Saturday, February 28, 2015

Ali / Frasier I THE FIGHT OF THE CENTURY

Muhammad Ali faced the champion Joe Frasier in the Fight of the Century on March 8, 1971 at Madison Square Garden in New York City, New York.

Ringside seats cost $150 and each boxer was guaranteed $2.5 million.

Big money in 1971.

Big money now many places in the world.

The bettors were favoring Ali over Frasier.

Ali was taller with a longer reach.

Ali was the epitome of revolution and his camp portrayed Frasier as a member of the establishment.

I was a hippie.

I wanted Ali to regain his title.

His resistance to the draft was a key factor in popularizing the anti-war movement, but Frasier was no lackey to the Boss. He supported Ali throughout his exile from the ring. The heavyweight never said anything about this charity, probably to prevent joining Ali on the unemployment line.

Everyone watched his fight.

I was sitting at El Phoenix bar on Commonwealth Avenue.

Everyone in the bar was backing Ali.

Dave the bartender was all-Frasier. He took all bets at all odds.

"Ali likes to predict the rounds of his KOs. I say 15 Frasier puts Ali on his ass and this has nothing to do with politics." Boston was severely divided on race and war. We didn't talk that shit in bars. Someone on the wrong side could get hurt too fast. Dave didn't have to worry. He was the bartender. We needed him more than a winning a point about a war 8000 miles away from LA.

I placed $10 on Ali.

The fight started out with the challenger scoring points in the first three rounds.

Frasier resisted Ali's defense and brought the fight to the Louisville native.

In the 11th round Frasier blasted Ali.

A wicked left.

Frasier was no joke.

Ali knew that too late.

Me too.

$10 was a lot of money in 1971.

Dave the bartender won $2050 that evening.

He bought a used GTO the next day and called it 'Joe'.

We all did.

"Joe was the champ.

To view THE FIGHT OF THE CENTURY, please go to his URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctKAGKVpCUU

This is history.

Poetry Police

My hillbilly girlfriend in the 70s was funny. Ann was even funnier drunk. Her limit was two drinks after which she was transformed from an ingenue actress into a white trash beauty.

I wasn't sure which I liked better.

One night at CBGBs she launched into a tirade about the poetry police coming to arrest Patti Smith and William Burroughs.

"Here come the poetry police."

I poured her into a taxi for the ride home to our apartment on East 10th Street, as she ranted about TS Eliot, Keats, and Ezra Pound. The taxi driver told her to shut up. I informed him that she was a genius. I still think that.

Alice stopped drinking soon after that night, but this week I remembered that the poetry police this week, when the Qatari government sentenced Muhammad ibn al-Dheeb al-Ajami to life imprisonment for insulting the ruler of that wealthy desert country. Al-Jazeera has made no comment about this draconian punishment in fear of losing their financial backing from the news agency's royal sponsor.

This offense against the ruling family was supposedly directed at the crown prince.

I couldn't find any copy of the poem TUNISIAN JASMINE online.

The US has a big military base in Qatar.

No one in our government has said a word in the defense of free speech.

Muhammad ibn al-Dheeb al-Ajami has been held since November 2011. His trial was closed to the public. His lawyer said, "The judge made the whole trial secret. Muhammad was not allowed to defend himself, and I was not allowed to plead or defend in court. I told the judge that I need to defend my client in front of an open court, and he stopped me."

Ajami was jailed in November 2011.

His life sentence has been reduced to fifteen years.

All for saying the truth.

"We are all Tunisia in the face of repressive elites. The Arab governments and who rules them are, without exception, thieves.

Beware of the poetry police.

Friday, February 27, 2015

Flutter Like A Butterfly


Muhammad Ali was undeniably the greatest boxer of the 20th Century. The heavyweight regarded his Manila match with Joe Frazier as 'the closest thing to death’ as his greatest fight and his recapturing the title against George Foreman in Zaire as his greatest upset. These boxers sacrificed their body and soul during these combats and Ali’s slurred speech has been a painful reminder of boxing’s deadly effects on the brain.

In 1996 Muhammad Ali was invited to Indonesia by the president's corrupt son, Tommy Suharto, to view a championship bout.

My friend Abe had attended a Jakarta party in his honor and he later said that he had been appalled by Ali’s deterioration, especially when Ali came up to him and said, “You look like my Uncle Ernie.”

Abe was a short white Jewish guy from Brooklyn.

He almost cried hearing Ali say these words.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Fame was fleeting, but Ali wasn’t through with Abe.

At the end of the festivities Ali shuffled behind Abe and whispered, “And my Uncle Ernie was ugly too.”

Abe had to laugh, for like many fighters and the US government he had underestimated the Kentucky native.

The body might be weak, but the floating butterfly had not lost its sting.

Ali Versus Stevenson

Fight promoters were dying to match Muhammad Ali versus the undefeated Cuban heavyweight Teofilo Stevenson. Many boxing pundits wrote that Stevenson could last fifteen rounds with Ali, but judging from his reach Teofilo wouldn't have needed fifteen rounds.

Longer arms.

Taller.

Better shape.

All action.

No talk.

But Ali had an edge,

Something one can explain.

Other than being Ali.

Black and White TV From Havana

Key West marks the southern terminus of US 1.

I spend several weeks there in 1980 and stayed in a small hotel off Duval Street. TV reception for the Miami stations was weak, however the signals from Havana came in crisp and clear. Most of the programming served Socialism in Spanish, however one station broadcast sports, especially winter baseball and boxing. Americans didn't watch Cuban TV. We were at war with Fidel Castro.

One night I was sitting in Sloppy Joe's Bar and the bartender turned on the Cuban station. The drinkers hooted at his selection. The gnarled barman lifted a thick hand and said, "Teofilo Stevenson is fighting tonight. Three rounds against a Russian."

"An amateur bout." A tourist mumbled from his stool.

Teofilo is only an amateur, because he refused to sell-out. The mob promotors offered him $5 million to fight Ali. Teofilo said, "What is one million dollars compared to the love of eight million Cubans?"

"Especially those hot Havana chicas." An old fisherman reminisced about the lost paradise ninety miles to the south. "There was no place like Havana."

"Or Cuba." The bartender turned up the TV. "Now watch some real fighting."

Teofilo won the heavyweight match and I returned to my hotel, wondering how to get to Havana from Key West.

There were no ships.

Cuba was not a destination on the airport departure board.

Teofilo Stevenson amassed a record of 302 wins versus 22 losses.

When he departed the world on 11 June 2012 at the age of 60, according to Wikipedia the Cuban state media stated that "the Cuban sporting family was moved today by the passing of one of the greatest of all time."

Veridad."

In living color or black and white.

To watch his knockouts, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAFvQUyA470

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Victoria Selbach - Woman in Form

FLORIDA

BARE SKIN

HALLANDALE

Sirona Fine Art 600 Silks Run, #1240 Hallandale Beach, FL 33009

For general inquiries or to join our mailing list please contact info@sironafineart.com

Staff Timothy Smith, Gallery Director Suzanne Smith, Art Director

I love her works.

She tattoos bodies with shadows.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Jeff Foxworthy - Opinion of Muslims

Americans do not travel to foreign countries.

"Everyone there hates us."

Few people ask why or even if it's true.

"The French hate us."

The French hate everyone.

"The Mexicans hate us."

Maybe that's true, but America stripped Texas, California, New Mexico, and Arizona after the War of 1848, and then bought another strip of land from present-day Yuma to Los Cruces in the 1854 Gadsden Purchase for $10 million US or $300 million in 2015 dollars, which would buy three billionaires three 10,000 square feet condos overlooking Central Park. The President of Mexico, Santa Ana, must have needed that $10 million bad, because the Madsden Purchase was a rip-off, but even worse has been the deal foisted by the West of the Arab World.

TE Lawrence and fellow Arabologist, Gertrude Bell, were approached by the Foreign Office and told to designed a map for the break-up of the Ottoman Empire. Treatyist Mark Sykes pointed to a map and told the prime minister: "I should like to draw a line from the "e" in Acre to the last "k" in Kirkuk."

Westerners cleaved tribal lands into impossible to govern countries and only dictators were allowed to rule of diverse peoples.

Of course the worst insult was the creation of Israel clearly violating the human, social, and economic rights of the Palestinians.

Violence begat violence.

Occupation gave birth to resistance.

Bombs were met with F-16s.

And everyone in the West was taught to think that Muslims are our enemies, even though they number over 3 million in the USA. They are law-abiding and patriot as the rest of the nation, however Hollywood and TV have portrayed them as monsters and most recently comedian Jeff Foxworthy entertained a crowd of his peers with a list of generalization of Muslims.

1. If you refine heroin for a living, but you have a moral objection to liquor, You may be a Muslim.

Of course if you manufacture pharmaceutical Oxy-Contins and sell them to a public unaware of their addictive properties, you are a good businessman in America.

2. If you own a $3,000 machine gun and a $5,000 rocket launcher, but you can't afford shoes, You may be a Muslim or in the option of my friend James Steele, a potential mass murdered in the USA>

3. If you have more wives than teeth, You may be a Muslim or a Mormon.

4. If you wipe your butt with your bare hand, but consider bacon to be unclean, You may be a Muslim or a Hassidim.

5. If you think vests come in two styles: Bullet-proof and suicide. You may be a Muslim or a US cop ready for mayhem.

6. If you can't think of anyone you haven't declared jihad against, You may be a Muslim or a member of the Join Chiefs.

7. If you consider television dangerous but routinely carry explosives in your clothing, You may be a Muslim or a right-wing terrorist from Montana.

8. If you were amazed to discover that cell phones have uses other than setting off roadside bombs, You may be a Muslim or a CIA assassin or Pentagon contract killer.

There are always other answers.

If you really listen to the questions.

Free Palestine.

Free The World.

Peace in our time.

ps - Jeff Foxworthy اللعنة عليك

He's one funny Redneck.

To see Jeff Foxworthy in 1991, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvPCcYrBg5s

Friday, February 20, 2015

Jesus Jah Ma


PublishedFeb 20, 2015

“I have nothing against Christ. It’s your Christians I hate.”

This remark has historically been attributed to Saladin the Arab Jihadist during the Crusades.

I feel the same way about most religions except beer-worshippers.

“Every day is Beermas," my mate Nick declared at Pattaya's Buffalo Bar with the fervor of a suicide beer-drinker.

"The same for me." I celebrated Beermas often.

I don’t believe in God, Jesus, or an afterlife and certainly not that Mary was a virgin. That story about the Immaculate Conception was a cover-up for her affair with a mere mortal and it’s about time the church gave up that ghost.

Several years back a newspaper had reported that a female convict in SE Asia had achieved a virgin birth in solitary confinement.

I don’t remember where.

Thankfully there have been no calls about the 2nd Coming of Jesus, although Christian missionaries have been ratcheting up their efforts to convert Thai youth to the passion of God.

Big G wearing a muumuu like Buddha.

Several years ago my friend Ek lost his brother to preachers in Chonburi.

Now Poey’s a Sunday boy. He and his wife pray to God, happy to be saved for the heaven beyond this life.

One day the white-devil bible-thumpers established a mission down the street from my house and the Buffalo Bar.

Jehovah Witnesses.

My ex-wife asked me about Christ.

"They say he give paradise in sa-wan."

"Yes, heaven without beer and sum-tam."

Thai women couldn't live with out the spicy papaya salad.

"No want go heaven no have sum-tam."

That night I spray-painted 666 on the wall.

The next day the small congregation were on their knees praying for the number to disappear by the grace of God.

After 30 minutes they switched to soap and water.

By nightfall the 666 was a shadow.

Only 1% of Thais answered Christ’s summon. The number was bound to rise with the increased uncertainty of the times. Maybe the True Believers will get 1.1%. And if Jesus comes they can go to heaven and leave the rest of us behind.

Bon Voyage true believers.

Rex Trailer's Boomtown

Since the beginning of time humanity has risen from thousands to billions of people scattered across the globe. My memory of names and faces runs back into the 1950s. I never knew most of them, but as a youngest in Boston my Saturday mornings were enlivened by Bugs Bunny, the Young Rascals, the Bowery Boys the Three Stooges, and Rex Trailer's BOOMTOWN. The cowboy star from Texas was exotic to New Englanders and his western show ran for three-hours live on the weekend with his Sgt. Billy and Mexican partner Pablo.

According to Wikipedia Rex Trailer said about BOOMTOWN, ""We just did it. It was a blast. We were doing educational TV before there was educational TV. Children need role models. I wanted them to understand their obligation to take care of each other."

Rex was no Stooge, but his show was cancelled by WBZ-TV in 1974.

The TV pioneer remained busy with a teaching gig at Emerson College as well as various TV and movie appearances, most notedly as a doctor in MERMAIDS in which he asked the diminutive Winona Ryder, "Why did you think you were pregnant? You're still a virgin!"

Why indeed Winona?

Back in 1988 I looked down at this attractive girl in Times Square.

I thought to myself that she was a midget that looked like Winona Ryder.

I figured her height for 4-10.

Her smile confirmed that she was Winona and that Winona Ryder was very small.

Rex Trailer must have thought the same in that scene in MERMAIDS.

Cowboys know their shit.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Thai Hair-Cut No No

Several years ago I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge to a party in Nolita. The city skyline shimmered under a sky dotted by the few stars brilliant enough to pierce New York's light umbrella. Tourists flashed photos in the dark and the bridge hummed with the passage of cars and trucks. The night was bitter cold and I pulled down my hat tight, thinking that my last hair-cut had been in Thailand.

Two months ago.

There was a hair stylist in Chinatown, which cost $10.

Once off the bridge I walked north, passing through City Hall. The sidewalks were empty and I looked to the East, thinking about the rising moon. It would be setting in Thailand with the sun rising in the east. My son and his mother were asleep in Sriracha, then I remembered Mam saying that you shouldn't cut your hair at night and never on Wednesday.

I phoned to make sure.

"No cut hair on Wednesday. Only king can get hair cut on wan-poud and never cut hair at night. Bad luck."

"Thanks for that." I left her go back to sleep and once I returned from the party I went online to search for an edict against nocturnal hair-cuts. Nothing appeared on Google, although I suspected that the superstition was based on the night-vision of a barber. A further search revealed that Mam was right about the interdiction against Wednesday coiffures, since for centuries the royal family have had their hair trimmed on Wednesday during the day and commoners ie serfs are banned from mimicking any royal behavior.

Only trusted stylists were allowed this privilege to avoid the theft of the noble hair for the purpose of magic.

I have yet to had my hair cut.

It's getting long.

Other Thai Superstitions:

(1) Don’t whistle at night because you will invite ghosts into your house.
(2) Don’t let women eat chicken feet because they will have an affair
(3) Do not let pregnant women whistle because her baby will have a crooked mouth
(4) Do not allow an adult pay respect to a child (wai) because that child will have a shortened life
(5) Do not joke while you are eating because the ghost will steal your rice
(6) Do not cover your head when you go to a temple because this will make you bald
(7) Do not sharpen a knife at night time because you will offend the angels
(8) Do not look at naked people because your eyes will become swollen
(9) Do not have sexual intercours on holy days (wan phra) because bad things will happen.
(10) Do not let the bride and the groom meet three days before the wedding because their marriage will not last
(11) Do not smile while sowing corn because it won’t grow
(12) Do not stand in a doorway because a ghost will enter the house
(13) Do not sew at night because the ghost will haunt you
(14) Do not throw money away because you will lose your finger
(15) Do not sing while you are eating because the ghost will curse you.

And there's plenty more where those come from.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

George Washington In London

In the Spring of 2014 I was waiting for Brock Dundee in Trafalgar Square in London. Tourists mounted the four lions at the foot of Lord Nelson's Column for photos and art lovers queued before the National Gallery to view the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibition, while busy Londoners strode across the square for various rendezvouses in the capitol.

Brock showed up on time and I asked the avant-garde filmmaker, if he wanted to see the exhibition.

"With all those tourists?" He shook with revulsion. "Better I take you to the best pub in London. It's right around the corner."

"Sounds good to me." It was already past noon and we walked toward St. Martin in the Fields. I stopped in my tracks upon seeing a familiar personage posed in bronze on a thick plinth.

"There's the Father of your Nation."

"What's he doing here?" The writing on the plinth stated that the statue had been donated by the people of Virginia."

"Supposedly the soil underneath the statue had been imported from the USA." Brock had lived in New York for a number of years. He had almost married the most beautiful girl in the city. The Scot had even written a play for her. It had something to do with a revolt on a Caribbean island. She left him for Hollywood. We didn't talk about those days now.

"What for?"

"The Father Of Your Nation once said he would never step foot on British soil again."

"Washington had never been to England." I had minored in American History at university.

"You're forgetting that America was British soil before the Revolution." Brock hooked his arm with mine. "Let's get us some beer."

"In honor of George." I headed east with a parting nod.

"He was a man who never lied." Brock was an historian too.

"Just like my father." My old man came from the same stock, only we hailed from Maine.

There were no statues in London honoring anyone from the Pine Tree State.

I know, because I googled it.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Colder Than A Witch's Tit

James Benning & Peter Hutton @ Miguel Abreau Gallery

Miguel Abreau Gallery has been presenting the long videos of James Benning & Peter Hutton at their 88 Orchard Street location. I loved Benning's observations of a lonely highway in California's Central Valley. Miguel explained that the artist stood on the side of the road and filmed the passing moments.

"One man?"

"He believes in a small crew."

And his eye tells a story without words that is almost legible to the blind by the wind of the passing cars.

Sand, highway, fog, sun, cars.

Eternal America.

Hutton’s At Sea and Three Landscapes and Benning’s Tulare Road all be available for viewing until March 5.

ps I loved Hutton's At Sea.

Miguel Abreau Gallery 88 Orchard Street 4th Floor or Maybe the 5th. 212-995-1774 To See a bit of ROAD TO TULARE please go to this URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nG1EyWZaGOY

Floating Light / Jan Xavier

Everyday thousands of southbound passengers sit in the Poughkeepsie waiting room. The rising sun illuminates the high gallery and later three chandeliers light with the four-story brick terminal. Most people ignore them. People are mrs interested in their destinations or cellphones, however Jan Xavier, veteran guitarist, caught the elegant beauty of the light looming above the gloom.

I know the light well.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

Valentine Day ala Thai

Valentine’s Day has been globalized around the world, although few people know the exact origins of why we send hearts to loved ones. The tradition is mainly attributed to a roman priest Valentine who preform marriages against the wishes of the Roman Emperor. His punishment was execution but not before supposedly addressing a farewell note to his beloved ‘From your Valentine’.

The last words for an old lover.

Saints were not saints and back in the Dark Ages priests were not celibate. The Holy Catholic Church makes no mention of this in their treatment of Valentine’s Day. Not that their priests are celibate either. Still the holiday is celebrated around the world and in Thailand it has become the day when young people vow to have sex with their lovers. Thai authorities disapprove of this adaptation of the Valentine rites and officials are posting police near honeymoon hotels to prevent teens from acting on their desires.

Contradicting this moral conservatism a recent Culture Minister ordered his officers to distribute 10,000 condoms to teens in preparation for their civil disobedience. In truth the boys were praying to be lucky and I know that when I was a teenager girls were thinking in the opposite direction. Most teens will go to eat with their friends and the boys dream about getting the green light as they pay for the meal.

Only a few will be so lucky and that’s only because they were lucky before.

So Happy Valentine Day youth of the world.

I’m celebrating mine with my favorite lover.

A bottle of wine.

I only wish I was halfway around the world with Fenway's mom.

Mam is my real valentine.

If only I could click my heels like Dorothy in THE WIZARD OF OZ.

"There's no place like home."

St. Valentine's Day Massacre / BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith


Every Valentine's Day diamond dealers and jewelers on 47th Street anticipated a winter spending spree by lovers for their loved ones, but each year of the 21st Century the sales numbers dropped drastically, as the economic downturn cut into everyone's surplus, but the rich.

Valentine afternoon in February 2011 shoppers crammed the chocolatiers along 5th Avenue and the high-end stores hawking peach fuzz soft cashmere scarfs and libido arousing lingerie. Rose hawkers manned every corner and no man was going home empty-handed, if he knew what was good for him.

Hlove and I stood in our diamond shop at noon.

Not a single customer had entered the exchange throughout the day.

"This is not looking good." I was wallowing in pessimism. My kids in Thailand needed money for the weekend and I was late on my rent. My debts were mounting during this long period of the shorts.

"Valentine's Day isn't what it used to be." HLove was a little better off. He had given five guitar lessons in the last four days.

"Not that it ever was good." I couldn't recall a good Valentine Day in this century.

My telephone rang and I checked the number. It was an unknown caller and I answered the phone with caution.

It was a friendly voice.

"My name is Alex. I was recommended by a friend. Are you open?"

"Very open." There wasn't a single customer in the exchange. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a gift."

"Then come on over and I'll help you find something."

I hung up with dismay, because Richie Boy and Fat Karl had stripped the store bare for the annual Palm Beach Antique Show. The two were the engines fueling the business. Without them and the merchandise we were dead in the water.

Lenny the Bum had rapped on the window and mouthed the question if we had been robbed.

"Not at all," I answered in mime, but we had nothing to sell and I complained to Manny my boss.

"Stop your crying." Manny had seen four score plus Valentine Days and he had spent most of today arguing with his girlfriend in Florida. Everyone on the Block was heading south, because nothing said 'loser' louder than pale winter skin for non-Hassidic diamond dealers. "Selling when you have goods is easy. Selling when you have nothing is the sign of a great salesman. When your G comes in, act if you're standing in Cartier, because you are in the center of the diamond world and you know where to get everything."

"Right." There was no sense in fighting Manny, since he was usually right, if he was wrong.

At noon Alex showed up with a smile on his face. His budget was $3000.

"How long you been going out this woman?" $3000 was more than most men spent on their wives all year.

"Six months." Alex sounded like they were still having sex.

"Really? What she do?"

"She's from the Ukraine and studied at University of London and works at the Bank of America."

"Oh." According to my calculations Alex was about one zero away from happifying this woman and I pulled out diamond hoops for $15000. They were the only ones left in the store.

"Way too much." Alex owned a budding high-tech company. They had no investors, so I showed him a pair of Italian diamond earrings with two carats in diamonds set in 18K white gold flower design. I had sold several other pairs over the last month and I had guaranteed each male customer a happy ending upon giving the gift to their intended, but I also suspected that might not be the case for Alex, so I asked my diamond associate for her assessment of the diamond earrings.

"There's very nice." Danni was Eastern European, young, and adored jewelry. Her engagement ring came from Jacob and Company. Her mother-in-law ran Moscow's largest jewelry store. She examined the earrings and asked Alex, "How long you been with your girlfriend?"

"Six months. She's petite. Like a ballerina."

"The earrings cost $3000."

"They are beautiful. Italian too." Danni was telling the truth. We always do, mostly because the truth is easier to remember than a lie.

"I'll take them." Alex paid the $3000 without haggling for a lower price. We gave him a nice box. It was a classic ring-box-go sale.

"If you don't get a happy ending, I'll give the money back." It was our standard offer.

After Alex left, I called Richie Boy was at the Palm Beach Antiques Show. He wasn't happy with the sale. There was only $500 profit. "He's a friend of a friend."

"Oh, great." He had to share the profit with me.

50/50 minus the expenses.

"Better than nothing." I hung up the phone and put the money in the safe minus my commission.

My Valentine's Day plan was food and sleep before calling my wife and children in Thailand.

The evening train to Brooklyn was crowded with men carrying Valentine Day gifts. They wore smiling faces. My effort had made Alex happy. I spent $10 of my commish on a Mexican dinner and fell into bed reading Pier Brendon's THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE. Within three pages I was out cold and didn't wake until 8am.

It was Sunday morning. I called my wife in Thailand. She was happy to hear from me and my daughters and sons wished me much love. The store wasn't opening until ten, so my wake-up process lasted longer than normal. I read a little more of the book. England had really put it to India. I left my apartment in Fort Greene at 9am.

The subway was empty and I arrived at work a little past 10. My co-worker, Hlove, was waiting by the safe. The musician's face wore a veneer of exhaustion. He said he had yet to go to bed. The sixty year-old had stopped drinking on his doctor's orders.

"I could get to sleep."

"Don't worry, I'll set up the front window."

Thankfully Manny wasn't coming in early.

"Thanks."

Rain splattered on the sidewalk. It was promising to be a slow Friday.

I was wrong.

Alex showed up several minutes later. The chagrin on his face revealed the answer to my question, "How'd it go?"

"Not good." He stood at the counter sagging with the weight of disaster.

"Let me guess." The $240 in my pocket didn't feel like mine anymore.

"Last night we were going to the ballet. She came out of her bedroom in a dress which looked like it was woven out of the wind. On her ears were two-inch long strands of diamonds. They were antiques and looked like her family stole them from the czar. I handed her the box."

"The box." I had luckily given him an expensive box. "It cost over $20."

"She looked for a name."

"Oh." The box was elegant, but anonymous.

"She opened it and her face dropped like I had called her mother a bad name. She examined the earrings and said, "You have to be kidding." She didn't stop either."

Most women like her don't when they're on a good roll realizing the man was defenseless.

"She said they looked like they cost $600." Alex was reliving the pain from his failed gift.

"Enough already. I blew it. It's my fault." I went into the safe and counted out his money. He handed over the earrings and I returned his cash. The bills were still crisp. I shrugged and said, "I don't know what to say."

Actually that wasn't the truth.

Several curses floated on the tip of my tongue.

"I don't know whether to leave her or not."

"There's only one thing you can do at a time like this." Alex's day of romance had been ruined by this unfeeling chuva, which meant 'whore' in Yiddish, so I said the only thing possible, "Do what you think is best."

My advice was non-committal and exactly what he wanted to hear, because any advice from me would be seen in a negative light. I had ruined his Valentine's Day.

"Thanks for taking care of this." Alex held up the money. "This girl might come by to check out this place. She's that type of girl."

"No problem." I waved good-bye. "I'll be polite."

After Alex walked away, Hlove said, "That sucks."

"Big time. Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything." We were partners.

I asked HLove to T the G or follow Alex for several blocks.

A half hour later he came back and said the lovelorn executive had beelined into Van Cleef.

"Sucker."

"Yeah." I phoned Richie Boy with the bad news. He took it with a lack of grace.

"That fucking bitch. A guy gives her a gift for $3000 and she shits on it. I can't believe it."

"First time it happened to me."

"Stay long enough in this business and you'll see everything."

Manny said the same thing.

His son and he were from the same school.

Everyone was out for themselves and no good deed goes unpunished.

Around 2:30pm a small blonde in designer clothing entered the store. A wide-brimmed hat hid her face. She was no ballerina in my book, but Alex must have seen a different performance of SWAN LAKE than me. Alex's fiancé examined the jewelry and I pulled out the earrings.

"You mind if I ask you a question?"

"No." The thirtyish woman was dowdy, but she wasn't telling the truth. She wanted out of here.

"If someone gave you this for Valentine's Day. How would you feel? Good? Bad? It cost me $2300. Maybe it's a little girlish for you. Women in their 40s like something bigger."

"I'm not 40."

"Are you in your 50s." I was being mean. Someone had to be for Alex.

She huffed out of the store. Hlove gave me the thumb's up. He was happy that I revenged her slight. I would have been happier with Alex's money in my pocket, but sometimes you have to settle for what you can get and some days revenge is all there is, when beauty is in the hands of the holder.

Friday, February 13, 2015

No Summer Yet In Boston

I left Boston in the autumn of 1976 for New York. I was in love with a girl from North Carolina. She departed from Brooklyn three hours before I arrived in a stolen car.

I should have returned back home, except Jim Spicer, Cecil Taylor's manager, offered e a bedroom in Park Slope and I worked for a tour of Edward Abee, the playwright of WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINA WOOLF I never saw his work and he never knew my name. I was a good job.

Winter less so.

Snow buried New York and the blizzard of 1977 cut off New England fem the rest of the world.

Much like now.

Cold here at the Fort Greene Observatory and colder under the night shadow of Big Blue Hill.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

The Curse No More

The Boston Red Sox finally killed the Babe Ruth Curse by miraculously coming back from three games down in the 2004 ALCS finals against their dreaded nemesis, the New York Yankees.

Heroic performances by pitcher Curt Shilling and power hitter David Ortiz shall live in the memories of the Red Sox Nation throughout this century.

Hundreds and then thousands and tens of thousands of the faithful descended on Landsdowne Street to celebrate the moment. Boston police saw 90,000 fans and decided that they were the enemy. Officers fired rubber bullets, bean bags, and tear gas into the celebrating crowd, as if they were protestors in Gaza, instead of Boston fans.

One aimed projectile struck Victoria Snelgrove in the head. The college student died at the hands of the police. The officer was given paid leave.

The Commissioner of the Boston Police, O'Toole called the celebrants 'punks' and condoned her officers' attack on the unarmed public. Douglas K. Stern defended the Boston PD. He was rewarded with a position at a prestigious law firm defending white collar crime.

A true scumbag deserving of public shunning.

We do not forget and Trot Nixon, Red Sox outfielder said the day after,"I would trade back the win in Game 7 to have her back."

Fuck the Pigs.

I'm cool with the Yankees and Babe Ruth,

They ain't killers.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Moody Blues Redux

I'm an old hippie and nothing proves it more than listening to the Moody Blues.

I love them and especially THE STORY IN YOUR EYES.

To hear this song please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-iJ47in9YQ

And even better NEVER COMES THE DAY

To hear this song please go to this URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dzRdyC0abA

Old hippies united for peace.

Sinners Beware

According to the Bible-Thumpers from the square states Obama was born the Anti-Christ.

White people from north and south hate the president.

His every policy attacks their supremacy, but none more than the Affordable Health Bill, which strips power from the insurance companies' governance over profit from hospitals, doctors, prescription drugs, nurses, daycare centers, hospices, old age homes et al.

Even more diabolical has been the inroads incurred by marijuana, signaling defeat in the War on Drugs. The radical right of the GOP refuse to wave the white flag and the Republican majority in Congress has passed a bill against ObamaCare in hopes of returning power to fat white men over the nation, but we weed smokers refuse to listen to their bullshit.

On 4/20 we shall gather across the nation and smoke reefer to tell the GOP.

Reefer now.

Reefer forever.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Death Camps For The Old

During the fight to pass President Obama's Affordable Healthcare Bill, the GOP accused the Democrats of having written a clause designed to create death camps for the elderly. This falsitude was promoted by Fox News to the believers in the Right and this week Gov. Scott Walker of Wisconsin proposed to cut funding for the SeniorCare drug program to save a mere $15 million over the next two years.

Death Camps are back on the list.

It's the way of the GOP.

Snow Day For Boston

More snow fell on Boston.

The accumulation for the month has been over 70 inches.

Another storm has Beantown in its sights for tomorrow.

The Mayor has closed the T. The trains travel in the open air. The Air will be filled with snow. Trains an especially old trolleys hate the snow. School will shut across the Bay State led by Beaver Country Day. Businesses are calling it a day too.

Snow day for everyone, but not New York.

I'm going to work tomorrow

Drat.

Marpessa Hennink _ Ageless In My Eyes

All beauty lives forever in the eyes of an admirer.

National Hate Florida Day

Icy rain in New York.

12 inches of snow predicted for Boston.

The northern tier of the USA is gripped by winter.

Only one state in the Lower 48 offers any relief.

Florida.

Wish I was there.

Key West.

Nowhere warmer than the end of US 1.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Michael Winslow - Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin

I met the codeine Michael Winslow at the 1985 Deauville Film Festival in France. He was promoting POLICE ACADEMY. There was no Roman numeral after the title. This was the original. This summer I aw him at Gothams Comedy Club and the older comic has not lost his touch as evinced by his pyrotechnic guitar solos.

To hear this wicked version of WHOLE LOTTA LOVE, please go to the flowing URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxcCC2g1Ke0

Thursday, February 5, 2015

THE GUILT OF MOTHERS by Peter Nolan Smith

Back in the 90s I deserted New York to spend the Christmas holidays with my family on the South Shore.

Despite my abandonment of God as a child my mother persisted in requesting my attendance at Midnight Mass. It was a small sacrifice to make for the woman who brought me into this world and I always said, "Sure.”

One Christmas Eve I dressed in a dark-gray suit with a black cashmere polo shirt.

My mother came into the bedroom and asked, “Where’s your tie?

“Mom, this shirt is pure cashmere.”

“But you look better in a tie?” My mother was old school.

“You can’t wear a tie with a polo shirt.” I had worn a tie every day at Our Lady of the Foothills.

My mother frowned with disappointment at both my wardrobe and rejection of her God.

“I hope at my funeral you’ll wear a tie.” Her eyes were dewy with tears.

“I will.” Refusing my mother was impossible and I changed my shirt and put on a tie. It felt like a garrote.

"Better?" I asked in the kitchen. My father was seated at the table in his best suit.

"Much better.” She smiled with triumph and kissed my cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

Upon my return to New York I related this story to the mother of my diamond employer. Hilda tsked and said, “That’s the difference between Jews and goyim.”

“What?” Her son and I were befuddled by Hilda’s statement.

“Your mother simply asked for you to wear a tie at her funeral, if it had been me I would have said, “Once you kill me, I want you to wear a tie to the funeral.”

“Aha.” I replied, for Hilda had explained the true depth of Jewish guilt in a single sentence.

Matricide.

We were all bad boys, except to our mothers.

To them we were saints.

The Beat Lives On

Beat icon Neal Cassady died on February 4, 1968.

Walking home from at party in San Miguel de Allende Cassady fell asleep by train tracks. The night was cold and wet. The next morning his 3D body was discovered in a coma. This death from exposure launched the outlaw traveler from this 2D world into 4D eternity.

Time has been cruel to the memory of Kerouac's road legend. Critics have called him a fool. Milleniums see his antics as the act of an addict. Having recently read ON THE ROAD I was enthralled to accompany Neal across the country. Cassady had been reared by a wino father on Denver's skid row.

“Among the hundreds of isolated creatures who haunted the streets of lower downtown Denver there was not one so young as myself. Of these dreary men who had committed themselves, each for his own good reason, to the task of finishing their days as penniless drunkards, I alone, as the sharer of their way of life, presented a replica of childhood to which their vision could daily turn, and in being thus grafted onto them, I became the unnatural son of a few score beaten men.”

Neal Cassady lives in the minds of wanderers.

And all straights consider us 'fools', because they know nothing of the road and even less of friendship.

To hear PULL MY DAISY by Allen Ginsburg, Jack Kerouac, and Neal Cassady please go to the following URL

www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3BxcGz_4ns

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Stefania Fumo Photograph / Journalist / Cineste

Stefania Fumo went into exile several years ago.

She was in love.

Her husband and she crossed the equator to live in the capitol.

They ended up in his native Argentina.

His home city Buenos Aires meant Good Air in Spanish. The relationship lasted a couple of seasons of better and worse, then he broke the 7th Commandment.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

Her husband was thrown out of the apartment. Stefania could have retreated to NY. but decided to become a photographer in Rome. He ex was a photographer too. She is now the competition.

I love her pix.

>Most of of her too.

See her on www.girlontape.com

She still has great legs and a better mind.

ps Stefania loves her dogs.

skinny legs and all, joe tex,


In 1967 Joe Tex scored a #10 hit with SKINNY LEGS AN ALL on Dial/Atlantic records.

The lyrics told the tale of a good fun nnight.

“I don’t want no woman with no skinny legs
Look here!
I thought about givin’ this woman to Clyde
But, no
Say, I know the kind-a women Clyde like
Leroy’ll take her.
Say, LEROY!
You got her!”

Amazing to think that those lyrics were hit the airwaves, but many young men have had a hankering for skinny girls, for in the words of the immortal Jack Flood, the hardened heavyweight from Seattle, “The closer to the bone the sweeter the meat.”

To check out these skinny legs, go to www.girlsontape.com and marvel at Stefania Fumo’s self-photos, othe


In 1967 Joe Tex scored a #10 hit with SKINNY LEGS AN ALL on Dial/Atlantic records.

The lyrics told the tale of a good fun nnight.

“I don’t want no woman with no skinny legs
Look here!
I thought about givin’ this woman to Clyde
But, no
Say, I know the kind-a women Clyde like
Leroy’ll take her.
Say, LEROY!
You got her!”

Amazing to think that those lyrics were hit the airwaves, but many young men have had a hankering for skinny girls, for in the words of the immortal Jack Flood, the hardened heavyweight from Seattle, “The closer to the bone the sweeter the meat.”

To check out these skinny legs, go to www.girlsontape.com and marvel at Stefania Fumo’s self-photos, otherwise go to this youtube url to see Joe Tex live.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Sdib6gd190

rwise go to this youtube url to see Joe Tex live.

ww.youtube.com/watch?v=7Sdib6gd190

My wife had skinnier legs than Stefania.

As Jack Flood said, “The closer to the bone the sweeter the meat.”

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Super Bowl Sunday 2015

It's Sunday Bowl Sunday and the New England Patriots are playing last year's champions for the 2015 NFL title. Seattle's Legion of Boom have promised to shut down the Pats' stellar tight end, Le Gronk, and punished any receivers daring to cross their paths on the other side of the scrimmage line. The 'Hawks coach had spent several years at Foxboro Stadium before the owner got Bill Bellichek from the Jets. My home team has won three Superbowls in the 21st Century, but none since # 12 Tom Brady married supermodel Giselle. Few male New Englanders have mentioned this obvious curse, because Giselle was a Victoria Secrets lingerie model, although my niece is prays daily for the split-up of Brady family for different reasons.

She is in love with # 12.

He has perfect hair despite most of it being plugs.

This afternoon Courtney called to ask where I was watching the game.

The landlord of the Fort Green Observatory is watching the game with his eight year-old son, James, whom I have nicknamed 'Lucky Charm'.

Turning down chicken wings and beer on a couch is tough, however AP is not a real sports fan and both his son and I consider him a little unlucky.

Option # 2 is to sit at Frank's Lounge on Fulton, except the TVs in the Old School bar date back to the 80s and my eyes hurt trying to focus on the blurred images.

A third possibility would be Mullane's Sport Bar on Lafayette, if bearded Will was working there, but he was fired by the bald owner for being too scruffy.

Drinking at his new place of employ worked for me, until Will said that a neighborhood organization was having a soiree at Eats on Mrytle and added, "They have a DJ, so there's no sound on the TV."

"Damn, I like my spot there." I had watched both Patriots' victories at bar stool # 3.

Last choice is chez Neil R, a die-hard Yankees and Knicks fan. I'll be the only Patriot supporter at his house party and everyone will know it, because I'm wearing a Richard Seymour home jersey.

# 93.

The sun is going down and I have to make a decision.

I hope it is the right one.

GO PATRIOTS