The Ghost Of Pumpkin Trotsky

Two weekends ago thousands of New England college students converged on Keene, New Hampshire. The annual Pumpkin Festival ended in a riot. My nephew attended the celebration of the Jack O'Lantern. Eric told his father that he had left before the disturbances flared into violence. Paddy and I looked at each other. We had been young once.

In 1965 three friends and I had vandalized an abandoned missile base on a hill south of Boston. That skein of destruction had nothing to do with politics. We trashed the missile silos, offices, bunkers with a Hun's delight and that same spirit ruled the blooding running through the veins of Pumpkin Fest rioters.

The euphemism for this outlaw behavior is 'blowing off steam' and William Osterweil of Alzaara.com pointed out this week that "the white college kids in Keene flipped cars and threw bottles at cops for the fun of it, the media called them rowdy booze-filled revelers and all sorts of other euphemisms. By contrast, when Ferguson protesters aggressively confronted the police, the media framed the actions in terms of rioting, thuggery, destruction of their own community and other harsh verdicts. The two incidents offered an object lesson in the media’s racial bias."

I was not there.

I was not at Ferguson.

But I condone any resistance to the will of the police.

Ferguson or Keene. TO READ AL JAZEERA'S ARTICLE ON KEENE, PLEASE GO TO THIS URL.

http://america.aljazeera.com/opinions/2014/10/ferguson-keene-pumpkinfestpartyriotspoliceviolence.html

Whose streets?

Juvenile Mobile Lock-Up

The Catholic Church promoted procreation in hopes that those of the faith would demographically overwhelm the other religions. My mother was a devout Catholic. She gave birth to six children through the 1950s. Our family car was a Ford station wagon and my father child-proofed the spacious car by affixing aluminum tubes to the windows. Other motorists regarded the pale blue vehicle as undercover transport for the Maine reform school system.

I stared back at them with prison eyes, even if my parents were taking us to Old Orchard Beach, the Pine Tree's State playground by the sea. The other drivers' expressions shifted from pity to horror, as they wondered what heinous crime had been committed by the children incarcerated in the Ford station wagon.

"The youngest convicts in Maine," my grandmother joked every time we departed from her house in Westbrook and I sat in the back planning my escape. None of my attempts succeeded in gaining freedom. My father and mother were vigilant, but on one trip from Boston I wandered from the family car at a rest stop to go the bathroom. when I came out of the toilet, the Ford wasn't in the parking lot.

Free at last and within two seconds I was near tears. I was seven. Kids my age were told every day to not speak with strangers and now I was surrounded by only strangers. Luckily a toll booth operator spotted me before a band of gypsies kidnapped me for the carnival. They waved from their Cadillac carnival.

Ten minutes later my father returned to the rest area at 100 mph.

Top speed for the Ford.

I was glad to see him and sat back in the moving cell with relief.

Freedom would have to wait until I was ready for it.

At age 11.

By then I would be ready to run away and join the circus.

Forever.

Cowgirl In The Sand

Nothing says premature E-Jack-O-Lantern better than a cowgirl in the sand outfit at Ralph's Hardware Shop on a Sunday morning.

Strangely everyone in the 'hood thought my attire was too conservative.

"Maybe you should wear some pink," suggested Irene the young portress. "It works for me."

Pretty in pink?

To hear Neil Young's COWGIRL IN THE SAND, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fAXl97-RFg

BULLITT 1968

Last night I returned from dinner. AP was in the TV room. His children were asleep. I poked my head into the room to say hello. AP motioned for me to sit down.

"BULLITT. It just started."

I needed no further encouragement.

No man had been cooler than Steve McQueen in 1968 and I joined AP on the couch. We put our feet up on the settee.

We were two men in paradise.

Widescreen TV.

A puff of marijuana.

Within seconds the terse movie directed by Peter Yates transported us to San Francisco of 1967. This was not the City of Love. Bullitt dealt with hard-nosed cops and killer crooks. He drove a muscle car and hung out with hip people, not hippies.

A young Jacqueline Bisset was Bullitt's girlfriend.

Cathy: "What will happen to us in time?"

Bullitt: "Time starts now."

Steve McQueen was always cool.

There were no special effects or gun ballets in his movies.

Just a stunning car chase with a "Highland Green" 1968 Ford Mustang GT 390 CID Fastback versus a "Tuxedo Black" 1968 Dodge Charger R/T 440 Magnum at speeds up to 110 on the streets of San Francisco plus a great bike laydown by the legendary motorcycle racer Bud Ekins.

BULLITT won Academy Award for Film Editing.

Last evening I sat through this film without looking at the time. I doubted young people could do the same. Maybe, but what does an old man know about the young other than what they tell him.

I was 16 in 1968.

We all wanted to be McQueen.

And lay in bed with Jacqueline Bisset.

To see the car chase go to this URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sy5oyr4DRZ0

Very Seriously Cool

Jacquiline Bisset

Steve McQueen.

BULLITT

Steve had his hands full.

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=Bl_6aeIRmGs

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 leapt over the barbed wire in THE GREAT ESCAPE.

Cool people are cool enough to share in their coolness.

Steve McQueen - the king of cool.

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.

DRUNK DRIVING HOUR by Peter Nolan Smith

During the early 1970s my college comrades and I drank at the Hi-hat Lounge in Brighton. The girls were young, the drinks were cheap, and we sold 'ludes and mescaline at the bar. Neither of them were the best available in Boston, but we were always in supply, so the bands playing on Commonwealth Avenue visited us before and after gigs. I even sold LSD to AeroSmith and they invited us to their show. They weren't big yet, but the band attracted co-eds from every university within 25 miles.

That night my friends and I crammed into my VW Bug.

"Can you drive?" Peter Gore asked from the passenger seat. We had hitchhiked across America in 1971. A carload of drunks had begged me to drive their Riviera from Reno to San Francisco. Peter had sat in the back. We drank warm whiskey through the Sierras. He hadn't trusted me behind the wheel since.

"Of course I can drive." I had only dropped a 'lude and guzzled several whiskey cokes. Something about his question bothered me and I said I was going to run every red light to Kenmore Square.

"Don't do that." 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. The other passengers were more enthusiastic, then again they weren't in the suicide seat.

I blew the light at the first BU dorms and then another by the Boston Club, however we were approaching the Charles River Bridge. This was a much busier intersection with cars coming all directions.

"Don't."

Everyone cried out with good reason and I braked too late to avoid slamming into the back of a Mustang.

"Asshole." Peter was pissed.

"Anyone you hurt?" I pulled over to the curb..

"No."

Everyone was fine.

"Sorry, I was an asshole." I got out of the car to examine the damage to both vehicles.

My front fender was slightly bent.

My friend at a body shop in Dorcester could fix it for maybe $200, but the Mustang bore a major dent.

Maybe $1000, which was a lot of money.

Cars were swerving around the Mustang. The driver was puking out the open door. I walked up to him and he wiped his mouth, saying, "Sorry, for running that light. Are you okay?"

"I'm good."

"I'm really sorry."

The drunken fool thought the crash was his fault.

"Don't worry about it." I was lucky.

"How much you want to fix your car?" He pulled out a wad of cash.

"Nothing." Peter pushed me back toward my car.

"Nothing isn't going to fix my fender." Five $20 bills seemed fair.

"Thanks." The Mustang driver got back in his car and drove off toward Cambridge.

Later at the Aerosmith show we laughed, when, Peter calling me, "Boston's worst driver."

"But I met my match with Mr. Mustang."

Drunk driving hour was a weekend ritual in the last century, but several years ago the Palm County police had a world-class violator in their sights. The driver refused to stop for the officers in pursuit. He ran red lights, crashed into another car, a fence, fled the scene, and when they finally stopped him, the cops cited the offender with 50 tickets.

One was not wearing a seat belt.

All sounds too familiar.

I wonder if Peter Gore wherever he is thought the same thing.

"Asshole."

I don't drive anymore.

I drink no less.

Best for everyone if I walk and I'm sure that Peter Gore feels the same way too.

Drunk Driving Success

Winter comes early in Russia and a light snow fell on Moscow's Vnukovo Airport two days ago. A snowplow cleared the runway, but failed to leave a clear path for a corporate jet's take-off shortly before midnight. The Dassault Falcon 50 struck the snow removal machine and disintegrated upon impact.

None of the 3-man flight crew and its passenger survived the crash.

The passenger was Christophe De Margerie, CEO of the French oil giant TOTAL.

He was renown for his distinctive mustache and loyalty to Russian oil interests, saying in a July interview that Europe should stop thinking about cutting its dependence on Russian gas and focus instead on making those deliveries safer.

De Margerie, a strong proponent of fracking, had signed a multi-billion Euro contract with Russia to exploit northwest Siberia.

De Margerie also said in that interview that Europe could not live without Russian gas, adding there was no reason to do so.

His family had a history of fascism.

A rich man on his way home to celebrate his triumph of corporate greed at the cost of virgin Earth.

The driver of the snowplow was uninjured in the accident, although authorities stated that he had been drunk at the time.

A state of normalcy for a Russian male, but thereafter Mr. Martynenko's lawyer claimed that the driver suffered from heart problems and didn't drink alcohol. There was less than an inch of snow on the runway and according to a report from BBC Mr. Martynenko told Russia's Channel One TV, "When I lost my bearings I did not notice when I drove out on to the runway. The plane was preparing to take off, and I practically didn't see it or hear it because the machine was running. I didn't even see the lights, I did not see a thing, and then the crash happened."

Police had since arrested a senior airport engineer responsible for snow removal, an air traffic controller trainee and her supervisor, as well as a senior air traffic controller.

None of it makes much sense, but then nothing does when the truth is not the truth, still I applaud the snowplow driver's blow against Big Oil.

Hero of the People in my book, then again I live in the past.

PASSING GRADE by Peter Nolan Smith

My older brother worked too much. Frunk had a big house on Milton Hill and I was in Boston to visit my father. Frunk was at his office, as were most lawyers in Boston on a weekday.

"Meet me at Durgin Park." I loved their chowder.

"Can't." He sounded stressed.

"What about Jacob Wirth?" Their Bratwurst special cost $9.95.

"Can't."

"Then I'll come see you."

"I'm busy."

His son attended an Ivy League school. The tuition for pre-med was astronomical.

"Then I guess I'll have to settle for a visit from your son."

"Franka's coming to New York?"

"Yes, he's a big fan of Taylor Swift and I got him tickets to see her on Saturday Night Live."

The blonde singer was a country-western pop sensation.

"This coming Saturday?"

"Yes."

"His mother and I were planning on driving down to Philadelphia and he said he was studying."

"Maybe he is."

"No, he blew us off to see a singer with you. I can't believe this. I'm working seven days a week, so he can going to New York. What is he thinking?"

"It is a Saturday and I think Franka's in love."

"He's 18. How would he know love?"

"Taylor Swift sings love songs."

My older brother blew a gasket and ranted at his son and me. I held the phone away from my ear, until his voice resumed a reasonable tone.

"Sorry."

"I'm not blaming you, but Franka isn't getting into medical school with a B in biology."

"Maybe in the Philippines. My GP had received his medical license from Dagupan City Univeristy and he hasn't killed anyone as far as I know."

"I'm not paying for Franka to have a good time."

"It's just one night."

"You're right. Franka's a big boy. He makes his own decisions, but I have to pay for them."

I understood my brother's temper tantrum. I supported two families. I ate left-over. More than twice a week.

"So what about Jacob Wirth's?"

"Naw, I'm just going to wallow in misery."

"It does love company. Last offer. Franka's going to SNL. You're coming to Jacob Wirth's. I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"I'll see you in 15."

We spoke about our youth, eating bratwurst and drinking beer. Several lawyers were at the bar. We had a second beer. I had a third. My brother and I hugged outside on Boylston Street.

"I'll make sure he gets to bed at a decent hour."

"What's the use?"

Later that evening I called Franka and told him about the visit to his father.

"Uncle Bubba, don't worry. I'm doing fine."

"What about your grades?"

"They are what they are. I'm trying my hardest."

"That's all I can ask from you."

"See you this weekend. I hope you can introduce me to Taylor."

"I'll do my best." I had graduated 'sin laude' from Boston College in the last century, but I could get into SNL to see Taylor Swift and that was the only passing grade I needed to make Franka a happy boy.

And bratwurst at Jacob Wirth's worked wonders with his father.

As it does with any man.

WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN

Summer ended in 1966 on a Cape beach with me dancing with a girl on the last day of our vacations. WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN played on a radio. Her father beeped the horn. She kissed me and ran to the car. The back of station wagon was packed high. I never saw her wave goodbye, but her kiss lived forever.

Soulful as the song.

Foto of me, my brother and mother. Harwichport 1966.

To hear Percy Sledge's WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN, go to the following URL.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lp7FtJXp7k

Another Awful Afghan Autumn

Another autumn has passed for coalition soldiers stationed in Afghanistan. The Taliban rise from the opium fields and the fighting season this its stride. Hardliners in the Pentagon are pressing President Obama to stay in place. He has said yes. I am seriously disappointed by his decision, because most couldn't located Afghanistan on a map or find New York.

So what to do?

Pull out?

Not easy.

16,000 British troops withdrew from Kabul in the winter of 1842.

Only one soldier made it to safety.

Bomb the shit out of them.

The Russians tried that.

The USA too.

I hate to say this, but the best policy would be to reinforce the troops there with a plan to get the fuck out in the summer and pay the right people bribes for a safe exit.

Nothing else will work.

Nothing.

REST STOP by P Nolan Smith

On Saturday I traveled north from New York on a Chinese bus.

Greyhound really.

They charge $25.

7am departure.

I fell asleep on the Williamsburg Bridge and woke in the Storrs Hills on Connecticut

The driver was pulling into Burger King.

"Ten minutes."

I walked inside. Mickie D's rival was offering a breakfast burrito. I opted to eat the two bananas in my bag.

The other passengers were stuffing down fast food. The feeding fest was an ugly spectacle and I climbed over the barrier to a closed road. A land mover was parked on the asphalt. No one had sat in it recently. The only work in this town was at Burger King. Too many rich people. Too few jobs, but I had one for the first time since March.

New England had been scrapped to the stone bone by the Ice Age. Bogs and ponds and lakes are tattoos of that primordial time. Wetland in the autumn. The sound of cars and trucks on the interstate. The air was cool. Summer was one week back and nine months forward. I felt drops of rain.

The leaves were dull under the overcast. I breathed the air. The damp rot of vegetation was a black hole. In my youth I smelled this scent every October. It was Eau de New England.

I turned around to face north. The clouds parted for several heartbeats and I hurried across the cracked pavement to snap a photo.

This moment was only one.

There have been millions of seconds sliced into billions and trillions.

But only one of these.

The bus was ready to go

The North waited for me.

With patience.

Friends and family too.

I ran back to the bus.

It was good to be back in ageless autumn.

Da Friggin’ Quincy Quarries

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASqXeKkeY7Y

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVGscIW8Yuc

On August 28, 1994 three teenagers climbed up to the Quincy Quarries.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HzJn-oVVKWc

Their death-defying leap into Swingles Quarry was followed by low-drive from Rooftop.

On August 28, 1994 three teenagers climbed up to the Quincy Quarries.

How high was from the Rail to the water?

120 feet?

We'll never know.

The Quincy Quarries were buried by the debris from the Big Dig. The project was completed in December 2007 at a cost of over $8.08 billion (in 1982 dollars, $21.5 billion adjusted for inflation, meaning a cost overrun of about 190%)as of 2020 according to Wikipedia.

All to save five minutes on the ride through Boston. Giving 20,000 drivers a million dollars each to stop coming to work and spend money on Nantasket Beach would have been a better idea.

How Fights Start

My wife sat down on the settee next to me as I was flipping channels. She asked, 'What's on TV?'

I said, 'Dust.'

And then the fight started...
******************************************
My wife and I were watching "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" while we were in bed. I turned to her and said,

"Do you want to have s*x?"

"No," she answered.

I then said, "Is that your final answer?"

She didn't even look at me this time, simply saying, "Yes."

So I said, "Then I'd like to phone a friend."

And then the fight started...
******************************************
Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the van, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour.

The wind was blowing 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad all day.

I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife's back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, "The weather out there is terrible."

My loving wife of 5 years replied, "Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that?"

And that's how the fight started..
******************************************
My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary.

She said, 'I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.'

I bought her a bathroom scale.

And then the fight started...
******************************************
When I got home last night, my wife demanded that I take her some place expensive... so, I took her to a petrol station.

And then the fight started...
******************************************
After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's Licence to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later.

The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'. So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair. She said, 'That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me' and she processed my Social Security application.

When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office.

She said, 'You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.'

And then the fight started...
******************************************
My wife and I were sitting at a table at my school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table.

My wife asked, 'Do you know her?'

'Yes,' I sighed, 'she’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear she hasn't been sober since.'

'My God!' says my wife, 'who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?'

And then the fight started...
******************************************
I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason took my order first. "I'll have the steak, medium rare, please."

He said, "Aren't you worried about the mad cow?""

Nah, she can order for herself."

And then the fight started...
******************************************
A woman was standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror. She was not happy with what she saw and said to her husband, "I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly. I really need you to pay me a compliment.'

The husband replied, 'Your eyesight's damn near perfect.'

And then the fight started

Berth on Nantucket

Frank Sinatra brought his 21 year-old bride Mia Farrow to Nantucket on a rented yacht. My family was holidaying on that mythic isle at the same time. Mia had just finished filming ROSEMARY'S BABY.

Mia Farrow was five years older than me.

Not like Frank Sinatra, but my love was reserved for Janet Stetson, who was the head cheerleader for my hometown's football team. I was true, but when my mother insisted on a holiday detour to view Sinatra's yacht we were rewarded with a sighting of the two super stars.

Mia was so young.

So beautiful.

21.

So unique.

I tried to make eye contact with the wiafish blonde, hoping she would invite on board, so we could sail the Seven Seas.

I failed in my quest.

Later that week Janet asked if I thought she was beautiful.

"Not as beautiful as you."

"She smiled, knowing a lie when she heard one and laughed thinking that I was hers.

It was good to be young in the 1960s.

As long as you weren't in Viet-Nam.

ADAM AND EVE by Charlotta Jansen

Charlotta Jansen at the Sphinx Gallery in London tonight with her painting 'Adam & Eve, Greene County, GA 1941'. She is one of 30 artists up for the Young Masters Prize.

I love her work.

125 Kensington Church St London W8 7LP United Kingdom +44 20 7313 8040

Sad Day for the Vikings

Each end of promenade on Boston's Commonwealth Avenue honor heroic personages. The only one I can remember is Leif Erickson, the Viking outlaw reputed to be the first European to set foot in the New World. The Norsemen were great sailors ranging from Byzantium to Vinland. The owner of Jenny Bar on Soi Xcite in Pattaya upheld that tradition with 20 years service in the Norwegian Navy.

"We are sailors of the sea. Our people explored the great unknown. Skoal."

Lars was a great drinker, but his only voyages away from Pattaya were visa runs to the Cambodia border.

In 1983 I met a Danish sailor on the Isle of Wight. Kurt drank sixteen bottles of rose wine a day and wore a kaftan.

"It is very comfortable."

Kurt was a drunk on shore, but on the deck of sailing craft Kurt had no rivals. The only time he went aground was when he relinquished his yacht's navigation to Toby Bonham oj the approached to St. Malo. The hotel owner stuck the yacht on the rocks. Kurt saved them all by jettisoning his wine.

"It was either that or sink."

Sadly not all Scandinavians are great sailors as in the story reported in a 2008 Bangkok Post.

A Swedish man had been hired by a Thai nautical museum owner to tow a decommissioned Russian submarine from Sweden to Thailand for the sum of over 20 million baht. The Thai thought, "Swede, boat, ocean, mai pen rai."

Wrong.

The sub sank off the coast of Denmark in February, which was the stormy season in the North Sea. When the museum owner asked why the submarine went to the bottom, he learned that the Swede had used a pleasure craft for the tow instead of a tugboat. For some reason this didn't seem right and the Swede was asked to report to Thai authorities to explain his side of the story.

The twenty-nine year-old is in a lot of trouble.

But Vikings are a hardy breed, if not rare these days.

Years ago at the Viking Bar in Bangkok a drunken Dane swore that true Vikings have hair on all their knuckles. Even the one with the fingernails. Obviously the Thai businessman wasn't aware of this phenomena or else he would have entrusted his submarine to a real Viking.

Hairy knuckles and all.

Did them no good against the skraelings.

October 13, 1492

FROM THE DIARY OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

SATURDAY OCTOBER 13, 1492

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

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

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

And so I will go to the southwest to seek gold and precious stones. This island is quite big and very flat and with very green trees and much water and a very large lake in the middle and without any mountains; and all of it so green that it is a pleasure to look at. And these people are very gentle, and because of their desire to have some of our things, and believing that nothing will be given to them without their giving something, and not having anything, they take what they can and then throw themselves into the water to swim.
But everything they have they give for anything given to them, for they traded even pieces for pieces of bowls and broken glass cups, and I even saw 16 balls of cotton given for three Portuguese ceotis [copper coins], which is a Castilian blanca [a copper coin worth half of a maravedi]. And in them there was probably more than an arroba [around 24 pounds] of spun cotton.

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

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

SUKKOT / BET ON CRAZY

Two years ago the Diamond District on 47th Street was dead on the high holiday of Sukkot.

All throughout the shetls of Williamsburg families were commemorating the Hebrews' wandering in the desert after the Exodus in Egypt by setting up sukkahs or outside dwelling to symbolize the tents on that decades-long journey to find someplace to call their own.

The Hasidic diamond dealers abandoned the Diamond District for the week. The day before Chol HaMoed Gabriel our broker left our store ten big diamonds in hopes that a goy might buy one. Richie Boy and his father weren't so religious and saw the holiday as a time to operate with less competition.

On the first day of Sukkot I opened the safe and put Gabriel's rocks in the window. They were in individual diamond boxes. None were under five carats and the total value of the goods was slightly over 500K. They made a big impression.

A half-hour later an over-weight gypsy in a Versace suit entered the store and asked, "How much for the big stone?"

"It ain't for sale." I had never sold to a gypsy.

"Everything is for sale on 47th Street."

"Not this stone." I had nothing against Gippos, but they hadn't earned their rep for guile by being saints.

"Show him the stone." Manny was sitting at his desk. He had dealt with hundreds of gypsies during his years on the Bowery.

"Okay, but everything has a price," I grumbled, for the Roma were a WOT or a waste of time. Worse was the possibility that they might rob you.

"Which is?" I had seen Tony around the block.

"40K."

"Can I see it?"

"Sure." I went to the front window and plucked the stone from the tray. A zaftig, but attractive woman in a matching Versace dress smiled at me. She was Tony's wife. They worked as a team. She came inside.

I show her the diamond without letting her touch it.

"I love this ring, Tony." Her fragrance was Versace Bright Crystal.

"I love it too, but I don't love $40K for a 6-carat F SI3?" He was top of the line Roma. "Would you take 20K for it?"

"Thanks but no thanks." Gabriel had memoed the diamond for $35,000. Manny said that it was a lot of flash for the cash. My boss came from Brownsville. He had never lost its touch on his soul.

"I have the money." Tony brandished a roll of hundreds thick enough to be 20K, unless the center was all $1 bills.

"Sorry, the price remains 40K. No haggling either."

"I thought maybe you would want to do some business." What Tony meant was that if I gave him the stone, I could stick the 20K and walked out of the store.

"Sorry, no deal."

I sat at my desk and the gypsy exited from the exchange. Tony had other marks on his list. Maybe he would get lucky. My boss Richie Boy showed up a few minutes later.

"Anything happening?"

"A gypsy offered me 20K for Gab's stone." Manny stood up with a groan. His hip was killing the 80 year-old.

"You didn't let him touch it?"

"Not at all." Gypsies were skilled at switching stones.

"Let me check."

I got the stone for Richie Boy.

"You're lucky," he said after weighing out the diamond on the scale.

"Lucky was, if he sold it." Manny sat back down with a grunt. He wasn't getting old, but some parts of his body were on strike.

"We were lucky." Richie Boy nodded to me and I put the diamond back in the window.

Across the street Tony and his wife were standing outside a store. They were looking to get lucky.

Anything was possible on Sukkot.

Around noon the girls working for Manny's partner wanted to order lobster rolls from the new take-out.

Coming from Maine I was eager to try the lunch special.

Richie Boy signaled that he was in too.

Lobster might be tref or unclean and unfit for consumption according to Jewish tradition, however only one member of our staff was religious. The rest were bacon Jews.

Lunch came, we ate, and then discussed the lobster rolls.

Cindy thought it was good. She had gone to UMass.

Richie Boy was unimpressed. He was nursing a hangover.

I had eaten better in Maine, but Lincolnville was an eight-hour drive from 47th Street.

A chubby hand slapped the window.

Lenny.

The Hassidic bum.

His yamakah was sliding off what remained of his greasy hair and his fingers were twitching for money.

"Fuck him." Richie Boy had little patience for Lenny.

"He's harmless." Lenny was no Don Rickles, but he made me laugh.

"Tell him to go away. He's bad for business."

"Business? On Sukkot keep on dreaming."

"Do me a favor and send him away. Lenny's ruining my appetite."

I put down my lobster roll and went outside.

Lenny seemed to have gained more weight and he smelled like he hadn't been to a schvitz since before Moses freed the slaves.

"Lenny, you're messing up the window." His hand imprints were scattered on the glass like prehistoric paintings. "I'm the one who has to clean it."

"Sorry, Damian." Lenny was a slob in his filthy tee-shirt and ripped flannel trousers with sodden sneakers shaped like melted cheese. He has been living on the street for more than 20 years, but I had seen the fat bum deposit over $200 at the bank more than once. Some people say that his lunacy is an act, except his rhummy eyes told the truth.

"No worries." I liked that he called me 'Damian'. The name smacked of THE OMEN and the Son of Satan.

"Why Richie doesn't ever give?" Lenny begged everyone on the street for money. He even took small change.

"Maybe it has something to do with you calling him a Nazi."

"He is a Nazi. A country club Nazi who hates Jews like me." Lenny was fondling an etrog lemon, which someone must have given him for Sukkot. I could smell it over his stench.

"Lenny, I hear you say that to a lot a people on the street. It's not nice."

"I'll tell you what's not nice." Lenny pointed to Tony and his wife. "Over a million gypsies were killed by the Nazis, but no one ever builds a museum for them"

"The Roma are 'travelers'." That was the Irish word for them and it didn't have a nice meaning.

"And the Hebrews wandered forty years in the desert and what about the Wandering Jew?"

"That's a myth." The Goyim had created the legend of a Jew cursed with immortality for taunting Jesus on his way to the Crucifixion.

"Ahasver might not exist, but the Jews have traveled the world for centuries same as the Roma and people talk about them the same way as they talk about us."

Aren't you celebrating Sukkot?"

"I sleep outside every night." Lenny lived in the rough. He had no possession other than the clothing on his back. "Every day is Sukkot for me. Same as you, Damian. You wander the world."

"My wanderings are more like Dion's THE WANDERER than the Jews and Roma." I loved the line from that hit, 'I'm the type of guy'.

"I love Dion." Lenny knew every homeless shelter in New York. They were his world and the sidewalks were paths for his travels.

"Me too, but I wish I didn't."

"Your kids in Thailand." Lenny was crazy, but he wasn't stupid. He knew my life."

"Yeah, my kids." The four of them were halfway around the world. There was something not right about that arrangement and I felt more sympathy for the Roma than was normal for someone born on the Coast of Maine.

Richie Boy rapped on the window.

"Lenny, I got to go back to work." I had to make a little money.

"You got a dollar for the holiday?"

I handed him two bills.

He wished me luck and called for a blessing on my kids in Thailand.

"May you get home soon."

"Thanks." Seeing my kids was my greatest wish. Another month and I would have plane fare to Bangkok. I would count every day.

"Baxt hai sastimos tiri patragi." Lenny shambled into the street. His eyes were on Tony and his wife. He saw them as a soft touch.

"What's that?" I had never heard those words before.

"It's Romani for 'good luck.'"

"Sie gesund." I wished him well in Yiddish and returned inside the diamond exchange hoping to close a deal in the final hours of Sukkot, because all wanderers are lucky as long as they were heading home.

THE REACH OF JOCKO by Peter Nolan Smith

Four years ago Michael Jackson was found dead in the bed of a rented mansion in LA.

Millions of Jocko's fans around the globe deposited flowers before US embassies and consulates to mourn the superstar's passing.

I was in Thailand.

I saw a Thai cop cry.

My younger friends in New York reported that on the night of his death club-goers danced to a cascade of Michael Jackson hits from the Motown years to his CDs of the 21st Century.

THRILLER was his Mount Everest and this hit-spawning monster sold over 100 million albums. Its epic success earned Michael Jackson worldwide recognition, although I never understood how deeply his influence had penetrated the masses, until I was crossing Sulawesi’s Lake Poso in 1992 in the middle of the night. Most of the passengers were Indonesian, although one German woman was traveling on her own. Her name was Ulrike.

The long prau motored close to the shore of the 1500-meter high lake.

Around midnight rising winds forced a stop at a remote village. The hamlet had no electricity. The locals cooked food by fire. They lived in wooden shacks, A young boy strummed Indonesian love songs on his guitar.

Somehow my conversation with Ulrike turned to Michael Jackson.

“I danced to Michael at many nightclubs.” The DJs at Studio 54, the Bains-Douches, and Mudd Club loved THRILLER.

“Michael Jackon is #1.” Ulrike was clearly a big fan.

“For dance music, yes, but you can’t play one of his songs around a campfire."

"What about BEN?"

"A song about a rat, no way."

A young boy picked up a guitar. He sat by the fire. His fingers plucked notes.

They came from BEN.

“Fire, Michael Jackson. Song.” Ulrike was keeping her argument simple.

"Okay. One song, but none of the others can be sung around this fire."

The young guitarist glared at me and played a slow version of BEAT IT.

We were halfway around the world from Neverland without a radio or TV. Jocko’s songs had reached these people on Lake Poso. His mother placed a log on the fire and the flames rose higher, as everyone gathered around the fire to sing the chorus.

We all knew the words.

I sang with Ulrike. We sang with everyone around the fire. The world was small. Michael Jackson was big.

"So?" asked Ulrike.

"I was wrong."

"And you were right to admit it."

Ulrike was right. The boy was right. I was right too, because it doesn't matter whether you're white or black.

Michael Jackson was the King of Pop.

Then, now, and forever.

From the North Pole to the South Pole.

BEAT IT

To hear BEAT IT please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B2wtC91_0U

The Death Of Disco

Four years ago Michael Jackson was found dead in the bed of a rented mansion in LA.

Millions of Jocko's fans around the globe deposited flowers before US embassies and consulates to mourn the superstar's passing.

I was in Thailand.

I saw a Thai cop cry.

My younger friends in New York reported that on the night of his death club-goers danced to a cascade of Michael Jackson hits from the Motown years to his CDs of the 21st Century.

THRILLER was his Mount Everest and this hit-spawning monster sold over 100 million albums. Its epic success earned Michael Jackson worldwide recognition, although I never understood how deeply his influence had penetrated the masses, until I was crossing Sulawesi’s Lake Poso in 1992 in the middle of the night. Most of the passengers were Indonesian, although one German woman was traveling on her own. Her name was Ulrike.

The long prau motored close to the shore of the 1500-meter high lake.

Around midnight rising winds forced a stop at a remote village. The hamlet had no electricity. The locals cooked food by fire. They lived in wooden shacks, A young boy strummed Indonesian love songs on his guitar.

Somehow my conversation with Ulrike turned to Michael Jackson.

“I danced to Michael at many nightclubs.” The DJs at Studio 54, the Bains-Douches, and Mudd Club loved THRILLER.

“Michael Jackon is #1.” Ulrike was clearly a big fan.

“For dance music, yes, but you can’t play one of his songs around a campfire."

"What about BEN?"

"A song about a rat, no way."

A young boy picked up a guitar. He sat by the fire. His fingers plucked notes.

They came from BEN.

“Fire, Michael Jackson. Song.” Ulrike was keeping her argument simple.

"Okay. One song, but none of the others can be sung around this fire."

The young guitarist glared at me and played a slow version of BEAT IT.

We were halfway around the world from Neverland without a radio or TV. Jocko’s songs had reached these people on Lake Poso. His mother placed a log on the fire and the flames rose higher, as everyone gathered around the fire to sing the chorus.

We all knew the words.

I sang with Ulrike. We sang with everyone around the fire. The world was small. Michael Jackson was big.

"So?" asked Ulrike.

"I was wrong."

"And you were right to admit it."

Ulrike was right. The boy was right. I was right too, because it doesn't matter whether you're white or black.

Michael Jackson was the King of Pop.

Then, now, and forever.

From the North Pole to the South Pole.

BEAT IT

To hear BEAT IT please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B2wtC91_0U

Tiger Versus Stevie

Tiger Woods and Stevie Wonder are in a bar. Tiger turns to Stevie and says, "How's the singing career going?"

Stevie replies, "Not too bad. How's the golf?"

Woods replies, "Not bad, I've had problems with my swing, but I think it’s fixed, now."

Stevie: "I always find that when swing goes wrong, I need to stop playing for a while and not think about it. Then, the next time I play, it seems to be all right."

Incredulous, Tiger asks, "You play GOLF?"

Stevie: "Yes, I've been playing for years."

Tiger: "But -- you're blind! How can you play golf if you can't see?"

Stevie: "Well, I get my caddy to stand in the middle of the fairway and call to me. I listen for the sound of his voice and play the ball towards him. Then, when I get to where the ball lands, the caddy moves to the green or farther down the fairway and again I play the ball towards his voice."

"But, how do you putt?" asks Tiger.
"Well", says Stevie, "I get my caddy to lean down in front of the hole and call to me with his head on the ground and I just play the ball towards his voice."

Woods says to Stevie, "We've got to play a round sometime."

Stevie: "Well, people don't take me seriously, so I only play for
money, and never play for less than $10,000 a hole. Is that a problem?"

Woods thinks about it and says, "I can afford that; OK, I'm game. $10,000 a hole is fine with me. When would you like to play?"

Stevie: "Great-pick any night you’re free."

The Old Pattaya Pier

Back in the 1990s Pattaya was a forgotten beach resort on the Gulf Of Siam. Mike's Department Store was the tallest building and 3rd Road was dirt.

Tourists boarded boats bound to Koh Lann at the beginning of Walking Street.

Its terrible condition forced the city to build the Bali Hai Pier closer to the boat yard under Pattaya Hill.

These photos are from 1999.

That pier is gone as are so many things in Pattaya.

Paved over for condos.

Serious Art

Damn, cool finger painter.

Angkor Wat 1999

Angkor Wat 1999.

Quiet, but the bugs.

They numbered in the billions.

Now too.

Celebrating The End of Christianity

Fireworks on the East River echoed across Brooklyn to Fort Greene.

October 5.

Fireworks for what?

I googled the date for a clue.

I found that in 1793 revolutionary France rejected Christianity.

Ca va, ouais!

Fuck God.

Further researched revealed the pyrotechnical display was for the Association of Indians in America.

A little of a downer, until I realized that Indians aren't god-worshippers either.

Fuck you, Christian god.

ISIS Please

ISIS has beheaded four western hostages in Syria and Iraq. The militant warriors are threatening to decapitate a fifth prisoner. The US and UK have refused to negotiate with ISIS. The captive seems doomed, but not if the Pentagon offers New England Patriots offensive coordinator Josh McDaniels in exchange for the held reporters.

Tom Brady fans can only hope that Josh McDaniel man's up for the challenge.

He had sucked since 2005.

The question is what does he have on Coach Bill.

His role in the JFK murder?

Penn State?

Sex with Nancy Reagan?

All of the above?

ISIS?

Help.

Beauty or the Beast of Haiti

Michèle Bennett was not a virgin at the altar with Baby Doc..

Still white was her wedding color.

No one was allowed to say a word.

But the Ton-Ton Macoute knew the truth.

And no one dared doubt them.

Michele took Jean-Claude for everything.

Baron Samedi always gets paid by his whores.

Smash Everything

I grew up in New England.

People had lived underneath Big Blue Hill or Massachusett for hundreds of years.

Behind my house on the South Shore was a small woods. Old mounds rose from the dirt. Tipping pits filled with trash from the 1800s and further back into time.

Some Indian.

Some colonial.

History.

We were 9 year-old boys.

We smashed every bottle knowing no one knows nothing about country ways better than a nine year old boy.

Ila Jaheem Ma'ik

Ila jaheem ma'ik means 'go to hell' in Arabic, which is what Arabic men might feel about the recent surge in satanizing Islam. Firstly most Arabs are not terrorists. Secondly some Arab men drink beer. Lastly the majority of American men would rather stand and fight a thousand al-Qaada warriors than spend the night with a 300-pound naked American woman.

"Run for the hills before they dose you with Viagra."

Then again some guys like fat.

When I was working at the Milk Bar in 1986, every night a taxi would pull up across the street around midnight. A couple got out of the back. The thin male weighed about 140, but his over-sized date plused over 300. I shook my head in disbelief at how much in love the small man was with her, especially since she treated him like shit. I couldn't figure it out the attraction, until my Haitian co-worker Big Joel said, "Some men like a woman with a little meat."

"A little meat. She's all veal."

"I love veal."

"That woman is mostly fat."

"It's not the meat, it's the motion. Riding a big woman like that is like riding the ocean." Big Joel was 6-5. He liked his women big. His wife was 5-2.

"More like riding a water bed." When it wasn't going up, it was going down.

"Man like you don't know a good thing, when he see one." Big Joel eyed the big woman struggling up the stairs. The thin man carried her bag.

If I didn't know better, I would have thought that my bouncer was jealous. I didn't say a word about the woman again, but always said 'hello' to her. She never said 'hello' back.

Another useful Arabic expression is 'kharrah ibina' or WTF.