in-laws said.

"So?"

"So my loving husband wants to buy me a 5-carat stone. What do you have that's really nice?"

The man looked at me for mercy.

I sold him the JSI1 for $78,000.

The man wrote a check to Manny.

My boss was pissed that I was right about selling a mitziah.

I pulled the woman aside and asked, "Does the first stone figure into the deal?"

"Not at all. I sort of like it, because it makes him look bad."

After concluding the deal the couple left and Manny came up to me.

"Well, that goes to prove one thing. All stones are beautiful, if you sell them."

As always Manny was right.

Yardstick Of Morality

My older brother theorized that the length of skirts determined the bellicosity of a nation.

Long skirts meant peace.

Short skirts signified war.

Men like to know for what they are fighting.

Women in the US Army too.

I'll wear short pants for any women in uniform.

Nurses too.

The Peace Of Zion

Israeli leader Ariel Sharon’s life spanned the history of his country.

He was born in Palestine and joined the Haganah at age 14 in 1942. The teenager fought during the partition of Palestine and later joined Unit 101, which specialized in cross-border raids and committed massacres in revenge for attacks by the fedayeen. Sharon fought in Israel's many wars and served in many government posts including Prime Minister. He stood for Zionism right and wrong, however in 2005 he evacuated Gaza.

Later that year he succumbed to a stroke and lived in a vegetative state until this month.

His death was mourned by the western media.

The Palestinian said nothing.

His troops had slaughtered Palestinian refugees in Gaza, the West Bank, Jordan, and Lebanon without mercy.

He never believed in peace and sought to ghettoize the Palestinians from the world and he succeeded in this endeavor in hopes of creating a Jewish state from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea.

While I understand Israeli opinion of Ariel Sharon as a protector of his people, they failed to comprehend the price of this esteem.

There can be no peace when you are constantly at war.

Someone has to recognize this.

On both sides.

( AFP/Getty Images / June 15, 1982 ) Ariel Sharon, right, as Israeli defense minister, rides with troops in June 1982 en route to East Beirut. Sharon had received Cabinet approval to thrust 25 miles into Lebanon, for a strike that was supposed to last two days, to thwart Palestinian rocket attacks on Israel. Instead, he instructed the army to drive all the way to Beirut, where it laid siege to Yasser Arafat and his forces for two months. The invasion drew international condemnation for the high number of civilian casualties.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Princess Pamela's Soul Food

My friend Emily Armstrong found a photo of 1969 Princess Pamela's Soul Food Cookbook.

She wrote the following:

"I was thinking smothered pork chops and remembered Princess Pamela's Little Kitchen near my first apartment on E 10th Street. You had to shout up from the street, "Hey Pamela!", and if she was in the mood she'd buzz you up to her apartment which was set up like a restaurant. She was terrifying, jazz musicians played there and the food was heavenly."

Princess Pamela had a well-deserved reputation for orneriness.

After ringing the buzzer, she checked you out and a woman in a white nurse's dress came to get you and walk you up to the restaurant that looked like it had been a railroad apartment. On a good night Pamela would drunkenly sing along with the jazz quartet. Their shining glory was a prominently displayed picture of Jackie Kennedy.

I lived across the street. My hillbilly girlfriend and I went a few times. Once we climbed the stairs. Princess Pamela took a look at us she said, "We're full."

I peeked inside.

There wasn't a soul in the room, but she said, "Come back tomorrow."

And we did.

I loved that place.

The food wasn't great, but she was really special.

Susan Hanneford tells a story about the place.

"When we went to Princess Pamela's, she was wearing a tight gold lame gown and had for a jazz combo to play for us. Unfortunately John Sex, who arranged this thing, didn't mention that we were renting out the whole restaurant. When we balked at the $300 bill for entertainment. She was more than ornery- she was down right scary. Luckily I had proceeds from Irving Plaza on my person to ransom us out. I thought the food was mediocre, but I had a Southern mother and this wasn't such a novelty to me."

Princess Pamela was a piece of work.

I couldn't find a single photo of her online.

A pianist wrote about playing there; "I accompanied a fat blues singer who would verbally abuse her yuppie clientele. I was fired for asking for a five dollar raise."

According to Potluck with Judy Princess Pamela was a philosopher as well as a cook, and each page of the cookbook is enlivened with one of her sayings: “One way to stop an argument is to fill a man’s mouth with good cookin’.” Or “Three things I find offensive—mean men, back-bitin’ women, and sloppy cookin’.” And “I prefer my meats firm but tender which goes for chicken, pork chops, and men.”

Another place disappeared from the fabric of the universe.

Of course no one remembers the name of the Chinese restaurant underneath Princess Pamela's, but they had an eleven-fingered delivery boy.

SAY IT LOUD, I'M BAD AND I'M PROUD

Martin Luther King Jr. was a great orator. His speech I HAVE A DREAM is recognized as a masterpiece of the spoken word. I know parts of it by heart.

Another voice for Civil Rights was the legendary James Brown.

His songs united blacks and whites, but the Godfather of Soul sang about pride and never better than his hit SAY IT LOUD, I'M BAD AND I'M PROUD.

Martin Luther King Jr. was super-bad and a champion of all, so today celebrate his life with love.

James Brown would want you too.

To hear SAY IT LOUD, I'M BAD AND I'M PROUD, please go to the following URL from PLAYBOY AFTER DARK

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKCsUWx-QoA

Thursday, January 16, 2014

CARDBOARD NOIR by Shannon Greer and Charlotta Janssen

Earl looked out the window. Grady's gang was out on the street. The mobster wanted his moll. Helen was safe in the hotel room. The shadows on Broadway offered too many endings to this story.

I hit the pavement running. My gat was good for one-on-one. I needed serious back-up to deal with a gang.

Grady's goon offered money for Helen. Helen wasn't anyone's dame. I blasted the gunsel with my chopper. Grady got the message.

Grady and I fought it out on Broadway. The crowd fled from the bullets. My .38 ran out of ammo. My brass knuckles cracked Grady's head. He went down like a bag of mashed potatoes.

Helen got in my car. She looked good behind the wheel. Grady's gang sought revenge. Helen drove fast. My chopper shot faster.

Helen and I were safe in another town. We weren't staying long. Grady wasn't dead and live men have a memory. Me too and Helen in a cheap hotel for a long weekend was one of them.

I loved these photo-paintings.

My friend wrote about CARDBOARD NOIR

After having so much fun collaborating with on our cardboard cutout story with kids, I thought it would be wonderful to do one with an adult. Taking our inspiration from Bogie and Bacall, we decide to do a noir story in cardboard. Although labor intensive, it was so fun to shoot it was easy to forget the long hours of creating our set pieces. At least it was for me — Charlotta might still hold a grudge. I hope the whole crew’s enjoyment collaborating on this project is reflected in the results of: “Cardboard Noir!”

Art: CHARLOTTA JANSSEN Model: BROCK GLOOR Styling: LIZ TEICH Grooming: SABRINA ROWE Digital Tech: ROBERT BREDVAD Production Assistants: EVA MARIE LANSBERRY, Paloma Lansberry Wardrobe Assistants: NICHOLAS ADEDOKUN and MORGAN LEYKAM Location: TEN TON STUDIO

SEE SHANNONGREER.COM

ps i provided the text

Fascinating Rhythm by Mel Tormé

Mel Torme was well-known for his smooth voice.

The VelvetFog was also an accomplished drummer.

ps the foto is Benny Goodman and Teddy Wilson accompanied by Mel Torme.

To see how good Mel was, please go to the following url

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORIz5cMZqR4

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Hermaprodite 1900

My friend Claudia Summers posted this photo of hermaphrodite on Facebook.

The pitch card dates back to the early 1900s.

The photographer is unknown.

I've met many transgender people throughout my travels in the USA, Europe, and Asia.

Never a hermaphrodite.

At least never one to my knowledge.

I am haunted by this anonymous beauty.

1900s.

I call her Lannee.

Someone has to know about her.

Trenchcoat And Bare Legs

Humphery Bogart immortalized the gaberdine trenchcoat in the 1942 film CASABLANCA. Millions of men have copied his style over the years with success, because a knee-length trench coat transformed most wearers into men and wowmne of mystery.

According to Wikipedia the trench coat offered an alternative to the heavy serge greatcoats worn by British and French soldiers in the First World War. Invention of the trench coat had been claimed by both Burberry and Aquascutum. I have one.

It is neither Burberry nor Aquascutum

I inherited the trenchcoat from my father.

It was made in Poland.

My friend Dave Henderson received a vintage Pierre Cardin trench coat for Christmas from his loving wife.

The vortex sculptor was very happy with this gift.

"I always wanted one."

This afternoon rain pelted my windows. I had to go out into the weather to buy some groceries and tried on my old man's trenchcoat without putting on my jeans. 42 was my size and I called Dave. He is over 50 and men over 50 answer their phones.

"It's raining and I thought of you. I'm wearing my trench coat without pants." I was lying on my bed.

"A flasher."

"Yes, and I was wondering if you wanted to join me? Nothing like flashing in stereo." Wearing underwear kept my crime of public indecency PG.

"I'm sure, but I think I'll give it a miss." Dave had gone to a Swiss high school. His father had been in the government. He never knew which one, but they wore trench coats in the 50s.

"Happy New Year."

"You too."

I hung up and went to the bathroom.

I have a full-length mirror.

My hairy legs looked good in a trenchcoat, even with high black sox.

I practiced opening my trench coat.

Fort Greene beware.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

SPEAKING WITH SEALS by Peter Nolan Smith

August turned hot in San Diego. Floe and I slept outdoors under the stars. Two sleeping bags served as our mattress and a single sheet covered our bodies throughout the night.

I told her everything.

After recounting the fight with the junkie thieves in Haight-Ashbury, she said,

“You scare me.”

“Why?” I was telling her the truth.

“I left home, because my father beat me. I thought I was possessed by Satan.” She didn’t explain why.

“Was he religious?”

“An Army chaplain.”

“I don’t believe in God.”

"But you have a violent streak.”

“I’m trying to leave it behind.” I held both her hands loosely. “You’re helping me.”

“I can’t be around violence.” This was a warning.

“I’ll never show you any.”

A soft kiss sealed our pact.

We woke to the morning mist melting off the flower fields around the bungalow. Floe and I made love with the dawn.

This heaven was meant to last forever.

Within two weeks forever ended with the last day of summer.

Our hostess’ aunt and uncle were coming home.

Helen said they were cool, but even cool people had a problem with strangers sleeping on their lawn, especially when one of them was only seventeen.

“Rockford wants to heads up to San Francisco.” Floe lay close.

“And do what?” Her friend was a wanderer.

“Play music on the street.”

“And live where?” I had passed through the Haight in June. The hippie era had been replaced by a blight of speed freaks.

“We know some people there. I’d like you to come.”

“I’d like to come too.” I offered another option. “Or you could come with me to Boston.”

“That’s so far away and cold. I don’t like the cold anymore.” She was a child of the sun. Her light brown skin had been toasted golden by the months on the beach. The sun had deposited blonde in her dark curly hair. She was a goddess in my eyes.

“It’s a nice city.” It was a half-truth.

I was white and she was black. Boston wasn’t nice to mixed couple, but I could protect her from any harm. I was half-Irish. My family came from Jamaica Plain. We took care of our own.

“Where would we live?” Her ‘we’ included Rockford. They were only friends, but she owed him for saving her from a bad scene.

“There are cheap houses in Mission Hill. Several hippie communes are in that neighborhood. I’ll drive cab at first and then teach school in October.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think I’m ready to settle down. Not on the East Coast.” California was stronger than her Texas blood.

“We don’t have to decide today.” I was a big believer in putting off the inevitable.

“No, we don’t,” she smiled and caressed my thigh. “Today’s the day. We’ll all trip today.”

“Mark is back?”

Rockford and she had been staying with a professor from San Diego State. His field of study was the effect of LSD on the human mind. The two of them were his guinea pigs. They got $20 a trip.

“With a new patch of LSD-25 from Sandoz.” The Swiss-made acid was the purest in the world.

“Then today is the day.” I pulled her on top of me. She liked it that way.

Afterward we joined the rest of the summer commune in the bungalow. Helen was making omelets.

“LSD is better on an empty stomach,” Rockford said, sipping at green tea.

“Not better.” Floe shook her head. “If your stomach is empty, then it takes half the time for the acid to hit.”

“Fastest with the mostest.” Rockford raised his cup of tea.

“Anyone else following Doctor Rockford’s path.” Helen held two plates in her hands. Vincent and Cuchillo loved her cooking.

“We’re in.”

“Me too.” AK was a hearty eater.

“I’m not tripping, so I’ll have a good breakfast.” Pam wasn’t jeopardizing her nursing career with an acid trip.

“Just toast for me.” I popped two slices in the toaster and turned to Floe, who said, “I’ll have the same as you.”

Rockford went over to the stereo and put on Tim Buckley’s HAPPY SAD.

“Timothy Leary said mind set was as important as setting. We have Moonlight Beach. A setting doesn’t get better than that and I love STRANGE FEELING.”

The opening song of the LP mirrored the atmosphere of an early morning in Southern California. We ate recapping old trips like a sports team preparing for a big game.

A little after ten Rockford rose to his feet.

“Enough talk. Let’s do it.”

We looked at each other. No one was bailing out and we exited from the bungalow. The sky was clearing up and the bouquet of mist off the flowers was a dream to our senses.

After piling into Cuchillo’s Mercedes convertible, Helen drove us down Encinitas Boulevard across the PCH to the bluff overlooking the beach.

Mark was standing in his front yard.

The lanky professor was wearing a seersucker suit. He introduced himself and wrote down our names in a journal.

“I want you to have a good time and don’t freak out if you see me writing down anything. It’s strictly for my research.”

“The CIA tested LSD on soldiers in the 50s.” AK was anti-Pentagon like the rest of us. The Vietnam War was almost over, but the government had been saying that it had been almost over since Nixon took office.

“I’m not with military. I’m more after opening the mind to other worlds.”

“Same as Aldous Huxley.” Looking at his suit I recalled Huxley grooving on the texture of his gray flannel suit. “Will you be tripping?”

“Not today.” He shut the journal. “But I like it. Now this young lady is studying nursing?”

“Yes.” Pam was going to enter her last year of nursing school in the fall.

“And you’re not tripping either?” Mark asked Helen.

“I like my world the way it is.”

“So it will be the five of you. Normally I would prefer you to stay in the house.”

“We want to be on the beach.” Rockford understood the end of the summer meant the break-up of our temporary commune. “I can handle the beach.”

“Swimming can be dangerous on LSD.”

“We’re all good swimmers other than Vincent,” I explained to Mark.

“I have no intentions of going in that ocean. I’ll be grooving on the beach.” The dancer loved the feel of the sand under his feet.

“I won’t stand in your way, but no one is climbing that cliff high. Understood.”

“Yes.” The five of us replied in unison.

The path to the beach was steep. No one wanted to end up in the hospital.

“Then here it is.” Mark handed us each a small slip of paper. “The dose will be 100 micrograms. Basically the same as a grain of sand. The trip should last about 8-10 hours. I’ll be there to help you through any rough moments, but this stuff is very pure. Happy trails.”

We looked at the small white blotters. Vince was first to go, then Cuchillo, Floe, Rockford, me, and lastly AK. Pam was looking at him with disapproval.

“No one has ever died from LSD,” he said after swallowing the tab.

“No, they’ve only gone crazy.” Pam was very straight about drugs.

The newspapers loved reporting stories of trippers staring in the sun for hours, losing their minds, hurting themselves, and crying for hours.

“RD Laing felt that most bad trips are a result of shaking off the trauma of birth, but there’s no proof of that or that anyone ever destroyed their cornea looking into the sun for hours.”

“Newsweek printed that story.” I had read it in 1968.

“And they reported that North Vietnamese patrol boats attacked a US navy destroyer in the Gulf of Tonkin.” AK distrusted any news other than baseball box scores.

“Bad trips do happen,” Mark admitted, but never on this LSD.

“I dropped it ten times this summer.” Rockford opened his hands and said, “And nothing bad ever happened to me.”

“This acid is pure.” Floe was another devotee.

“It’s your picnic.” Pam shrugged to AK. “I don’t want anyone to call me a ‘buzzkill’.”

“No one can say that about you.” AK kissed the blonde. She never nagged him about smoking pot.

“Now that’s out of the way.” Floe held out her tab to me.

I opened my mouth and she put the LSD on my tongue.

“Welcome to the New Church.”

I reciprocated in kind. Cuchillo and Victor put their tabs on their tongues and swapped them with a soul kiss. AK simply flicked his into his mouth.

Victor held out his hand.

Mark gave him another tab.

Victor offered it to Helen.

“Be with us.”

She couldn't refuse the man of her dreams and we applauded her joining the clan.

“I suggest we go to the beach by car.” Mark was playing it safe.

The LSD would take about an hour to hit, two hours to peak to a psychedelic plateau lasting till sunset and then the gradual return to reality.

“Fine with me.” I embraced Floe. She was a good feeling in my life.

Our group divided between Mark’s Saab and Cuchillo’s Mercedes convertible. We listened to Joni Mitchell on the short ride to the Moonlight Beach parking lot.

Weeks ago I had seen the two lesbians with whom I had spent a sordid weekend in Big Sur. They had been with Bill. The drifter and I had fought in San Francisco. He was bad news, but not seeing the girl’s pickup was a good thing and I opened my mind to the world.

Our troupe tramped down the beach to our driftwood shack.

Surfers greeted Mark with hugs and longhaired girls kisses him on the cheek. He was well-liked by everyone and this greeting warmed my heart with a fuzzy glow. We were all part of the great experiment.

“I love it here.” Floe unfolded our blanket. “But there are other places along the coast. I’d like to show you them.”

“I’ve seen Big Sur.”

“Not with me.” She stripped off her top, baring her breasts to the sun. Her body had no tan lines. “And I’m much nicer than those lesbian ax-murderers.”

“Please, no more mention of them.” I grimaced thinking about the three nights lost to their sexual mania. Nymphomania was a dream better left to fantasy.

“Sorry, I won’t bum you out.”

“You never could.” I pulled my shirt over my head and lay on the blanket.

AK and Rockford were respectively playing the African thumb piano and guitar. Floe picked up a tambourine and handed me a kazoo.

“Join us when you feel the mood.”

Moonlight Beach wasn’t a nude beach, but the high cliffs prevented any voyeurs a view of our camp and the police never came down this far from the parking lot. We were free.

Helen, Cuchillo, and Victor peeled down to the state of Adam and Eve. Pam joined them and for the first time I saw what everyone else saw in their mind’s eyes.

Pam possessed the ideal body to satisfy the desire of an American male and probably many females. Her breasts were soft handfuls of flesh tipped by rose nipples and her firm belly curved to an angel tuft of blonde pubic hair separating taut thighs and shapely calves. Even here feet were pretty.’

Her skin crawled with arcane etchings and the sun shadowed runes of lust.

“Stop staring.” Floe whispered without a hint of jealousy.

“I think I just got off.” I turned to Floe.

Her eyes shone a fluorescent green and I grinned with an ignorant understanding of the universe.

“Me too.” Her pupils had consumed her green irises with the hunger of a black hole. “Let’s go let the sea touch us.”

Floe and I rose from the blanket.

The wind off the ocean bore the scent of Arctic brine and the crashing surf revved with the thunder of a herd of Harley-Davidson.

All my other trips had been practice for this day.

A hand unbuttoned my jean shorts. It wasn’t mine.

“We don’t need clothes.” Floe was naked.

We had been sleeping together for almost a month.

“I never saw you before.”

“That’s because before you only looked.” She tugged off my jeans.

They fell to my knees and I kicked free of them.

I was naked.

Floe was naked.

All we wore was the wind.

“Now.”

We dove into the ocean.

It spoke every language of the sea.

I broke to surface and turned to watch my friends charging into the surf.

Millions of years ago we came from the sea.

Today we returned home.

The surfers shouted out a welcome.

Seals popped up their heads from the foam.

Pelicans skimmed the rims of waves.

“Are you feeling anything?” AK treaded water by my side.

“I’m feeling everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.” I was in contact with Alpha Centurai. The extraterrestrial Morse Code borrowed the bassline from Booker T and The MGS. The galaxy embraced the day and I told AK, “It will hit soon. Be prepared.”

“The Boy Scout motto.”

The sun’s dappled reflection prismed on AK’s face. I lost him in the kaleidoscope and swam to Floe.

She bobbed every surge. I joined her. The beach was getting distant.

“We’re caught in a riptide.”

She woke from the trance of eternity.

“Let’s get back to shore. It’s safer there.”

She shouted to Rockford who had been tugged farther out on the unseen stream. His eyes widened in acknowledgement of his situation and he skirted the undertow to a cresting wave. It took him closer to shore. Two seals accompanied him through the surf. Floe and I reached the beach and shook the sea from our flesh.

Beads of water hung in her hair like pearls waiting to melt in the sun.

I popped them between my thumb and index finger.

“My hands was made for this.”

The water rained on her face like tears.

Floe pulled my hands to her breasts. Her nipples were cherry pits after the swim in the cold sea. Goosebumps armored her flesh. My hands were bleached white from the Humboldt Current. Floe’s skin was the color of treasured dust.

We were one.

“Your hands were made for this.”

I couldn’t argue with her logic.

AK, Pam, Rockford, and Cuchillo straggled out of the surf like shipwreck survivors. The swell monstered to triple overhead were and the surfers fought the cruel sea with fearless determination.

Victor came to the water’s edge with eyes blinded to everything, but the young surfers.

“They are Gods.”

“They challenge the Gods.” I had read more Bullfinch’s Mythology than the Bible.

“You really are high.” Pam was right.

“But a nice high.” I kissed Floe.

Her smile fired my heart.

All the cracks melted from it.

“Floe, someone is happy to see you.” Victor pointed at my groin.

“It’s not a sexual erection, but a psychedelic erection.”

They all laughed and we danced up the sloping sand to our driftwood refuge. Helen and Victor were happy to see us.

“Welcome back to land.”

“We have returned from the sea.” Rockford picked up his guitar. He winked at me. “No Beatles.”

“Play what you want.” The LSD had washed away the rejection of a teenage girl in love with Paul McCartney.

AK and Rockford played songs from Monterrey Pop, Woodstock, and Altamont. They reincarnated the 60s.

We sang, we danced, we cried, and we touched the sky.

We stopped our revels, when a seal pup waddled onto the beach. He stared at us with big black eyes. I tried speaking in English and French.

He barked out a command.

I jumped back from his snarling teeth.

“What is he saying?”

“He’s saying the same thing every animal says.” Floe threw the pup an apple. He caught it with circus expertise. “He’s saying that he’s hungry. Sorry, seal, we don’t have any fish.”

The baby seal spit out the fruit and scampered into the surf.

Mark wrote down everything.

I went over to him and stared at his journal.

The words belonged to forgotten race.

“What do you feel?”

“Before everything and now the goodness of the day.” I hugged him. “Thanks.”

“Thank me later.” His smile was a child of the Summer of Love. “Your friends are already saying it.”

I turned my head.

Underneath the bluff Cuchillo, Helen, and Victor were locked in a menage-a-trois. Their three bodies shape-shifted between species and Floe bushwhacked me with a whisper.

“Leave them alone. Be with me.”

“Forever.” Seconds were paralyzed minutes and minutes expanded to hours.

I was peaking.

“Forget forever. I want you now.”

Our embrace carried us to the end of galaxy.

We held our course through the stars.

Our bodies formed a comet.

Its flight brought us back to now.

AK, Rockford and the rest were laughing hysterically.

Sand covered us from head to toe.

“Beach donuts.” Victor was burnt red from the sun.

My flesh felt torched.

Floe was hot to my touch.

At least none of us had stared into the sun.

It was dropping into the Pacific.

The tide was rising up the beach.

I was coming down.

“Home.”

I was exhausted and Floe said, “Not home, but not here.”

I knew where her was and also that I didn’t want this summer to end.

“You asked if I wanted to go north with you.”

“Yes.” Her eyes gleamed with expectation.

“I’m joining the circus.”

Floe threw her arms around me. I lifted her off her feet and we wheeled on the sand around and around until I set her down.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Questions are good answers on LSD.

We put on our clothes and headed for the parking lot.

Traces of the LSD flashed across the cliffs. The Mayans had carved images in the sand. I couldn’t read the hieroglyphics. No one else saw them, but as we approached our cars, Floe said, “Shit.”

I saw why.

Bill and the two lesbians were sitting in the back of the battered pickup truck. The drifter was wearing a leather vest and torn jeans. His beard was coming back. He looked like a deserter from Quantrill’s Legion ready to burn Kansas.

I had told Floe about the fight in the Haight.

She stepped closer to me.

Everyone had heard the story about Joey and Jill in Big Sur.

They stopped walking.

“Well, well.” Bill hopped from the flatbed.

The bruise from my punch had faded from his face.

“Fags, niggers, and Jews.” The southerner cracked his knuckles.

Joey and Jill recognized me.

“The redwoods.”

Their drug had been speed. It still was speed.

Bill licked his lips like a lizard.

Speed made him a brave man.

LSD made us vulnerable.

“When Joey and Jill told me about some guy they fucked in Big Sur, I thought maybe it was you. Then I thought I saw you at Black’s Beach, but Joey said you had a smaller penis, right, Joey?”

“Everyone is small compared to you.” Joey was in love.

Jill didn’t look happy.

She liked women, especially when the only man in their life was Bill.

“So fag boy, how’s fucking a nigger whore.”

I stepped forward with clenched fists.

“Don’t,” begged Floe.

My ears were blind.

Bill raised scarred knuckles.

This was one-on-one.

He bobbed and weaved with cunning.

It was Ali versus Sonny Liston.

I came from Maine.

We don’t believe in boxing.

I slipped a right under his guard and connected with his jaw.

For all this talk Bill was a pug.

He dropped on his ass.

“Do me a favor and keep your hole shut.” I turned to guide Floe past him.

She was running down the beach.

I chased her.

She ran faster.

Waves cut at her feet.

The tide was slapping against the cliff.

Voices shouted out warnings.

“Floe.”

A knee-deep surge knocked her down and sucked her into the ocean.

I grabbed her arm.

“Stay away from me.” She scrambled to her feet. “I told you I didn’t like violence. I told you more than once. I told you about my father. You’re no different than him.”

I had killed three days of Woodstock with a second of Altamont.

The surf swirled up to my thighs.

A path led up the bluff.

Surfers were shouting from above.

“Floe, we have to get out of here.”

I pointed to the cliff.

She snapped out of her trance.

We were in danger.

“Go.”

A wave thundered behind us. I pushed her up the trail. She reached back for me. The sea wanted an offering. I scratched my hands into the dirt and crabbed to safety.

A minute later we were on top of the bluff.

The surfers asked if we were okay.

Floe walked away down 3rd Street.

I wasn’t supposed to follow her.

“Floe.”

She became a shadow in the dusk.

I cried good-bye.

She never saw my tears.

This was a bummer.

“Floe.”

I raised my eyes to the night sky.

The moon rose in the east and meteorites scarred space.

“Floe.”

It was short for something and I knew that I would never know what that was.

I rubbed my knuckles and walked toward the PCH.

Alone.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Polar Vortex

In 1978 a historic blizzard blasted the East Coast. Boston was buried underneath three feet of snow. New York had two feet. Buffalo ceased to be a place of human habitation. We survived that storm.

The snow melted in the Spring and flowers bloomed in May.

No one is thinning about roses in America or Canada.

A polar vortex has descended across the continent.

Temperatures rival those in Antarctica.

-70 in International Falls.

Cold, but not close to absolute zero or −459.67° on the Fahrenheit scale.

This afternoon it was 10 degrees in Fort Greene.

I walked out of the house in my ski clothing.

My only exposure to the weather was my face.

The cold penetrated deep under my flesh.

Global Warming denialists crow about the cold weather.

The dunderheads must have never seen THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW.

Global warming is about extremes.

Extreme cold.

Extreme hot.

Extreme floods.

Extreme droughts.

Today 90% of the North American continent was below freezing.

i.e. Zero Celsius the point where water freezes to ice.

This evening I looked to the sky.

The stars shimmered in the cosmos.

I didn't notice any rapid movements of light, but I'm expecting the ETs to come back here pissed at our failure to maintain the terraforming of Earth.

Alien lizards do not like the cold.

I don't like the cold either.

I guess that comes from my alien genes.

We do like beer.

It's a universal trait.

Tongue To Metal

As a child I lived in maine, where winter was winter.

A good time for sledding.

At Pine Grove Primary School Skeeter Kearsy the school bully wanted to test the theory that if you put your tongue to metal it would stick there.

No one told him to stop.

He liked to beat up everyone.

Skeeter stuck out his tongue and then tried to step away from the fence.

He couldn't, because his tongue was stuck to the steel.

"Hellllfff me."

And we did by throwing snowballs at him until he was covered with snow.

Second graders knew how to take revenge.

MAINE 1959

Saturday, January 4, 2014

NORTHERN MAINE by Peter Nolan Smith

Scientists first warned the world about global warming with an 1975 article published in SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN.

‘Inadvertent climate modification’ sounded like gobbledygook to the common man, who was more terrified by the possibility of a ‘nuclear winter’ produced by an atomic bomb exchange between the USA and USSR and American oil producers pooh-bayed the National Academy of Science findings on atmospheric carbon increases in 1979 as fear-mongering.

That opinion didn't change through Ronald Reagan's presidency throughout most of the 1980s and ‘Global Warming’ wasn’t mentioned before Congress until 1988, although US politicians dependent of corporate contributions for re-election ignored the potential shift in climate patterns with the eagerness of a football fan asked to change the channel from the Superbowl to a PBS special on Ice Skating.

People had their head stuck in the past, because on December 25, 1990 Bing Crosby couldn’t have sung WHITE CHRISTMAS in New York, for the city's streets and sidewalks were bare of snow, sleet, slush. The unseasonable warm weather continued into the New Year of 1991 and thousands of Manhattanites flew south to celebrate the rebirth of Miami Beach.

I rejected the exodus to the reincarnated art-deco district east of US 1. Too many people who regarded themselves VIPs crowded Ocean Avenue for my tastes, plus I came from New England and wanted to see snow in the winter.

Two nights after New Year's Eve I shared this desire, Philippe, who ran a rock nightclub in the Meat Packing District. The longhair Englishman was equally put off by the Miami Beach’s transformation into an artistic mecca.

“Nothing worse for tradition than fashion people.” The thin Englishman was wearing a Yojii sweater and a slick leather jacket.

“They put it back on the map.”

"I preferred it lost."

"No one's gone to Miami Beach since the closing of the Jackie Gleason Show."

The big man knew how to have a good time.

“So what about doing the exact opposite of everyone and head north until we find snow?” I unfolded an old fishing map of Moosehead Lake in Maine. Earlier in the day I had phoned for the weather in Maine. The temperature was below freezing in Portland, the Kennebunk River was frozen solid, and snow was three feet deep in Fort Kent. “Winter is always winter up there.”

“How we get there?”

“I have a car in Boston. We drive up the coast to Bar Harbor and then swing inland hoping for the best.”

"My friend is making a film about ice-fishing up here."

Bill and I went back to 1978. He was famous now. His biker movie was my older brother's favorite.

"Do you know where he is?"

"Someplace off Route 1. Fish River Lake" There wasn't much up in Aroostook County off that road other than pine trees and frozen lakes. "We'll find him.

"And if you don't."

“Maine has the best lobster in the world.”

“Then count me in.” Philippe had a good appetite for a thin man and he ordered two tequilas from the bar. “North."

"As far was we can go."

We clinked glasses and downed our drinks.

Two days later an Amtrak train transported us from Penn Station to Boston.

My father met us at the 128 and drove us to my family home in the Blue Hills south of the city.

The grass behind our house was a withered yellow.

My mother was cooking beef stew in the kitchen. My aunt was helping her. Sally was a Maine native.

I looked at the thermometer outside the window. The dial was stuck on 35 F.

“Did you get any snow yet?”

“Not once.” She smiled at me. “You boys hungry?”

“For your stew? Always.” Her recipe had been passed down from my Irish grandmother. It was a good winter meal, even if the season was more like autumn.

“Smells delightful, m’am.” Phillipe had good manners.

“Let me show you our ride.” I led him downstairs.

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

“I only use it on weekends in the summer.” I told Philippe and we entered the den where my father was watching TV.

Even with six children in the back of a Ford station wagon my old man liked road trips and I asked, "You want to come with us?”

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

““I want to see Lake Manicouagan.”

Millions of years ago a five-kilometer meteor had struck the Laurentian Shield to create a circular impact crater.

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

“It has been a warm winter.”

“This time of year there is nothing warm north of the St. John’s River.”

The four-hundred mile stream served as the border between the USA and Canada.

“And that’s why were going there. To see winter and a friend, who's making a film about ice-fishing.”

"A movie about ice-fishing?" guffawed my father. "Can't think of anything more boring than looking at a hole in the ice."

"You're probably right, but I want to see winter."

"I understand," my mother commented from the top of the stairs. She also loved to travel, but said, "Time to eat. Are you hungry, Philippe?"

"Always."

We drank wine on the sun porch with my aunt Sally.

“Glad you like it.” My mother served Philippe a healthy portion of stew. “There's not muhc open up north this time of the year and you could use a little more weight on you.”

"Thank you."

Philippe ate with relish.

My mother smiled, for she liked a good eater as much as a young man with manners.

““You have lovely hair," my mother told Philippe, as he cleared the dishes.

“My son had long hair once," my father commented from his rocking chair. “He looked like a girl.”

“Couldn’t have been a pretty girl,” Philippe joked and both my parents laughed like he wasn’t off the mark. We told family stories for another two bottles of wine and they went to bed around 9.

I showed Philippe my younger brothers' room.

I had slept in the bed as a child.

“Have a good night’s sleep. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

I went to my bedroom and lay on the mattress to read Kenneth Roberts ARUNDEL, a forgotten novel about the failed invasion of Canada.

My eyes shut before I reached page 25.

In the morning my mother made us breakfast.

The sky was clear and the temperature had risen to 38.

“You won’t see snow until after Bangor.” My father put down the Boston Globe.

A blizzard had buried Northern Europe.

Scores were dead.

“We’re staying the first night in Camden and then north to waist-deep snow."

“A waste of time, but have a good time.” My parents walked Philippe and me into the garage. We loaded the car with our bags and I hugged my mother.

“Buy yourself a nice lobster at the Porthole in Portland. It’s a good restaurant.” She kissed my cheek and pressed $40 in my hand.

“Darn good,” my father added, for he loved Maine cooking as would as native from the Pine Tree State.

“We’ll lunch there.” I gave my mother a hug.

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

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

Getting out of Boston took the better part of an hour and I stayed on 95 as far as Portsmouth, then exited onto Route 1 to cross the old bridge over the Piscataqua River.

“It feels good to be here.”

Maine

“How long you live in Maine?”

“Only seven years in the 1950s, but this state will always be home. When I was young, the pine trees were tall and now they are taller.” I thought of falmouth Foresides, the aroma from the B&M bean factory, the stench of the S D Warren papermill, my grandmother's house on Main Street, Italian sandwiches, summering on Watchic Pond, and a good friend drowning in Lake Sebago. There were too many memories to recount to Philippe and I stepped on the gas.

Passing through York, Ogunuit, and Wells we listened to NEVERMIND. Nirvana sounded good on US 1, but there weren’t any patches of snow off the road.

“This isn’t looking good.” Philippe touched the window.

At least the glass was cold.

“We’ll see snow or else.”

Neither of us asked what 'what else' was, but we knew it wasn't Miami Beach

The Canadian border was seven hours from Portland, but we weren’t going that far today and stopped for lunch at the Port Hole. The poached cod was exquisite and the halibut tasted of the wild Atlantic. We would have lobster farther up the coast.

After a coffee we got back into the car and drove to Falmouth Foresides to see my old house. The harbor was at the end of the street.

I didn’t get out of the car.

“When I was a kid, my older brother and I jumped from the roof into the snow drifts.” The house was painted white same as it had been in 1960.

“You would break your legs doing that today.” The grass was as yellow as my parents’ backyard.

“My grandfather used to say there were two seasons in Maine; the season of good sledding and the season of bad sledding.” The doctor had driven a horse sled to make his winter rounds. I put the car in drive.

“He never mentioned anything about the season of no sledding.”

"That was never a problem back then."

Something was broke with the weather and I drove out of my old neighborhood, slowing while passing Chaney's house. His family didn't live there anymore.

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

"What if there's no snow."

“Better to be prepared.” He looked warm in his lambskin coat.

“More like cooked.” The temperature in Freeport was a sunny 40.

“It has to get cold sooner or later.” He stashed the jacket on the back seat and got in the front.

“The farther north we go the colder it will get.” I started the car with the window open. I like the fresh air.

“And then we’ll see snow.

“You can bet on it."

We off-tracked to Bailey's Island.

We stood on the pier.

There was no one in sight.

It was bitter cold and we jumped in the Cutlass to continue north on the old two-laner through Bath, Wicassett, and Thomaston.

Each coastal town held a story from my childhood and I told Philippe about Navy ships sliding into Kennebec River and showed him the forlorn schooners wallowing in the tidal mud flats of the Sheepscot River.

day was fading from the sky, we reached the frozen quarry before Thomaston.

The water at the bottom of the pit was rimmed with white.

"Snow."

"Yes, snow." We were finally getting someplace.

We arrived in Camden at dusk and booked a motel room overlooking the harbor. The picturesque seaside resort was asleep for the winter. A few boats waddled on the wake of a trawler getting a late start. The temperature was below freezing and hoar frost skated on the rocky harbor.

After settling in our rooms we walked outside.

Snow was falling and our breath hung on the night air.

“Getting cold.” He pulled on his parka.

“Just wait.” Maine had a lot more of north left in the state. “It will get colder.

We ate at a restaurant by the falls.

We ordered beers from the redheaded bartender in her late-twenties, The waitress promised that it was fresh. In Maine fresh meant an hour off the boat.

The waitress and bartender wore a flannel shirt and overalls. The other women in the bar looked like dykes to me.

“Is this the norm style for women up here?” Philippe lifted his head from his lobster.

“Firstly this isn’t up. This is Down East, but yes, everyone down here dressed for comfort."

"I can't tell the difference between the men or the women."

It's easy. Any woman in Maine is twice the man either of us will be.”

“So no pretty girls?”

“They leave here quick. When I was 8, I was in love with Cathy Burns. She was cute. I did everything to make her notice me.” I still had a picture of her from 2nd Grade at Pine Grove School.

“And she didn’t know you were alive?”

“She only had eyes for my friend, Chaney."

And where is she?"

I haven't seen her since the age of 8." She could have been any woman in the restaurant.

“Here's to Cathy.” Philippe poured more wine and lifted his glass. “And snow.”

We clinked glasses and I noticed the bartender eyeing Philippe like she wanted to be more than a friend. When he went to the men's room, she approached me and asked, "Has anyone told you that your girlfriend looks like Francoise Hardy?"

"The singer?" I had had a crush on the Yeh Yeh Girl ever since hearing LES PREMIERE BONHEURS DU JOURS on a Quebec City radio station.

"Yes."

""I don't see it, but maybe Charlotte Rampling."

"Yeah, I can see that too."

I didn't tell Philippe about her mistaking him for a woman.

After all wintertime was slim pickings for straight men and lesbians on the prowl.

I left them at the bar. A light snow was falling. Philippe would be happy to see that and I returned to the motel to read ARUNDEL.

The November march up the West Branch had been hell for the Revolutionary soldiers under Benedict Arnold, but I thanked that I was nice and warm under my blanket. On page 54 I mumbled 'Quebec' and fell into dreams about blizzards and Cathy Burns at age 39.

The next day the temperature hovered around freezing in the morning fog.

After breakfast I stood on the dock.

Philippe showed up twenty minutes later.

"How'd it go last night?

"That bartender kept on buying me drinks last night."

"She must have liked your accent."

"No, it was something else."

"And did you go back with her?"

"I walked her home, but she got weird when I told her my name was Phil."

"Old memories."

"I guess so." I didn't tell him about his resemblance to Francoise Hardy. "Let's get going."

To the right of US 1 ice crept into the sea. We stopped at Lincolnville. The Pound was closed until summer.

"When are we going to have lobster?" Philippe shivered blowing into his hands.

"In Bar Harbor. We'll get there for dinner."

We took our time driving up the coast. There wasn't much snow on the ground, but we passed some buffalo in a pasture. They didn't look cold.

"I bet they make great coats."

"I bet they do, but as a kid I had a caribou parka from my next-door neighbor. Her father had discovered the North Pole. Nothing warmer than that."

"Marie had been good friends with my grandmother."

"Didn't Peary have an Eskimo wife?"

"Yes, but no one ever spoke about Ahlikahsingwah or her child."

"But you know her name, so someone must have said something."

"Maybe I read it someplace." I couldn't recollect how I knew Ahlikahsingwah's name and we headed north on the empty US 1.

Snow accumulated on the sides of the road and we listened to Tom Rush's URGE FOR GOING.

His version of Joni Mitchell's hit was a good road song.

We reached Bar Harbor mid-afternoon and booked a cheap motel room. We were the only guests.

After unloading our bags Philippe and I headed over the Shell Beach.

The polar air was crisp as a potato chip.

Small waves rippled onto the snowless beach.

“This was the first time that I had been cold this year.”

Philippe was happy in his sheepskin jacket.

“It will get colder soon enough.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Only because it’s true.”

I pointed out the massive Beehive rising from the marsh.

"In the summer bears harvest blueberries from atop that rock."

"And now?"

"They're waiting for the snow."

"Just like us."

That evening we ate lobsters.

Philippe and I were the only two diners.

No one was drinking at the bar.

“What you boys doing here?” The hefty blonde bartender looked like she had spent the summer gorging on salmon.

“Trying to find snow,” Philippe said before sipping his beer.

“It’s been Christly warm this year.” She was missing a front tooth. “You’re Outta Stata, ain’t you?”

“I am, but my friend is from Portland.” Philippe pointed to me.

Out the window snow was drifting into the harbor.

"Where?"

“Falmouth Foresides.” I didn’t tell her that I had been born in Boston. To Mainers foreign birth excluded any inclusion to being a Mainer and there was nothing worse than being a Masshole.

“That’s almost Outta Stata, but I ain’t got nuttin’ ‘gainst flatlanders. Name’s Billy.” She proved that by cuffing the next round.

We reciprocated with tequila shots for Billy and the skinny waitress called Shirley. Her nose was as crooked as a moose antler, but she had a nice smile and I pushed my short hair into shape.

After three more shots Shirley started to look like Audrey Hepburn, which I mentioned to Philippe.

He laughed at my attempted seduction.

“She's no Audrey Hepburn.”

“Maybe Cathy Burns.” Skinny was better than big in my book.

I sucked the meat out of the lobster's knuckles and joked with Shirley.

“She's uglier than sin.” Philippe had eaten every morsel of lobster and his shirt was stained by butter.

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

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

Billie was starting to look like Dollie Parton and I called Shirley Cathy twice.

Philippe paid the bill.

“Thanks, but we have a lot of road to hit tomorrow.” Philippe shook his head.

“You remember me when you’re on your death bed and you’ll think, “Maybe I should of.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You boys have a good time up north, it’ll get nippy up in the willy-wacks.” The fat bartender winked, as if she knew a secret.

"Willywacks?" The expression stumped the Englishman.

"The sticks." Down East possessed its own language.

“Thanks for the warning.”

The bartender went to the kitchen to join the males of the staff.

A cook and dishwasher.

"Thanks for killing my night."

“You were only leading her on.”

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

“Not according to tradition.” I watched the skinny girl, who was talking to the chef. He looked, as if he thought he was going to get lucky tonight.

I started for the kitchen.

"Where you going?'

"To try my luck." I wasn’t expected it to go anywhere further than holding hands and tossed down my last drink. I was catching a good buzz.

"Not tonight."

Philippe dragged me out of the restaurant before I could do something stupid.

"You're a real downer."

"You'll thank me in the morning."

"Hard tellin' not knowin'."

A million stars traversed the clear sky and my breath was the only cloud in the air.

The stiff wind breezed off the harbor.

My bare fingers were cramped by the cold, which was a good sign. We were getting north.

Philippe dragged me out of the restaurant before I could do something stupid. A million stars traversed the clear sky and my breath was the only cloud in the air. The temperature had to be in the 20s. My bare fingers were cramped by the cold on the walk to the hotel. It was a good sign. We were getting north.

Back at the hotel I sat in the old-fashioned telephone booth and looked for a Cathy Burns in the phonebook.

There were none in Bar Harbor and in my bed I dreamed of BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY, which was better than freezing in ARUDNEL'S plains of Quebec.

"You talked a lot in your sleep," commented Philippe after breakfast in the car.

We were leaving the coast.

"I was someplace else." I didn't feel like sharing Audrey Hepburn's nakedness with him. "Someplace good."

"And what about snow?"

It's coming." I could feel it in my bones.

Throughout the morning we traversed the barren potato fields of Aroostock County. A few battered pick-up trucks sped south and burned houses bore the sign of a general migration south. Northern Maine wasn't South Beach.

The snow cover was thin past Dover Junction, but the gray skies didn’t renege on their promise of snow. Thick flakes clotted the air. The highway was plated by the tire-trampled residue of a recent blizzard.

"Are we going to see your friend."

Bill had given me the name of the hunting lodge serving as their base for the movie.

"Yes." And we turned west of US 1. The Cutlass slid over the icy road several miles to a snowed-in fishing lodge. We stopped at the office surrounded by chest-deep drifts and the owner laughed when I asked if I could see Bill.

"They're out on Fish River Lake. Only way to get there is by snowmobile. I wouldn't suggest it. Tonight's gonna be a cold one."

I didn't like missing Bill and John, but the owner was right. The night would be deadly cold and we got back in the Cutlass to continue north.

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

“It works.”

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

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

“Tomorrow we’ll drive to the St. Lawrence and catch a ferry to the other side.” Icebreakers kept the seaway open for shipping throughout the winter.

“We can reach Manicouagan Lake in two days and maybe make Newfoundland. It’s no Miami Beach.””

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

“Why not? Winter will only get more winter farther north and French-Canadian girls are very attractive.”

In my youth the sexiest girls at Old Orchard Beach were vacationeers from Quebec City, who looked like either Brigitte Bardot or Francoise Hardy.

“I don’t doubt it, but I have a visa problem.”

He avoided eye contact.

“What kind?”

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

“How long?” Mexicans were called ‘wetbacks’.

“Two years.”

“Damn.” We were 673 miles from Manhattan.

I had been dreaming of standing on the shores of Manicouagan Lake for years and grabbed Philippe's arm.

There's always walking."

"In this weather?"

"Yes. Put on your coat.”

“It’s cold," Philippe protested without conviction.

“This is northern Maine. Of course it’s cold.” I forced Philippe to walk up US 1 onto the snow-covered steel truss bridge. The wind off the frozen river was ten degrees south of zero and Philippe’s long hair whipped across his face.

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

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

“They have good food in Canada.” I appealed to his weakness for good food. Fort Kent has only got doughy pizza and greasy burgers. And there’s a great French restaurant in Clair. The Resto 120.”

Fine cuisine was a specialty of the lost tribe of France and the restaurant had been recommended by the motel manager. Her last name was Quellette.

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

“Really?” Philippe licked his lips.


““And like I said French-Canadian girls are cute. I dated one in Paris. 1989.” Gabby had been too beautiful for my own good.

“Prettier than Cathy Burns?”

“Much prettier, so?"

The Londoner shook his head.

“I can’t risk it.”

“What’s the risk? On the way back you can hide in the trunk. It’s heated.”

If the technique worked for millions of wetbacks from Mexico, running a snowback over the Canadian border couldn’t be too much trouble at a sleepy border crossing.

“No way.” His nose was reddening from the cold wind.

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

“It’s either that or a greasy burger.”

“Sorry.” He walked away from my grasp.

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

“You can come back in the summer.”

“I have no idea where I will be in the summer, you damn limey. I'll tell you a story. Chaney and I had vowed never to go swimming unless we were together. I moved to Boston and a week later he drowned in Sebago Lake. I've always thought that like my mother said about me being her eyes that I would be Chaney's eyes, which is why I want to go so bad.

"Sorry."

"Me too, but I understand about not wanting to risk deportation."

Philippe liked living in New York."

“Burgers and fries tonight are on me.” Philippe scurried through the deepeningsnow to the nearest bar. Neon signs FOOD and LABATT BEER flashed in its window. I stared across the icy river with disappointment and then joined Philippe in the Moose Inn, which had a pool table, jukebox, and wooden bar with draft beer.

Giant moose antlers hung from the ceiling.

Philippe took off his hat and his hair fell to his shoulders.

The loggers, snowmobile sledders, and the state road crew in the bar were wearing theirs long too and I couldn’t tell the difference between the men and women.

“Fuck the Resto 120.” There were no pommes persillade on the Moose Inn’s menu. I threw my watch cap on the bar. "We're here and I'm drinking to Chaney tonight."

My first round was a Labatt draft and a shot of Canadian rye whiskey.

Labatt's promoted beer at hockey games on TV. The first pint went down in less than thirty seconds. The second took two minutes. The third lasted almost a quarter of an hour.

We watched the Canadians played the Bruins. Theirs was a longtime rivalry. We ordered burgers and fries. My fifth beer washed down the hockey puck of a paddy and the sixth soaked up the sodden fries. At least I was warm and the cover band was playing GIMME SHELTER.

A storm was due in two days, so everyone was getting buzzed tonight. The dancing raised the room temperature.

The crowd cheered when the bartender stripped off his shirt. I bought drinks for the road crew. Philippe played DJ on the Jukebox. The crowd danced to LOUIE LOUIE. I was nearing forty. He was only twenty. Cathy Burns was my age, but in my mind she was still pretty. I wondered if she was here.

A bearded young drunk tapped my shoulder.

“What?” I clenched my fists for a fight.

“My name’s Rick.” The twenty-year old man had a cross-eyed squint.

“Please to meet you.”

“I was wonderin’ if I dance with your date?”

“My date?” I was confused for a few seconds, then glanced over my shoulder at Philippe.

“She’s better looking than any of the other girls in this town. Heck, she's the prettiest girl in Northern Maine.” Rick lit a cigarette with a match, which flared over a calloused thumb. The townie didn’t register any pain and said with a dull vice, “Girls around here weigh as much as moose in a peatbog. I like them skinny."

"Me too."

"So you don't mind?”

“Be my guest.” The Englander’s illegality in America had halted my exploration of the North and I smiled, saying, “But just a dance is just a dance with the prettiest girl in Northern Maine.”

“That’s savage good of you.” The townie staggered off to Philippe.

His mouth mouthed ‘you wanna dance’.

I put down my beer before I spit it out laughing and the bare-chested bartender asked why.

I told him about Rick's mistake and he had a good laugh too.

The Brit came back to the bar and picked up his beer.

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

“And you said no?”

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

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

“And what did you say?”

“I gave him the green light. Let’s face it, you have to be the prettiest girl in Northern Maine by a long shot.” I figured that we were even.

“Thanks.”

“Did he offer to buy you a drink?”

“Yes.” Philippe had said the magic word.

“So go get us a round for Cheney, Thelma.” I went over to the jukebox and dropped two quarters to play KC and the Sunshine Band and Nirvana. They were good dancing songs.

"Fuck you, Louise." Philippe gave me the finger.

I returned the favor, for I was ready to party along the St. Johns.

Visiting the meteor lake was for another day or season.

I ordered tequilas and everyone laughed about Rick’s mistaking Philippe for a woman. The logger bought another round and announced, “I’m not gay.”

“Only blind.” I tossed down the tequila.

“Being blind helps when you’re mating with swamp donkeys.”

They laughed even louder, because swamp donkeys are tough to run down in any season.

“Drunk too for mating with a moose like you," a fortyish woman with a nice smile shouted an inch from my ear. She had a nice smile. “But not the prettiest girl in Northern Maine.

She pointed to Philippe, who was dancing with a cute fat woman with a glowing red face. She was happy to have a stranger in her arms and I squinted to see if she was Cathy Bates. There was no resemblance and I returned to my beer.

None of the woman at the Moose Bar asked me to dance.

I wasn’t their type, but I was good with that, because Fort Kent’s dead of winter was 2200 miles from Miami Beach and I didn’t see anything wrong with humming WHITE CHRISTMAS to Nirvana.

Tonight promised that tomorrow would dawn on a good day for sledding, both for me and the prettiest girl in Northern Maine.

Fotos by peter Nolan Smith and others.