Saturday, January 30, 2016

Amazons Of Then

The Amazons supposedly originated from Bronze Age tales of a tribe of women warriors living along the shore of the Euxine Sea or the Black Sea. The Scythians on the Don River called them the Oiorpata. Little else than myth forms their story, although according to Wikipedia reported that the Sarmatians were descendants of Amazons and Scythians, and that their wives observed their ancient maternal customs, "frequently hunting on horseback with their husbands; in war taking the field; and wearing the very same dress as the men". Moreover, said Herodotus, "No girl shall wed till she has killed a man in battle".

Homer wrote about the tribe in THE ILIAD and legend related that the Amazons lived apart from men and only engaged in intercourse with male slaves taken in battle once a year for breeding purposes.

Herodotus lived some six hundred years after the height of the Amazons. The historian traveled throughout the Persian Empire and Asian Greek States, so his mentions of the female soldiers were based on myth, although some say that the Amazons fought for the Persian satraps in the eastern empire.

Recent archaeological digs in the Russian steppes discovered a kurgan burial mound for women warriors of an above average height puportedly belonging to the Sarmatians, a mixed race of Sychtians and Amazons.

But no one knows for sure.

When history is lost to time.

Half of NASA's 2016 Astronaut Class

NASA announced that half of its 2016 class will be women and that the team will be training for a future Mars mission. This is quite an accomplishment, especially considering the state of NASA's space fleet.

NASA no longer has a Space Shuttle

And neither does Russia.

None featuring women.

Just a unisex mission to Mars.

Then again there's always the Devil Girl from Mars.

And she's trouble on any planet on the solar system.

As if any woman from Mars.

Christopher Lee RIP

This January has taken a heavy toll on the stars of Rock with demises of David Bowie, Paul Kantner of the Jefferson Airplane, Lemmie from Motorhead, Glenn Frey of the Eagles, and Georgio Gomelsky, who managed the Stones in the USA, but these rocking dead were accompanied into the Here-after by the great movie actor Christopher Lee who passed from this life at the age of 93.

Born well back in the last century Mr. Lee survived a brutal bullying at public school to volunteer for the Russo-Finnish War and then fight with the RAF in North Africa and Italy before joining the secret services about which he said according to Wikipedia, "I was attached to the SAS from time to time but we are forbidden – former, present, or future – to discuss any specific operations. Let's just say I was in Special Forces and leave it at that. People can read in to that what they like."

Upon returning from the war Christopher Lee became an actor and achieved stardom as Dracula for Hammer Films and finished out his career as the evil wizard Saruman in the LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy.

Several years ago I saw him at the Worseley restaurant in Mayfair. I wanted to say hello and offered him thanks for terrifying me as a youth, but he seemed to be having a good time with his lunch companions and I was taught at an early age to never interrupt a man when he's having fun.

Strangely Christopher Lee recorded several heavy metal records in his 90s.

He shall be missed, but not forgotten.

To hear Christopher Lee's The Bloody Verdict of Verden, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvKRbi2ovDY

And I love Christopher Lee's Ghost Riders in the Sky

To hear this song, please go to this URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5PWuvHPGsjI

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Our America - Vote Bernie Sanders

Watch this video from the Bernie Sanders. To hear tis political message, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nwRiuh1Cug

Death Of The Twinkie

Twinkies are not dead.

They just aren't what they used to be after Hostess' bankruptcy.

They've been reduced in size and calories.

New Twinkies have 135 calories and a mass of 38.5 grams, while the original Twinkies contained 150 calories and had a mass of 42.5 grams thanks to a hedge fund revival.

Twinkies.

Another victim of capitalism.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Vote Early For The Bern

Drudge Report has a poll on who will win the election. trump has 40%. Bernie 7% and Hillary 1.23%. log onto drudge report and vote for Bernie.

That was earlier, now Trump has 37% and Bernie is 28%

An upset in the making in the land of the beast.

As they say in Boston, vote early, vote often. You can poll more than once.

The vote is under DRUDGE REPORT

http://www.drudgereport.com/

PS Clinton is only getting .98%

And Cruz is 3rd with 21%.

Trump versus Bernie.

Round 1

Feel the Bern.

Mutation Not Genetics

America has been plagued by obesity.

When I was young few fat people existed in this country.

When Big Food switched from sugar to fluctose, the country expanded from size L to XXXXXL.

People think the fat scourge is natural and say, "It run in my family."

Big Pharma agrees with their opinion and has spent billions on researching the 'fat' gene.

It's not genetics. It's not a fat gene. It's processed food.

I'm sure of it, but I have no idea why Americans are so crazy.

That must be in the genes.

Because nothing else can explain our craziness.

Other than we're mutations

Deaf Dumb And Blind

I hate smart phones.

I hate people who think it's life.

lightnin' hopkins - bring me my shotgun

Jealousy is one of the Seven Deadly Sins and few sing it better Lightning Hopkins on his BRING ME MY SHOTGUN. To hear BRING ME MY SHOTGUN, please go to the following URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KCqEOboRctY

GRONK 69

Gronkowski 69.

All day long.

Giselle 69

This weekend Tom Brady will play his 17th Game versus the Denver Broncos.

The AFC Championship will be an away game for the Patriots.

#12 is 2-6 at Sports Authority Field at Mile High and many other teams have trouble with the Broncos and the main reason is the altitude.

None of the other teams in the NFL play so high.

Rodney Harrison said in the Boston Herald, “I remember Junior Seau, one of the best-conditioned athletes you’ll ever see, and after two or three plays chasing Terrell Davis down, he’s out there breathing hard."

I once shoot B-Ball in Lhasa against the Chinese Army. I had two Tibetans for the 3-3. Within a minute the Chinese and me were sucking for oxygen in the thin air. The Tibetans told me to just feed them the ball. No D. We ran the court the entire day and I wasn't even wheezing.

Not the same for the Patriots, who will arrive in Denver on Friday to allow the team a spell of acclimatization, but while the 2000 199th Draftee might be 2-6 against the Broncos, Tom is 11-5 against Peyton Manning and I like that number just right.

I shall be in the Chinatown at the 169, if Johnny is at the bar.

19 feet above sea level.

And I'll be wearing my GISELLE 69 shirt.

Go #12.

May the numbers be with you.

A LOSS OF MEMORY by Peter Nolan Smith

The Catholic Church and other derivatives of the Judaeo-Christian faith extol monogamy as the true state of man and woman, then explain sex through the mysteries of the birds and bees. Actually my parents never lectured their children on that subject, although they said that the stork had delivered each of my new brothers or sisters from the hospital.
“A stork?” The long-winged bird was not native to New England.
“Yes, a stork,” my parents said the word with reverence and they remained faithful as mating pigeons to each other. Bees never entered into the conversation about babies, because the queen bee had so many lovers.

Just like me. I can’t count the number of my paramours on one hand and while I don’t remember all their names, I do recollect their faces, smiles, and smell, yet very little of the sex.

Woman on the other hand pride themselves on their acute memories and quote a man’s utterance twenty years after the words left his lips, so I imagined that all females would be equally recollective about the act of love, but not all of them.

Several years ago I ran into Valda at a Lower Manhattan studio opening. The ex-La Rocka model was still a beauty. Not a surprise, since the Polish emigre had been Jean-Michel's muse as had many women in the artist's short life. We sat on a gallery's window sill recounting our past and a younger women with a younger male asked, “Are you a couple?”

“Not really.” I smiled at the tenderness in her voice. I had once been that young.

“You seemed so comfortable together.” Her beau beamed with the glow of two hearts beating as one and he held his girlfriend’s hand with tenderness. They had a lot to learn, but I wasn’t in the mood to educate them about the hills and canyons of love, so I said, “No, we were never a couple, but we once were lovers.”

“No, we weren’t.” Valda harshly answered with darkening eyes.

“We weren’t?” I remembered certain spending hours together on a hot August night in 1979.

“Not at all.” Her adamant denial bristled with certitude.

“Are you sure?” Her kiss was etched on my mind.

“100%.”

That encounter couldn’t have been a phantasm of my fantasies. She had scratched my back to shreds.

“Really?’

“Yes.” A fury settled in her eyes.

The young couple fled from the charred ashes of my displaced memory.

“Sorry, guess I was thinking about someone else.” I waved the white flag of surrender.

“And there were plenty of someone elses.” Valda sway from the window. I remained seated, thinking that she was right, because a woman is never wrong about a man, but I had slept with one of her best friends.

Lucille and I had lasted a weekend.

My imaginary tryst with Valda went on for a month.

1979 wasn’t a time for monogamy.

I stood up. Valda stood by the bar. I was exiled from her thoughts and I wondered what other men else dwelled in her gulags. It really didn't matter, because 1979 was a long time ago and even worse maybe I wasn’t so memorable in the affairs of the birds and bees, then again I had slept with one of her best friends.

Lucille wouldn’t know if I was right, but I was gracious enough to allow Valda her victory, for as the philosopher Pascha Ray paraphrased, “As you get old you forget. As you get older you are forgotten by everyone but yourself.”

Sad, but sometimes true.

Especially in the mind of a woman.

Other photos of Valda and Mary Beth and Lucille.

In 1979 we were friends and I never forget friends.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Evil Blonde Beauty

The Rolling Stones - Sympathy For The Devil

Few better songs from the Rolling Stones

SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5AIisWNvM4

Money Is Evil

True Evil

I don't believe in heaven or hell, but if there is a hell I hope Roy Cohn is getting a good burning and if not when the revolution comes, first order should be to be exhumed after the triumph of the revolution and his pulverized bones scattered to the winds.

This snitch bastard ruined lives without any conscience or guilt.

I suppose there is something admirable about that trait.

For neo-cons seeking to turn back the clock of progress to 1951.

forgive the sins of the good, but never forget to evil of the bad. - Pascha Ray

TOUCH OF EVIL Opening Scene

According to Wikipedia many critics considered Orson Welles' three-minute, twenty-second tracking shot in TOUCH OF EVIL as one of the greatest long takes in cinematic history, especially considering that it's the opening scene.

Here's the synopsis.

On the U.S.-Mexico border, a man plants a time bomb in a car. A man and woman enter the vehicle and make a slow journey through town to the U.S. border. Newlyweds Miguel "Mike" Vargas (Charlton Heston) and Susie (Janet Leigh) pass the car several times on foot. The car crosses the border, then explodes, killing the occupants.

To see the opening scene of TOUCH OF EVIL PLEASE go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg8MqjoFvy4

Tell No Evil


Soldiers are notoriously unreliable. The Afghan troops are disorganized under US supervision, while their Taliban counterparts have fought the occupying forces to a stalemate.

Same tribesmen.

Different motivation.

This quandary befuddles military strategists, although modernists within the Pentagon tout the value of a soldier designed along the second stanza of Alfred Tennyson's famed poem THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Now the six hundred has been reduced to one.

A drone missile.

No sex.

No need for 'don't ask, don't tell'.

A eunuch warrior capable of violating Assimov's three laws of Robotics:

1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

2. A robot must obey any orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

Next stage; the Terminator.

Nothing is evil for Mr. "I'll Be Back'.

Willie DeVille 1986

One night in 1986 Willie DeVille came to the Royal Lieu with Jorgen Osterloh, Aurora Clemente, and Dean Tavourlos. Willie was with his wife. We knew each other from CBGBs. He gave me a line of smack.

Willie was good for that.

It was brown. Jorgen said he was going back to his apartment in Montmatre. I said I would meet them. Instead I semi-ODed in the office.

I woke in the morning and called Jorgen.

No answer.

I took a taxi up to his flat. No one answered his phone. I climbed up the side of the building. I would have been a good cat-burglar. I entered through a window. No one was home. The door was open. No one had slept in the bed. As I left the apartment, a policeman asked for my ID.

"Why?"

"Do you know Jurgen Osterloh?"

"No." He never snitched out friends.

"Why?"

"Because he died last night.. Une OD."

I knew why too, but I didn't blame Willie.

None of us were kids.

I hadn't seen this photo until today.

I remember someone taking the photo.

I can't say who.

Several years alter I saw Willie in the East Village. He was living down the street on Avenue A. We hung out a little. Anything more could have been fatal for the weak.

AS Jurgen learned too late.

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

A LOSS OF MEMORY by Peter Nolan Smith


The Catholic Church and other derivatives of the Judeo-Christian faith extol monogamy as the true state of man and woman, then explain sex through the mysteries of the birds and bees. Actually my parents never lectured their children on that subject, although they said that the stork had delivered each of my new brothers or sisters from the hospital.

"A stork?" The long-winged bird was not native to New England.

"Yes, a stork," my parents said the word with reverence and they remained faithful as mating pigeons to each other. Bees never entered into the conversation about babies, because the queen bee had so many lovers.

Just like me.

I can't count the number of my paramours on one hand and while I don't remember all their names, I do recollect their faces, smiles, and smell, yet very little of the sex.

Woman on the other hand pride themselves on their memories.

They can quote a man's utterance twenty years after the words left his lips and I thought that females would be equally recollective about the act of love, but not all of them.

Several years ago I ran into Valda at a studio opening in Manhattan. The ex-La Rocka model was still a beauty. She and I sat on a window sill reliving our past. A younger nan an female approached us and the girl asked, "Are you a couple?"

"Not really." I smiled at the tenderness in her voice. I had once been that young.

"You seemed so comfortable together." Her beau beamed with the glow of two hearts beating as one and he held his girlfriend's hand with tenderness. They had a lot to learn, but I wasn't in the mood to bust their bubble, so I said, "No, we were never a couple, but we once were lovers."

"No, we weren't." Valda's quick answer was pronounced in a harsh tone.

"We weren't?" I was certain that we had been together on a hot August night in 1979.

"Not at all." Her adamant denial bristled with certitude.

"Are you sure?" Her kiss was etched on my mind.

"100%."

That encounter couldn't have been a phantasm of my fantasies. She had scratched my back to shreds.

"Really?'

"Yes." A fury dwelt in her eyes.

The young couple were aghast at this reversal of their intuition and they fled from the charred ashes of my displaced memory.

"Sorry, guess I was thinking about someone else." I waved the white flag of surrender.

"And there were plenty of someone elses." Valda stormed out of the gallery.

She was right, because a woman is never wrong about a man.

I had slept with one of her best friends.

Lucille and I had lasted a weekend.

1979 wasn't a time for monogamy.

Valda stood by the bar.

I was out of her thoughts.

Maybe she was right.

1979 was a long time ago and even worse maybe I wasn't so memorable in affairs of the birds and bees.

I doubt it, but as the philosopher Pascha Ray paraphrased, "As you get old you forget. As you get older you are forgotten by everyone but yoruself."

Sad, but sometimes true.

Especially in the mind of a woman.

Monday, January 11, 2016

David Bowie RIP

A visitor from another world.

See you in the Stars, Major Tom.

To hear SPACE ODDITY please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo

David Bowie and Cher meet Sha Na Na


My friend Keith and I share mutual musical tastes and this week he posted a Youtube video of David Bowie singing with Cher. Keith had actually seen the Ziggy Stardust tour. I missed it for a stupid reason.

My girlfriend at the time was 26.

Linda was a junior exec in my father's office.

A sleek divorcee wearing french lingerie.

For my birthday she offered to take me to the Ziggy Stardust tour. I picked Sha-na-na instead. Linda left me at the end of the summer, saying the only reason she had slept with me was because my father would not and that Bowser of Sha-Na-Na was more my type than the Thin White Duke?

She knew me oh too well.

Bowie Ball

Several years ago I received an invitation to the Bowie Ball.

A homage to David Bowie's Glam Years on Columbus Day at Le Poisson Rouge or Red Fish.

I had nothing to wear.

My gold Elvis suit is history. My platform shoes were tossed in 1975. I was so out I can never be in for the In Crowd, unless I showed up with quaaludes.

And those I do have.

Three from a 1974 jar of Rorer 714s.

Those originals pleasure pills grant credence to everyone.

Even to old queens.

"Oh, I love 'ludes."

And I have three.

Two for me and one for Ziggy Stardust.

But let's not forget Slade.

RUN RUN AWAY

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

Bowie and Cher 1975


David Bowie's career has seen ups and downs. The worst period was in the early 70s. The English glam rocker succumbed to heroin. His best friend was Iggy. Money went faster than it came and his financial commitments required his appearing on the CHER SHOW. Their duet covered YOUNG AMERICANS and several pop classics. Their timeless collaboration went through than the Hollywood studio.

Lovers.

Cher and Bowie.

Fame has its price and the morning after a long session of sex the bedroom door opened for Bowie's wife. Angie served Cher and David breakfast and left the room. Cher was freaked by the intrusion.

David was merely high.

Here's the Youtube URL of that momentous show.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_z9b0GFRz9g

Great trash

N'est pas?

And what's with Cher's thatched roof?

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Go Neanderthals Go

The Neanderthals dominated Europe and Asia for almost a half-million years. This species vanished from the Earth 24,000 years ago. Anthropologists once blamed the fall of the Neanderthals on their stupidity, while recent studies have revealed that the ancient men had larger brains than their homo sapiens descendants and were stronger and taller than as well as better adapted to the colder climates of the Great Ice Age.

The mystery of their disappearance has troubled scientists, although a report in the BBC suggested that Neanderthals were already on the verge of extinction and the final shove came from drastic changes in the weather.

I beg to differ for I have theorized that Neanderthals did not vanish, but their DNA fused with homo sapiens at the end of the Ice Age.

I actually feel Neanderthalic after a couple of beers.

My brows are thickly padded by bone. My arms and legs are shorter than most men my size. My torso is long. Thankfully I'm not hairy. I detest hirsuteness in a man and avoid bearded women.

I guess that makes me a race traitor.

Go Neanderthals Go.

ANCIENT PORNO by Peter Nolan Smith


The term pornography was derived from the Greeks linking two words; prostitute and I read.

The portrayal of sexual acts can be traced to pre-Ice Age and anthropologists have claimed that a naked figurine carved from a mammoth ivory was man's first attempt at figurative representation. Opponents to this thought have countered that not a single lurid images has been found amongst the thousands of neolithic cave paintings around the world, but I'm certain that the ancients hid their XXX material far from the prying eyes of society whether they were Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal.

Sex for anything other than procreation has longer been considered a sin.

Both then and now as I learned as a young boy on the South Shore of Boston.

In the winter of 1964 the Pentagon abandoned the hilltop missile installation in the hills above our suburban development, since LBJ had no interest in protecting the previous president's hometown from nuclear destruction. Teenagers from the South Shore soon flocked to Chickatawbut Hill to vandalize the deserted army base. Within weeks anything of value had been trashed by our lawless legions.

My best friend Chuckie Manzi and I lived less than a mile from the military base.

One afternoon we climbed to the top of the hill and slid under the chainlink fence to wander through the wreckage. We entered a ruined office not far from the missile silos. The corners were steeped with beer cans. The bulletholes pocked the walls and charred wood rimmed the entrance.

Teenagers had a hard time getting guns or beer in the 60s.

The parties held in the office had been for adults.

Maybe even older.

"Look at this." Chuckie had discovered a a moldy cache of 1960s porno mags. "These aren't Playboys."

I opened one to discover that sex had nothing to do with the birds and bees. The lewd photos portrayed another dimension of sexuality known to young boys. Both of us got erections. Neither of us told the other. This was sex.

We separated the magazines into genres with the care of the archaeologists handling the Dead Sea Scrolls. Most was straight. Some were homosexual. Others defined definition.

"This is sick." Chuckie found a magazine of men whipped by women. We didn't have a word for that perversity or those of men with women who were men. In many of the photos the women were completely naked and the men wore sox.

"Why you think the men wear sox?" Chuckie was dumbfounded by this mystery.

"Maybe their feet are cold." I wore my sox to bed in the winter.

"No, the girls' nipples aren't erect."

"Why does that rule out the cold?"

"Because mine get that way in the cold."

"Maybe the actors forgot to take them off in the excitement."

"If a girl is naked, I'm going to be naked too." Chuckie took some of the queer stuff. One of the boys looked like him. I didn't comment on the likeness.

When I got home, I stuffed the magazines far under my mattress. My mother liked to tidy the covers after we went to school at Our Lady of the Foothills.

I shared the bedroom with my older brother. He fell asleep before me. I explored the magazines one by one. My fingertips smelled of their rotten pages. The things on that paper inspired a long evening of masturbation and the next morning I dozed off during the the early classes.

In the next month my grades slipped from As to Bs. Mother Superior examined my eyes. Her glasses were thick. Her nose sniffed at my hands. I washed them with Ivory Soap after every time I sinned in deed and thought. <

"What's your excuse?" Sister Mary Josef had been born in Stuttgart. The 7th grade called her 'Sister Hitler'. She beat students with a ruler and usually for no reason.

"For my grades?" I had been the #2 student in that class. "I'm reading all the assignments and finishing my homework."

"Chuckie Manzi is having the same problem, only he's slipped from B to C." Sister Mary Josef was tall. I was scared of her. She had also taught at a school for the deaf and I had heard nasty stories about how she treated those girls.

Nasty as the magazines under my bed.

"I don't know why."

"Have you been touching yourself?" She seized my hands and turned up the palms. Her eyes ping-ponged across the whorls of my flesh, as if she was reading runes.

"No," I answered with feigned horror.

The sisters had warned their boy student that they would grow hair on out palms if we sinned with ourselves. I shaved mine every morning with my father's razor.

"Are you sure?"

"That's a sin and I'm an altar boy."

So was Chuckie and my older brother. We were paid $5 for funerals and $10 for weddings. People died more than they got married in our parish. Three funerals a week came to $15. Levis cost $6 at Walker's Western Store on Boylston Street in Boston. I had every color.

"Make sure you do nothing to lose your soul." Sister Mary Josef released my hands. "I'll be watching you."

My nocturnal forays into the magazines became more clandestine. My older brother dropped off to sleep early, but my mother was insomniac and she didn't shut off her lights until after THE TONIGHT SHOW.

Once her bedroom went dark, I slipped my hand under the mattress. My boy scout flashlight guided my travels through a maze of warped encounters. I read each magazine a hundred times that spring. Their images and words were memorized more fervently than the Baltimore Catechism.

And no one saw nothing.

Same as the anthropologists searching for erotic prehistoric paintings. They existed in the deep recesses of unexplored caverns.

That summer Chuckie and I scoured the Blue Hills for more pornography. Our magazines were falling apart. We traded them back and forth to each other, but we needed something new.

Red Tate was the man to ask. He lived at the dump. His home was a concrete bunker. Something bad had happened to him in the Korean war. My uncle had won the Silver Star for action in the Chosin Reservoir and gave Red money for beer. "He was a hero."

We asked red about the magazines.

"I'm not giving you anything weird," Red Tate exploded after hearing our request. "You're good kids. How you think people would talk if they found out I was giving kids stroke books."

"We're not kids." I protested since I was almost 13.

"You don't even shave." Red Tate touched my cheek. His fingers smelled like discarded cigarettes and his callouses were rough as a cat's tongue. "Stay away from that shit."

"But you must have some." Chuckie was desperate.

"I'm not interested in sex. Not the real thing. Not the fake." His family kept him in clothing and he actually didn't look too bad if you ignored the scar jagging across his forehead. "Not any more."

"Maybe you can answer a question."

"Like what?" Red licked his lips. The talking made him thirsty.

"Like why do the guys in porno books never take off their sox?"

"That's easy. They keep on their sox so they can put on their shoes easy if the police raid the studio. That's where you get the expression 'blow off your sox'." Red pushed me away roughly. Parents didn't want him speaking with children.

Chuckie and I were disappointed by Red's refusal.

By summer's end the magazines were in shreds. I threw mine away in the woods. Chuckie flushed his down the toilet. They clogged the pipe. The plumber didn't say a word to Chuckie's father. We returned our devotion to our studies.

In the Fall semester Chuckie was B+ and I was A-.

Sister Mary Josef commented my dedication.

"I was praying for you."

"So was I."

And I continued by requests to a pagan god for more pornography.

Certainly the nuns' god was not into filth.

He had more important things on his mind.

Me, I had only one thing.

And it wasn't God.

Not then and not now.

For I had turned wicked forever.

Playboy Rechained

Playboy was founded by Hugh Hefner in 1953 with a $1000 loan from his mother.

Hugh Hefner's Playboy magazine will no longer feature nude women featuring a centerfold of Marilyn Monroe.

The first issue sold out within a week and the magazine featuring first-class writing, satirical cartoons, and nude playmates of the month soared to a circulation of 7,161,561 in November 1972.

Pam Rawlings was the centerfold photographed by Rowland Scherman.

Not any more.

According to the news Hugh Hefner, 89, announced that Playboy will no longer publish nude shots bringing to end over sixty years of nudity.

The first nudesBack in 1962 my best friend and I found several moldy Playboy in the deep woods of the Blue Hills. Up to then my only knowledge of the female anatomy came from examinations of my sister's Barbie dolls, but I understand the Playboy Messiah's decision to drop nudity.

The Internet is awash with sex of all genres and it costs nothing.

Playboy is just another casualty of the Web.

Where nothing is real, not even a teenage boy's fantasy.