Sunday, April 30, 2017

100 Days Of Trump

Donald Trump has been president for over 100 days and 45 extolled his accomplishments to a faith crowd in Harrisburg Pa. over one-hundred miles from Washington.

The appointment of Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court pleased his constituency and he deluged the government with over 200 executive orders bypassing Congress, however his first attempt at dismantling Affordable Health Care failed to reach the floor of the House and his Wall to protect the southern border with Mexico remains a figment of his imagination. Donald spoke before the NRA and thanked the gun lobby for their support. His tweets have threatened North Korea and Trump ordered the Navy to nail a Syrian air force base in revenge for Assad's poison gas on Aleppo. # 45 is a little gun crazy, which scares a world seeking peace.

ICE or the Immigration Bureau has been ordered to round-up illegals, but sanctuary cities rejected his edict.

The President banned citizens from seven Muslim nations from entering the USA.

This executive order was rejected by the courts.

Trump has railed against these failures.

So how bad have been the first 100 days of Trump.

Bad, but not Hitler bad.

The SS aren't walking down the streets of New York.

Beers at the 169 are still $2 at Happy Hour.

The KKK are there.

The police are still killers.

But Trump does not have the support of the nation.

Not 40%.

And there is no wall with Mexico.

Only san in the wind.

Monday, April 24, 2017

3 Ma - CO2 = 400+

Three million years ago Paranthropus Boisei roamed the East African woods, existing on C4 plants according to scientists. Turtles, elephants, giraffes, zebras, lions, rhinoceros and gazelles appear in the fossil record of that long-lost era. The CO2 level 3 ma was 400 ppm and this week the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii recorded that number after 3 ma of 270 ppm.

I blame everything on consumption

Needless to say climate denialists refuse to recognize man's hand of the CO2 accelerator led by their fat champion, Donald 45 Trump. If this trend continues unabated, then the CO2 ppm level will reached a rate not seen for a half-billion years.

Although we achieve that regularly in some cities.

Like Delhi.

Beijing.

Kathmandu.

New York City.

But not the Western Forest.

Ban Nok is still clean.

How I wish I was there.

France Versus France

The French primaries has reduced the field to two presidential candidates; rightist Marion Anne Perrine "Marine" Le Pen and ex-socialist centrist Emmanuel Jean-Michel Frédéric Macron. Neither has ever worked a real jobs. Marine Le Pen has been a lawyer and politician, while Macron has been a functionaire his entire career. The French press and world media have excoriated the National Front leader as a populist demagogue. Macron failed to ignite the 70% turnout of the French electorate who gave him a mere 23% of the vote to Le Pen's 22%.

More of the same from him.

Marine Le Pen promises to protect France.

She lives with a common-law husband.

Strangely Macron is married to his ex-teacher 24 years his senior.

They met when he was 15.

Bonne Chance.

France versus France.

No one wins in the end.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Hiding Behind Fats

Back in 1982 I worked the door at the Bains-Douches in Paris.

The owner suggested hiring new blood for security.

My first choice was Big Jacques.

Jacques Negrit was a tall, handsome and good-natured twenty year-old from the projects of the peripherique.

His gang was called Les Bufalos.

I liked Jacques and didn't trust the French Marine bouncers. I hd been shot at and they didn't even bother to stop playing billiards

My boss agreed to hire Jacques, although he was surprised by my suggesting, Jacques' pote, Fats.

"What can he do? He eats like a horse."

My patron was right, but I said, "Jacques, stand behind Fats."

The big man's real name was Philippe. He was smarter than most everyone at the Bains-Douches and like Jacques gentle as sleeping bears

Jacques crouched behind Fats, who was munching frites from the nearby merguez stand.

"Can you see Jacques?"

"No."

"So when anyone attacks us with a gun, we hide behind Fats. He'll block any bullets."

Better we don't open the door.

The glass was an inch thick. ."

"Give him a job." My boss green-lighted hiring Fats, who was upset by my demonstration of his worth, but I said, "Fats, you're one of us. You're smart and funny, but more importantly you're a Bafalo."

"Same as you, Pete Johnson." Jacques loved calling me that.I got you a job. I was just kidding about blocking the bullets."

"Casse-toi." He didn't stop eating the frites and smiled at the thought of having a real job.

It was his first

Now he's a head of a security firm in France.

The Bafalos handle all the concerts and big shows.

And I get into them for free, because I'm a Bafalo too and we are all brothers to the end.

Three Altar Boys in the Snow


Three altar boys are standing in the snow with their pants down around their ankles.

They have their penises' in a snow bank. Sister Margaret sticks her head out the window and says, "Boys! Boys!Whatever are you doing? You're going to catch pneumonia. Put your penis' away."

The tallest altar boy turns around and yells, "Sister Margaret, don't worry, we know what we're doing. Father Porter always likes a couple cold ones after work."

For a related article click on this URL

http://www.mangozeen.com/2009/04/09/fiction/blows-against-the-empire-by-peter-nolan-smith.htm

Beware of Girl Scouts


And I thought altar boys were bad.

THE LAST GO-GO BOY by Peter Nolan Smith

Americans tend to judge the nation’s fiscal well-being by the rise and fall of the Dow Jones Index, even though Wall Street’s accumulation of wealth has destroyed the spending power of the middle-class. The January bonuses for the hedge fund managers will not save a single consumer buried under debt, after which the corporations will trim benefits and wages to the bone to maximize profit.

Few employees protested the low pay in fear of losing their jobs with good reason.

The nation's economy is in the shitter and I asked myself what jobs are available for a 64 year-old man.

Very few was the answer.

Years before I had been lucky that Manny reserved a place for me on West 47th Street, but this year has been the exception. Times were that tough in the Diamond District.

Early in December I flogged a gay writer's family heirlooms to a gold dealer in another exchange.

Later that evening at his East Village apartment I paid Bruce $4000 minus my commission.

"Now I can pay my health insurance," the heavyweight writer sighed with gratitude and invited me an Asian fusion restaurant on Avenue B. Every seat was crammed with young people enjoying the approach of the holidays.

“I never see anyone my age on the subway.” These go-getters were my competition for a subway seat in the morning. Thankfully none of them were ruthless enough to throw me under the train.

“Most men our age are retired.” Bruce's finger darted over the menu. His thinning hair was bleached blonde, so he resembled an aging beach bum. The waiter paid attention to his every word like he was a seeing-eye dog. Bruce was generous with young men.

"Or dead."

“You're not dying anytime soon."

"I'm too healthy for that." My health care plan was never get sick.

"Do you have a retirement plan?” Bruce was a world-known novelist. Critics had recognized his genius. Sales for his last book totaled a little over 2000, but he owned his apartment and in another year he would be old enough to receive Social Security.

“When I hit 70, I'm flying to Norway." I ordered oysters with seaweed noodles, plus a glass of wine. The thin waiter had to be 35 years younger than me. He wouldn't think of a 60 year-old man as middle-aged, but neo-senior.

"Norway?"

"Yes, I'm going to rob a bank with a gun, then they'll sentence me to 20 to life for armed robbery. I've seen photos of Norway's prison for violent offenders. The rooms have computers and are furnished by IKEA.

“Ten years from now the Norwegian prison officials will have instituted euthanasia for the elderly, so robbing a bank in Oslo is not really an option."

"You have any other suggestions?" Supporting my family in Thailand had wiped out my savings.

"Ever think about taking steel pole lessons from your stripper friends?"

"What for?"

"If you lost ten pounds, you could work as a go-go boy at a queer retirement home.” Bruce’s biting wit was best suited to attack rather than self-deprecation.

“Honey, those old wrinklies aren’t so particular about the weight. They like the young flesh.”

“A scary thought.” Just yesterday my Thai wife reminded me over the phone that I wasn’t 17 anymore. Mam was 28 and my son was four years-old. I couldn’t quit working until I was 78.

"Those old fags want someone young.” Bruce had written a book on the rough trade in Times Square. His tricks had called him Papi. None of them had been under 20 and he never sunk under 250 pounds.

“Those old queens in the nursing homes haven't seen anyone young as you in decades. You could charge the homes $100 a visit, which has to be more beneficial for the old geezers than any other medicine. And you could do lap dances.”

“Thanks for the idea, but I'd rather rob a cradle than a grave."

"Times change and people like you and me have to change with them, plus graves are richer pickings than a cradle. Hell, you could franchise the go-go scheme in Florida. How many retirement homes you think are in the Sunshine State? Thousands? There has to be a demand for middle-aged men from the elderly queers.”

“Supply and demand.”

“And who knows? You might be able to sex them up for a little more money on the side.” Bruce caressed the waiter’s behind. He was a regular here and the waiter smiled with the anticipation of good tip. Bruce liked to pay for sex even if it was merely a grope.

“No way. I barely wanted to have sex with myself let alone with someone else.”

“Why, because you think you're too good to have sex with someone older than you like me.” He frowned at this unintended insult. “What about the woman you had sex with in Palm Beach?"

"Helen?" The Palm Beach heiress had been unnaturally blonde and fashionably thin. We had been introduced by my longtime mistress at the Breakers four summers ago.

"That's the one. You said she was over 70.”

“Closing on 75.” Helen published several magazines extolling the good life on the Gold Coast. She had invited me to her house on Lake Worth. The fragrance of her garden had overwhelmed by the reefer she smoked in a diamond encrusted hand.
We spoke about sex. Helen knew the world; past, present, and future.

"She didn't seem old." The elegant septuagenarian spent part of the year at a Swiss clinic rejuvenating her aged body in Botox like it was fondue cheese.

"She had your number." Bruce was fascinated by my sordid encounter.

“How?"

"As I remember it, she said that she hadn’t had cock in her mouth in ten years. She had begged for it and you gave it to her like you were remaking SUNSET BOULEVARD.”

“It was a mercy mission.” I did look a little like William Holden in the shadows of her bedroom.

With the lights off, the curtains billowing with the evening breeze, and Helen wearing sheer lingerie and satin high heels, I imagined that she was Paris Hilton in the year 2040. On her knees the mirage had performed fellatio like she was entering the Porno Hall of Fame. Thankfully she had never said, “Ready for my scene, Mr. DeMille.”

Maybe the first time, but what about the second time?” Bruce sat back, as the waiter delivered our appetizers; fried calamari for him and raw bluepoints for me. “Gore Vidal said about orgies that once is experimentation, but twice is perversity.”

“The second time was because I was drunk.” Two bottles of wine and a joint had loosened by inhibitions and she had had her way with me. “There was no third time.”

"Only because you saw her with another man at the Chesterfield.”

“She was in the Leopard Lounge.” The other man had been in his late 60s. He had once been an Elvis impersonator. I felt cheap.

“And you heard her use that ‘haven’t tasted cock' line on him, so don’t tell me you can’t go-go boy anymore. We all have a price.”

“I’d rather rob a bank in Norway.” I sucked down an oyster tasting of the Atlantic.

“And end up a stick boy in a Viking prison.” Bruce was enjoying himself. "You don't look like you'd like being a bottom."

"Never." I never would be a bottom, except with my wife Mam. She got off better that way.

“You do what you have to do to survive. Believe me. I know.” He had taught creative writing at a Wyoming dude ranch college two years ago. He was lucky to have escaped the high plains without being charged for perversion.

“I know you do.” Bruce was forever broke same as everyone in America, but maybe Bruce was right and the only one way of finding out was by a repeat performance in Palm Beach.

We clinked glasses.

“To go-go boys.”

“And Florida.” I felt lucky as would anyone with high season only a month away from December.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

The Long Reign Of Queen Elizabeth II

Queen Elizabeth II has ruled Great Britain since 1952.

65 Years.

A long long time.

Her Highness is now 91 years old.

There have been highs and lows.

We all know them

I'll be gracious enough to not mention them.

Monday, April 17, 2017

NO LAST NAMES by Joan Ellis

I love the cover of this book.

A room with a view.

42nd Street or the Barbary Coast in San Francisco.

Nothing like the Fortune Club or Lucky's Bar exist anymore.

The author of these books was Julie Ellis. She churned out hundreds of pulp sleaze, supposedly one a week.

Acording to vintagesleazepaperbacks.blogspot.com a website dedicated to soft-core porno Ms. Ellis started writing sleaze for Midwood Towers in the early 1960's. Though not lesbian herself, she was committed to social justice causes and as an actress playwright in the late 1950's, wrote and produced a lesbian sympathetic play performed in Greenwich Village (and to her surprise had trouble finding any actresses willing to act in the play).

While at Midwood Tower, she bucked her bosses and insisted her stories end with positive happy endings for lesbian lovers, for which she received many fan letters from lesbian readers.

I love these books.

I probably read NO LAST NAMES a hundred times more than THE WELL OF LONELINESS, a critically acclaimed lesbian novel from 1928 extolling the other side of paris in the Twenties.

The view from the hotels in Pigalle used to be wicked.

Les putes, les travelos, et les mauvais mecs.

Delon Stands Corrected

Paris had been my home during the 1980s. I had good reasons to be out of the States. My name graced a FBI report about police corruption in New York.

France lay on the other side of the Atlantic and I felt safe in my hotel room in the Marais. Life was good and I had many friends from working at the Bains-Douches and Balajo nightclubs.

A few enemies too, but too few to mention in public.

I returned to the East Village in late 1986, but ping-ponged between the two continents for most of the 90s. Moving to Thailand erased Paris from my destinations for the 00s, but my appointment to be unofficial writer-in-residence in Mittel Europa was an ideal opportunity to renew old friendships.

My first trip to the City of Light was too short. The next was a little better. I scheduled a lunch with friends and we met at a popular restaurant on Rue Reaumur. None of them had to be to work and we drank several bottles of red wine. Bucky and I drowned out the ex-model from Paris ranting about impending apocalyptical doom by humming POPCORN. I regaled them with tales of Thailand and America. The ex-model's boyfriend was a sullen intellectual, whose book on anti-Americanism had won a literary prize. The sixty year-old was successful in a way that I would never be, but he was jealous of my amity with the ex-model and interrupted my monologue on the silence of elephants walking the streets of Pattaya by saying, "Is not the elephant the symbol of your GOP party?"

"Yes, but they're not my party." I refused to vote for any candidate unwilling to support the legalization of marijuana, even though I stopped smoking weed more or less.

"All your politicians are hypocrites. They pray in their churches and then have affairs with young boys," he spoke elegant French and drank only water.

Vichy.

"Unlike France's minister of culture," I slurred in his native tongue with a Boston accent. I was hated the Democrats as much as the Republicans for selling out America, but it was my country and the French are in no position to assume the high moral ground. "Didn't he pay for young boys. Not that I think that's a sin."

"No one can have sex in your country without saying they're sorry." The table had gone silent. Those next to us were unabashedly listening to our conversation. The philosopher wasn't BHL, but the he had sold tens of thousands of books. A seat at his lectures cost 50 Euros. The eavesdroppers were getting his attack on America for free.

"You have a point. Gary Hart was caught with a beautiful blonde on a yacht in Miami. If he had admitted sleeping with her, he would have been president." Donna Rice was that beautiful. "France is different. Your old socialist PM was famed for his admiration of youthful beauty. He had a child out of wedlock, yet at his funeral his wife stood next to this woman and her daughter. She was a true radical."

"Unlike JFK's Stepford wife." The philosopher narrowed his gaze in his right eye, as if sighting down a rifle barrel. His rumpled attire was homage to ageless sophistication.

"Jackie?" I came from Boston and while the Kennedys were not gods, we forgave these foibles and worshipped them as sacred icons. No one could say bad for them and I accepted this fault as the core of my hypocrisy.

"Yes, that smile was slapped on her face by a daily shot from Doctor Feelgood." The philosopher sensed that he had struck a nerve, but I wasn't letting him profit from this edge. "

"And you're criticizing a woman for holding herself together with an upper?" I liked a little speed to perk up my life "Life isn't easy and less easy in the White House or France's Elysees. That palace is no stranger to scandal. It's just that French press don't tread on matters of the bedroom. Take Madame Pompidou. She had orgies in the Elysees and not all of them finished with happy endings. Take the Malkovich scandal."

"Markovich," the philosopher corrected my mispronounciation with a smirk.

"Mea culpa." I had received a C in Latin in high school, but my grades in history were straight Bs. "May 1968. Paris in rebellion. Leftist students oust De Gaulle. Pompidou announced his candidacy. The Gaullist spread stories about his wife cuckolded him with Alain Delon's wife. That guy Malkovich was blackmailing them with photos. Delon drove up from St. Tropez and shot Malkovich dead in the Elysees."

Most movie stars are pale shadows of their on-screen characters, whose portraitures of murderers, criminals, and assassins are formulated by acting skills instead of life experiences. Alain Delon is not one of those film poseurs. The French leading man spent 11 months in military prison for discipline problems. His connections to the Corsican gangs in Marseilles were well-known and Delon never walked away from these friendships.

"A few problems with your fantasy same as there was with your press buying GW Bush's lies about WMD. Americans don't go to school to learn, they go there to have a good time and you show the harvest of this system with your lack of knowledge and disregard for facts and research. Delon was filming in St-Tropez at the time Markovich was killed and the French Police official report cited 10 witnesses, who were with Delon in St- Tropez 3 days before and 3 days after the murder. Delon did not leave until the 4th day. You need to do your homework before spreading inaccuracies. What are your sources?"

"My sources?"

I had been told this story by a mercenary in a Marseilles bar after praising Delon for his acting in Joseph Losey's MONSIEUR KLEIN. The ex-legionaire was well-known for mayhem from the shadow of St. Charles cathedral to the train station on this side of Ventemiglia and accused the actor of being a gavroche or punk. Patric was obsessed with Delon's wife. Her name began with N. This was the first time I had recounted the ex-mercenary's account of the Markovich scandal and once was one time too many. "I'd rather not say."

"Do not be afraid of admitting your ignorance. It is the first step to knowledge." The scraggly-haired philosopher tested the bounce of the diving board once and leap into the aether pinballing from genesis to Adam Ant to romanticism to the Red Guard ad infinitum. His universe knew no bounds, but only so much abuse can be unleashed on a donkey and when I reached for the bottle of water, my elbow contacted with his glass of wine. The red spilled onto the table and the philosopher leapt from his chair to avoid the blood of grapes. He was in good shape for a man both his and my age, but some splatter reached its destination.

I handed him a cotton napkin.

"Sorry." Wine wasn't meant to stay in a glass.

"Imbecile." He glowered with rage.

"Pas de tout." I wagged a finger to dispute his accusation. "I am a drunken imbecile. Put some salt on that wine and then wet them. Should take out the stain. If not I'll buy you a pair. We can go shopping together like your rast-de-pe Culture Minister and his boys."

Rast-de-pe was pederast in Verlain for pederast, which I had learned from Left Bank gangsters and homeboys from Bidonville. "Salaud." The philosopher noticed several people VDOing him with their cellphones and he stormed out of the restaurant with the ex-model in his wake. Bucky was amused by the entire episode. She was from Berlin and Germans have scandals of an entirely different nature.

I am not at liberty to say what.

At least not in Europe.

Scandal Delon a l'Elysees

In reality most movie stars are pale shadows of their on-screen characters. The portraitures of murderers, criminals, and assassins are formulated by acting skills instead of life experiences, however Alain Delon was not one of those film poseurs.

The French leading man spent 11 months in military prison for discipline problems. His connections to the Corsican gangs in Marseilles were well-known and Delon never walked away from these friendships.

In May 1968 Paris was in turmoil.

The leftist students had ousted Charles De Gaulle and his fellow Gaullist George Pompidou announced his candidacy for president. His attempt to rule France failed after the Gaullist spread rumors about Mitterand’s wife having cuckolded him with Nathalie Delon, Alain Delon’s wife.

Claude had to be the ugliest woman in France.

"Mostly because she was a man.

Rumors of photos of a partuese between Claude and Nathalie Delon were silenced by the murder of Delon’s bodyguard.

Supposedly Stevan Markovic was blackmailing Pompidou and the president of France complained to Alain Delon, who was filming in St. Tropez. The actor drove to Paris, met with Markovic, and shot him dead.

Legend has it that the murder was committed in the Elysees in front of Pompidou. No one knows for sure, except the main figures in the story and none of them are saying.

Paris police questioned Delon.

Les Flics in the South provided him an alibi.

His friend, François Marcantoni, was charged with accessory to murder, since the dead man once said, “If I get killed, it’s 100% fault of Alain Delon and his godfather Francois Marcantoni.”

Neither man served time for the crime.

No one has bought the film rights to this scandal, for a man of his word knows when to keep his mouth shut.

Especially a movie star like Alain Delon.

Friday, April 14, 2017

Blue Angel Madness

Everyone hates Mondays. It was the first day of the work week and six years ago I rode the F train from Brooklyn with shudders of trepidation. My boss Richie Boy was especially abusive on Friday. We have been friends for decades, but he was no long who he was, since he wanted to be someone else.

Rich, successful, respected like many of his wealthy clients.

Our relationship consisted of tattered memories, but I had an out.

A job in Europe.

The Old World.

My kind of place.

Class and history.

47th Street was devoid of the first and steeped in the second, although mostly through tales of bad luck.

After exiting the train at 49th Street, I entered Rockefeller Center and ascended to the ground level via an escalator. Outside on 48th Street I grab a coffee at Indus Express. The countergirl knew my order. Coffee – milk one sugar. I arrived at the diamond exchange 25 minutes late. Not bad considering that the world had survived a threat from the Jesus Freaks.

Manny had opened the safe. His son was MIA. Manny was 82. He came to work on time every day. He hated that I was late every day. I tried to come at 9:30, but I hadn’t received a raise in three years. Manny and Richie Boy were masters of demotivation.

Kara, our Korean assistant salesperson, was setting up the inner showcases. My job was to put the jewelry in the front window. I positioned my IPAd 2 on the shelf and listened to Ultimate Spinach’s BALLAD OF THE EGO.

In many ways I remained an old hippie.

I looked back into the store. Ava, my religious co-worker, had not come to work.

“Have you heard from Ava?” I asked Kara.

She was never late and I checked my phone.

“No.”

“Strange.” I called her cell phone.

No answer.

I hadn’t heard from her since Saturday.

The day of the ‘rapture’.

>Ava was a severe church-goer and believed in doing the right thing according to the Bible. She obeyed all the commandments. Her daughter was her treasure. The both of them were without sin and I regarded her empty chair. Kara noticed my staring and said, “Are you thinking the same thing that I’m thinking?”

“Yes, that Ava was taken by the blue angels.”

“Bullshit.” Manny was a firm non-believer for many more years than me. “There are no angels of any color.”

“Then why isn’t Ava here?” While the leader of the May 21, 2011 movement had remained on Earth, no one was counting the MIA on Monday morning.

“Her bus was late. She got her tongue stuck in the microwave.” Manny motioned for me to return to the window. We had a busy week ahead of us. Richie Boy showed at 11. He stared at Ava’s desk. “Where is she?”

“The goy thinks the angels got her.”

“Really?” Richie Boy belonged to the same lack of faith as Manny and me.

“No SMS. No call. That’s not like Ava.”

My cellphone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the message. It was from Ava. She was sick with bronchitis. The angels had left her on this planet. She would be to work tomorrow along with the rest of the wage slaves on the subways, trains, buses, and cars. There was no salvation from work.

Rent-Free Hell


Yesterday on the C train between Hoyt-Schmmerhorn and Lafayette Street a young man was preaching about the wrath of his lord.

"God loves his flock, but hates a sinner. All you sinners will have a special place of torment in Hell." He glared about the subway car like Josef Mengele, the SS Angel of Death at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I met his stare with cold blue eyes, but smiled as I asked, "Are those places rent-free?"

Most of the passengers were immune from his rant. Their headphones and earplugs filled their head with song. A few were free of any device and they laughed at my quip. The preacher was not amused and pointed a finger in my direction.

"The end is coming soon."

"Not soon enough for me, if it means you'll be taken to your holy heaven and I don't have to listen to you anymore."

The train stopped at Lafayette and I stepped onto the platform, half-expecting the preacher man to follow my exit. He stood at the door of the subway shaking the Bible at me.

"You're lost." The preacher scowled without joy. There are no jokes in hell for the Christians.

"Not lost, but found in the beauty of humanity and the glory of love."

"Damnation."

"And I couldn't be happier."

The subway doors closed and the preacher was dragged deeper into Brooklyn.

I exited from the train station to enjoy the cool evening air thinking about the Jesus-lover celebrating Bunny Day with an egg hunt. No humor was one thing, but no fun was another, then again stranger things have happened to the faithful.

Even to those without a sense of humor.

I'll be laughing my head off in Hell.

Rent-free of course.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

See Ya Mike

Michael Kessler, my long time, 24/7 169 employee and friend passed away last night, April 6, 2017 at 3:33 a.m. He just found out he was terminal 2 months ago, not having a clue before. He had lost use of his hands and I was told by his sister he's speech too. When I visited him, last week we talked, but he only lasted an hour before he passed out. But! Tonight a friend dropped by and hooked him up with some herb juice out of a vapor...took 6 big hits and he woke up, talking and laughing for 6 hours...the friend left at 1:30am and Mike passed at 3:33am, I'm not sure there would be a better way to go...below is a pic of Mike, during happier times, at his B-Day at 169 this past July. Rest In Peace, Mike...

The Cruelest Month Of All

TS Eliot penned THE WASTELAND after the Great War.

This five-part poem is considered one of the greatest works of the 20th Century combing the images of the Holy Grail with Sanskirt legends and Buddhists beliefs, while shifting times, speakers, and locales with the wind of short couplets.

The poem opens with the following four lines.

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

And everyone loves this line.

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

To hear TS Eliot reading THE WASTELAND, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jkQ3kxQURcI

The Wall Of Trump The Great

The Great Wall of China was built to defend the Middle Kingdom from barbarian incursions and control border trade. Both the Mongols and Manchus breached the barrier to establish foreign empires.

Last year the Chinese film industry released THE GREAT WALL.

The enemy were lizard beasts.

They were stopped by a gwai-lo Western warrior.

And the Great Wall.

Millions of illegal aliens have flooded the USA.

ICE or the immigration gestapo have been overwhelmed by the numbers. White people are scared of losing their status in the USA.

Very scared.

Donald Trump capitalized on their fears and during the 2016 presidential election vowed to build a wall along the Mexican border paid for by Mexico.

Good idea, right?

Our neighbor's ex-President offered one gesture to # 45.

The rest of Mexico feels the same way.

So who will pay for the Trump Wall?

Americans, despite Trump's claims to force Mexico to later settle the cost of the $38 billion construction.

So far nothing has been built.

Just the same old wall as before serving to keep America safe.

Out in the middle of nowhere.

Or even more in the middle of somewhere.

Hundreds of firms are vying for the contract.

Here are some of the designs.

Wie der Berlin Wall.

A wall five times the height of # 45.

Or just say you're building a wall and charge the Mexicans for it.

The great con.

Keeping America great.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Camp David Off The Map

In 1942 FDR converted Hi-Catoctin in Maryland to serve as a presidential retreat.

Roosevelt entertained Churchill there.

Truman introduced his cronies from the Pendergast Gang to high society,

Eisenhower conferred with the Soviet leader within the confines.

Kennedy accepted Eisenhower's advice at the camp.

Where LBJ made war plans.

Nixon did the same.

Ford enjoyed the peace.

Peace spread to the Middle East under Carter.

Thatcher had an affair with Reagan there.

George H Bush planned the crack epidemic at camp.

Clinton attempted to settle the question of Palestine.

GW Bush waited for victory in Iraq there.

Obama met the G8 there.

Camp David isn't on Trump's map.

I like Palm Beach too.