SCARED OF NOTHING By Peter Nolan Smith on Kindle Books

In 1958 my mother served canned beets for Halloween. My older brother, sister, and I had to finish them before going on our trick or treat rounds through our suburban neighborhood in Falmouth Foresides, Maine. I forced them down with difficulty. Later that evening I ate four Mars Bars. I upchucked purple, proving beets and chocolate don't mix in the stomach of a six year-old costumed as a skeleton.

Since then I have refrained from mixing beets and chocolate.

SCARED OF NOTHING is a collection of short stories and photo-romans with a Halloween theme as well as ghosts, zombies and witches set in Maine, Boston, New York, Thailand, Guatemala and Paris' Pere Lachaise cemetery.

My favorite Halloween song in HAUNTED CASTLE by the Kingsmen and while I am not scared of ghosts and witches, I believe in them.

Anyone who had seen one or more would do the same.

To purchase SCARED OF NOTHING from Kindle Books for $2.99, please go to the following URL

http://www.amazon.com/SCARED-NOTHING-Peter-Nolan-Smith-ebook/dp/B00P2RBEUG

BOO!!!

Zoe Leonard - photographer - quote

I knew Zoe Leonard as a young woman in the late 70s. She was young then. I was in my twenties. The East Village was a slum. We had fun together. She became a photographer.

Well known.

Political as would anyone who lost so many friends to AIDS.

Zoe became an ardent lesbian.

I remained somewhat straight.

She was not scared of saying her mind.

“I want a dyke for president. I want a person with AIDS for president and I want a fag for vice president and I want someone with no health insurance and I want someone who grew up in a place where the earth is so saturated with toxic waste that they didn’t have a choice about getting leukemia. I want a president that had an abortion at sixteen and I want a candidate who isn’t the lesser of two evils and I want a president who lost their last lover to AIDS, who still sees that in their eyes every time they lay down to rest, who held their lover in their arms and knew they were dying. I want a president with no air-conditioning, a president who has stood in line at the clinic, at the DMV, at the welfare office, and has been unemployed and laid off and sexually harassed and gaybashed and deported. I want someone who has spent the night in the tombs and had a cross burned on their lawn and survived rape. I want someone who has been in love and been hurt, who respects sex, who has made mistakes and learned from them. I want a Black woman for president. I want someone with bad teeth and an attitude, someone who has eaten that nasty hospital food, someone who crossdresses and has done drugs and been in therapy. I want someone who has committed civil disobedience. And I want to know why this isn’t possible. I want to know why we started learning somewhere down the line that a president is always a clown. Always a john and never a hooker. Always a boss and never a worker. Always a liar, always a thief, and never caught.” ― Zoe Leonard

I've only ever been arrested for civil disobedience, although te police came up with other charges.

Zoe spent two years in Alaska during the 90s.

I love these shots and more.

SNOW

King Chulalongkorn Day

His Majesty King Chulalongkorn the Great or Rama V was born at the Chakri dynasty's Bangkok Grand Palace in 1853. The Phra Phuttha Chao Luang or the Royal Buddha ascended to the throne after the death of King Mongkut during a military expedition against the Malay sultanates. The young King traveled around Asia to see how the works of Dutch and British colonization might improve the lot of the Thai people, a third of whom were slaves under the elite classes of the corrupt Front Palace. The feudal aristocracy refused to relinquish their power, but the young king deftly stripped them of tax-collecting duties and without money the old system gave way to the new.

The Great Beloved King refrained from being drawn into the various wars of foreign occupation besetting Indochina, although the French invaded Siam in the 1880s to extend their hegemony over Cambodia and Laos. Their naval forces didn't withdraw from the Kingdom until 1905, which was the same year Rama V freed the slaves and ended the practice of corvee or enforced labor.

Freeing the Tad or slaves was not done overnight. The young were liberated first, then those with families, and finally to old to prevent chaos. Still King Chulalongkorn was a saint to his people and traveled amongst them in disguise to better understand the plight of common men.

Rama V died in 1910 highly revered by this people and they still celebrate his passing with King Chulalongkorn Day.

A great man and father to his nation.

May his memory live forever.

Jimmy Durante's Beer Mug

Andre the Giant was a huge man as anyone can tell from how small the beer can looks in his hand.

The champion pro wrestler was also a monstrous drinker once downing 199 beers in a sitting.

The American singer/pianist Jimmy Durante aka the Schnozzola also liked his beer.

And he loved his wife, Mrs. Calabash.

He was a man of the people.

No one remembers the Schnozz these days, but I honor all beer drinkers.

I don't think Jimmie Durante could have downed 199 beers. I can't either, but I love his 1944 hit I'LL BE SEEING YOU.

To view this song, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uSzmuWImK7Q

Demure Dumpster Diving

Recently the drummer from the Gang of Four wrote that he had taught his daughter how to shop at thrift stores. I congratulated Hugh on weaning her from gratuitous consumerism, but also warned about the possible future dangers of his daughter finding the pleasure of dumpster diving for clothing and more. It is not a bad thing. Unless someone sees you doing it.

Catherine Denevue

From REPULSION.

From Bunuel's BELLE DU JOUR

Chanel eternal.

Few actresses symbolize class better than Catherine Denevue.

A beauty for the ages.

LEAVING NY by Peter Nolan Smith

Thirty summers ago I was stuck in New York waiting for a doorman job in Gemany. My pockets were empty and my rent was a month late. Many of my friends worked at Danceteria on West 21st Street. I ate at the BBQ on the roof and drank for free. The owner was a fan of my poetry and John never criticized my glomming off the bartenders.

I finally received the phone call from Germany. A one-way Lufthansa ticket awaited me at JFK. I needed a little money in my pocket to pay for taxis at both ends and hit up a number of friends for $20 each. At Danceteria I ran into John, who was speaking with the bald ex-owner of Mudd Club. John reached into his pocket for his donation.

“I’ll be saving money by getting you away from my bar.”

“I don’t drink that much.”

“7-8 drinks a night add up. Not that I mind.” John was in a good mood. The Bush Tetras were performing at midnight and they packed the club with good-looking women and men after good-looking women. “Have you ever been to Germany before?”

“No.” No one in my family had been to Germany since the Great War.

“Hamburg’s where the Beatles found their magic.” John had played bass in a garage band during the 60s. He was a Beatles fan like most of the people our age.

“That seems to be the only thing anyone knows about Hamburg.” My knowledge of Hamburg was no bigger than his, except I opined a hunch. “I think Dracula shipped out of Hamburg.”

“Dracula didn’t ship out of Hamburg.” A young drunk in a suit said loudly and added with conviction. “He left for England out of Varna.”

“I stand corrected, thanks.” I turned back to John, but he was confronted by the drunk. “Don’t I get a prize for that answer.”

“This isn’t Jeopardy.” John had little patience for annoying customers, who made up half the clientele of Danceteria.

“Yeah, but I got it right, you asshole.” The drunk pushed John hard and I stepped between them. No one laid a hand on my benefactor.

“You two queers.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” He could have called us ‘sissies', but queers was too old school for someone his age. I clenched my fist. “Now why don’t you leave us alone.”

“I know who you are, you fucking asshole.” The blonde-haired drunk pointed his finger at John. Spit flailed from his mouth and his drink slopped over the rim of his glass. The junior exec was a hang-over from the happy hour frequented by 9-5ers. “You own this bar, you wop.”

John’s eyes went steely black upon hearing the ethnic slur. The owner from the Mudd Club laughed like he had a hit a helium. John turned to me.

“You want to make $100? Smack this guy.” His offer sounded like an order from Don Corleone.

“Yo, guy, take a walk.” I said it nice.

“I ain’t a guy, you stupid Mick.”

“$100?”

John gave the nod.

A short right caught the drunk on his right temple. He never saw it coming. I grabbed his arms before he could hit the floor and tossed him to the bouncers. No one saw any of it, but John, Steve, and me.

“That was nice.” John gave me the c-note with a pleased smile.

“A lucky shot.” I stuffed the bill in my pocket and my hand ached from the impact on the drunk’s head. I was done for the night.

“What about a drink?” John dragged me to the bar. “It’s on me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I ordered a screwdriver. It was the fifth of many more. My bon voyage fund stood at a little over $200. I put the cash in my wallet. At the end of the Bush Tetras' show John paid my taxi home.

"It's time to call it a night."

"I have a plane tomorrow."

"You have a good trip and I'll see you when you get back." The bouncers helped me into the Checker. John waved good-bye. He knew how to make a man feel unwelcome and I left with my head against the window. It was time to head home, of only for tonight.

$8.75 Steak A La Danceteria

I bought a steak with three drink tickets or two with a bump
56 minutes ago · Like

Henry Benavides commented that he and Ann the elevator girl made Guacamole one night with main ingredient Vodka. It sold out. Then I picked up Ann and put her butt first in the garbage can in the kitchen.

Danceteria was so elegant.

And I still have some drink tickets left thanks to the graciousness of Chairman John Argento.

Anita Sarko RIP

Detroit has lost one of its best. Anita Sarko has joined our friends in the Here-Before. She will live with us endlessly through the spinning vinyl of DJs everywhere.

Detroit. Detroit.

Michael Musto's Goodbye.

Anita Sarko was a world class DJ, lively writer, and dear friend. My parents and I accepted her as family and shared years and years of holidays with her, laughing and loving over gifts and Italian food. I first knew “Auntie” Anita as a Mudd Club DJ, serving a bracing brew of highly individual music for the throngs in the late ’70s/early ‘80s club for new wave party people. Anyone who requested a particular record from Anita was greeted with the retort that she wasn’t a jukebox, otherwise you could just bend her over and put in a quarter! She went on to wear elaborate outfits and spin music (and heads) in the Mike Todd Room, the VIP room of the ultimate ‘80s megaclub, the Palladium, where she was a favorite of co-owner Steve Rubell. Around the same time, she and doorman/impresario Haoui Montaug filled Danceteria with No Entiendes cabaret revues full of fresh, whack talent that, like everything else she did, defied expectations and didn’t pander. If you asked her what “No Entiendes” meant, she said, “Exactly.” We shared head spinning experiences going on road trips with that act to places like Hong Kong, and a few years ago, Anita was sent to Russia to educate the kids about the art of club DJing, which she’d pioneered as one of its first female stars.

Detroit-born Anita (who’d studied law at the University of Miami) showed a different side as a writer for magazines like Egg, Paper, Interview, and Playboy, always coming up with a distinct and pungent point of view. She was a tough broad who didn’t like being mistreated, and was vocal about those who’d done her wrong. And she knew what she liked; I was with her at a tasting when she sent back the cassoulet five times because it wasn’t hot enough—and I guess it wasn’t! But the letter she wrote before ending her life last weekend was full of love and gratitude toward those who passed her test and were special to her. And Anita also had a “country” side--a warmth and appreciation--not to mention a wonderful ability to kick off her shoes, cook, and try to relax off the nightlife-related insecurities, which added to her unique textures.

Five years ago, Anita was diagnosed with both ovarian and uterine cancers, but she was operated on and not only survived, she was declared in the clear earlier this year. But she suffered some lingering pains and also complained of the results of the hormone depletion caused by her hysterectomy. More of an issue, though, was the fact that she couldn’t find creatively satisfying work and worried about her career, feeling that various projects had reached an absolute dead end for her. I helped her with her resume and job possibilities, but she found that nothing clicked, since employers were looking for recent college grads, not old-timers with history and personality. Rejection turned to despair and, though Anita was doing work and paying her bills, she feared for her future and felt discarded and unappreciated. The last time I talked to her, I made a point of telling her she was “legit”. She was so much more than that. A brilliant woman, and I loved her more than I can say.

Here here.

Danceteria Re-Union 2015

Last night Joe Stanich ran a Danceteria re-union at the Rumpus Room in the Lower East Side. The underground nightclub lasted from 1979 until its closure in 1986.

Twenty-nine years ago.

The old school show up in numbers.

We posed.

We connected.

We got profane.

But mostly we spoke about Anita Sarko passing from this world.

Her demise took us all by surprise.

I had seen her only last month. We didn't speak, but exchanged a smile between two comrades of the night.

We still are a legion.

And then there was John Argento.

Chrystie's Coming Out Of The Closet

Back in 2008 a nasty rumor about the Democratic candidate for president surfaced from Chicago. The mainstream media avoided publishing a report of crack, sex, and politics. Lesser outlets ran with the story of Duluth man's sordid encounter with Barack Obama in 1999. Mr. Sinclair asserted that the two men had used coke and crack in a limousine, then had oral sex. I didn't believe the claim, but I'm no quitter and said, "Everyone has to burst a little steam every once in a while."

Secondly getting fellated is not sex according to ex-President Bill Clinton.

But little this side of abortion gets the GOP faithful fired up more than gay people seeking normalcy.

New Jersey's Chris Chrystie has remained in the running for the GOP candidate for president of the USA, despite the Governor having a single-digit positive rating with Republican voters and the governor has repeatedly swung hard to the right to gain more traction for his flagging campaign.

While his stance on gay rights has earned him the anger of his constituents and he disagrees with Supreme Court on their epic decision, He admits that gay marriage is law of land in New Jersey, but counters it by saying "If my kids were gay, I'd give them a hug; but no marriage."

His comment didn't fly high with the Lesbian and Gay communities and neither did his statement "Homosexuality is not a sin; people are born that way."

Faced with no change in his popularity, stopping being straight might be more provident for the Governor, although I'm not sure he could find a partner.

But it's said there's a fish in the sea for everyone.

Maybe even me.

The Searchers - Ending Scene

Without a doubt the ending of John Ford's THE SEARCHERS is one of the best closing scenes in a western movie or any movies when John Wayne bringing his niece home from years of being a Comanche captive. She is free, but Uncle Ethan is haunted by his ghosts.

Perfection.

To view this scene, please go to the following URL

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

Scalping Jacket

In John Ford's classic western THE SEARCHERS Natalie Wood portrays a captive white girl who shows a scalp staff to her Uncle Ethan. Debbie's half-brother wants to kill Scar, the Chief on the spot, but the Texas Ranger played by John Wayne stays his hand and promises to kill her husband the next time they meet. Ethan achieves his revenge and almost kills Debbie, but remembers her as a little girl and not as a savage squaw in a teepee of the Comanche.

While scalping had long been practiced by Native Americans, white colonists excelled at taking scalps from the agricultural tribes of New England. Bounty of $60 was paid by the government and no one questioned the source of the forelocks. Woman and children's scalps were worth $20. Indians fled to the west from the ethnic cleansing of the interlopers.

Scalping has fallen on tough times in the 21st Century, but that didn't stop a young friend from constructing a coat out of human hair.

I found it more than a little creepy, but Tyler Sewell isn't scared of creepiness.

The handsome Canadian still has his forelock and his scalp must be worth at least $100 to the right customer.

Queen of Torture

Recently several newspapers have reported on Alfreda Frances Bikowsky, whose enthusiasm for harsh interrogation methods in the CIA Rendition program earned the diminutive the title the 'Queen of Torture', since the top-ranking CIA officer has been the subject of a criminal complaint for authorizing the torture of a German national seized by Black-Ops while he was on vacation in Macedonia.

Macedonian agents had mis-IDed El Masri for a 9/11 plotter. A local CIA agent had recognized the error, however Bilowsky insisted on renditioning the Kuwaiti-born car salesman to Afghanistan for questioning.

El Masri was tortured for four months with Bilowsky gleefully gloating over him on occasion and then dumped on the road in Macedonia.

She was the worst of the worst.

Even if she was connected to the presidencies of Obama enough to be invited to watch the assassination of Osama Bin-Ladin with the President. She also served with distinction during GW Bush's two terms. Torture was her speciality.

She will not be able to travel outside the USA without the threat of arrest.

She is a war criminal.

Both in America and overseas.

Saying sorry is never enough.

Captain Crack To The Rescue

Canada's Steve Harper has served three terms as prime minister without ever winning a majority of the vote. His conservative policies have favored the rich over the non-rich ie 99% of the election. The citizens of the northern nation have had enough, but the opposition is fragmented into several parties incapable of winning a greater percentage of the ballot box. Steve Harper has played the race card and the revolution card and tried to trump the other candidates by saying that they were not capable of handling Canada's economy, but to buttress his flagging polls the prime minister has brought in the big gun.

Rob Ford, the former crack smoking mayor of Toronto, who has a lock on the reactionary suburbs of Toronto.

The man is John Belushi in the flesh.

Wild Crazy and like all white men over the age of fifty a die-hard conservative.

In other words someone with whom you would huff crack unless he was paying for the rock.

Tough going.

Oh, Canada turn back the tide.

The USA will follow.

ps When I last looked the Liberals had a lead in Newfoundland and Captain Crack don't play good out there.

No Nude Playboy

In 1953 Hugh Hefner launched Playboy with a $1000 loan from his mother and the magazine's first cover featured a black and white shot of Marilyn Monroe at the height of her beauty.

The blonde starlet starred as the centerfold. According to Wikipedia the first issue sold out within a week and circulation hit 50,000 at $.50 a month. The magazine's fortune rose with the advent of the sexual revolution of the 1960s and 1970s. Hefner took risks and reaped a fortune. Every male, single of married' wanted to be a 'playboy', if only to meet a playmate.

The first Playboy to fall into my hands was from a pile of moldy stroke magazines in the Blue Hills south of Boston. The year had to have been 1964.

Nancy Jo Hooper was playmate of the month. The brunette lay on a red couch. She reminded me of Kyla Rossi from down the street. My next-door neighbor and I fought over this issue. I won and later in the 60s the cheerleader was my high school sweetheart for three years. I never called her Nancy Jo.

My all-time favorite playmate was PJ Lansing from February 1972.

She was another goddess.

As were they all, although the circulation peaked later that year with over seven million magazines sold in November of 1972.

Sadly this month Playboy has announced that they will no longer show full nudity, since according to the CEO the magazine can't compete with online porno. "You're now one click away from every sex act imaginable for free. And so it’s just passé at this juncture."

The First Playboy green-lighted the decision, although critics feel that the magazine's shift will appeal to the less prurient cultures of India and Playboy in order to boost ancillary products from the Playboy Empire.

Greed over need.

But if you want to view the long line of playmates, please go to the following URL. http://playmate.uw.hu/html/7202.html

I think you will be pleased.

I certainly enjoyed the trip down the memory lane of my libido.

Good Friends Talk Shit

"Friends talk about sex. Good friends talk about taking a shit." - James Steele

THE MYTH OF THE MAGNA CARTA

Last week Francois the driver for the embassy met me at Luxembourg Airport. The Frenchman greeted me warmly and drove to the EEU court of Justice in Kirchenburg, where the Magna Carta was on display.

"Madame Ambassador is waiting for the Grand Duke."

"The Grand Duke will be there?" I was dressed in Boston Celtics gear and sandals.

"Oui, but you will not be meeting him. He is only there to view the Magna Carta." Francois expertly conducted the Jaguar from the aeroport.

"Good." I relax in the back. The road was smooth and the buildings were all new, instead potholed and rundown by the endless wars sapping America. It was good to be in Europe again.

"Doesn't your Constitution come from the Magna Carta?"

"One of them." The writers of the constitution had borrowed due process from the Magna Carta to prevent a ruler from wielding absolute power. "It's certainly an important cornerstone of western justice stopping kings from lopping off the heads of the lords. The masses were still treated like serfs until the French and Russian Revolutions. Workers of the world unite."

"Je ne suis pas un communist." Francois had served with the French Army, whose generals still expected complete obedience from their troops.

"Je sais." I let the subject drop and we talked about French rugby for the rest of the short journey.

At the Cours de Justice I changed out of my sandals and then submitted my Irish passport to the security, saying, "I am with Madame Ambassador."

"Une moment."

"D'accord." The man was just doing his job and came back with the embassy assistant, a young woman from Luxembourg. Marie led me inside the building, saying that we had to stay out of the way. "Le Grand Duke will be here shortly."

The Grand Dukes had reigned in Luxembourg since the defeat of Napoleon in 1815 and the present ruled Henri was titled as follows; By the Grace of God, Grand Duke of Luxembourg, Duke of Nassau, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Count of Sayn, Königstein, Katzenelnbogen and Diez, Burgrave of Hammerstein, Lord of Mahlberg, Wiesbaden, Idstein, Merenberg, Limburg and Eppstein.

"I'll stay out of the way." As a commoner I knew my place in this world.

We stood to the side. I was dying for a coffee. It was almost 10AM. Marie asked, "Have you ever see the Magna Carta before?"

"No." I knew one was in the British Museum.

"Isn't it the basis of your Constitution?"

"The Magna Carta covered the forty barons of England, but it was John Locke who advanced the idea that a ruler sat in power only with the consent of the governed. The kings didn't really agree with that, especially in the Americas which resented the arbitrary dictates of a distant king."

"So the Magna Carta had nothing to do with the Constitution?" Marie frowned as if she had misunderstood history.

"No, the Magna Carta established basic freedoms, the most basic being the right to liberty by freemen." I stopped talking upon spotting the motorcycle outriders of the Duke's entourage. His BMW pulled up before the building and his security officers entered first to survey the set-up. Their eyes passed over everyone, even me in my leather jacket and jeans. No one was considered dangerous and the Grand Duke made his entry.

Madame Ambassador greeted him. There was a few photos. He viewed the famed document, said a few words to the experts, and then left for another ceremony. The demands on a man of his stature were many.

Marie brought me to the Magna Carta and introduced the Chancellor of Hereford Cathedral and another caretaker of the parchment. I shook their hands and the stocky caretaker said, "This is part of history. The basis of your Constitution."

""So I've been told." Every student in England and the USA learned the same thing without knowing what was written on the lambskin. I hadn't a clue either.

"And it's only one of four copies left in the world." The kind-faced chancellor was proud of his cathedral's possession of the Magna Carta. They had done a good job of protection it. "Once there had been forty."

"Back in 1215."

The barons had forced King John to sign his name, but he soon reneged on his promises and called in French troops to settle the issue of power in his favor. He died on food poisoning while on campaign. The Magna Carta lived on. I leaned over to read the Latin script. Having been a Catholic altar boy I could pick out certain words, but not enough to make any sense of the fine penmanship. Madame Ambassador joined me and said, "You want me to translate?"

Latin was only one of her languages.

"No, I'll google it at the residency." I was staying for the weekend before heading off to London. "Fairly impressive that it survived all those centuries."

"It's an important part of history."

"And the basis of the American Constitution."

"Hah, you old rebel, you actually believe that?" Madame Ambassador was familiar with my politics.

"It's what everyone thinks and democracy has always been about rule of the majority, n'est pas?"

"Except in your world."

"You know me to well."

We started walking back to the car.

"How about breakfast?"

"Sounds lovely."

And a good breakfast always helps to found a good constitution.

Dawn Along The Petrusse

Last Sunday dawn rose fast on the City of Luxembourg. Only two days before I had arrived with the sun's first light on the flight from London and jet lag prevented my sleeping till noon. It was 1AM back in New York.

Madame Ambassador was in her bedroom. No other human was in the embassy.

Only her cat in the guest room.

I pressed my hand to the window.

The lower pane was icy and I dressed accordingly for the cooler weather of Mittel Europa.

I exited from the embassy. The morning was quiet even for Luxembourg.

The ancient city was sleeping outside the embassy, which was perched on a cliff overlooking the chasm of the old fortress. Not a single car was on the viaduct and pedestrians were absent from the sidewalks of Boulevard de FDR. The city's residents were sleeping in warm beds, I had Luxembourg to myself and the crows swirling around the spike spires of Notre Dame Cathedral.

I wandered down the narrow streets of the old city, hoping to find an open cafe.

The only sound of humans was my breathing and I thought to myself, "How could you have spent six months here?"

Madame Ambassador and I had a good time during my sojourn as resident writer.

Parties at the Aston-Martin dealership.

A soiree to commemorate the Battle of the Bulge.

And a great dance night with the RAF.

Come to think about it and that half-year in 2011-2012 were a good time and I headed over to the ramparts. The sun was rising over the EEU buildings in Kitchenburg, but offered little warmth. Thankfully I was wearing my tweeds and became my descent to the casement, fortified against siege until 1862. A few tourists were shooting the valley of the Alzette River. I stepped on a broken wine bottle. The noise startled the two of them. They were Japanese.

Te famed military architect Vauban had expanded the fortifications in the 1600s and the city withstood a siege by the French for seven months earning it the name 'the Gibraltar of the North'.

Not one solider guarded the city this morning. They too were in bed.

People in Luxembourg like their sleep.

My heavy boots crunched on the gravel path along the old mill stream. I imagined myself an Irish exile serving the Prussians. That ghost was only in my head, but closing my eyes the Alzette's babbling vanquished the years. Life was this moment now connected to back then my my daydreams.

Opening my eyes I saw that the Bock casemates glowed in the dawn as they might have to the Roman legions to have come upon this craggy plateau. It was a good site for a fight.

The plaza of St. Jean de Grund was another empty space.

Except for an exquisite Daimler.

Luxembourg is a rich city.

One of the richest in Europe and rich people get to sleep in late on Sundays.

I yawned and said to myself, "Time to join my pillow."

Madame Ambassador and I would have breakfast later.

She had promised me a proper English Breakfast, although she would be up for another hour.

I could wait that long.

The bells of Notre-Dame were ringing out the hour of Eight.

After all I was still the resident writer in Luxembourg and dawn was still five hours away from New York.