Thursday, May 28, 2015

Possessed By Demons

The faithful of the Church foster strict ideas about Go-Go girls, angels, demons, and the Devil.

Go-go girls lead to Hell. Angels protect men from temptation. Demons tempt a good man into a trap. The Devil loves recruiting a lost sinner. Only personal will can save a man from damnation, however I keep on forgetting the tell the believers that there is no Hell.

Not on earth.

Not in outer space.

Hell will never see this sinner.

I shall live forever in sin.

Hail 666.

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

The Year Of The Crow

My grandmother traveled by ship from Ireland to Boston at the age of 14. One heel of her good shoes broke coming down the gangway. It was her welcome to America.

Once on a visit up to Maine someone asked the year of her arrival and Nana responded, "The Year of the Crow."

None of us knew what she meant by that date.

My mother hazarded a guess.

"It refers to the Chinese Astrological signs."

"There's no Year of the Crow in the Chinese Astrology," commented my Aunt Gloria, who had graduated from a state university for teaching.

"There is a Rooster." Her husband Jack had met more than his share of Chinese troops in Korea as a Marine. "But all I ever heard was trumpets. Lots of trumpets."

"What year was it?" My Aunt Helen worked as an operator for the New England Telephone Company. She liked a simple answer.

Nana wasn't giving one.

"Is it Babd?" asked my Aunt Mary. She had gone to college too.

"Babd?" My father was stumped by this answer.

"Babd, the Irish battle goddess, was a crow. She sang a song to those about to die."

"I shall not see a world that will be dear to me.
Summer without flowers,
Kine will be without milk,
Women without modesty,
Men without valour,
Captures without a king."

The look on Nana's face shined with pride. Her oldest daughter was a true daughter of Eire, but she shook her head.

"Maybe someday one of you will be smart enough to know the Year of the Crow."

She patted my head and that of my older brother.

But none of discovered her age and with the demise of my Aunt Gloria I ma obliged to pass on my ignorance onto the next generation.

And we remain many.

And even more in Thailand.

Erin Go Gay

Aristotle wrote in his histories that the Celtic warriors preferred homosexuality to heterosexual joining. The practice of man with man abounded amongst the Gauls and men ere deeply upset by the refusal of Romans to join them in gay orgies or one-one-ones. The Holy Roman Church quelled this freedom in favor of establishing their pedophiliac destiny over the souls of the Hibernian Isles.

Homosexuals and lesbians were put to the torch, whipped, exiled, imprisoned, and forcibly converted to heterosexuality by the wicked priests and lay brothers and nuns, however this weekend the Free State of Ireland overwhelmingly voted to legalize the union between men and men and women and women. The Church vowed to fight the law, but the new Pope doesn't have a dog in this fight.

Francis wants a new rock on which to form the new church and that foundation does not include sexual prejudice or the criminalization of woman's right to govern her own body.

Despite having received an outstanding education from the Sisters or St. Jospeh, the Xaverian Brothers, and the Jesuits, my devotion to atheism prays for the eventual destruction of the Holy Roman Church and an end to its two-thousand year old reign of terror.

In the meanwhile Sunday was a good day to be Irish.

Free to be who we want to be forever.

Saoirse go bragh.

Sunday, May 24, 2015

Memorial Day 2015

Memorial Day traditionally kicks off the summer holidays in America. Boy scouts, veterans, and politicians parade to honor the nation's fallen soldiers and sailors, after which families gather for BBQs before heading home sated on burgers, beer, and hot dogs. This mass departure usually creates epic massive traffic jams on the highways of the USA.

In my youth Memorial Day was celebrated on May 30, which preceded my birthday by one day, so as a child I looked forward to the holiday with doubled anticipation.

As a Boy Scout in the early 60s we marched into the town cemetery with veterans from the country's many wars, firefighters, police, and politicians. A prayer was said at the Civil War monument and a military color guard shot blanks into the air.

Somehow I thought that some of the accompanying veterans had fought in the Civil War, except Albert Henry Woolson, the last surviving veteran of the War between the States, died in August 2, 1956, so maybe these ancient soldiers had to have been the remnants of the Rough Riders from the Spanish American War.

Memorial Day was first held in Charleston, South Carolina, when colored townspeople laid flowers on the graves of dead Union soldiers. Decoration Day became increasingly popular with the veterans of the Grand Army of the Republic, as the remains of their missing comrades were transported from where they had fallen in battle to their home states.

Today I raise my glass to the hundreds of thousands of dead.

They are not forgotten.

A Memorial Day Thought:
"Obviously what causes war is the desire for power, position, prestige, money; also the disease called nationalism, the worship of a flag; and the disease of organized religion, the worship of a dogma. All these are the causes of war; if you as an individual belong to any of the organized religions, if you are greedy for power, if you are envious, you are bound to produce a society which will result in destruction. So again it depends upon you and not on the leaders - not on so-called statesmen and all the rest of them. It depends upon you and me but we do not seem to realize that. If once we really felt the responsibility of our own actions, how quickly we could bring to an end all these wars, this appalling misery!"
-Krishnamurti

Top 50 Foods from CNN


Americans are not renown for their adventurous palate. Most of the country survives on fast food; morning, noon, and night with potato chips in between meals washed down by corn-syrup sodas. Hamburgers and fries are this nation's favorite food, but America's # 1 was only # 6 on the cnngo.com ie CNN's online life site.

Pop corn at 50 was beat out by America's fastest fast good potato chips.

The only times I eat chips is from someone else's bag. it's the only time that they taste good.

Ketchup scores even higher.

No mention of hot dogs, fried clams, Italian sandwiches, hummus or apple pie.

Today I had a croissant for breakfast, a cheeseburger and root beer for lunch, cherries and melon in the afternoon, and I'm looking at pulled BBQ pork, brown rice, and string beans for dinner washed down by hard cider.

Last month I flew west to Thailand. 25 hours of airplane food and then I ordered # 1 on the list.

Poo massaman curry - curried crab

Nothing better unless you're so hungry than anything tastes good.

Even potato chips.

Here's the rest of the list from www.cnngo.com

50. Buttered popcorn, United States

49. Masala dosa, India - crispy, rice-batter crepe encases a spicy mix of mashed potato, which is then dipped in coconut chutney, pickles, tomato-and-lentil-based sauces and other condiments

48. Potato chips, United States

47. Seafood paella, Spain

46. Som tam, Thailand - pound garlic and chilies with a mortar and pestle. Toss in tamarind juice, fish sauce, peanuts, dried shrimp, tomatoes, lime juice, sugar cane paste, string beans and a handful of grated green papaya.

45. Chicken rice, Singapore - steamed or boiled chicken is served atop fragrant oily rice, with sliced cucumber as the token vegetable

44. Poutine, Canada - French fries smothered in cheese curds and brown gravy

43. Tacos, Mexico

42. Buttered toast with Marmite, Britain

41. Stinky tofu, Southeast Asia

40. Marzipan, Germany

39. Ketchup, United States

38. French toast, Hong Kong

37. Chicken parm, Australia

36. Texas barbecue pork, United States

35. Chili crab, Singapore

34. Maple syrup, Canada

33. Fish ‘n’ chips, Britain

32. Ankimo, Japan - a chunk of monkfish liver with a little grated daikon on the side

31. Parma ham, Italy

30. Goi cuon (summer roll), Vietnam

29. Ohmi-gyu beef steak, Japan

28. Pho, Vietnam - a broth, fresh rice noodles, a few herbs and usually chicken or beef

27. Montreal-style smoked meat, Canada

26. Fajitas, Mexico

25. Butter garlic crab, India

24. Champ, Ireland - mashed potato with spring onions, butter, salt and pepper

23. Lasagna, Italy
.
22. Brownie and vanilla ice cream, global

21. Croissant, France

20. Arepas, Venezuela - a corn-dough patty topped with cheese, shredded chicken, crisped pork skin, perico, beef, tomato, avocado

19. Nam tok moo, Thailand - grilled pork combined with lemon juice, green onions, chili, mint sprigs, fish sauce and toasted rice

18. Kebab, Iran

17. Lobster, global

16. Egg tart, Hong Kong

15. Kalua pig, United States

14. Donuts, United States

13. Corn on the cob, global

12. Shepherd’s pie, Britain

11. Rendang, Indonesia - beef slowly simmered with coconut milk and a mixture of lemongrass, galangal, garlic, turmeric, ginger and chilies

10. Chicken muamba, Gabon - chicken, hot chili, garlic, tomato, pepper, salt, okra and palm butter

9. Ice cream, United States

8. Tom yum goong, Thailand - soup with shrimp, mushrooms, tomatoes, lemongrass, galangal and kaffir lime leaves in coconut milk and cream.

7. Penang Assam Laksa, Malaysia - Poached, flaked mackerel, tamarind, chili, mint, lemongrass, onion, pineapple in a broth

6. Hamburger, Germany

5. Peking duck, China

4. Sushi, Japan

3. Chocolate, Mexico

2. Neapolitan pizza, Italy

1. Massaman curry, Thailand

Remember it's CNN's list not mine.

My # 1 choice is beer.

The colder the better.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

CHICKEN MESSIAHS by Peter Nolan Smith

Several years ago the media covered a story about rat-infested aGreenwich Village KFC. The stock for Yum Corp, which owns the fast food chain along with Taco Bell, dropped fifty cents on the NYSE with the negative news and I felt bad, because for several years I had been a quality control inspector for KFC in the New York area.

Colonel Jim Rockford had hired me for the job in 1999, although the Iowan was not related to the James Gardner's TV character in the Rockford Files and our friendship dated back to an acid trip on Black’s Beach in August 1974 during which I swam with seals speaking in tongues. Jim laughed at their jokes. Coming down from the LSD we forgot the sleek sea mammals' punchlines, although one of them had to do with seaman.

Jim Rockford had served in Vietnam. He had rejected a military career to become a hippie guru with a girlfriend who looked like Patty Hearst.

That summer in Encinitas the cops stopped us everywhere with guns drawn, thinking Pam was America's # 1 fugitive. Jim hated the attention and felt the urge for going.

“Come join us in Frisco. You can wear flowers in your hair.”

The Summer of Love had ended in 1968.

"I have a teaching job starting in a few weeks."

"The road is not a job. It's an adventure."

"I know.

We said good-bye on the highway. They headed north of the PCH and I hitchhiked east to Boston, where I taught at South Boston High School. Jim showed up at my Brighton apartment in the late autumn. His hair was longer and Pam, the blonde SLA clone for Patty Hearst had been traded for a young Eurasian twenty year-old named Nona.

Everyone in Boston fell in love with her that season.

Me too.

I taught school and at night we danced at gay clubs in Boston. They left for Woodstock with the first frost.

We stayed in touch, but I moved to New York to pursue a career as a poet and the connection snapped like an old rubber band. I thought about Nona a lot. Her beauty was an exception to the rule in America. Dusky instead of blonde. I never expected to see her again.

In the winter of 1995 I was in Bali at the Blue moon, a seaside bar where everyone who disappeared from your life reappears cooler than before and one night a woman called my name.

It was Nona.

She hugged me in the early evening tropical light and we drank with mutual friend and later went to her kon-tiki house in a bamboo grove. Her jealous Balinese boyfriend threatened me with a ceremonial kris. Nona showed him the door. “Pagi. Anda tidak bagus.”

“Not you. Stay here. He scares me.” I slept in the spare bedroom listening to the bamboo trunks rub against each other like lovers seduced by the wind. Nona was upstairs. She was lying in bed. I thought about Rockford and remained in my room.

After midnight her lover climbed the wall into Nona's bedroom and whispered words of love in Balinese.

In the morning he was gone and Nona said she was leaving for Singapore.

No packed bags lay by the door and I read the situation for what it was, but before I left the house, I asked about Jim.

"Why did you leave him?"

“Because he hit me.”

“Hit you? Why?”

“It’s a long story, anyway he’s married and living in Iowa. I think he’s growing marijuana. Here’s his number. If you see him, tell him thanks for everything.”

A month later I was back in New York and called the number in Iowa. The woman answering the phone said Jim wasn’t home. I later found out he was doing a five-year bid for cocaine possession, while I spent the rest of the 90s working six months at my diamond gig on West 47th Street and the other half of the year traveling on the other side of the world. Six months on. Six months off.

It was a small world.

I ran into Nona in Bali, Paris, and London. She was designing silver jewelry for a German boyfriend. There was no talk about the Bali beach boy or Jim.

Women don’t discuss guys who hit them, unless they’ve had a lot to drink and Nona only sipped wine.

My 1998 trip to Thailand ended with my falling in love with a one-eyed go-go dancer. It ended badly and I returned to New York, exiled from my redux of the film THE WORLD OF SUZIE WONG.

My friends tired of my tales about betrayal and they avoided my calls, because broken hearts are always bad luck.

Most evenings I drank at the 10th Street Lounge without anyone bothering me, but one night spotted someone familiar staring at me. He was older and had short hair. I couldn’t ID him until Jim Rockford smiled.

“What you doing here?”

"A friend from Boston had said you were living on East 10th Street and this seemed like the bar you would drink in.”

“How so.”

“Pretty girls. Good music. Come with me."

“What are you really doing in New York?”

“I spent the last five years as a guest of the Iowa penal system. The cops invaded my house for suspicion of pot growing. Couldn’t find anything but an ounce of coke. Said it was for dealing.”

“Was it?” I’m very pro-anti-drugs.

“What you think?”

“Personal use.”

“Yeah, but they never found the reefer since I had buried the farm underground and we were using solar panel to heat the room, so they couldn’t see the heat signature. Dopes. I’m still dealing pot but needed a clean source of income, so when I got out of prison, my PO got me a job inspecting KFCs.”

“Kentucky Fried Chicken?” The Colonel had been a vegetarian since a near-fatal bout of cancer in his teens.

“Yeah, Frankenstein chickens with no legs and no eyes. Only a mouth, bones, meat, and an asshole.”

It wasn’t a pretty picture and I ordered a vodka at the bar from the waitress I’d been trying to seduce for ages. My sppech was visually impaired at the end of the night. Rockford wasn't in much better condition and I invited him to sleep at my place.

“Thanks, I couldn’t have made it to New Jersey.”

“What are you really doing out there?”

“Well, I told you about that KFC gig. Every day I go to about 30-40 of them. Maybe you can help me.”

“How so?” My coke-spastic hands were having trouble with the front door. The key kept getting bigger.

“You can drive while I fill out my reports. I’ll give you $200 for the day and all the chicken you can eat.”

“I have my diamond job.” It was September and no one was buying jewelry.

“Call in sick. Will your boss understand?"

"I think so." My boss Richie Boy was my drinking buddy. The next morning I called and said, "Head cold."

Have a bacon and egg sandwich and drink plenty of water." Richie Boy had never graduated from medical school, but I followed his advice to the letter.

Jim had a cup of coffee and a donut.

"Breakfast of cops."

"I needed more."

We picked up his rented Ford Taurus from the parking lot on East 9th street.

I put Arthur Lee’s LOVE on the CD player and we left the parking lot.

“Damn, I love SIGNED DC. Head over to queens. I have a battle plans.” Jim threw a metropolitan map on my lap. The locations of the KFCs were marked with a red marker.

“Today’s Brooklyn and Queens. Tomorrow the Bronx and Manhattan.”

I glanced at the map.

There were over a hundred KFCs.

None of them were on 5th Avenue or Soho or the Upper East Side.

I mentioned this to Jim and he laughed, “Wherever KFC is, then you can count it as a scary neighborhood after dark. So step on it.”

We drove over the Queensboro Bridge and hit 10 KFCs before noon. The back seat was jammed with specials and super-sized drinks. “The stores get a bonus if they ask us to supersize.”

I made good time through Queens, because most of the shops were on the same boulevards, however Brooklyn had 30 KFCs scattered over the 5th biggest city in the USA and the neighborhoods got rougher as darkness dropped over the city.

East New York was an apocalypse.

Especially Pitcairn Avenue.

KFCs were the only sign of life.

No bars. No restaurants. No stores.

Only KFCs and bums hanging around the corners.

No one bothered us, since two white guys cruising a black neighborhood look like cops.

We had about $300 worth of chicken in the back seat. The car reeked of the Colonel. I had eaten about $20 worth.

“We gotta to get rid of this shit.”

“Stop at Courtlandt. There are few homeless people there.”

“A few was about twenty and most appeared ready to run when we pulled up to the curb. Jim lowered the window and said, “Don’t anyone make a move.”

They froze like it was a Kojak episode and the Colonel got out of the car. “Anyone here like chicken?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?” A toothless wino joked, until Jim opened the back door and distributed fifty meals to the shopping cart brigade. The toothless wino cackled holding up a drumstick. First I thought you wuz the cops. Now I know who you are. You the chicken messiahs.” Like that the chicken messiahs became an urban legend to the needy in Phillie, Newark, Yonkers, and New York.

Only the homeless would accept our charity on the streets. Anyone else was too proud or suspicious to take a hand-out. Not the boys working security at the 10th Street Lounge. The Jamaican bouncers loved the special deliveries.

Jim and I washed off the grease and drank vodkas at the bar. Our dessert was a line of blow. Nothing too extreme and the Colonel said, “I got another busy day tomorrow.”

JIm woke early. “I’ll be back next month.”

And every month the Colonel would come into town with a kilo of pot and a bag of blow. KFCs recognized us as secret shoppers and cleaned their stores for our review. Some were good. Some were horrible. Jim never ate the chicken. Only the potatoes and corn bread. I loved the skin.

“Most people working this job get really fat.” Jim warned, as I had a bite of an extra spicy chicken. “So watch out.”

I concentrated on driving and after five trips knew the roads in the Bronx and Brooklyn like a gypsy cabdriver.

Phillie was worst than anything New York had to offer.

Especially North Phillie, where addicts shot dope on the streets. They never wanted charity chicken.

About a year into the gig Jim asked at the bar, “You know I been wanting to ask you a question.”

He had gotten the manager, Cornell, to play IMAGINE. Jim was a Beatles fan. I liked the Damned.

“What kind of question?’

“How you get my number?”

“Nona gave it to me.”

“Nona? Where you see her?”

“In Bali,” I explained about our meeting at the Blue Ocean without adding the boyfriends.

“How she look?”

“Beautiful as ever.”

“She say anything about me.”

“She said you hit her.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Yeah,” I never hit women. At least I told myself that, but had done so three times. They were also all mistakes.

“She was telling me I was a loser. Every day. It got to me and I slapped her once. She left me after that. I don’t know why her telling me that would have such an effect. I’m a peaceful guy.” Nona had recently returned to New Jersey. “I saw her last week.”

“She’s back.”

“Yes.”

“You have her number?”

Nona had told me never to give her number to Jim, but he was my friend and she was a 100 miles away. I wrote down the number and he went outside to call her. He came back after a few minutes and said, <“Now I remember why I hit her.”

“The voice.”

Nona came from Trenton.

Her voice sounded like it came from a high-pitched helium inhaler.

“She still didn’t deserve to get hit.”

“You’re right. Jim was contrite. “She was a good girl. Said she wants to meet me.”

“You tell her about KFC?”

“She had a good laugh about that. Made me feel good I could make her laugh.” Me too and later that week they get together.

Although only as friends.

I left the states after 2001.

Jim and I still speak.

He visits Nona on his trips to Jersey. She eats chicken. He drinks wine in her house on the Delaware. No chicken messiah could hope for more in this age of little magic, because like the ad says, “The Colonel knows best.”

And Colonel Rockford knew the best even better the the KFC Colonel.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Poor Call Girl

Last weekend a 27 year-old sex worker pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter in the overdose death of a Google executive. The judge sentenced Alix Catherine Tichelman to six years in prison. The prosecutor claimed that the call girl never attempted to assist the 51 year-old internet manager and surveillance video backed up his charges to the jury of her peers.

Her defense attorney argued, "There was no intent to harm or injure, much less kill, Mr. Hayes. Why would she? He was a lucrative source of income to her. She appreciated his generosity."

His plea for leniency fell on deaf ears, as Santa Cruz is well-known along the coast as a heroin entrepot and law enforcement, unwilling to surrender in the War on Drugs, wanted to show that they still consider drugs against the law.

Six years for administering an overdose and not a day of jail for the CIA, who has long controlled the drug trade in order to suppress the people of the USA.

Innocent until proven guilty by a witness living long enough to sit before the court.

Combat Zone Amnesia

In the 60s urban social scientists in Boston created an adult entertainment area between the bus station on Boylston Street and Chinatown to contain the wickedness of mankind. The experiment green-lighted prostitution, drag queens, piano bars, go-go bars, rent boys, and pornography along Washington Street and the adjacent blocks. The Boston Record-American newspaper labeled haven of sin the 'Combat Zone' and men across New England gravitated to Boston's Decriminalized Zone of Sexuality to cut loose with friends and complete strangers.

The Combat Zone featured top-notch strippers at go-go bars such as the 'Teddy Bare Lounge', the 'Two O'Clock Club', 'Club 66' and the 'Naked I'. LaGrange Street was the hot spot for street hookers running out of 'Good Time Charlie's'. Most of the pimps frequented the Sugar Shack. I saw James Brown performed on that stage and my friend Andy K swears that he went to the Sugar Shack with Bill O'Reilly, future right-wing propagandist for Fox News. I

During the early 70s I was driving taxi to pay for college and every night I stopped in the Combat Zone to drive the strippers and whores home after closing. It was a good fare and sometimes we smoked a joint together on the route to their apartments. I never thought them bad, but the newspapers attacked the Combat Zone as proof that Satan was walking the Earth.

I wish that I could say they were wrong, but the Combat Zone was too much fun for most men and bad things happened on those wind-blown street. Pimps beat up girls, girls ripped off johns, hustlers robbed gays, drugs killed the weak and in 1976 a Harvard football player was murdered on LaGrange Street. That well-publicized homicide brought on the end of the Combat Zone, although its true killer was the higher rents for downtown properties.

Sin was cheap.

No sex is expensive.

Few people remember the Combat Zone, but I recall the organ/bass/drum trios supporting the white-skinned strippers. I learned about sex from the stroke books in the XXX parlors. I had good luck with the dancers after midnight. I was their ride home and I got them there fast.

It was the best a man could do.

THE ITCH by Steven Hammer

Early in the summer of 1965 I was coming home from buying the newest Rolling Stones LP in Mattapan Square. A green paperback lay atop a trash can at the Lower Mills trolley station. THE ITCH by Steven Hammer on Olympia Press was not on the summer reading list for thirteen year-old boys. I opened the pages to the center of the book and my eyes scanned the text. They found the word 'fuck' twice on the same page. The author had meshed them with an assortment of sexual terms.

My face went red.

THE ITCH was pornography.

I looked over my shoulder. No one was watching me. I stuck the paperback into the bag with OUT OF OUR HEADS and walked home two miles through the deep woods surrounding my suburban neighborhood south of Boston. I stopped twice to read pages 121-126. The men did everything to each other and women.

Reaching our split-level ranch-house I hid in the attic and devoured the book three times within two hours.

I was a fast reader and I must have read THE ITCH more than 3000 times between the 1965 and 1969. The author’s blue tales of tri-sexual liaisons between aristocrats warped my tender libido and I succumbed to the rages of onanism without any hope of stopping my hands rom touching myself over and over and over.

My girlfriend never knew about my betrayal and my parents were ignorant of my sin.

Even my older brother was excluded from the secret.

It was THE ITCH and me.

We were made for each other.

Here’s a passage from that great tome.

She doesn’t know what she says, her warm fingers along my thigh.

“We could escape,” he said. “There’s still a lot of that fifty grand.”

“Where would we go?” she whispered. “The Magnums have armies.

“Besides,” she went on, “you know how you are. You’d tire of me after another week of this connubial bliss. We both have this drive.”

“Itch,” he corrected. “The retarded child’s itch for self-destruction.”

“A lovely way to die,” she said, turning to kiss him closely.

When they broke apart, his head seemed to have cleared.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll go through with it. But we’ll have to live together, always. The rest will be sorties. We’ll be gods who land occasionally to copulate with the mortals. After all,” he said, “we’re strong and beautiful.”

She laughed. “Yes,” she said, and recited it after him like a spell, “we’re strong and beautiful. It should be a full year.”

These books were supposedly written by famous authors down on their luck.

They were very good and as Gore Vidal said, “The reading of pornography only leads to the reading of more pornography.

The old queer certainly had it right at least in my case.

2 X The Man 3 X The Woman

Yesterday I was at the Tuesday Wat Chai market looking for bootleg Bugs Bunny DVDs for my son. There were none and I left the open-air square, heading for my tailor. Pinky was making a new jacket for me. Cut to size.

Walking down Pattaya Tai a woman called my name. The pseudonym. It was Ort, Jamie Parker's ex. The go-go vixen was alone. My friend had fired her after discovering she was seeing a British body builder. He was better off solo and I said, "I have no idea where Jamie is."

"Not look for Jamie. We friend. Not more." Ort was wearing a sleek hot pants set. She was as seductive as the first day that Jamie and I spotted her at the Paris a Go-Go. The years 2006. She said that she was 20 then. Jamie found out later the truth was 18.

"Where's your boyfriend?" The Brit construction worker had retired her from the bikini squad, bought a house in Prichit, given her a brand new car and 10 baht of gold. “I thought you were going to England.”

I glanced around the market for familiar faces. Mem was up in Sriracha, but she has spies or jah-rah-chon everywhere. Sometimes I suspected that she had planted a GPS bug under my skin.

“No, my boyfriend leave me for a ka-toey.” Ort wasn’t wearing any gold. The odds were that she had hocked them to the jum-jam or pawn shop.

“Sure it wasn’t for seeing other men?” A year ago i had last seen Ort entering the Marine disco. Her date wasn’t her muscle-building boyfriend.

“No, no, he leave me for lady-boy.” She seemed on the verge of tears and I led her into a t-shirt stall. I didn’t want people getting the wrong impression. “I not understand. I stop pretty.”

Ort was never really pretty. But she was sexy with a sleek baby seal body.

“No, you’re still beautiful."
"Then why he leave me?"

“Your boyfriend goes to the gym?” I didn’t have the answer, but could with the right information.

“Yes.”

“He use a needle?” I had seen him twice. Muscles like his didn’t come naturally in Pattaya. Ort nodded to admit he was a steroid juice junkie.<

“He likes to have sex?” I felt like a palm reader divining the truth. “Many times.”

“And ate Viagra?" Most steroid muscle-builders can’t get it up without it, but also use ketamine to get a buzz. All too chemically ugly for an old stoner like me.

“Yes, and he want sex too much. He hurt me too much.”

“And that’s why he left you for a ka-toey.” Thailand unlike the States didn’t have a real hang-up about transvestites.

The Miss Tiffany World Show is televised live and the presenter is usually Miss World Thailand. The greeter at the biggest hospital in Pattaya is a ka-toey and the most beautiful women on Walking Street are the lady-boys hanging out at the Jennie Star Bar.

“I not understand.” She wouldn’t because she’s a woman.

“Your boyfriend is a sex maniac. He wants sex all the time. But a woman can only have sex 3-5 times a week. Not so a ka-toey. A lady-boy can have sex all day long, because she’s a man and has man’s muscles and wants sex like a man.”

“How you know this?” All women are distrustful of a man wanting to tell them what he thinks of as the truth.

“Because I’m a man too.” Ka-toys have a tough life. Men thinks them sissies and women view them as a threat. The only good defense is a better offense and Ka-toeys were twice the man most men were and three times the woman women were. Even that edge couldn't save them from abuse.

“And you’ve been with a ka-toey?“

“No.” I’ve drank with ka-toys." My sex life was my secret, but Back in 1978 I had been at a Halloween party for Paloma Picasso. Black-tie. I was ordering a drink when a gay boy bumped into me. He was being bullied by a jerk from Jersey. Bigger than the fag and bigger than me. I said, “You mind not pushing him around, while I’m trying to get a drink.”

The Jersey boy turned his attention to me. “What are you going to do if I don’t?”

The little queer took this as his cue to stage exit in any direction. The jersey boy clenched his fists. I wasn’t going to talk about this and popped him in the face. Blood spurt from his lip. It has been my best shot but hadn’t stopped him. I weaved through his punches and counter-jabbed without success. Luckily the bouncers broke up the fight and threw him out.

Two ballerinas toasted my victory and invited me to a party uptown. I escorted them outside and hailed a taxi.

I never saw the Jersey Boy’s sucker punch to the back on my head. I dropped into the gutter KO. He beat me senseless as I lay on the street like a discarded rag doll. A gay photographer stopped the thug's from inflicting serious injury, although my face was bloodied by the chain worn around the his fist.

The ballerinas had pirouetted out of sight and I weaved down the street near like a Bowery bum.

A beautiful woman in a satin gown and spectacular high heels washed my face with her scarf. Her TLC ministrations stung, because she had wet the scarf with vodka. Once the angel spoke, I realized she was no woman, though she called herself ‘Dove.

We became friends after that night and she was always asking me to go home with her. “Other men aren’t so picky.”

“I don’t want to ruin our relationship.”

“It’s only sex and no one has to know.” I wasn’t too sure about that and remembered the old line about riding a Vespa.

“They’re a lot of fun until one of your friends sees you riding one.” It was equally applicable to TVs.

On New Year’s Eve I attended the opening of a transsexual circus club outside Times Square. The main act was TVs on the trapeze. Dove was dressed in haute-couture. She was every man’s #1 pick, but she was determined to seduce me with a jar of cocaine. I remained strong until seeing the Jersey Boy with two gay boys.

One was the boy he had been pushing against the bar on Halloween. They looked like lovers. My heart pumped out a tattoo of vengeance and I grabbed a beer bottle to break and slash his face.

“Don’t.” Dove stopped me. “I’ll take care of this.”

She lit a cigarette and walked up to the Jersey Boy, bumping into him clumsily. He turned to face her, ready for a fight, but not the cigarette she stubbed in his eye. No one had seen a thing and she came back to me and said, “That about evens the score. Now what about taking me home?”

I couldn’t rightly say no

Nothing happened. I was too loaded to have sex. Saved by my drive for excess.

So I’ve never really had a problem with TVs. I understand the medicines they take make them crazy. The psychological shift from man to woman isn’t easy either and I told Ort, “I wouldn’t trust one though. Not with money or your life, because they are between sexes and work with a different set of rules involving survival, but they tell me they can have sex all day long. Just what your boyfriend wants.”

“I hate ka-toys.” Ort's eyes narrowed to daggers. She was unforgiving.

“You shouldn’t be too unhappy. You got a house, car, gold and let’s face you didn’t love him, right?” She was beyond listening to reason or excuses.

“Love him for what? He stupid farang.” Thai girls say that about a lot of men. “I go back go-go. Meet new farang. Not love no one. Only my baby. You want mia noi?“

Ort was 22. Her body was a solace for a middle-aged man search for youth. A fool I am, but not enough to fall for a girl thinking all men stupid. I wished her luck. Whatever man fell for her next would need it.

Queer Quote - Matthew Parris


“It must have been one in the morning. Clapham Common was still, quiet, cold and very dark. But against the lights of the houses, I could see the silhouettes, some moving, some motionless. I could see the glow of a cigarette in someone’s hand, under the trees.”

Matthew Parris - British Member of Parliament

Naked As A Jaybird


Nudity was considered taboo throughout my youth, plus the boreal weather in New England offered few occasions for such a freedom. The naked people available to a young boy were to be found in National Geographic. That illustrious magazine displayed photos of Amazonian tribeswomen with saggy breasts and African nymphettes with pointed nipples. Looking at men without clothing were considered perverse and parents warned their children about strange men, since perverts haunted the Blue Hills south of Boston by such perverts. My older brother, best friend, and myself steered clear of areas frequented by queers.

Adam had been shamed by his nakedness after eating the apple offered by Eve. His innocence hd been lost forever taught the nuns of Our Lady of the Foothills. I recalled having bathe with my sisters and brothers. There we six of us. None of us had ever felt Adam's humiliation in the shared tub, for nudity was innocent up to a certain age.

My father banned our communal baths when my older brother hit 9. I was 8.

The year was 1961.

That summer my older brother and I were sent to a Boy Scout camp in New Hampshire. Our troop had it's own camp site. We slept in tents. Showers were open stalls. My older brother and I washed in the lake. We weren't getting naked for anyone.

One afternoon after our merit badge course of hiking I hurried to the outhouse to take a dump. I dropped my pants and sat of the wooden throne. The latrine stunk of shit. Our fecal matter dropped five feet into a seething pit of slime. I held my breath doing a # 2. I had good lungs. After wiping my ass I waddled from the crapper with my trousers at my ankles.

A scout from Lowell had a camera in his hands. He snapped a shoot of my exit. I shouted for him to give me the film, but he ran into the woods. I told no one about is invasion of my privacy and hunted for the puerile pornographer for days. I never found him and for the rest of 1961 I worried that my photo with my pants down would appear in the Boston Globe.

It didn't hit the front page in 1962, 1963, or any of the following years.

My hangup about nudity disappeared in my teens. I skinny-dipped at the Quincy Quarries and stripped naked to lie in my backyard on summer nights to pray for the extraterrestrials to rescue me from the suburbs. I dreamed of stripping off my clothing with a girl. I had seen stroke books. Nudity was a thrill, but none of my girlfriends in high school went all the way. That pleasure occurred at the age of 18 and I've never suffered Adam's shame in my adult life.

Still my one nude photo curbed any voyeurism in me. The idea of sending someone a naughty picture remains abhorrent. My sense of propriety forever scarred by a childhood incident. Somewhere in Boston a man has a picture of me with my pants down. I hope it gives him pleasure.

My inhibition jaundiced my opinion of public figure emailing naked photos of themselves to women they meet on the Internet.

Several years ago a state politician had been outted by a GOP website whose webmaster had a legal dispute with the New Jersey lawmaker. The Democrat had been contacted by a woman who had asked for photos. The idiot had sent them from his Blackberry and the angry webmaster posted them online. His fellow Democrats called for s resignation, remarking that nudity wasn't a crime, but that e man had shown little common sense in a state where corruption is a god-given right to the people's representatives.

Nudity is political death to the right-minded New Jerseyians.

The episode echoed the earlier scandal of NY congressman Anthony Weiner. His Twitter account was hacked by a website and his naked photos scorched the Internet. He denied the photos were of him, going so far as to say that he could not recognize the body as his own.

Getting caught in a lie is political death, but only if the voters don't believe the lie.

I understand these politicians' dilemma, but my hackles are buzzing with the suspicion that both these men were removed from office thanks to the hacking tactics of the Rupert Murdoch empire. If it was happening in the UK, then sure as a boy scout shits in a crapper, then minions of the Murdoch organization were committing the same crime here.

It's not like anyone is dragging a well-known congressional majority leader out of the closet.

Homosexuality isn't a crime.

Neither is nudity.

What is questionable is how this GOP stalwart amassed $34 million on a senator's yearly salary of $180,000 during a 20 year stint in the Senate.

He musts be good with numbers

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

A Brief Interruption

Eighteen days in Thailand went fast in the company of my big family.

Fenway, Angie, Noy, Pen, and Fluke gave me little time to write.

Then again I hadn't come around the world to write poetry, but to bond with my horde at Rayong Beach.

Oh, the humanity.

Friday, May 8, 2015

No Homos in Iran

Several years ago a Bangkok police commissioner visited Pattaya to officially survey the night life.

A Bangkok reporter asked, "What are your views on prostitution in Pattaya?"

"Prostituition?" The top copper was wearing sunglasses on Walking Street. "All I see are young people having fun."

His response harvested a chorus of hearty chuckles from longtime Pattaya residents, but nothing like the chortles from a Columbia University audience after the then-president of Iran responded to a question about the execution of two gay men by saying, "In Iran we don't have homosexuals like in your country. In Iran we do not have this phenomenon. I do not know who has told you we have it."

His claim flew in the face of the fact that next to Thailand, Iran performs the most sex-change operations in the world.

No queers, but a thousands if not millions of swarthy transvestites called Yasmin. 

Still if there were no sword-swallowers than I would have never found Farsi insults on SWEARASAURUS.com

The best was Tu kooneh mollah chapeh beshi or May you be shoved into the ass of a Mullah, which might be a blessing for some if a fist was inserted first.

No gays in Iran?

President Ahmadinejad must have forgotten that two teenager boys were executed for the crime of Luvat or homosexuality. 16 and 18. Even GW Bush as governor of Texas didn't kill teenagers, although Jerry Falwell would have forgiven his smiting sodomites for as Iran's Supreme Leader who stated in www.leader.ir that "The Western values that have led to the collapse of ethics and spread of revelry, violence, legalization of homosexuality and other such fiascos in their countries, can not be followed."

So no Village People for Iran.

No singing YMCA.

No White Party or Tea Dances. Only hangings.

But what if men say they're not gay like Senator Craig of Idaho?

Sex, but not gay.

Is that against Sharia?

Or would you get the same treatment as Matthew Wayne Shepard (December 1, 1976 – October 12, 1998)?

Wyoming or Mashad?

My younger brother was gay. My friends were gay. Millions of people in Thailand are gay and maybe one or two in Iran, because you can't hang us all, Mr. President Ahmadinejad and Reverend Pat Robertson.

Meshosham beh seebillet, Bichare mashang or I piss on your beards, you pathetic retards.

Sometimes it hard to forgive.

After all we're only human and I only want to have fun like the police commissioner said about Pattaya. That ain't no crime and either is being gay.

There seemed to be an extraordinary number of pissing profanities in Farsi.

#1 Man mishaasham rooyeh saret taa kaf koneh or I'll piss on your head until it foams

Nasty golden shower boys. 

They would have loved the Toilet Bar in Greenwich Village.

1978.

It's raining men and ka-toeys too.

Love Johnny Romero Long Time

A comment from a reader about Johnny Romero, a great bon vivant from the 1950s in paris.

Dearest Claudia, I am Susy Küttel, the Swiss “girl” who was very much in love with Johnny, your father. I always remember him and our love was very deep and connected with lots of problems. Destiny divided us but I am sura that Johnny continued to love me very much. I am sorry that he died, but Johnny would say “this is the way the cookie crumbles baby.” I send you my best regards.

Love lives on.

Long you long time Johnny.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Anti-Mullah Fun


Ever since Ayatollah Kohmeni returned from exile to oust the Shah, the Mullahs in Iran have proscribed fun from the lives of the common folk.

No music, no dancing, no drinking, no nothing to transformed the Shah's secular state into a Land of No stricter than the New Jersey Shore or Tulsa, Oklahoma., however Iranians often leave their Islamic Republic to escape the enforced morality of the Police Guidance Patrols.

Several years ago their love of personal freedom was redlighted in Jomtien, when Thai police arrested an Iranian couple for having sex on the beach. The man professed his ignorance that sex in a public place was illegal in Thailand. They were fined 500 baht each.

Worse their names were published online and the couple sought political asylum overseas, for the punishment for their sin in Iran is public stoning in a stadium of the Police Guidance Patrols' choosing.

I think they ended up in Denmark, whose Viking traditions has always railed against the fundamentalism of any religion, but the Iranians still have a good time, because that is in their blood.

ps Sometimes you have to rethink who you are told are your enemies.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Beer In Dubai

The following passage from the Qurʼan, Surah 5 severely condemns drinking alcohol and various other pleasures.

O you who believe! Intoxicants, gambling, al-ansāb, and al-azlām (arrows for seeking luck or decision) are an abomination of Shayṭān's (Satan's) handiwork. So avoid that in order that you may be successful.

Anyone found in possession of liquor in Saudi Arabia can be punished by up to 500 lashes and the Saudi are firm believers in the whip as well as the sword for beheading violators of Sharia.

Several Gulf emirates are less strict about the consumption of spirits and last week I purchased a Tiger beer at the Dubai Airport.

$13 for a half-liter.

The Emirates only hurt the wallet not the back, but beware.

Any traveler smelling of booze will be detained by Saudi security.

They really are a buzz kill.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

The 'Trickle Down' or More Appropriately the 'Piss Down' Effect

During the early years of his administration President Reagan was attempting to sell tax cuts for the rich. The public wasn't buying this proposal until David Stockman, the White House budget director, suggested that if the rich get more money, the wealth will 'trickle down' to the masses, thereby forming a key formula for what is now known as 'Reaganomics'

The theory sounded like a card trick back in the 1980s, however everyone rich or vying to be rich loved the idea of paying less money to the federal government. According to Wikipedia economist Thomas Sowell argued that written that the actual path of money in a private enterprise economy was quite the opposite of that claimed by people who refer to the trickle-down theory. He noted that money invested in new business ventures is first paid out to employees, suppliers, and contractors. Only some time later, if the business is profitable, does money return to the business owners—but in the absence of a profit motive, which is reduced in the aggregate by a raise in marginal tax rates in the upper tiers, this activity does not occur.

The GOP have fought fiercly to retain the reagan tax cuts, despite budget shortfalls and the creation of a chasm between the very upper class elite and the rest of the population. Jobs have been shipped overseas to rake in more profit and incomes for the lower classes have stagnated to the point where millions are living in wage slavery, while goods cost more and more to pay for the errors of Voodoo Economics.

Mr. David Stockman defended his support for the trickle-down approach by quoting John Kenneth Galbraith's reference to another failed theory, 'If you feed the horse enough oats, some will pass through to the road for the sparrows.'"

This political season the GOP will fight to prevent any mention of raising taxes on the rich.

Bernie Sanders, a Democratic candidate for president, will not let them change the subject, because the Vermont Senator knows the difference between 'trickle down' and 'pissed on'.

To see his talk of trickle down economics, please go to the following URL

You'll get the picture better than the GOP, unless you're one of them.

And then you'll think it works.

Sorry to break it to you.

Not really.

Saturday, May 2, 2015

May Day

May Day 2014 I was sitting at my desk in the Fort Greene observatory. I knew today was an important labor holiday, but I wish that I was working and said so yesterday to my old boss from the Diamond District.

"I wish I could give you a job, but there's no business." said the 82 year-old diamond dealer and he was right. No one was walking into the exchange.

"The rich have taken all the money and don't know how to spend it. All they know is how to gather it." I was a economic major in college.

"I guess you have to blame it on someone." Manny was an old curmudgeon, but I had counted on him for a job since 1989.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you worked all your life and never prepared for a moment like this." He was talking about the Greater Recession. People my age were out of work in the millions.

"I was lucky to have a job with you all those years." I had worked for Manny as a salesman on and off since 1990. There had been some good years. None of those were recent.

"And you can't find another job."

"I only know diamonds and writing."

"And you have never made any money on your books."

"You have that right and now everyone around the world are wage slaves grinding out a subsistent living. Workers have no rights."

"And neither do I."

"It wasn't always that way. Once there was a marriage between labor and capital. Years ago unions protected the workers. Union instituted the 40-hour week, the end to child labor, and other workers’s rights, but since Reagan broke up the Air Controllers Union the GOP has tried to destroy every advance in workers' rights."

"The Democrats aren't much better."

"We're on our own." I shrugged and made to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To the 169 Bar in Chinatown. They have $2 beers."

"Have a good May Day."

I showed him the clenched fist and headed to the subway, thinking that I had belonged to three unions; IBEW for the telephone company, IBT driving taxi in Boston, and the union of drifters.

I believe in the power of labor and every May 1 the workers of the world march to show their solidarity.

Originally the day was a pagan holiday for the first day of spring, although in a different month than the present Julian calendar. Peasants adherents to the old religions danced around the Maypole. The Catholic Church suppressed the practice by naming May the month of Mary.

As a child at parochial school the nuns paraded us around the church with the girls wearing white dresses and flowers in their hair. The boys were dressed in white jackets and slacks. Parents snap snapshots of their angelic children with Kodak Brownie cameras.

Years later we abandoned this pious procession to march in the May Day protests against the Cambodian Bombings.

1969-1970.

Washington, Kent State, and Nixon talking to the protesters.

May Day for the Left honored the seven Haymarket anarchists executed for participation in Chicago’s Haymarket Riot of 1886 in Chicago.

May ,1 1886 was the start date for the 8-hour day. Big business wasn’t happy with this new law and workers staged a series of protests. Anarchists met in Haymarket Square. The gathering was peaceful until someone threw a bomb into the police ranks, killing one officer. In the ensuing violence more died on both sides.

Hence ‘bombing-throwing anarchist’ entered the American lexicon.

The subsequent trial of eight anarchists based the accusations on hearsay. Evidence revealing the involvement of the Pinkerton Detective Agency in the bombing didn’t prevent the death sentence for seven of the accused.

Public pressure for leniency forced the governor of Illinois to commute the capital charges against two ‘conspirators’.

On the eve of the execution Louis Lingg offed himself by exploding a dynamite cap in his mouth.

The remaining four, Spies, Parsons, Fischer, and Engel were publicly hung, but not before they sang the Marseillaise, the anthem of the international revolutionary movement.

All eight were exonerated in 1893 and May 1 became a rally day for labor throughout the world, although in the USA it is called Loyalty Day.

Thailand gives the day off to workers, 70% who have decent jobs say they are happy with their present situation. Others are less so.

In honor of the Haymarket martyrs I’m taking the day off too.

Sadly it's not by choice.

Power to the people.