Friday, April 20, 2018

7 Million and Counting


Charles Manson died in California penal system as punishment for the 1969 murders at the Sharon Tate home along with several other mass murder punctuating the end of the Summer of Love. The state never really proved that the ex-convict personally killed any of the victims, yet the LA DA convinced a jury that this guitar-playing drifter was the mastermind behind these diabolical slayings.

With the help of LAPD.

Experts of linking A to B.

Millions of other Americans have been prosecuted by a vigilant criminal system intent on jailing 5% of the population in order to compete with Russia as the # 1 nation for punishing its populace with jail time and even worse rural communities in America have expanded their role as penal colonies.

More prison.

Less schools.

Bust reefer smokers.

Throw meth heads into purgatory.

That is the new industry of America thanks to the law and order motherfuckers.

Dying towns in the hinterland are begging for prisons.

Close a New Hampshire paper mill. 220 jobs gone. Open a prison. Plus another 330 jobs.

Crime pays the state.

Dunkin' Donuts loves jail.

Nothing says cop better than the smell of a honey-dipped donut on a cop.

Book em Dano.

War on Drugs Victory

I was a good boy throughout the 1960s.

I did no drugs.

I drank beer, fought in senseless brawls, and drove my 68 VW Beetle like it was my father's Delta 88.

The summer of 1970 was my baptism into the drug culture.

Coming back from the Surf Nantasket after seeing the Chosen Few I smoked a joint in my VW Beetle with Tommie Jordan. The reefer had no effect until  the lights on 3A in Hingham. The red light lasted an eternity and we laughed with the joy of cannabis enlightenment. It was never as good as that moment.

I've done everything. No confessions. Only the truth.

My mother says I lost my edge.

She was right and in many ways I wish I could say I had never done anything, because no high is better than the rush of holding my daughter. I'm a better man now. I moved to Thailand was to remove myself from sources of temptation. Billions have been spent by the DEA to combat the spread of drugs without any success.

The prison was packed with offenders and the justice system is overloaded with cases prosecuting. Drugs are everywhere. It is time to admit failure. My side won, for even the President of the USA is in need on a fix, judging from a recent photo.

Desperate and I know.

I worked at the Bains-Douches in Paris. One night Jack Nicholson and Ron Woods entered the club. they gave me the same sign, only they wanted 'downtown'. GW doesn't play that game. He's a reborn Christian. Temptation is only a knock on the door away.

Look what happened to Clinton on a snowy night.

Intern

Pizza.

No sex

History.

No one can be strong forever.

The 420 Bus to Hollywood

In the late spring of 1995 I was living with Scottie Taylor in a North Hollywood pool house.

The homeowner ran a strip club off West Pico Boulevard. Dennis' dancers sunbathed nude by the pool in the mornings. They were Jesus freaks and read the Bible like a choir of fallen angels. Scottie and I were sinners in their eyes. We ran a nightclub in Beverly Hills.

The Milk Bar.

Decor very CLOCKWORK ORANGE.

Clientele; young, semi-famous, and druggy.

Every morning the naked sunbathers' prayer session interrupted my sleep and I stuffed my ears with cotton to reduce the words of the Bible to mutterings. Jesus was not saving my soul. My wake-up hour was noon, after which I ate breakfast at a diner, then played basketball at North Hollywood Park. A bicycle was my transportation. I had bought it from a junkie on Vineland. He wanted $50. I gave him $20, which was probably $10 too much.

My cousin Sherri lived on Hartsook. I spent my afternoons writing in her house, while she filmed XXX films with lesbians over in Van Nuys. Some of those girls were Jesus freaks too. None of them broke ranks with men, especially for a nightclub doorman without a car.

Only losers walk in LA, because walking got you nowhere.

Scottie was my ride to the Milk Bar most nights. We opened at 8.

He drove a mud-colored Pinto with questionable steering and shuttering brakes.

Riding in the passenger seat was a test of courage, however Scottie and I had another problem.

The trip from North Hollywood to Beverly Hills took twenty minute by car. The Simpson aired Sundays at 7:30. The show lasted 30 minutes. No one told jokes in LA. No one told stories either. Laughs were hard to find at the Milk Bar. Homer Simpson filled the gap.

"I can't believe you are going to be late for a cartoon show." Scottie only watched the History Channel. He liked to be serious.

"It's not a cartoon. It's the Simpsons. You could always watch it with me."

"I own the club. I have 20 people who work for me. They get there at 8. I get there before them. Otherwise they'll come in late. Like you."

"I'll take alternative transportation."

"Such as what?"

Hitchhiking was illegal and the train system was a work in progress.

"I don't mind taking the bus." The 420 ran over the Hollywoods Hills to Sunset Boulevard. I caught another bus on the corner. It went to Beverly Hills. The trip lasted 45 minutes.

Sometimes less.

Sometimes more.

on the bus I read a book and never made eye contact with the other passengers.

"Besides no one comes until 10."

"You ever think about giving a good impression." It was an odd question, since Scottie didn't shave, his clothing dated back five years, and he drove a Pinto.

"Not out here." I wasn't trying to be in the movies. My novel was about the last man on earth.

Pornography too.

Dirty cops.

Lesbians.

Murder.

High-tech sex.

I was on chapter 23.

200 pages plus.

THE END was off in the distance.

"I'm on time the nights the Simpsons aren't on."

"What about the nights with Star Trek?" Scottie knew my schedule.

"That's VOYAGER." Seven of Nine was sexier than any of the Bible strippers. "Monday night."

"I can't believe it." Scottie left me in the pool house.

I sat before the TV with a glass of water in my hand.

The clock on the wall ticking its way to 7:30.

It was time for the Simpsons.

NO matter what, because a good laugh was a treasure in a city without any laughs.

And Homer was always good for "Ha ha ha.", which were hard to find for a man riding the 420 bus.

The Dangers of Marijuana

REEFER MADNESS was a 1936 film financed by a church group intent on informing American youth about the reputed dangers of marijuana. A ten-minute Google search failed to reveal the name of the church group, however the film's focus was hijacked by the addition of salacious scenes by an exploitation producer, Dwain Esper, supposedly a horrible director.

NORML, a pro-marijuana group rediscovered REEFER MADNESS in 1972 and bought the rights from the Library of Congress for $272 to distribute the movie across the USA. It was an instant hit and its popularity has spawned books and a Broadway show, for the only dangers of marijuana are the criminalization of grass, getting beat by a dealer, and eating the contents of your refrigerator.

It does not cause madness or death.

LEADING CAUSES OF DEATH USA

http://drugwarfacts.org

Tobacco 435,000
Poor Diet and Physical Inactivity 365,000
Alcohol 85,000
Microbial Agents 75,000
Toxic Agents 55,000
Motor Vehicle Crashes 26,347
Adverse Reactions to Prescription Drugs 32,000
Suicide 30,622
Incidents Involving Firearms 29,000
Homicide 20,308
Sexual Behaviors 20,000
All Illicit Drug Use, Direct and Indirect 17,000
Non-Steroidal Anti-Inflammatory Drugs Such As Aspirin 7,600
Marijuana 0

Zero.

Free the weed.

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Eastport to Block Island


Every morning in my youth the Portland radio station broadcasted the maritime weather report by stating the sea conditions from Eastport, Maine to Block Island. This announcement covered the coast of the Northeast and two summers ago the conditions off Block Island were calm seas and gentle winds. The Atlantic Ocean was at peace, however the real danger to bathers and travelers were not riptides or tsunamis, for the majority of Americans on my journey from Block Island to Boston were gorging themselves on potato chips, pseudo-water, cokes, and donuts. Over half of them were fat and a good third were verging on obese.

I'm no waif.

I lie about my weight, but I never eat that crap and when my brother-in-law offered ice cream following hot dogs I asked to see the package.

"Sorry, can't eat it."

"Why not?" ST is thinner than me. He works out religiously and abstains from drinking beer.

"It contains corn syrup."

"It's only sweetener." ST attended Harvard. He is much smarter than me and drives a Porsche 911.

"No, it's what Big Farm feeds cows and cows aren't made to eat corn. It grow them big and the same happens to everyone in America."

"There's nothing wrong with it." ST defended artificial sweeteners. He had worked as a corporate lawyer. His powers of persuasion are powerful and I lifted my hands in defeat. "I'm only one man. Big Farm has spent billions of dollars convincing America that nothing is wrong with corn syrup and the rest of the poison that the food industry puts in processed food. I don't expect anyone in America to hear the truth. Not when they only listen to the lies. Sorry, enjoy your diet coke."

"What about the hot dogs? There is no way that they're good for you."

"True, but they taste so good." I have no problem with my tendency for hypocrisy. "But never trust anyone who puts ketchup on a hot dog."

"Why?"

"Because it's just not American."

But obesity is as American as apple pie, as the obese people number more than 30% in 16 states with Mississippi leading the USA with 34.4%. Only one state, Colorado was beneath 20% and that was due to a rampant crystal meth problem.

"You are what you eat." was a phrase originating with Anthelme Brillat-Savarin in Physiologie du Gout 1826. The statement was introduced to English speakers in the 20s and was popularized by hippies in the 1960s.

There were no fat people in the 1960s.

Not from East Block to Block Island.

Not unless they were in a carnival.

Now the fat man has escaped from the midway and wants all America to join him.

It is not a disease. It is a plague.

And it's contagious.

From Eastport to Block Island and beyond.

Bird's Nest


The Chinese delicacy 'bird's nest soup' is derived from the bird's nest constructed with the saliva of swifts. The cost of such a delicacy can cost between $30-10,000US per kilo. I've never had a bowl of such soup, however Mam called my hairdo a bird's nest or lan-nok last week.

I hadn't cut my hair since December. The last time I was in Thailand. Five months growth wasn't impressive, but I will be heading out to California and I'm keeping my bird's nest as I return to hippie status.

Even as much as I love Mem. And not only in words.

"Almost cut my hair today." Crosby Stills and Nash.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Songkran Driving

Nothing says Songkran better in Thailand than getting into an accident with a drunk, as revealed in this series of email dated from 2006.

EMAIL from the Old Roue April 4 after I invited him to join me on a trip to Phnom Penh to escape the Songkran madness.

His reply.

"No thanx, I’m driving 2 Nana Plaza dancers to Isaan for Songkran. At least something will get wet.

Be careful in P-P. Ask permission before you soak one of those little motherfuckers. They’ve got no sense of humor and a shiv taped to the leg. Bad combo."

April 27

"I drove up to Isaan for Songkran with a girl from nana, taking coals to Newcastle, and got in a serious accident in Ubon Ratchatani. 2 guys on a motorbike slammed into the side of me and went sailing over the hood, breaking one guy’s leg and launching a fucking gothic round of events - police station, hospital, insurance guys, police station, hospital, insurance guys, for days. I got off easy. My insurance paid for my smashed car, his paid for his medical and bike and I have to go back up there in about a week to sign the final police report and hand over 10,000 baht as a farangly gesture, not admitting fault, but so that the family won’t come after me ever again. I hope. That’s how it’s done up there, when done right. The cops were great and my Thai-fluent buddy and his Thai wife waltzed me thru it over the phone with excellent advice and face grease."

MAY 12

"Going up to Isaan with Bangkok lawyer. have to settle this in court. 20k for the loss of wages. I was a little wrong in that I was making a u-turn on a 6-lane road. Thought the driver would see me. Police are not being nice. everything should be okay."

In the end the Old Roue paid out 40,000 for the incident without any penalty points of his license.

Mostly since he didn't have a valid international driving permit.

You have to love Thailand.

Saturday, April 14, 2018

Fast Talking


L

Back in 2010 I rented a car from Uan at Buffalo Bar for the drive north to visit my wife and daughter.

At Chonburi I decided to cut through Bangkok instead of wrapping around the megatropolis on the outer ring. The cityscape was clear under a peerless sky. Traffic was minimal. The direct route saved gas and time unfortunately it was the end of the month and several traffic police were stationed after the toll booth searching for tea money or sin bon.

>

They were behind in their quotas and their eyes sought out-of-town license plates and farang drivers.

I filled both categories and a smiling cop in brown motioned for me to pull over to the curb. He approached the driver’s side of the car, saying something was wrong with the license.

Nothing was wrong with the license and I dialed Charlee to explain the matter, however the cop started to write a ticket.

No way it would cost less than 1000 baht.

I wai-ed the officer and spoke in bad Thai, “Kor-thot gap-dtan, but I have no money. Only 300 baht.”

“Farang mai mi taeng?”

My admission of insolvency stayed the newly appointed captain’s pen.

“Chai," I explained that I had given my money to my wife in Chai-nat and then added that. I had spent 1300 baht at the gas station. Only 300 baht remained in my pocket and he repeated, “Farang mii mia Thai, mai mii taeng.”

“Kao-jai.”

As a Thai man he understood how fast a wife can suck money out of a man’s wallet and he waved for me to proceed without getting a single baht for the Highway Policeman Fund.

Arriving in Ban Nok west of Chai-nat I related the encounter to the family gathering. The men all laughed with relief, since I had another 1000 baht for beer, and the women frowned, thinking that I had only escaped a bribe by blaming my empty pockets on my wife instead of drinking beer.

Then again women are not men.

Once in Paris I was riding a Vespa on the sidewalk down a one-way street. I ran a red light only to be stopped by an irate gendarme who wanted to know where was the fire.

“Pas de feu, Capitain.” I always promoted officers at moments like this. I rapidly explained in French with a Boston accent. “I think my wife is having an affair with a German. I am going back to the apartment to give him a beating.”

The gendarme understood my mission’s urgency and dispatched me with a salute.

“Bon courage, Mssr.”

Cops or dtam-ruat are human too. I am not so sure about women.

The Death Of Disco

Punks prayed for the death of disco in the 1970s. Few were ready for Blondie's dive into the dance genre with HEART OF GLASS and RAPTURE. Disco thrived into the 80s. Rap attempted to assassinate disco only to become another sub-species of the zombie dance music. Michael Jackson's THRILLER LP sold 65 million copies, beating out the Eagles for the biggest hit of 1982. People danced to BILLIE JEAN everywhere in the world.

Paris.

Jakarata.

Russia.

Only discotheques die.

Disco is unkillable and will live forever.

DANCE DANCE DANCE.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

A STEP INTO TOMORROW by Peter Nolan Smith

Back in the 1970s crime and arson had depopulated the Lower East Side. Rebellious young white people fled their suburban hometowns to find freedom in the East Village. I escaped Boston in a stolen car and my hillbilly girlfriend joined me from West Virginia in Spring of 1977. Her best friend, was another scrawny brunette from Louisiana. Mine was Anthony a photographer from Long Island. We didn’t go out on double dates, since the southern fame-seeker lived with a film maker in a Chinatown loft.

My girlfriend, Alice, was funny and pretty. She looked like Shirley MacLaine in THE APARTMENT. I tried to be faithful, but working at a punk nightclub, I ended up being a philanderer like Fred McMurray, te villain of that him. I pretended that she didn’t notice the perfume and lipstick on my shirts. The best lies are those we tell ourselves.

With the coming of warm weather in 1978 Susan and Alice decided to run a movie night atop the four-story building on Chrystie Street. The evening featured FROM HELL IT CAME and TWO THOUSAND MANIACS. I thought that the event would be a flop, but the two women attracted men like snakes to a hot rock, plus entry and popcorn was free with cans of Schlitz $1 each.

Her foppish emcee David dressed like a carney barker and welcomed each guest with a biting diatribe.

“And here’s Steven Kramer with a fabulous movie star.”

The albino blonde was the darling of the B movie set and he played naked with his band the Wallets.

By show time over a hundred people were crowded onto the roof of Tom’s loft. They represented the high society at the downtown art scene and drank with an abandon reserved for an Irish wake. <>FROM HELL IT CAME was screened against the back of billboard on the neighboring building white-washed wall.

It was like a drive-in without cars.

Pithe comments and screams enlivened the night as the scrawny brunette and Alice dressing as vampish zombies for the occasion. David kept up a running commentary over the movie’s dialogue. He was very funny. After THE END Tom spun records for the crowd. My pseudo-sister Kim danced with her beau Amos to James Brown’s SEX MACHINE and Alice pranced across the tarred roof with the scrawny brunette. This was their evening and I sulked against the wall with Anthony, who said, “Let them have their fun.”

“Why not?” I grabbed another two beers and dropped $2 in the donation bucket.

Handing Anthony a beer I noticed a round-headed man get up on the retaining wall.

It was Steven Kramer.

.

He danced on the narrow wall. The roof law in front of him. Behind a thirty-foot drop. Anthony looked at me and I grabbed him off his perch.

“Leave me alone. I do this all the time.” The man looked a little like a thin Orson Welles.

“Stay off the wall.” I like his band The Wallets. They were a fun, but Steven’s dancing on the edge of the abyss was not my idea of fun.

Alice came over to join us. Her hazel hair was damp around her angelic face and skin glowed with breathlessness. The evening was a big success. Se whispered that my friend Klaus had agreed to perform at New Wave Vaudeville, another one of her and the scrawny brnette's projects. The B52s and Blondie were scheduled to headline the event. I was going to be security with Anthony.

Tom segued from Sly’s SEX MACHINE to Otis Reading’S SATISFACTION. The roof wavered under the feet of the dancers. New York spread beyond this building, but this moment had become the center of our universe and that cosmos shrunk the moment Steven got back up on the wall. He was drunker than before and Alice said to Anthony, “He’s going to fall.”

Her last word nudge him over the brink and he disappeared from sight.

None of us heard the thud of his body's impact.

“Damn.”

Anthony, Alice, and I rushed to the wall.

Down below a man was sprawled facedown on the roof. His leg was twisted away from his body.

Blood pooled around his head.

A woman screamed.

It was her wife.

The blonde actress.

She hit hysteria quick.

The emcee joined us as did Tom.

“Shit.”

This wasn’t good.

“Call the police,” I told Tom.

“What are you going to do?” Alice asked shivering with fright.

“I’m going to help him.” I wasn’t a hero, but there was a chance the fallen man might drowned in his blood.

The scaffolding behind the billboard was six feet from the roof. I had leapt nineteen feet to win a AAU meet in Boston. That had been eight years ago. Six feet should still be within my reach.

“I’m coming with you.” David stood beside me. He was wearing white bucks. They had good traction. “He’s my friend.”

“I’ll go first.”

I ran across the roof and leaped in the air. My hands caught hold of the struts and swung onto a plank of wood, then stretched out my hand to David.

He might have been a little timid in real life, but he fearlessly flew across the gap between safety and danger. I caught his arm and he said, “Thanks.”

We had an audience and above the applause Steven’s wife screame like a pig with an electric prod up its ass. David regarded me and said, “Women.”

Ww descended to the roof and hurried to Steven.

“Damn.” David hugged himself to fight off his queasiness. His friend was fucked up.

Steven’s face was flatter than Kansas. Blood blocked his breathing. Sirens neared Chinatown. EMS knew how to handle this, but they wouldn’t be here fast enough.

We crouched over Steven.

He breathed bubbles into his blood.

“Steven, can you hear me. It’s David.”

A painful grunt was his answer.

“We can’t leave him like this or else he’ll drown.” My paternal grandfather had been a surgeon in WWI. I had read his medical books. “Steven, can you move your feet?”

That got a feeble wiggle from him.

“His back isn’t broken, so we have to turn him over to keep from suffocating in his blood.” I wasn’t asking, but telling and David nodded before grabbing hold on his friend’s crimson-stained shirt.

“One, two, three.”

The two of us turned Steven onto his back.

“Steven, move your feet,” David begged with tears in his eyes.

The organist obeyed the command. He twitched his toes with a groan, then swooned into unconsciousness.

Flashing lights splattered against the walls. The FD and PD were here.

A woman screamed above.

The movie starlet. Steven’s wife.

“Do you need anything?” Anthony yelled from Tom’s roof.

I looked at David.

“Beer?”

He nodded in agreement.

“Two beers and tell that woman to shut her hole.”

A minute later the police took control of the scene.

The firemen strapped Steven to a gurney.

EMS said he would live.

David and I climbed up the billboard back to the roof. Tom and the scrawny brunette were relieved to not have a death on their hands. Anthony and I drank more beer.

Alice wasn’t much of a drinker and never said anything about Steven’s fall. Monster Movie Club became a monthly event at Club 57 and New Wave Vaudeville was a big success for everyone, but I was banned from the shows, since I fought with the band members of Blondie. They were even more of an asshole than me.

Alice and I broke up at the end of 1979.

I was at fault for not knowing what I had.

I ran into Steven Kramer several times. He stared at me with distrust. He couldn’t place me in his universe.

One night at the Mudd Club he hobbled up to me. The fall had been bad enough that Steven resembled more Truman Capote than Orson Welles, mostly because he never gained Orson’s weight.

“I know you from someplace.”

“No, not really.”

“No, I want to know.”

I refused to answer him, but he grabbed my leather jacket and repeated, “I want to know.”

“I was the person who turned you on my back.”

He looked in my face and walked back to his wife without a backward glance.

I related the story to Anthony.

“Just goes to show you that all good deeds will go to be punished.”

And that’s the damned truth.

WINTER'S TOLL - Montauk

WINTER'S TOLL

The rails run straight to Montauk.

The pine forest is wizened by the salt off the ocean

Deer dash across the tracks.

Day and night.

The train runs once an hour.

3600 seconds.

Still some deer don't make it.

Crows pick clean the bodies.

The bones gleam in the afternoon light.

April and it's still winter From Rockaway to Montauk

Maybe tomorrow it will be Spring.

Friday, April 6, 2018

Peace At All Costs - Gaza

After the Deir Yassin massacre by the Irgun, Palestians fled the violence of the 1948 War. The refugees numbered over 800,000. This diaspora was never allowed to return by Israeli authorities and the frced exs has been called Nakba or the 'Disaster'.

Camps sprouted up all around the partitioned lands.

The exiles lived in squalor.

The ethnic cleansing has reduced the Arabs land to almost nothing and every year Palestinians demonstrate against the occupation every year at this time.

This week thousands of protestors marched on no-go zone in Gaza.

The IDF pitched up behind dirt berms and shot into the crowd, killing 18 and wounding almost 900.

Men, women, and children.

Sniper bait.

All to save Netanyahu from prosecution for corruption.

Free Palestine.

Free the world.

Free the balloons.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

James Brown -The Man Who Saved Boston

In the late 1960s after Arnie Ginsberg finished his evening shift on WMEX, I twisted the knob to WILD broadcasting a universe of music unknown to top 40 radio; Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave, Booker T, Tina Turner, and James Brown. Civil rights meant freedom for soul. Blacks were welcome on TV, but no one was ready for the Godfather of Soul performing PAPA'S GOT A BRAND NEW BAG on WHERE THE ACTION IS.

His mad feet swiveling across the stage killed my waltz lessons for good. My mother called it devil music, but as a teenager I knew if I could dance like James Brown, girls would go crazy and I tried to perfect his split.

Drop dead with your balls to the floor and then up again.

A miracle if you survived the first attempt.

I bought me a pair of black shiny pointed shoes like James along with a blacksuit.

My mother dreamed I was going to be a priest until she spotted the Cuban heels.

"You're bound for hell."

All I wanted to be was James Brown's Wonderbread white double. My older brother also thought I was crazy.

"You're never going sweat like him."

James Brown poured a typhoon night after night after night, because the Godfather of Soul was the hardest working showman in the world and he was more than that too.

But not to everyone.

In the 90s a feminist said that someone who hit his wife after she was huffing crack in his private bathroom and led the police on a Macon County car chase didn't deserve any accolades.

No one is 100% saint and JB did time for the crime, but his life was much bigger than one mistake.

April 4, 1968.

Martin Luther King was shot by an unknown assassin in Memphis. James Brown was scheduled to play the Boston Garden the next night. The frightened city officials considered cancelling the concert, until the performer convinced them to televise the concert. Before the first song he dramatically appealed for the city to remain calm.

I watched the show on my family's TV.

That show might have been in black and white, yet proved Poppa Peacemaker was one color.

"It's the night train."

Roxbury and Blue Hill Ave didn't go up in flames and the next day James Brown flew to DC to preach peace in the nation's #1 Chocolate City.

Agent 00SOUL played the 1969 Newport Jazz Festival to thousands of hippies waiting for Led Zeppelin. Nipsy Russell primed the crowd with the dirtiest comedy routine this side of Moms Mabely and James Brown blasted the long-haired audience out of their seat with a two-hour performance. There were few sights uglier than hippies trying to dance to soul. Mr. Dynamite showed them the way.

"I feel good." Maceo Parker's JB horn section was tight.

Everyone loved James.

Richard Nixon invited him to the White House in 1972.

"I don't care about your past."

James liked playing live.

In 1974 he appeared at Boston's Sugar Shack, a pimp club. I was the only longhair at the bar, but the stylish procurers welcomed a fellow fan with open bottles of champagne. I didn't attempt any splits and neither did anyone else.

Certainly not during IT'S A MAN WORLD.

We called out for PLEASE PLEASE ME as an encore and James Brown didn't disappoint us. He went down on his knees a dozen times with his MC putting the spangled cloak over his shoulders. Helped to his feet the show appeared over, but the Godfather was a big tease and loved the applause.

From everyone.

"Ain't no drag, poppa's got a brand new bag."

Wowing the Studio 54 disco crowd or enflaming a New Wave audience with soul the Mudd Club in 1978, where Africa Bambatta spun SEX MACHINE as an intro.

"I don't know karate, but I know crazor."

In 1979 I was working at a rock disco. Hurrah's on west 62nd Street. My bouncer was Jack Flood, an old Harlem gangster. The ex-heavyweight from Seattle drove a Lincoln and had hands the size of catcher mitts. The first time we met, Jack flicked his middle finger into my palm.

An old homo sign.

This coming from a man who fought a six-round exhibition with Joe Louis in 1950.

"I lost every round."

We were friends. Jack and me. One night three Puerto Ricans tried to bust into the club. I punched their leader in the mouth. Jack laughed saying, "That was a love tap. Here's how you KO someone."

His punch paralyzed my shoulder for an hour.

After midnight I went upstairs to have a drink and came down with a cognac and coke for Jack only to find him and his nephew Marvin being stabbed by the PRs. They had come back with friends and knives. One slashed at me. Jack stopped him with a left and then pulled out a revolver. One shot into the ceiling. The PRs fled and Jack gave me his piece. He was bleeding in the chest. So was Marvin.

"Shoot 'em."

I ran outside and pointed the gun at the attackers.

I was no killer.

Two shots in the air.

They jumped into a taxi and disappeared with the cops in pursuit.

"You done good. Get rid of the gun."

I went to the roof and dropped the revolver into an airshaft.

Jack stayed in the hospital a week. No charges were pressed. The police detective showed Jack's record. Long is not the word. When he got out of the hospital, I told him James Brown was playing at the Lone Star Cafe.

"James Brown. I know him."

I got tickets and Jack drove us downtown in the Lincoln. He didn't stop for lights and backed up on 5th Avenue against traffic without looking in his mirror. He parked the black car before a fire hydrant and we strolled to the door. The place was packed, but we noticed the bouncers weren't taking tickets and inside we gathered these tickets and sold them outside for $10 each.

We split $1000.

James' show was 14 band members of soul bliss.

Afterwards Jack took me upstairs to the dressing room.

James greeted him, "It's the Seattle Slaughter."

I shook the master's hand and Jack brought me out of the dressing room before I blubbered too much.

High point in my life along with meeting Muhammad Ali and RFK and never paying taxes.

Jack and I hung out a lot and one night we were watching the 1st Roberto Duran/Sugar Ray Leonard fight. We had bet Duran and won about 2Cs each. As we were celebrating he tapped my shoulder.

"Turn around and tell me if you recognize anyone."

I did.

It was the PR who had stabbed Jack.

"I got some business to do. Nothing to do with you."

Jack and Marvin vanished with the PR.

They didn't come back to the bar either.

That was New York 1979 and it was the end of an era. Jack Flood stayed up in Harlem. Marvin was shot dead in a basement. I moved to Paris.

Soul was dying and somehow people stopped listening by 1980. Disco didn't like live music, but James Brown kept it up and in 1982 he appeared in Hamburg Germany to 200 people. I was with a black pimp called Nigger Cali.

Almost as tough as Jack Flood.

The show knocked me dead and within the year he appeared in ROCKY IV singing LIVING IN AMERICA and he never went out of style again. Everyone wanted to be James.

"Get up off that thing."

"Smokin'."

"I love hot pants."

And so did Jack Flood.

And so do I.

James Brown.

To view that epic concert, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BawG-N9_FR8