Bebe Buell YOU BET I WOULD

She was a muse to rock gods.

I saw her at CBGBs.

I was nothing to the November 1974 Playmate of the Month.

And I'm nothing today too.

Voila le beauté du punk.

In Defense of Spike Lee

An Abraham Lincoln lookalike visited Fort Greene on President's Day to promote Quicken Loans. They promo team was offering $25 to put a photo of the ersatz Abe and #quickenloans on your Facebook page. I tried on my cellphone without success. The young girl gave me a card for trying and I was to have the extra money, which I used at the Latino liquor store to purchase two bottles of wine for $10.

Some things never change.

Spike Lee doesn't feel the same way about Fort Greene with good reason.

At a speech at Pratt Institute the film director attacked gentrification as an invasion of uncool white motherfuckers who call the police to quiet his jazz playing father and white couples bogarting Fort Greene like it was their birth right.

He's actually very funny about how realtors changed Bushwick to East Williamsburg, why there's more police protection and better schools.

This telling of the truth was met with anger by the newcomers and Uncle Tims like John McWhorter of Time Magazine without any mention of economic cleansing of Harlem, the Lower East Side, the East Village, and Brooklyn.

Spike Lee was speaking about reverse migration and affordable housing.

"Where are we going to go?"

"People can not afford to live here anymore."

I know the story.

I was moved out of my place on East 10th Street.

I had lived there almost thirty years.

They and we know who they are don't want us here.

In Russia they call it a pogram.

'They' want the poor, minorities, and the disenfranchised to leave without a forwarding address.

Well, we ain't going right yet and I applaud Spike Lee telling the truth.

It has to be said and said by 'us'.

Not them.

To see Spike Lee's speech at Pratt Institute please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GI73SRbi8AQ

Never-Ending Winter

Never-Ending Winter

Last night I went to sleep at on the top floor of the Fort Greene Observatory. I was wearing a cotton night gown and my cover was a double blanket. The cold seeped through the windows and a little past 3am I woke to a chill. The outside temperature was wavering in the teens. This winter was breaking records all across America.

I got up and grabbed a Hudson Point blanket from the closet. The Haida Indians of the tundra called them Baahlaads gyaa'adaay. The wool covers were valued trade items for fur, because they were easier to sew than a bison skin.

It was warm.

I fell asleep dreaming of Thailand and my kids.

I woke to a cold dawn.

Winter wasn't leaving any time soon.

Fotos by Gwen O'Neill

Gerard Depardieu GOING PLACES

In 1978 I saw the French road film LES VALSEUSES or GOING PLACES at the St. Mark's Cinema. The Bernard Blier movie about two thugs blissfully wandering through France was a Gallic counterbalance to the other feature on the double bill EASY RIDER. Gerard Depardieu's comic talent complimented the late Patrick Dewaeare and I kept my eyes peeled for future endeavors.

I was tantalized by his tough guy performance in the expose into the world of S&M MAITRESSE. I watched Singapore girls cry during his interpretation of CYRANO and he won US acclaim for his acting in GREEN CARD.

Depardieu was excoriated for having admitted to raping a girl in his youth, however he continued to churn out films at a rate of 3-8 a year.

Prolific and also very huge.

In 2012 he moved to Belgium to avoid French taxes on the rich and after governmental criticism he handed back his passport. The next year Boris Putin granted him Russian citizenship and the actor blithely attacked the opponents of the ex-KGB officer, but Depardieu returned to France in 2014.

Once a froggie, always a froggie.

Once a thug, always a thug.

To see LES VALSEUSES, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrr8UVK0AzU

Extinct Slush

Yesterday the New York temperature was in the 50s.

Dirty snow clung to the sidewalks. Ice refused to melt, but the slush was gone.

It got cold again today.

And the forecast for Wednesday is for more snow.

This winter keeps coming.

And the slush now extinct will flow again.

Pete Seeger Bridge

According to Wikipedia the Hudson River was known as Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk by the Iroquois and Muhheakantuck or 'river that flows both ways' by the Lenape tribe. The tidal estuary was a great passageway into the interior and provided fish and shellfish in great abundance. Back in the 70s my friend James Spicer cooked shad roe in season. None of us knew at that time how badly PCPs and other contaimenants, however the late folk singer Pete Seeger helped organize the Hudson River Sloop Clearwater to teach people how to respect the Great North River.

Recently proponents of a cleaner river have suggested that the new bridge spanning the Tappan Zee be named after Pete Seeger.

Personally I like the idea, but wish that the old ferry was brought back for the future.

Ferries are cool.

House On Fire

One night back in 1971 my friend and I were returning from a Sha-Na-Na concert in Boston. Mark was driving along the Jamaica Way and after rounding the circle at the entrance to Arnold's Arboretum he sped up toward Forest Hills. Both of us were digging Jimi Hendrix's HOUSE BURNING DOWN, then Mark exclaimed, "Man, look at that."

A house was ablaze atop a hill.

There were no fire trucks in sight.

"Let's check this out." Mark exited from the Arborway and headed toward the conflagration.

We got out of the car and shouted out, "Is anyone in there?"

The house looked abandoned, but Mark wanted to make sure.

"Where you going?" I asked, because the flames were spreading down from the top floor.

"Making sure no one is in there." Mark stepped onto the porch, lifting his arm to shield himself from the heat. He backed away and I smelled that the fire had singed his jacket. We heard no screams and smelled no burning flesh.

"No one's in there."

We heard the sirens of fire trucks.

"Let's go." Mark trotted back to his car. He was holding weed. "If the cops come, they'll think we set it."

"They like neat stories."

We left the scene of our non-crime in the direction of Forest Hills Station. Concannon And Sennet was a bar beneath the elevated tracks. Beers cost twenty-fire cents and nothing quenched the taste of fire like a beer for a teenager.

To watch Hendrix's HOUSE BURNING DOWN, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGyjcfR-dlY

Work For Less

A friend of mine works at an editor for Harper Collins in the UK. Her division has suffered another downsizing, despite the book publishers reporting a 33% increase in the last quarter in 2013. More earnings means less workers and less books. One day no one will be working anywhere. I'm not working today, so I'm writing without a care in the world. Tomorrow will be another story.

ROLLER-SKATE BLONDE You Bet I Would

A blonde in a one-piece bathing suit with high white sox and roller-skates.

Ah, the good things in Life.

They were simple back in the 1970s.

EAST RIVER FERRY

I like the view from the Pulaski Bridge.

No one could tell that the Newtown Creek was a major pollution site, especially with the sailboats tied up on the Queens side of that cursed inlet.

I coasted down the bridge and bicycled to the ferry landing on the East River.

The shore line was lipped by collapsed slabs of concrete.

People were fishing on the abandoned wharf to the north.

The Manhattan ferry was late.

I waited patiently in the sun.

After the ferry arrived I rode my bike to the ramp.

I paid a young girl $5 for the trip to Manhattan.

She seemed to like her job.

It was more pleasant than working on the subway.

The ferry cruised upstream to Long Island City past desolate lots of land.

The real estate boom would eat them up soon enough.

A verdant forest lined the river.

I expected wild animals lived there.

They were probably all feral cats and rabid dogs.

There was no sign of man.

Once trains ran to the river.

A ferry transported them to New Jersey.

Today the tracks lay rusting in the river.

The 14th Street power station dominated the southern vista.

Two minutes later I landed at 34th Street.

I bicycled north to 47th Street.

The ferry was the only way to go.

WEIRD WOMB at Shea Stadium

Dakota and Johnny are bartenders at the 169 Lounge on East Broadway. They treated me like a prince, because I have the last quaaludes on Earth. Dakota wants one bad.

"If you give me one, you'll never have to pay for a drink in this bar." Dakota came from Arizona. He was less than half my age. The longhaired guitarist thought his doing a lude could be a significant dent in the Tragic 2000s.

I showed him the jar.

1974 Rorers.

"What about if I let you touch the bottle?" 'Ludes were extinct, but I took the jar out of my pocket.

"Let me see." David Hustle was my drinking companion. We went back to back when 'ludes were $5 at Danceteria.

"Not a chance." I shook my head. "What about you, Dakota?"

I dangled the bottle in front of his eyes.

"I'm not a pervert." Dakota pulled a can of 'Gansett from the beer cooler. "One pill. All the drinks you want for the rest of your life."

"I'll think about it."

"Ha, I told you he wouldn't give you one." Johnny played in the same band as Dakota.

Weird Womb.

"I might." I couldn't think of a good reason, then again a friend of mine had boosted one in Thailand, so there were only two in this jar. The secret stash of the other two jars was in Staten Island and I wasn't saying where.

"What if I let you sing on stage with us?"

"When?" I thought I had a good voice.

"Thursday night. The 20th at Shea Stadium. The bar not the baseball field."

"You're not seriously thinking about letting him sing?" David groaned in disbelief.

"I have a good voice."

"Only because you don't have to listen to it."

"Ha, ha." I did think I had a good voice and told Dakota, "I'll see you at Shea Stadium."

"Bring the ludes with you."

"And a gun." The Rorers weren't safe in a crowd.

"You really are evil," David commented with a sneer. He had hated me as a bouncer at Hurrah. I was meaner than a shave rattlesnake in those years, but we had outlived most of our friends, so it was him and me for better or worse.

With or without the 'ludes.

To see WEIRD WOMB tonight, go to Shea Stadium at 20 Meadow Street in Brooklyn. The nearest subway of Grand Street on the L.

To hear PALE PISS by Weird Womb, please go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6G-0rXELQd0

Olympic Boycott

The Sochi Olympics are nearing its final days. I have watched no live events in accord with a personal ban against Russia's hardline against homosexuality and free speech. Putin has instituted draconian measures against any protests. Yesterday Cossacks attacked members of Pussy Riot with whips. They were dragged down to the police station and thankfully released after several hours.

As much as I love hockey, I have missed the USA's epic shoot-out win against Russia and tomorrow I'll shunned the gold medal match between the USA and Canada.

A boycott is a boycott and I'm in it to the end, unless it's close in the 3rd period, then my love for hockey will win over the boycott.

Being a Gemini I'm very gifted at being a hypocrite.

Haoui Haoui

Twenty years ago I called Hauoi from Singapore. He had been sick for a long time and told me of his plans.

"I'm going to get drugged up and OD watching THE SIMPSONS."

"Sounds good to me." Suicide was one course left to him.

I loved Bart, but I asked if he could wait until I was with him.

"How long?"

"Three weeks."

"Sorry, I'll be gone."

"I understand."

We had seen too many friends fade under the waste.

"I'll leave you my Paul Smith suit."

"The one that looks like it belonged to a carnival barker."

"You know the one."

Only too well.

To this day I take that suit out in public.

Surprised that I could fit into it.

Mssr. Montauk wasn't my size, but he was my friend. He knew what was what. And that suit was it.

Snow Now Haiku

New England forest in the snow. White going gray. The light going white.

Foto by Aleta Wolfe

LONGPRONG

One night at the Privilege in Paris I was talking to a Vogue cover girl and said, "My friend really likes you."

"Vonelli?"

"Yes." The bearded art dealer made me laugh and I like that in anyone.

"Not a chance." Brigitte was nicknamed Cruella. She had broken many hearts, but I was immune to her allure. We lived together on the Ile St. Louis. If I fell victim to her succubi, I would be living under a bridge by the Seine.

"That's too bad." My girlfriend was a 16 yo Puerto Rican/French model.

"Why?"

"Because Alan has the biggest penis I've ever seen on a white man."

"Really?"

"A real long prong."

Five minutes later the two of them left the disco as a testament to the power of words quenching desire.

I heard them at it that night and many more.

Neither of them ever mentioned my claim about the Vonelli organ.

As I said I was a good wingman.

Both for women and men.

You Bet I Would Mummy Mummy Hot Legs

Son Of God

From this still from the movie SONG OF GOD I assumed Jesus of Nazareth was waterboarded in the River Jordan by his cousin Yoḥanan ha-mmaṭbil or John The baptist.

A friend in Miami suggested that everyone see this film about the Messiah.

It's cold in New York.

Miami is 73 this evening.

I told Mario, "Buy me a flight tix to Miami and I'll go to SON OF GOD."

The Bible-Thumpers are offering free admission to the theater.

Every atheist knows how to say prayers for a free ride and the experience of eternity.

I looked for an answer from Mario.

He said he liked the idea, but sent no flight info.

I guess I'll catch SON OF GOD on a rerun.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

17 On

Pale sky, golden moon, purple horizon, blue waves and a road at dusk

17 on = a haiku.

I cheated with the photo, however there is no greater expression than what we see when we cease to not see.

This is a real haiku.

Basho's OLD POND

17th Century

at the age old pond a frog leaps into water a deep resonance

This haiku is a venerated Japanese classic according to my backup memory WIKIPEDIA.

I'm partial to his 1685 offering

another year is gone a traveler's shade on my head, straw sandals at my feet

The Beauty of Pure Math.

HANDS OF BRICK by Peter Nolan Smith on Kindle

HANDS OF BRICK a a three-story collection of the game of hoops.

Hockey and baseball have long been New England's two favorite sports, since they offered outdoor entertainment to young boys in the seasons of good sledding and bad sledding. Our gods played in Fenway Park and the Boston Garden, but one night a radio announcer's raspy voice introduced the world of basketball and Johnny Most sunk his hook deep.

"And Havlicek stole the ball."

I loved the Celtics, but my lack of offense skill prevented my playing on the schoolyard, until I hit New York City to discover that defense was my forte. After that revelation I became a fixture in Tompkins Square Park. My teammates called me 'The Brick' for my horrid shooting and ferocious defense against taller player.

I played all the time and on the court forgot everything about the world other than playing ball.

When I was happy, I played basketball. When I was sad, I played basketball. When I was hung-over, I played basketball. When I was broken-hearted, I played basketball. When I was alone, I played basketball. It was a game for all occasions.

I still shoot at the DeKalb playground and the ball feels good in my hands, although its hitting the rim like a brick outnumbers my 'all-net' shots by an incalculable number.

Three stories about my basketball jones and the people with whom I played hoops.

They are my friends forever.

Same goes for the game.

To purchase HANDS OF BRICK for $.99, please visit this Kindle Url

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BQFHCM2

Michele Savoia MIA

According to WNBC Manhattan fashion designer Michele Savoia has been missing since early Friday after last being seen inside a nightclub, police said.

NYPD reported that Michele Savoia, 55, was last seen inside the club Marquee on 10th Avenue in Chelsea at around 2:30 a.m. Friday.

Michele Savoia, who is 6 feet tall and has tattoos covering much of his body, was reported missing by his driver.

I know Michele from Arthur Weinstian, the late nightclub impresario. He was good people.

Friends have said that he had not shown up for appointments on Thursday and Friday. One went over the Hudson to check on Michele's boat. The tarp, which usually covered the entrance, was not in place.

Police divers checked the river without discovering Michele's body.

I hope for a miracle.

Anyone with information about Savoia's whereabouts is asked to call Crime Stoppers at 1-800-577-TIPS (8477).

Incommunicato

This past month I had been trying to sell a 1.25 diamond to a young tech lawyer. Phoning him was impossible and he didn't return texts, however he was very prompt with response to emails.

"No one speaks on the phone anymore." I wrote him and Gene responded, "Super old people use payphones/landlines, old people use Cell phones/voicemail/email, and young cool people: texting, social media."

"You forgot about ESP. That's for really super cool people. Can you read my mind?"

"No."

"I can read yours."

"What am I thinking?"

The answer was easy.

"_____________"

Blank as the fallen snow.

DEMO DERBY REDUX by Peter Nolan Smith

Last August I weekended in Montauk with Richie Boy. As we left his bungalow off Ditch Plains, the diamond dealer handed me the keys to his Mercedes SUV.

"You drive into the city." The two of us had had a long night at the Liar's Bar in Montauk.

"You sure you want me to drive." I was in no better shape than him. "I mean this is an $80,000 car."

"Don't smash it up." Richie Boy had newly-born twins waiting at home. He needed the sleep and he crashed out before we reached Easthampton.

Traffic accordianed through the various beach community. All the weekenders were heading back to New York

Approaching the Long Island Expressway my cellphone rang. It was Red Deb. My longtime friend lived with her family in the North Country beyond Albany. We hadn't spoken in months and I pulled over to stop on the shoulder.

"How's it up on the edge of civilization?"

Her town had a one blinking red light, a hunter's bar, a diner, and three churches for a population of a little over 400.

"Quiet."

She quickly explained about wanting to purchases a diamond wedding.

"I can hook you up."

There was a loud roaring in the background like a buzz saw.

"What's that noise?"

"I'm at the Columbia County Demo Derby."

"Demo Derby?" ABC's Wide World of Sports featured Demo Derbies on Saturday. Drag Racing too. "I haven't been to a demo Derby since 1969."

"That's 40 years ago."

"A long time."

"Yep." Deb came from Westchester County, but liked country. She was friends with Merle Haggard.

"Any Jap cars in the derby?"

"None."

"Any Hummers?"

"Just pieces of shit."

"My last time I went to the Demo Derby was in Norwood Arena." The race track was outside Boston. Drag racing, dirt track, and demo derbies. A boy's dreamland. "I was there with my schoolmates. Six of us in Dave Quann's Cougar. Another boy from my hometown, Joe Tully, was also at the arena. He had driven his family's station wagon. So had we. His was a Chevy with a 327 engine. Ours was a Ford. Neither were built for racing. We drank beers for the first couple of heats, then noticed Joe wasn't around. None of us thought much about it, until the next heat was announced and Joe drove out in his family station wagon. His friends and mine gave him a standing O. The checkered flag was waved to the competitors and Dave's car circled the arena. He was broadsided by two car on his fort time through the figure 8. We died laughing. Everyone had to fit in Dave Quann's Cougar. Joe was sent to military school after that. Went to Viet-Nam in 1971. Came back and married the prettiest girl in town. He still tells the story about the demo derby. We all laugh at it too."

"Men will be boys." Deb knew what men were. Her son's name was Earl.

"And proud of it too." My son's name is Fenway.

Like the park.

I hung up the phone and stepped on the gas.

The LIE was not Norwood Arena and Richie Boy's car was not a wreck, but all I could hear were the words.

Gentlemen, start your motors.

I didn't have to be told twice.

BAD BOY DRIVING by Peter Nolan Smith

In the fall of 1973 my college comrade Paul Deseret and I worked at the Hi-Hat Lounge in Brighton. The pay for busboys wasn't much, but the girls were young, the drinks were cheap, and we could sell quaaludes and mescaline at the bar. Neither of them were the best available in Boston, but we were always in supply, so the bands playing at the bars on Commonwealth Avenue came to see us before and after gigs. I sold LSD to AeroSmith and they invited us to their show at BU. They weren’t big, but the band attracted co-eds from every university within 25 miles.

Twenty minutes before the concert I announced that it was time to go.

“Can you drive?” Paul hesitated before getting my VW bug for the ride to BU.

“Of course I can drive.” I had been driving since I was 16 and only had 7 accidents. Most of them weren’t my fault. At least the way I told it.

"Are you sure?" Paul didn’t trust me behind the wheel. We had hitchhiked across America in 1971. A carload of drunks had begged me to drive their Riviera from Reno to San Francisco. Paul had sat in the back, while I had pretended to be Dean Moriaty and drank warm whiskey driving through the Sierras.

"I'm cool." Our three friends were yelling for him not to be such a pussy.

"Just don't drive crazy." Paul sat in the front with me. He turned on WMEX. The DJ was playing LAYLA. The boys in the back seat sang along with the Derek and the Dominos' song.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Peter buckled up his seat belt. No one in 1971 wore one. We had all seen too many films where the passengers burn in their cars, thanks to a defective seat belt.

"I'm fine." Something about his question bothered me and I said, "And to show you how fine I'm, I'll run every red light to Kenmore Square."

“Don’t do that.” Paul's hand pulled on the door to get out, but I rammed the stickshift into first, then second, and finally third. "Like I said I'm cool."

Paul shouted to 'slow down'. while my other passengers cheered me on, then again they weren't in the suicide seat.

I blew the light at the BU dorms and then another by the Boston Club. The traffic was light, however the Charles River Bridge was a much busier intersection.

“Don’t.” Everyone cried out with good reason with wide eyes.

A Ford Mustang was speeding through a yellow light.

I swerved to the right, but a little too late to avoid tapping the back of a Mustang. I braked to a screeching halt.

"We're alive," one of the passengers in the rear sighed of relief.

“Asshole.” Peter was pissed at me.

“Are you hurt?” The buzz from the 'lude was temporarily stalled by the rush of a near-death experience.

“No.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and got of the car.

"Sorry." I realized too late what an asshole I had been for endangering his life.

"Save your sorry." He pointed to the Mustang. It was stuck in the intersection. The driver was checking the damage to his rear.

"Shit." I joined Paul outside and examined the damage to both vehicles. My fender was bent. Maybe $200 worth, but the Mustang bore a major dent. Maybe $1000, which was a lot of money. The driver took one look at me and then keeled over and puked on the sidewalk. He wiped his mouth and said, “Sorry, for running that light. Are you okay?”

The drunk thought the crash was his fault and he offered money to pay for the damages. His Mustang had a few more dents from fender benders. "I don't want any trouble with my insurance company."

"No worries." I took a hundred and twenty dollars. Paul shook his head and grabbed my keys. "I'm driving."

"That's a good idea."

"It was better five minutes ago."

"Better now than never."

Paul drove to the concert like a nun.

"You're still an asshole."

Paul wasn't going to forgive me soon. The concert was fantastic. We brought two coeds back to the Hi-Hat. I bought everyone drinks. After two beers we laughed about the crash and Paul called me, “Boston’s worst driver.”

Maybe I was that evening, but then again I had competition.

I don't drive drunk no more. That was best left for the era of drunk driving hours. The cars were made of steel and drink was really drink, plus there weren't so many cars.

Ah, the memories.

Steve McQueen Wanted Dead Or Alive

Steve McQueen achieved national recognition for his role as Josh Randall in the TV western WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. The King of Cool parlayed his anti-hero persona in this series to win a lead in THE GREAT ESCAPE, which catapulted his name into the bright lights of Hollywood.

His portrayal of a rebel sold well to the youth of America, however McQueen was a staunch republican, who strongly supported the war in Vietnam.

His conservative politics clashed with his riotous behavior leading to a 1972 arrest for driving while intoxicated in Anchorage, Alaska. McQueen was supposedly drinking on 4th Avenue, the city's toughest neighborhood and decided to do donuts in his rented Oldsmobile for the crowd of drunks, miners, hunters, and whores. The police stopped his antics and he responded to their request for a sobriety test by somersaulting down the street.

His audience applauded his exploits. They booed the police for arresting the entertainment. McQueen spent the night in jail.

It took a lot of get arrested for DWI back in 1972.

In the morning he paid bail and flew to California.

An arrest for Steve McQueen remained open until his death.

The star of BULLITT was a happy arrestee and flashed the peace sign for his mug shot, proving once more the veracity of Tom Wolfe's quote.

"A liberal is a conservative who has been arrested."

How true. How true.

Steve McQueen How Cool

Steve McQueen was the coolest movie star ever.

Sean Connery and Clint Eastwood are living icons, but Steve was the champion of cool.

Dead or alive.

As a child my brothers, sisters, and I attended Our Lady of the Foothills south of Boston. The parochial grammar school heavily tressed the Four Rs of reading, 'riting, 'rithmetic, and religion to repress any possibility of independent thought. Once a year Mother Superior picked a film to show the eight grades. We sat throughTHE SOUND OF MUSIC, HEAVEN KNOWS MR. ALLISON, and THE NUN STORY my first three years at the yellow brick school. The nuns hated anything that didn't have to with God, but in 1964 Sister Mary Josef announced over the loudspeaker that this year's movie would be THE GREAT ESCAPE.

My best friend, Chuckie Manzi and I looked at each other with puzzlement. We had seen THE GREAT ESCAPE four times at the Mattapan Oriental. The plot of hundreds of British POWs breaking out of the German stalag was devoid of any mention of the Holy Trinity, the Blessed Virgin, or the Pope. Mother Superior's choice of blockbuster hit had nothing to do with celebrating the freedom of the human spirit.

None of us had free will, if we didn't believe in God.

We discussed the rationale behind her choice for days. Not even the upper class kids could decipher the harridan principal's decision and on the day of THE GREAT ESCAPE's screening we filed into the assembly hall with trepidation. Something was not right. The movie began with the Luftwaffe commander telling the British officers, "There will be no escapes."

Instantly every student in the hall realized that we were the prisoners and the black-clad nuns were the Nazis. Stalag Luft III was constructed to hold the worst of the worst; thieves, counterfeiters, tunnelers and more, but when Steven McQueen aka Captain Virgil Hilts entered the movie, we applauded 'the Cooler King' as if he were the Messiah. Even more shocking was that the nuns refrained from restraining our enthusiasm.

I looked over my shoulder. The sixteen nuns were standing together and their eyes swam with adoration. The brides of Jesus had lost their hearts to Steve McQueen.

He was that cool.

See ON ANY SUNDAY. The 1971 Bruce Brown film features Steve McQueen with Mert Lawwill and Malcolm Smith. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEvUbBByqQA

This movie along with BULLITT, THE GETAWAY, and THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN cemented his status as the cool one for all eternity.

Brad Pitt is good, but he'll never be Steve McQueen.

Last time I was in England, I told the hair stylist in the small town, "Cut my hair like Steve McQueen."

And she did her best.

I always wanted a hair cut like his.

Also see PAPILLION. His acting steamrollered over Dustin Hoffman.

In THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN he was told by the producers that he couldn’t stand before Yul Brenner. McQueen accepted that edict, but in every scene he’s the only one moving while Yul Brenner talks.

Several years back his Persol sunglasses sold at auction for $70,000.

The glasses came from THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR.

Super Cool.

McQueen was always cool enough to admit his friend Bud Ekins did that stunt over the barbed wire in THE GREAT ESCAPE.

Cool people are cool enough to share in their coolness.

Steve McQueen - the king of cool.

American Cool

This week the AMERICAN COOL photo exhibition opened at the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery.

Cool reserve was a specialty of the British upper-class, however true coolness originated with the Yoruba concept of Itutu, which according to Wikipedia is a combination of gentleness, generosity and grace coupled with the ability to defuse fights and disputes. The slave trade imported this aesthetic to the South of the New World with the downbeaten chattel of the plantations carrying themselves with a dignity unknown to the whip-wielding masters.

Saxist Lester Young is credited with coining the modern meaning of cool.

"Don't lose you cool."

For me as a young boy in the late-1950s cool was a land populated by bikers, outlaws, and rebels fighting the system without betraying their honor.

Martin Luther King was cool.

Steve McQueen was cool.

Robert Mitchum was cool.

The 'American Cool' exhibition has included these three icons in the pantheon of cool.

I agree with many of the cool, but not all;

In the Roots of Cool section I concur with the choices of Fred Astaire, Bix Beiderbecke, Louise Brooks, Duke Kahanamoku, Zora Neale Hurston, Walt Whitman, Bert Williams, Georgia O’Keeffe, Jack Johnson, Buster Keaton, Willie “The Lion” Smith, Mae West, H.L. Mencken, Bessie Smith, and Dorothy Parker, but James Cagney, Frederick Douglass, Greta Garbo, and Ernest Hemingway don't make the list.

The next selection COOL AND THE COUNTER-CULTURE was harder to criticize.

Lauren Bacall, James Baldwin, Humphrey Bogart, Marlon Brando, Gary Cooper, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington, Gene Krupa, Robert Mitchum, Thelonius Monk, Anita O’Day, Dizzy Gillespie, Woody Guthrie, Audrey Hepburn, Billie Holiday, Muddy Waters, Frank Sinatra, John Wayne, Hank Williams, Lester Young, Barbara Stanwyck, Charlie Parker, and Raymond Chandler entered the corridor of coolness without question, however I don't give the nod to Lenny Bruce, William S. Burroughs, James Dean, Jack Kerouac, Jackson Pollock and Elvis Presley.

The Cool and the Counterculture created more of a chasm.

James Brown, Johnny Cash, Angela Davis, Muhammad Ali even though he treated Joe Frazier like shit, Jim Brown, Faye Dunaway, Clint Eastwood, Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Lee, Joan Didion, Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, Bonnie Raitt, Lou Reed, Walt Frazier, Deborah Harry, Malcolm X, Billy Murray and Frank Zappa bridged cool between the 60s to the 70s. Bob Dylan sucks due to his recent sell-out for Chrysler, Patti Smith is a bore, Jack Nicholson ruined EASY RIDER, Carlos Santana had too much fire to be cool, Susan Sontag spoke to the rich, Hunter S. Thompson loved guns, John Travolata had good dance moves and Andy Warhol was a ghost.

They were not cool.

And the final grouping of the Legacy of Cool led off by people I have met;

Afrika Bambaataa and Jean-Michel Basquiat.

Those I admired; Tupac Shakur and Shepard

And one that makes me laugh.

The rest are uncool; David Byrne, Kurt Cobain, Johnny Depp, Missy Elliott, Tony Hawk, Chrissie Hynde, Jay-Z, Steve Jobs, Michael Jordan, Madonna, Willie Nelson, Prince, Susan Sarandon, Selena, Bruce Springsteen, Quentin Tarantino, Benicio del Toro, Tom Waits, and Neil Young.

I like many of the rejects, but they aren't cool.

Not like Serge Gainsbourg, Willem Dafoe, Gil Scott-Heron, Johnny Thunders, the MC5, Gene Ammons, Marilyn Monroe, JFK, Bill Russell, Grace Slick, John Coltrane, Totie Fields, George Carlin, Redd Foxx, and always # 1 on the list the one the only Godfather of Soul, immortal Mr. James Brown.

And some many others unknown to the curators of the Smithsonian.

Cool is cool.

Simple as that.

Here are the origins of cool.

There is no mention Oscar Wilde.

GLATT BACCHUS - bet on crazy by Peter Nolan Smith

These days most people in America survive from paycheck to paycheck and New York’s Diamond District has been feeling the pinch, so that my bosses Richie Boy and his father Manny couldn’t offer me a place behind the counter upon my return from the Orient.

“It’s brutal out there.” Manny always kvetched about business, but his business had been bled dry by a long stretch of no sales.

"How bad?"

“I’m totally farblondzhet.” Manny was never confused by a bad situation. He was an optimist at heart.

“Is it that bad?” I divined the answer from the long faces on the other dealers in the exchange.

“I would be lucky, if it was bad.” The Brownsville native had seen more than periods of ups and downs over his eighty years. “Vel ist mir, This is a nightmare, but we’ll get through somehow.”

His son was more of a pessimist. Richie Boy had newly born twins. After the exchange closed we went out for a drink.

“This sucks.”

“Something will happen.”

“Call up your old customers. Make me a sale. I’ll give you half the profit.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.” His father was a notorious chiseler.

“Help me and I’ll help you. What I really need is to find a red diamond."

"Red?" The red color came from plastic deformations within the stone. They were very rare and very expensive.

"Red. A sale like that would take off the pressure."

"You have a call for that?"

"From a dealer."

"And you haven't found anything."

"Nothing."

"I'll ask around."

He went home to his wife and I hurried along 47th Street to catch a train to Brooklyn at Grand Central.

Halfway down the block I ran into Abell, a young religious diamond broker with five kids. We hadn’t seen each other for months and the zaftig dealer asked if I knew of a red diamond.

“Red red?”

“Yes, red red.”

"I saw one earlier in the day at a colored diamond dealer’s office, but it’s less than a carat.”

“How much?”

“Less than a million.”

“How much less?”

“I’ll have to make a call.” Abell stepped into a foyer out of my earshot to phone the holder of the red diamond. He came back in less than twenty seconds.

"A little over $600,000 for a .67 pointer."

"Less than a carat. There's nothing else available. Will it work?" Abell clasped his hands in hopes of hearing the right answer.

"Give me a second." It was my turn to use the foyer and I contacted Richie Boy to explain everything.

"Is it available?"

I conveyed the question to Abell, who nodded his head with a smile, then signaled that he had to go. His wife was cooking at home and he loved her cooking almost as much as he loved her.

"Yes."

“If this comes through, then you get a good bone.”

“You said half before.”

“Half if it was a private. This is a wholesale deal. No one is getting rich from it.”

I didn’t argue, since something was better than nothing and the next day I stepped out of the way of the murderous haggling between the holder of the stone, Richie Boy, Abell, his partner, the next person down the line, and the final buyer, but at the end of the day all parties said mazol and the deal was done.

Richie Boy was good to his word on my commish and Abell kicked in some more geld, so it wasn’t for making two phone calls to the right places. The money was shared out in the exchange. Everyone was happy, but Manny.

“You make good sale and you think you’re all heroes.”

“It was a good sale,” I told him.

“And it’s done, so what have you done for me lately?”

“Nothing in the last fifteen minutes.”

Abell shook our hands.

“I have to get you and Richie Boy a good bottle of wine.” Abell was grateful to us. He had a lot of mouths to feed. “A bottle of kosher wine.”

“Kosher wine, feh.” Manny didn’t like anyone who made more money than him and I expected nothing less from the Brownsville native. They grew them tougher than a skinned rattlesnake in that part of Brooklyn.

“There’s good kosher wine,” Abell protested, while sticking his check inside his coat.

“No, there isn’t.” I had tasted enough ‘yayin kashér’ to know that good kosher wine was a trifecta oxymoron.

“It’s all tref to my palate.”

“It isn't cheap.” Abell leaned on the counter. Hassidic cooking was thick with schmaltz had pushed his weight to that of an NFL linemen and he was only 5-11.

“$5 or $100, it's all dreck to me." I liked a good French red, but Talmudic law banned the drinking of wine which might be used to honor an idol such as the Golden Bull underneath Mount Sinai or Jesus or Bacchus, the Greek God of epiphany.

"And he'll drink anything." Richie Boy knew my tastes.
“Wine is drunk for enlightenment,” argued Abell.

"Oblivion is easier to achieve." Richie Boy and I were longtime drinking companions.

"I can’t even finish a glass of glatt yayin and that makes schitkahness impossible.” I liked getting on my drunk.

“I will bring you a bottle of drinkable kosher wine and you’ll sing praise to Chateau Zeitgeist.”

“I’ll believe it when I taste it.” Yayin mevushal has to be boiled to purify it from the touch of an idolater and I explained to Abell, “Back in 1995 we opened a nightclub in Beverly Hills. The previous bar had been Dean Martin’s hang-out. The owner said that we could have the wine stock. I looked at the list. It was very impressive and I asked where was the cave. The owner said, “There’s no cellar here, we kept it upstairs.” The top floor was suffocatingly hot. I opened a few bottles. It had been boiled by the California sun to swill. The same goes for heating kosher wine.”

“You’re wrong and I’ll bet you $100 that you’ll tell me you’re wrong.”Abell waddled from the exchange.

Manny shook his head.

"I know want you're thinking."

"What?"

"That I had wasted too much time on ‘bullshit’."

"Bullshitting is your expertise." It was his second favorite expression. # 1 was calling diamond brokers like Abell ‘piece of shit’.

I headed to the door.

“Where are you going?’

“Out of the zone of misery. Remember I don’t work here.”

I left the exchange and went over to the public library to write. Nothing takes away writer's block like a little money.

The following day I went up to 47th Street to pay off a debt.

Abell arrived in the exchange with a bottle of Chateau Beaucul.

Richie Boy and I thanked him for the offering and we uncorked the bottle.

I spit the first sip into the trash can and yelled at Abell, “Are you trying to kill a sheygutz?”

“Is it bad?”

“Nearly poisonous.” I was less a goy than a sheygutz, which was considered a ‘wise guy’ by some Yiddish speakers. To others it was an insult.

“Sorry, it cost almost $50.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I lived in France for ten years and this is worst that vin-trois-hommes?”

“What is that?”

“When wine is so bad that two men have to hold you down and pour it into your mouth.”

“Give me another chance.”

“It’s not necessary. Drinking that wine was like having sex with an ugly woman. Something you would never forget and I didn’t need to fuck a ‘messkait’ twice."

“No, I’ll make good.”

"I can hardly wait."

Abell didn’t show up for three days.

Manny mocked my trusting him.

“He maade his money, so why does he have to give you anything.”

"Because he said he would."

“If you’re so in love with Abell, why don’t you marry him?” Manny had a way with words and so did I.

“Because he’s not my type.”

Richie Boy stayed out of the fray, because anytime I took the brunt of the old man’s attack was free time for Richie Boy to make money.

“Don’t you have a home?” Manny was tired of seeing me.

"Yeah, but I like seeing you ready to plotz.”

“Get out of here.” Manny meant it, but only for the moment.

We were old friends and at the end of the week I was selling a diamond to a basketball player in Miami.

On Friday Abell showed up before the rush home for Shabbos with a new bottle in his hand.

“This is the best of the best.”

Richie Boy and I thanked him and I took out the bottle opener and two glasses.

One for me and one for Richie Boy.

Manny wasn’t getting a drop.

Richie Boy examined the bottle and nodded his approval.

Chateau Dionysos was a pricy bottle of wine.

“Let it breathe,” advised Abell.

"Breathe? Sure." I opened the bottle, but it had been a long day. The sale of an eternity band to my NBA client had fallen through the ice. His Miami jeweler was saying that my diamond was a horror.

"Let me know what you think." Abell left the exchange. Shabbos started in less than two hours.

I gave the bottle thirty seconds and poured Richie Boy and myself a glass.

Halfway to the top.

We dipped our noses over the rim. Our eyebrows peaked with anticipation. A single sip sent us into ecstasy.

It was better than good, then again Chateau Lafitt 96 wasn’t glatt kosher.

I tried calling Abell. He wasn’t picking up his phone.

I raised a glass to the air and toasted my friend.

“Here’s to Bacchus. Pagan not kosher.”

Richie Boy clinked his glass with mine.

Manny glowered at his desk and we smacked out lips in appreciation, because sometimes the best things in life many times are kosher and that’s a mitzvah for a goy and a blessing for a sheygutz.

And as the Shabbos starker I knew the difference between the two.

High Flying Emily Cook

My grandfather Frank A Smith was slated to join the 1912 US Olympic team as a pole vaulter, except he broke his leg during the trials. The event in Oslo was won by a 4.02 meter effort by Marc Wright from Cambridge, MA. He was probably from Harvard.

For two generations nobody in my family ever came close to Olympic glory.

All that changed with Emily Cook, a high-flying ski aerialist, who will be competing in Sochi.

She is my sister-in-law's niece.

I know it isn't blood, but we're all family.

Go for the Gold, Emily.

Gloria Leonard RIP

The Daily News reported that Gloria Leonard, a ex-porn actress who was also a publisher of High Society magazine, died at the age of 73 in Hawaii.

The buxom brunette was a 35 year-old single mother, when she starred in the legendary MISTY BEETHOVEN.

The nice Jewish girl from the Bronx fought for free speech and National Organization for Women through her magazine HIGH SOCIETY.

Only the Daily News carried her obit.

The NY Times shamefully didn't mention her passing.

She was a good friend to my cousin Sherri.

And a good friend to women.

May she rest in peace.

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

From a peaceful resting place near the water Rene was a youth born to run from the Acushnet River Run to Boston in 1964 to be wild It was a good time to be young

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

Down to New York Down to be someone Down with Warhol Down with the scene

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

He spoke in poetry He helped people to fame He was loved by many Many loved him back

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

His words were sweet His words were harsh He survived his hardness Without ever becoming too hard

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

The artist aged a gentleman His mind remained a keen 15 He was a runaway at heart They never go home

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

Your friends are close at hand

Walk Away Rene Don't Run

There is no God with a revolver.

Rene Ricard was also involved with the AVATAR, Boston's hippie newspaper.

I have a copy of it somewhere.

Probably stashed with my last jar of Quaaludes.

I didn't know Rene well, but he made me laugh and I love anyone who can tell a good story.

To hear DON'T WALK AWAY RENEE by the Left Banke, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6uqBTzfcIk4

CARDBOARD NOIR by Charlotta Janssen/Shannon Greer

Art: Charlotta Janssen Photography: Shannon Greer Text: Peter Nolan Smith Styling: Liz Teich Grooming: Sabrina Rowe Digital Tech: Robert Bredvad Model: Brock Gloor