Saturday, February 28, 2015


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

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.


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."


In living color or black and white.

To watch his knockouts, please go to this URL

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Victoria Selbach - Woman in Form




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

For general inquiries or to join our mailing list please contact

Staff Timothy Smith, Gallery Director Suzanne Smith, Art Director

I love her works.

She tattoos bodies with shadows.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

White Trash Loser

1. Did you fart? Cuz you just blew me away.
2. Are yer parents retarded? Cuz ya sure are special.
3. My love fer you is like diarrhea. I just can't hold it in.
4. Do you have a library card? Cuz I'd like to sign you out.
5. Is there a mirror in your pants? Cuz I can see myself in 'em.
6. You might not be the best lookin' girl here, but beauty's only a light switch away.
7. I know I'm not no Fred Flinstone, but I bet I can make yer bed rock.
8. Yer eyes are as blue as window cleaner.
9. If yer gunna regret this in the mornin', we kin sleep 'til afternoon.

AND ... the best for last!
10. Yer face reminds me of a wrench. Every time I think of it, my nuts tighten up.

Send by Tottenham Spurs fan.

NIK Rieter. A Yid fan to the end.

Amazingly no liberals ever get upset about anyone dogging white trash or hillbillies. No one on the right either. White trash are fair game. No one ever defends them. No one ever will.

Louis CK says it best in his monologue White Trash Loser

Check it out.

White Trash Test

The Halloween pumpkin on your front porch has more teeth than your spouse.

You let your twelve-year-old daughter smoke at the table in front of her kids.

You've been married three times and still have the same in-laws.

You think a woman who is "out of your league" bowls on a different night.

Jack Daniel's makes your list of "Most Admired People."

You think Genitalia is an Italian airline.

You wonder how gas stations keep their restrooms so clean.

Someone in your family died right after saying "Hey, y'all watch this!"

Your Junior/Senior prom had a daycare.

You lit a match in the bathroom and your house exploded right off its wheels.

The bluebook value of your truck goes up and down, depending on how much gas it has in it.

Ya' can't git married to yer sweetheart 'cause there's a dang law against it.

You think loading the dishwasher means getting your wife drunk.

Your toilet paper has page numbers on it.

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

Friday, February 20, 2015

Sexy Mary

The Four Books of the New Testament accredit Mary, plain Virgin Mary, as the mother of Jesus, the Messiah worshipped by the Christians. Old Believers highly venerate Mary for the miracle of Immaculate Conception. She professes to have no contact with a male other than the divine intercession of God.

She is the Mother to the Holy Roman Catholic Church for thousands of years.

No one says bad for her other than the Protestants and no one cares about the Baptist doctrine, except the sixteen million adherents to that sect in the USA.

5% of the population denying homage to Mary of Carmen.

That was one her last name.

Another was Mary daughter of Joachim.

Her father was married to St. Anne David. The rich man was unable to conceive a child with his barren wife and fasted in the desert for forty days and forty nights.

The same amount of time the rains fell to fold the world for Noah's Ark.

Angels appeared to announce the blessed birth of Mary.

Another miracle.

Forty days and forty nights.

I have forty days and nights left on my Lental abstinence of beer.

Gratis vino i superstes erit.

Jesus Jah Ma

“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.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

No More Beer For Lent

I'm an old atheist.

Non-Belief runs in my family as strongly as the acceptance of the Divine.

I was raised a Catholic.

The Old Religion.

My rejection of faith at the age of eight failed to deter my buying into the celebrations of the saints throughout the Church calendar; St. Brigid's Day, St. Padraic's Day, the Blessing of Throats, the Immaculate Conception, and most recently Ash Wednesday.

"Remember, man, ashes to ashes and dust to dust."

Who could reject such certitude.

Aside from the burnt offering of incinerated Palm Sunday palms I have always attempted the second most important aspect of Lent i.e. the giving up of a pleasure and this year the old reprobate has decided to stop drinking beer, the holiest liquid of pagans and non-believers.

This evening in the Fort Greene Observatory I informed my landlord/friend AP about this attempt and asked, "You think I can get to the end of Lent without drinking beer?"

"When's the end of Lent?" AP was spiritual, but not religious.

"Holy Thursday." Some sinners regarded Palm Sunday as the finish line.

Not me.

"And when is that?"

"April 2nd."

"That's six weeks away." AP was an architect and had a good head for numbers.

"Over forty days." Jesus had gone forty days in the desert without succumbing to the temptation of Lucifer. "You think I can make it?"

"Not a chance." AP hooted in derision, but he wasn't taking into consideration the frigid weather. Beer below zero was 'tref', plus I like my wine in the cold climes.

"You wanna bet?'

"No way."

His son James stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the Forth Greene Observatory.

"James, you think I can not drink beer for forty days."

"No way."

"You want to bet your allowance." I gave him and Hippie Girl, his sister, a dollar each every week.

"No way." Like father like son, but I'm sure I'll find a sucker to take my bet.

I didn't drink beer on Ash Wednesday and I made it through today.

Only forty days to go.

Like the rain of Noah and the fast of Jesus.

If those two can do it, then I can too.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Thai Perfection or Lak-sa-na-tee-dee

The standard joke amongst men about the perfect western girlfriend was that her father owned a pub and she’s 3' 4" with a flat head, so you can put your beer on her.

Few females answer those simple Occidental needs, but in Thailand it is more than likely that your girlfriend’s father is distilling moonshine lao khao or rice whiskey, she’s 5-3, and there is no way any Thai will let you mess with their head even if it’s flat.

So what qualities make up the perfect Thai girlfriend?

I googled ‘perfect thai girlfriend’ and the search engine came up with over 870,000 results.

The late mangosauce’s contribution was his reverse alchemy factor where a Thai girlfriend can turn gold into a base metal. His comment was funny, but this warning shot over the bow was more a helpful hint as to what pluses might answer a farang’s fondest wishes. described the perfect Thai girlfriend on their website.

The girl on the home page seemed right for me, but she’s nowhere to be found within their promo pages, plus my attraction was only physical.

Being near-sighted I don’t need a beauty queen.

Pretty yes, but I don’t want to fight duels over the perfect Thai girlfriend with every other lovesick farang.

The next website was

No one is looking for girlfriends on that misogynistic XXX site.

Only girlfiends who serve the purpose of lust.

I’ve had several Thai girlfriends.

Everyone of them was nice, until they weren’t nice and I made up my own list for the perfect Thai girlfriend.

No tattoos / especially if it’s a heart with a name scratched out.

Minimal to zero English / Not long on the bar scene.

No cigarettes or drinking / nasty habits in a woman, but makes for a good bloke.

Dead Thai boyfriend / hopefully by a meteorite to the head so everyone would be scare shitless at the mention of his name.

No children / Mam and I have three. Fenway, Fluke, and Noi. I can deal with that number. Four too. But I’m very happy with three.

No internet skills / Dead give-away of a foreign boyfriend, who strangely shows up when you are leaving town. “Not worry, he only friend.”

No Gold necklaces / Another indication of sucker boyfriend, although we have to defer to mangosauce’s theory of reverse alchemy. Diamonds to ashes.

Your first date shouldn't be a short-time from Soi 6 although there no more blinding passion than lust at first sight.

And penultimately of all no slash marks across the wrists, which are the warning sign of a true dangerous maniac. Also great sex.

She also has to be beautiful, funny, and loving.

Needless to say no such creature exists in Thailand or America or the rest of the world, because no one is perfect.

Not now.

Not ever as proven by Charles de Talleyrand, who manipulated kings, emperors, and statesmen during the 18th Century. This powerful eminence gris had been in love with the most beautiful and erudite woman of the Paris salons. The haute-class courtesan ditched him for a supposedly gay captain in the Swiss Guards. Being smart she needed a challenge.

Talleyrand was broken-hearted, but his friends and critics were shocked by his later marriage to the daughter of country gentry, until he confessed, “One must have loved a genius to appreciate the love of a fool.”

And I’m no different.

No matter what qualities I admire in a woman they will be never enough to satisfy my dreams, so we have to be content with what we get, because as the great philosopher MICK JAGGER said, “You can always get what you want, but if you try some time you might end up with what you need.”

Deviant Londoners would love to see Mr. Jimmy, except the Chelsea Drugstore is now a Mickey D. fast food chain instead of a nihilistic heroin connection as featured in the movie CLOCKWORK ORANGE.

Nothing is sacred anymore, especially the profane, so I'll take my perfection where I can find it.


The Sacrifice Of Lent

In 1962 the pope convened his cardinals for an ecumenical council aimed at modernizing the Catholic Church. The most noticeable change came with the abandonment of Latin for the Litany of the Mass. No more 'mea culpas' or 'sanctus sactus sanctus'. The priests intoned the ancient texts in English stripping away the magic of the Mass Sunday by Sunday.

As a secret atheist I stopped attending church after graduating from St. Mary's of the Foothill, except for high holidays such as Easter or Christmas. My last confession was heard in 1967 and I haven't prayed to 'God' in 20 years, however some practices resisted my apostasy.

I light candles before the statue of St. Brigid of Clare in St. Padraic's Cathedral, because this pagan-born saint bears the same name as a powerful Druidic goddess of the pagan, Brigid was the goddess of fire, dedicated to enlightening mankind through music, arts, and poetry. Her feast day coincides with Groundhog's Day. I also celebrate St. Padriac's Day with the holy sacrament of Beer. Lastly every Ash Wednesday I submit to placing ashes on my forehead. This rite dated back to the dawn of time as a act of repentance and most certainly I have done some bad things over the yearly cycle.

This year I got my ashes (from burnt palm leaves) from my niece.

No priest for me.

"What are you giving up for Lent?" she asked as we strolled down 5th Avenue.

"Hard liquor and cigarettes." I had consumed my fill at a Mardi Gras party.

"I'm giving up Diet-Coke." Courtney was a very devote Coke drinker.

"Does that mean you're switching to Pepsi."

"My lips have never touched a Pepsi."

No soda was a big sacrifice for someone in their 20s.

"I'll give it up too." I had drank a can of Diet-Coke the previous day. "But nothing else."

Porno-surfing would have been more extreme, but there are a limit to my dedication to ancient Church rites and porno was my greatest sin.

At least this year.

"Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return." or E=MC(squared) in the words of the Church.

In the beginning there was always light.

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

Tar In The Blood

My father’s side of the family arrived on the the Mayflower.

They were Howlands.

My Irish Nana sailed on a ship a deck above steerage in the Year of the Crow. She was 14.

In 1966 my parents enrolled my name in the ranks of The Sons of Colonial Wars and Mayflower Descendants. As an anti-status quo hippie I never attended a single gathering of either association, despite our rumored family ties to Hannibal Hamlin, Abraham Lincoln’s first vice president.

While my Yankee side was from Maine, my grandmother’s last name was Hamlin. I recalled her saying that she was related to the great man and I have mentioned this to many of my friends over the years.

A few have backed up this claim.

My father compiled a family genealogy. I can only guess at our past, so I researched the family connection on the Internet.

The first page of websites blatantly accused my supposed ancestor of having been a mulatto, citing his dark complexion.

“Hamlin is what we call a Mulatto…they design to place over the South a man who has Negro blood in his veins.”

His Vice-Presidency added another incendiary flame to the secessionists and his political opponents in Maine further scandalized by untruths as to his heritage.

“That black Penobscot Indian.”

Of course no one was really white back then. Artists painted presidents as white when in truth they were men of color, because white women died in droves during childbirth. Faced with extinction white males impregnated black women to save the race, plus sex with white women was an obligation instead of a pleasure, however the darkest of the dark were thrown out of the big house same as Abraham banished his concubine Hagar and his son Ishmael into the desert.

As for me, I walked like the Mothers of Invention sang on FREAK OUT, “I’m not black,but there’s a lot of times I don’t feel white.”

It’s in my blood.

And everyone else’s too.

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

Florida's Ten Thousand Islands

In the winter of 1975 I hitchhiked west from Miami Beach along Alligator Alley. Rides weren't easy for the first thirty miles. Finally a fruit farmer from Naples gave me a ride through the southern tip of the Everglades. Little, but swamp lined the four-lane highway. No snow birds from the Northeast or Canada wanted to live in these mosquito-ridden boondocks. The only signs of civilization were the time-battered gas stations and Indian trading posts promoting alligator wrestling and cold beer. The farmer left me at Everglade City. A sign advertised the Gun and Rod Club. The farmer had mentioned it was worth a visit. I stuck out my thumb. A hot rod took me there.

"Everglade City looks a little beat up."

There was a wide space between houses and buildings.

"We keep gettin' hit by hurricanes. They blow everything' into the Gulf and the Gulf don't give back what it takes." The driver introduced himself as 'Indee'.

"Lands seems high here."

To of town mounds rose from the brackish water.

"All old oyster bars. Indians must of ate billions of them. They wuz here before us and my family been here since right after the Seminole War. Number 2 that is." The twenty-two year old driver was the epitome of a backwoods greaser; slick hair, greasy jeans, rawhide muscles under the stained Allman Bros. teeshirt, but he had all his teeth and they gleamed like sun-bleached bones. Mine were more yellow.

"Must almost seem like home."

"Don't know nowhere else. Just this road and that." He pointed to the Everglades. "Fishin', hunting', drinkin', whatever."

Whatever encompassed a lot of territory in the Ten Thousands Islands.

The inhabited swamps were ideal for smuggling.

Planes and boats loaded with cocaine and reefer protected by crackers used to talking to themselves.

"I was thinking of a canoe trip."

"Good, I got one. We'll go into the 'glades."

"I don't have much money." I was heading for San Diego.

"$10/half day. You'll never see anything' like it and you're lucky it's cold, otherwise the skitters would suck your body dry."

"Okay." I had read Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings' THE YEARLING.

Two feet off the highway was the setting of her novel about a young boy tragically adopting a deer in Florida.

"I'll see you at 6. Sunrise and the swamps."

The hot rod burned rubber on the dirt and I entered the slightly-musty hunting lodge. It was golden cedar from floor to ceiling. I thought it was out of my price range, but was pleased to hear it was $20. I had to sleep someplace and the motels in Everglade City were still recovering from the last hurricane.

After a lovely fish dinner and some cheap wine I stood on the veranda and stare out of the darkness of the swamp.

No one lived there.

I went to sleep dreaming about my canoe ride and woke at 5:50am, but Indee was a no-show.

I walked to the observatory at the road's end. A deep green covered the world of very little dry land. White herons flew with the dawn. A flock of flamingos ferreted through the low tide mud. Bacon drifted on the light air. Breakfast was ready at the Lodge and bacon and eggs was as good as way to start a morning as canoeing in the Everglades.

I turned around and walked across the trim lawn.

Today wasn't a day for the Call or the Wild.

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

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."

Mia Noi or Mia Luang

Valentine Day comes once a year.

Today I'm a half world distant from my two wives and four kids in Thailand. I can only say I love you or 'pom rak khun' over the telephone or via Western Union. My wives' preference was for my sending money over the internet. Money always says 'rak mak' or love you much.

Several friends in New York have asked, "Which wife do you love most?"

Mia noi or Mia Luang?

I'd have to go with #2, because you'd never have a #2 if you loved #1 so much.

A geek or a part-time mistress sure.

I don't know a single faithful westerner in Thailand.

Maybe me, because I am faithful to both my wives.

And that was no small accomplishment in Thailand where temptation lurks in the air like perfume from a a fragrant tree. It's everywhere.



Valentine Day's 10 Commandments of Love in Thailand

Back in 2007 anyone thinking that Valentine's Day in Thailand was a purely commercial holiday for selling roses without a bouquet and red lingerie for your mia noi, the Culture Ministry's declaration of 10 Commandments of Love must have come as a surprise, especially since you can't find a complete list of the 10 dos or don'ts. Which won't stop the coppers from enforcing these CIA-inspired Taliban rules.

So far my list is three.

#1 - Love with patience, so as not to become a young parent.

#2 - Love only one person.

#4 - Avoid the risk of sexually transmitted diseases.

I'll guess the other 7.

# 3. Love the other person as you love yourself, but no masturbation.

#5. Respect the wishes of the other person, unless the request is too weird.

#6. Get home at a good hour. Sleep is better than sex. Remember no touching yourself. 

#7. School should come before sex, especially if it's with teachers.

#8. Do not take rides from strange men or even men you know who aren't strange.

 #9. Girls, don't shine your shoes, because you know what boys are after.

#10. Boys, don't means don't, even when it doesn't mean don't.

Sounds good, until hearing that the Bangkok Police were ordered out of the barracks to foil any under-age couple from committing the sin of kissing, which the boys in brown consider tam nong klong tam - mai kao taa or inappropriate behavior.

That year of No the police patrolled after school 'danger zones' such as public parks, shopping malls and restaurants and evening risk like nightclubs, bars and love motels.

"If we find teenagers below 18 engaged in inappropriate behavior like kissing, we will give them warnings and report to their parents so they can pick them up." A police moral authority stated before adding "Alcohol is definitely a catalyst for this kind of behavior, so we will keep an eye on underage drinking."

Seemingly the police feel that sexual interactions are heightening due to the excess western influences instead of the more prosaic boy meets girl.

So following Valentine's Day leads to kissing and then sex and the collapse of the traditional Thai values of sober modesty.

Better by your example you should lead the young into the future, especially since St. Valentine's Day celebrates a bastardization of a Roman holiday, when the pagans beseeched Lupercus to banish the wolves from the city on February 15. On the Eve of the festival the names of young girls would be picked by the boys in hope they would become lovers for the year.

Sounds familiar?

Strangely can't imagine the Catholic Church ever getting involved in the art of love except to tell people what not to do, as with the Bangkok police. But then the rites of the festival of Lupercas were hard for the Church to accept.

This abridged excerpt comes from

Teenagers and young adult males would meet at a cave below the Palentine to sacrifice goats or dogs. The skins of the animals cut into wet strips called Februa (from which we derive the name February for the month) and males would take these strips into the heart of the city and use them to randomly beat people (particularly women).

On the second day of the festival, each man would draw the name of one of the women who had been hit with the Februa, and she would be coupled with him until the next festival. (This was a voluntary coupling; the woman was under no legal or social obligation to stay with the man.) It was basically just an excuse to sleep with someone for a year without commitment or obligation. ________________________________________________

The collapse of morality or young people having a good time?

The Church knows best and banished St. Valentine to pseudo-saintdom with St. Christophe and St. Patrick feeling they could no longer condone a role in the propagation of a pagan love festival.

Personally I saw no under-aged kids kissing in Pattaya that year.

But if I had I wouldn't have snitched them out.

Boy meet girl

Romeo and Juliette

Is that so bad?

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.


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.


"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

Sophie's Bar Phnom Penh - Songkran 2007

In 2007 Nick and I had scheduled our Cambodia trip to avoid Songkran in Thailand. My wife thought this voyage was simply a sex tour, but we passed through Koh Kong and Sihanoukville without a passing glance at the local talent, mostly because S-ville's Chicken Farm has been dramatically reduced by the port expansion and the bars of Victory Hill were devoid of pulchritude. The taxi drivers vainly attempted to hook us up, but we opted to wait until Phnom Penh.

We arrived in the capitol in the late-afternoon and installed ourselves at the Hope and Anchor Hotel on Quai Sisiwoth. Several beers smoothed the edge of a five-hour bus trip and darkness turned our minds to Sophie's Bar.

The sleaziest bar in the world.

We rode our rented dirt bikes around 153 St.

For 30 minutes.

Finally finding the infamous haunt of sex tourists.

No lights.

The doors shut.

I asked the taxi drivers, "What's up?"

They signaled with their hands.



Nick asked, "Why?"

"How the fuck should I know." I tried to hide my disappointment, because I considered Sophie's Bar one of the Seven Wonders of the world. Its closure was more tragic than the Taliban's blowing up the giant Buddha statue in Afghanistan. After all those statues were stone and Sophie's Bar was flesh and blood.

Martini's and Sharkey's were too tame for my taste and I returned to the hotel alone to sat with Peter, the owner.

"Is Sophie's closed permanently?" I had to know for socio-anthropological reasons.

"No, only for the Buddhist holiday by order of the mayor. He didn't consider it a holy place of worship. Not like some. But it will be open after the New Year."

"I'll be gone then."

"Win some, lose some."

"Yeah." Next year I would have to plan my trip more carefully.

Anything to preserve antiquity.

SOPHIE'S Bar - #9E, Street 118/53

Short time - $10 for one/ $20 for two.

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

And even better NEVER COMES THE DAY

To hear this song please go to this URL

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


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.


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