Sunday, June 30, 2019

Hassidic Magic Past Prime

I believe in magic.

Not many other people do.

Most are squares and who can tell squares what to think about anything other than potato chips?

The other day I ran into a Hassidic mystic from 47th Street.

He looked not so much down on his luck as hurting in health.

I approached the shuffling magician and said, "I remember you from the street. I was the Sahbbat Goy."

"I remember you too. You are old too." I could have spared him $10, however he said, "I need nothing. I have good. Let me see your hand."

He took my hand and regarded at my palm. His fingers traced runes. He coughed without health and said, "You think too much."

Another glance.

"And you love too much."

Neither was a curse and I wanted to say Danke, but he was gone.

Vanished.

To an atom.

I looked at my palm. I saw what he saw. Nothing, but the truth and that is the beauty of magic.

Friday, June 28, 2019

Glatt Port-A-Sans

According the wikipedia the first toilets and sewers were invented in the third millennium BC in Mohenjo-Daro. The Indus Valley Civilization also offered its citizens water-cleaning toilets with drains covered with burnt clay bricks by which the flowing water removed the human waste.

Archaeologists recently discovered ancient toilets in Palestine.

The same principle as in Mohenjo-Daro, where the people spoke Akkadian and might have used the word 'skheid' or separate.

The word in Yiddish is kafin.

I have never spoken Hebrew, since this language was traditonally reserved for schul or the temple until the invention of the apartheid Israeli state.

Still a shitter is a shitter or a klozet in Yiddish.

Last week I was walking along Myrtle Avenue in Clinton Hill and spotted a young Hassidic man driving a flathead truck loaded with portable toilets. His window was open and I approached the truck."

"Shalom. I am the last of the Shabbas Goys."

"Shalom." Most Hassids ignore goyim, but shabbas goys were once a necessary evil for performing physical tasks on the Holy Days.

"I was wondering if those Port-a-Sans were kosher."

"Yes, by all means the water is clean and undyed, which is absolutely forbidden by the Halacha. Also it is only for use by men and we instructed everyone not to flush using their one's elbow or foot and all the toilet paper is one sheet, since it against the law to tear anything on the Shabbat."

"Thank you for that information. Sie gesund."

I waved good-bye and realized the more I know about the Hassidim, the less I know, but that is one of the mysteries of life.

How to shit in peace.

Saturday, June 22, 2019

SHADOWS OF THE COMBAT ZONE by Peter Nolan Smith

In the late 60s lower Washington Street was anointed Boston's Combat Zone for sex and sin. Working-class drinking dives became go-go bars named the Naked I and Two O'Clock Lounge. Gay clubs like Jacques and The Other End flourished freely in the alleys. Porno theaters openly screened XXX-rated to enthralled men and the cops ceased to persecute the flesh trade, so hookers plied their trade in front of Goodtime Charlie's on La Grange Street.

Everyone was getting their cut.

The Mafia, the bartenders, the pimps, the musicians, and the taxi drivers scored cash off these strippers and hookers.

They were a gold mine.

From 5pm to 2am the hookers strutted their stuff. Hospital workers, lawyers, firemen, and sailors loved them and the girls loved them back for a price.

A quickie was $20.

An hour ran $50.

Showgirls cost a lot more.

The nearest hotel was the Avery, although most johns opted for the short-time rooms above Goodtime Charlie's.

Sherri was the hottest girl in the Combat Zone. The blonde's long legs stretched out of tight hot pants and her cupcakes breasts popped under a tube top. Platform heels transformed the 18 year-old into an Amazon.

She was better than good.

Sherri was wicked.

But she was far from easy.

Sherri was a freelancer in the Combat Zone. Many pimps tried to recruit the freelancer into their stables, but the blonde teenager was too hot for a single man and the police protected her for the sheer pleasure of her smile.

A few of the go-go dancers offered Sherri competition, but they needed beer, booze, and a three-piece band to create her aura of lust. The trios of sax, organ, and drum played low-down soul and the dancers loved grinding flesh to James Brown covers.

The strippers danced like ballerinas on 'Ludes.

It was a true art form.

Bad people walked on Washington Street

The Combat Zone had dark alleys. Crazy Jack was the King of the Shadows. No one was scarier on those back streets.

Crazy Jack was running ten girls. The pimp treated them bad. He asked Sherri to be his queen. She told him 'no' every day of the week and Crazy Jack wasn't happy hearing those nos.

Sailors from the navy Yard haunted the go-go bars. The girls never fell in love with them. Sailors had sweethearts in every port. One lieutenant said he loved Sherri.

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only you, Sherri. Only you."

It almost sounded true.

Sam had gold braid on his shoulders.

He was an officer and a gentleman.

Normally Sherri ended her nights at the Hillbilly Ranch across from the bus station. The 45s on jukebox were mostly country-western. Hustlers drank at the bar and none of midnight cowboys queers bothered her.

A gin and tonic cost $1 and she liked the music on the jukebox.

Sherri came from the South. She never said where, but she listened a lot to Patsy Cline.

The Hillbilly Ranch was her home away and after work she pulled on a red wig to be someone other than herself.

Boston's bars closed at 2am. Combat Zone was empty by 3. Sherri walked out of the Hillbilly Ranch at 3:10. The owner asked if she needed a cab. She shook her head.
"I'll walk."

Her apartment was short walk across the Commons on Beacon Hill.

She took a shortcut down an alley. Someone followed her into the darkness. Sherri walked faster, then heard a wet smack.

Crazy Jack lay out cold on the sidewalk.

The sailor was walking the other way.

She called out to Sam.

"You want to have a coffee?"

"Sure."

"I'll meet you at the coffee shop in ten minutes." Sam walked away into the shadows.

Where she didn't ask.

Nine minutes later Sherri checked at the clock. Sam was almost late.

A girl like her didn't wait more than fifteen.

She had someplace to be.

And that someplace was bed.

With or without Sam.

FOTOS BY JERRY BRENDT, ROSWELL ANGIER, AND JOHN GOODMAN.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith CHAPTER 1

Greta showed for an evening rendezvous in Hamburg’s harbor district. She was dressed in slick leather and arrived on time in anticipation of a sordid evening of sex with her lover. The tall blonde got out of her car. Willi was not on the desolate street. She heard footsteps and a black man and a white associate dragged her into a shadowy warehouse and sat the blonde on a battered chair.

Twisted claws scurried across the floor and the well-dressed woman lifted her black stiletto heels in horror, but rats were the least of Greta’s problems and she begged, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”

“Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes and he asked, “Are you a saint?”

“No, I’m not a saint.” The expensive wig flopped off her head. Hans Roth was less a woman without it.

“Are you an artist?” The man swatted the 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter. “These shots are very kunstlich. I can’t see that you are a man and your friend’s skin is as white as ivory.”

“They are only souvenirs.” The thirty-two year old banker shivered in the slick leather dress.

“Expensive souvenirs, nicht war?”

“Yes, they are.” The weekend in a St. Pauli hotel had cost over 2000 Deutschmarks or half his monthly salary.

“And now you are in trouble.” The black man was as tired of his role as any actor performing Hamlet for the ten-thousandth time. Still his audience flinched on cue, when he flopped the lurid snapshots on the man’s lap. “You know who I am, yes?”

“You are Cali Nordstrum. I have read about you in the newspapers.” Hans lowered his head. The man was the city’s most notorious pimp

“And how someone tried to kill me last week?” Cali fingered the 5-Deutschmark coin hanging from his necklace.

“Yes.”

“And I bet that you are thinking you were unlucky that they were unsuccessful, but you are wrong. If I was dead, I could not help you.”

“With what?”

“You have been money stealing from the bank to pay for your romance. Yes, Willi told me everything and this is not a crime you can get away with forever.”

“Es tut mir lied.” The part-time transvestite buried his veiny hands into the fallen wig. “I love Willi.”

The black man handed the transvestite a handkerchief.

“Save your sorries for someone else. You did not steal from me and we are not here to hurt you or blackmail you, but to help you.”

Cali backed away and his scarred face melted into the gloom.

For ten years Hans had protected his name, job, and family from disgrace. Liaisons with street boys lasted one night, but the last months with Willi had incarnated his true persona and he asked hopefully, “How?”

Cali whispered in the man’s ear and mapped out his scheme with the persuasiveness of a CIA officer selling the last helicopter seat out of Saigon, since the desperate always bet on long shots. “This is your chance to earn enough money for you to disappear from Germany. No one would think of searching for you in Thailand. Not as a woman. Were you lying about your commitment to Willi?”

“No.” His Adam’s apple gulped in hope of redemption.

“Your first name is Hans, yes?”

“I prefer Greta.”

“Greta, I am a better friend than enemy. You can contact me at this number. Tell Willi nothing. This is ‘our’ secret.” He gave the banker a business card and a wad of DM notes. “This will come out of your cut later.”

“I'll follow your every command.”

When his hand reached for the money, Cali snatched the man’s ear so hard that the cartilage partially snapped from the skull. A butcher at the city slaughterhouse had taught him the trick. His stepson was Cali’s partner.

“Greta, you understand there’s no backing out?”

“Yes,” Hans said through watery eyes and Cali released him. The banker arranged his wig and smoothed out his dress.

“Thank you.”

“Thank me, when you are really Greta.” Cali nodded and his friend opened the basement door for a black leather angel with platinum hair. Heroin had got the better of Willi’s beauty and the black pimp shook his head. He hated drugs. They cut into his employees’ productivity. His associates became sloppy. These weaknesses cost time, money, and lives in his business.

The banker was blind to Willi’s deterioration and he embraced the hustler as man and woman.

“Let’s leave the lovers alone.” Neither his friend nor he needed to witness the Willi’s performance.

At the entrance Kurt Oster pulled out a cigarette. The flame from a gold lighter illuminated a rugged face.

“Are we really going to cut in the banker?”

“Just because we are criminals doesn’t mean we have to be dishonest. Everyone will get what their fair share, since it’s always luckier to believe you aren’t going to hurt anyone in the beginning.”

Cali stepped into the street to avoid the smoke. Cigarettes killed thousands of people every year.

The police never arrested the manufacturers. Pimps were better headlines. On the warehouse loading dock he surveyed the street. Only three cars were in sight.

“Anything wrong?” Kurt surveyed the street and flicked the cigarette on the cobblestones.

“Someone is out there.”

“No one comes to the harbor at night.” The two walked to a brand-new silver Benz.

“We did.” Premonitions served as Cali’s early radar warning.

“And we haven’t done anything wrong.” Kurt’s hair had been recently cut in Milan. The jean jacket had been purchased on the King's Road and the gold-buckled loafers had been hand-stitched in Italy. Only one shop in Paris carried the 501 jeans. Kurt drove a 1961 Thunderbird. He also had expensive tastes in women.

Too expensive.

“Yet we will and things always have a funny way of going wrong.”

“Which is why I am enlisting as American for the Sonderboch. German police love arresting international criminals and a sucker holding the bag might buy us a few hours or even days to flee from this life.”

“So, this American is stupid?”

“No, even better. Broken-hearted.” Kurt paused and added the missing link, “Petra will act as the lure.”

“Are you mad? She is a danger to us all.”

I'll keep her in check, besides the greater the risk, the greater the gain."

“Just once I would like someone to lie to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“Not once?”

“Not about anything important.”

“What about your debts to the loan sharks.”

“I never lied about them. I just never told you how much. If you don’t want to do this, I understand.”

“I didn't say that. I want to get out of this life.”

“Not many live to tell the tale.”

“I know that all too well. Last week I walked out of the Cuneo restaurant. I bent over to pick up this coin. A second later shots go over my head.” Cali tapped the 5-DM piece on the chain. “This saved my life.”

Cali’s Reeperbahn compatriots such as SS Tommy and Mack ‘Der Alte’ controlled half Hamburg’s prostitutes with sociopathic violence. He suspected them of last week’s shooting, for while Cali spoke German, ate sausages, liked Schlager rock, the steely stares at his black skin verified he was a ‘Schwartzer’ to every German, except one and that person wasn’t his mother.

“I am putting my life in your hands, besides stealing millions isn’t any different from stealing an apple. The trick is not getting caught.”

The black pimp opened the trunk of the Benz. Cali loved the new car smell. He reached into the trunk’s secret compartment and handed over a manila envelope.

“That enough money?”

“More than enough to open an account in Switzerland.”

Kurt tucked the envelope inside his jacket.

“We tell no one about this.”

“Not even the wind.”

Cali checked the street again.

“It’s me and you against the world.”

“Like always.” They shook hands to reseal their childhood pact. Cali drove away and Kurt followed in his electric-blue T-bird.

Only the exhaust fumes from the Thunderbird remained on the street and a bearded man emerged from the shadows.

The thirty year-old had seen enough. He would catch up with Kurt at his nightclub. Like most criminals Kurt Oster was a creature of habits. Some good, some bad, and the bearded man knew which ones were which.

After all he was a policeman.

Monday, June 17, 2019

Mohammad Morsi ارقد في سلام

This morning Egypt's first democratically elected president collapsed after a court appearance to face espionage charges.

The sixty-seven year old man had been tortured and abused and had been refused medical care throughout a six year imprisonment. His family had only been allowed to see him three times. According to AlJazeera the former president's son, Abdullah Mohamed Morsi, told Reuters news agency that the family did not know the location of his body. He added that the authorities had refused to allow Morsi be buried at his family's cemetery.

The military dictator Sisi fears the dead almost as much as the living.

As does the USA and UK.

There was no mention of the former leader's death in CNN or Fox News.

Turkish President called Morsi a martyr.

I agree.

ارقد في سلام arqid fi salam or rest in peace.

The struggle for justice is never over.

Sunday, June 16, 2019

Shit My Dad Said


A twenty-seven year-old was living with his old man.

73 if not more.

His son recorded his father's salty sayings for fucking Facebook.

His adages deserved a better forum.

Old man - "If at first you don't succeed, quit. Because you probably suck."

"Universe is 14 Billion years old. Seems silly to celebrate one year. Be like having a fucking parade every time I take a piss."

"I just want silence. Jesus, it doesn't mean I don't like you. It just means right now, I like silence more."

"Son, people will always try and fuck you. Don't waste your life planning for a fucking, just be alert when your pants are down."

Smart old man, eh?

Father's Day Gift

My father came around the world to see me and Angie in Thailand. Most of the time he had no idea where he was. It was the start of his decline. Frank A Smith II passed in 2010, but my father will always be in the here-now with the love I carry for him into the here-to-come.

EVERYWHERE by Peter Nolan Smith

My older brother and I went everywhere with our parents. We drove from Hingham to Maine, Watchic Pond to Boston, Falmouth Foresides to the South Shore. There were thousands of trips with my mother and father. Nowadays Frunk and I live far apart. We haven't been in a car together for over ten years, but we speak several times a month and several years ago I phoned Frunk to wish him a Happy Father's Day.

"Happy? You know what I did this weekend?"

"I spoke with your son." Franka was moving from Philadelphia to Boston before hitting the road to LA. He wanted to be a TV writer.

"Friday night I drove down to Phillie. I loaded the U-Haul truck with Franka's things. We left at 5. I got home around midnight." Frunka's house was on a hill above the Neponset River. The old mansion was ten times larger than my apartment in Fort Greene.

"And you dropped off the truck in the morning?" I had called his son on Friday. I could have gone to help, instead last night I lay in bed listening to the Stanley Cup finals on WBZ. Their announcers painted better picture than the TV guys.

"No such luck. We unloaded most of his things on the Cape. I'm just entering the U-Haul parking lot to drop off the truck and then I'm going to the house here before driving to Boston in the morning, so ask me how my weekend was?"

Our father would have done the same thing for us. He liked to drive.

"The Bruins won by a goal in overtime." I deflected his slapshot question.

"I listened to it on the radio in the truck." More than likely on I95.

"Did you drive alone?" It was a silly question.

"My wife and son were in the Lexus." Frunka had settled a good case in April. The car was a birthday present to himself. He deserved it.

"At least you had peace and quiet." Marshall McLuhan had said that driving a car was one of the few times man was alone in the modern age.

"No, they called me every five minutes to ask where we were."

"Nice." I was really happy I hadn't helped him.

"How was your Father's Day?"

"I'm drinking a beer.

"Paradise."

"Hope you get there soon."

"Not a chance. I'm taking my son out to dinner, so all I'll get for Father's Day is another bill."

"It goes with the territory." Tomorrow I was sending money to Fenway in Thailand. His teeth are rotting fast and he's only five years-old. I loved my son.

"I can't wait for a client to ask how was my weekend."

"I bet you can't." Telling him that I was about to take a hot bath was too cruel and drink another beer while listening to acid rock from the 60s was too cruel, but Franka was with his son Frunka. I wished him a good night and hung up.

I was alone in Clinton Hill.

Fenway was on the other side of the world.

My everywheres have shrunk to one place and I'll get to that everywhere one day.

Sooner hopefully more than later for this father, because with Fenway every day is Father's Day.

Thursday, June 13, 2019

THE ONLY YEH YEH GIRL By Peter Nolan Smith

The teenagers of the 50s worshipped Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and Buddy Holly as dead gods, but my generation's focus was dedicated to the living and the stars of the 1960s were transported by TV and radio to my family house south of Boston.

Bob Dylan's BLOWING IN THE WIND knocked Elvis off his throne and the Beatles enthralled girls with I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND and young boys worshipped movie actresses as wingless angels fallen onto the silver screens of movie theaters.

Julie Christie won our hearts in DARLING in 1965 and a year later my older brother chose fur-bikinied Raquel Welch as his muse after her debut in 1,000,000 BC. The seductive virtues of various starlets were debated by the boys in my high school. I held my sand, because I was searching for a goddess to call my own.

One cold January night I lay in bed and my hand slipped on the radio dial. The antenna caught a signal from Quebec transmitting a wavering female singing 'La maison ou j'ai grandi'.

I cursed myself for not paying more attention in French classes and looked over to my brother's bed. He was asleep on his side. I turned up the volume and rode the magic radio waves to the last fading notes of the guitar. The Montreal DJ announced with breathless admiration, "C'etait une autre tube par Francoise Hardy."

I hadn't understand a word, but realized that Francoise Hardy couldn't be anything other than beautiful.

I remained glued to the distant station and the DJ rewarded my devotion with LE PREMIER BONHEUR DU JOUR, QUI PEUT DIRE, and L'AMITIE, after which he said, "Bonne anniversaire, Francoise."

Somehow my brain translated those words into 'happy birthday, Francoise'.

I was a fifteen year-old high school student living on the South Shore. The DJ said Francoise was twenty-three and lived in Paris, three thousand miles away across the Atlantic.

"Turn off that Frog crap." my older brother mumbled from his pillows.

"Okay." I shut the radio and went to sleep confused by conflicting images of Francoise Hardy.

I saw her as a blonde. I fantasized about her as a redhead. I woke early to a dream of her as a brunette.

I dressed and wandered down to the kitchen.

"You're awfully quiet," my father said at the stove, as he cooked pancakes for my younger sisters and brothers.

"I'm thinking about changing my language from German to French."

"I thought you liked German." My father had studied French at college.

"I did." I spoke it with a Boston accent much to the chagrin of Bruder Karl. My best grade had been a D+ and I had no feeling for Marlene Dietrich.

"Any reason for the change?"

"Maybe I'll have more use for French."

"Like for when you're ordering French Fries." My older brother joked, as he sat at the table. My younger brothers and sisters laughed along with my father.

"Tres droll."

I didn't mention my restless night to my car pool friends, as we drove to high school on 128. My daydreams of Francoise Hardy consumed the morning math and biology classes. I couldn't bring myself to leave Bruder Karl's German class. He was a good old Bavarian. After leaving his class, I had a study hall and went the library to search through the record collection.

Brother Jerome, the librarian, was in his office. A freshman was sitting on his lap.

I wandered over to the record trays and flipped through the LPs without finding a single French record. A few music stores in downtown Boston sold foreign music and I planned on heading to Washington Street after school.

"I'm not going home today?" I told my car pool.

"Where you going?" My best friend, Chuckie Manzi, wanted to join me.

"To see the dentist." It was a good deterrent. No teenager liked the sound of the drill.

"You're on your own."

My friends dropped me at the Forest Hills T station and got off at Washington Street. None of the big department stores had any French 45s or LPs. On the way to the Park Street Station I chanced upon a record store across from Commons. The bearded owner looked like a beatnik. I was dressed as a mod.

"Can I help you?" The walls were stacked with thousands of records according to genres.

"Do you have any Francoise Hardy?"

"How do you know about Francoise Hardy?" The older man was mystified by my request.

"I heard her on a Canadian station."

"Must have been a strong signal." He went to the French section and pulled out a sealed LP. "Francoise Hardy dropped out of the Sorbonne to record OH OH CHERI with Johnny Halliday. He's the French Elvis. She became one of the biggest stars of Ye-Ye music and her hit TOUS LES GARCONS ET LES FILLES made the charts in the UK. I think it was 1964. This LP came out in 1962."

He gave me the album.

I held the cover in both hands.

The name had a face and that face belonged to an angel. A cinnamon strands of hair streamed across feline eyes. An ivory hand held an umbrella with a detached interest. Francoise was a woman made for a rainy afternoon.

"Can I hear a little?"

"Sure." The old man slipped the LP onto a Garrard 401 turntable. ?This is LE TEMPS D?AMOUR.?

A patter of drums opened the song. A twangy guitar and solid bass joined on the next bar. The singer wasted no time getting to the lyrics. They must have been about love. 2:27 passed in a second.

"What you think?"

"I'll take it." Her pose sold youthful innocence. I gave him $5. "Is this the only one you have?"

"Of that LP, yes, but I can get some of her other records, if you'd like."

I nodded my answer and promised to return on the weekend.

"My name's Osberg." He handed me a business card. "Call to find out when to come in."

"Thanks." I left his shop and caught the T to Ashmont.

That evening after finishing dinner and my homework, I went down to the basement and put the LP on my father's record player. My brother had a better one in our bedroom, but I wasn't sharing Francoise Hardy with someone in love with a woman in a fake fur bikini, even if Frunk was my older brother.

One play of her record and I became her biggest fan south of the USA-Canada border.

I listened to the Quebec stations in secrecy.

At school I hid my secret. My friends regarded our northern neighbors as Canucks and I didn't want to risk their attacking Francoise. I bought several LPs from Mr. Osberg and he introduced me to the other Ye-Ye girls; Frances Gall, Sylvie Vartan, and Jacqueline Ta'eb as well as the Sultans from Quebec and Serge Gainsbourg.

None of them were Francoise Hardy.

I dreamed about flying to Paris.

An airline ticket cost hundreds of dollars.

I settled for listening to her music with my eyers closed.

In 1968 Francoise Hardy released COMMENT TE DIRE ADIEU written by Serge Gainsbourg. Mr. Osburg said that he was the wicked man in France and played his hit with Jane Birkin JE T'AIME MOI NON PLUS.

Sex dripped off the record. Mr. Osburg was right about this Gainsbourg man. He was as ugly as sin. I had to save Francoise and as soon as I arrived home, I asked my father, if we could vacation in France.

"They're having riots there." My father was very conservative. He tolerated the length of my hair, but thought I looked like a girl. "Students in the streets. Worse than the hippies. We're going to the Cape."

Our family rented three motel rooms in Harwichport. The pool overlooked the small harbor. The beach boasted the warmest water on Cape Cod and the sea registered 65 Fahrenheit by the 4th of July.

Every morning I read the Boston Globe. The newspaper covered the War in Vietnam with little mention of the Paris student unrest, but I was certain that Francoise Hardy wasn't the type of girl to get mixed up in trouble on the Left Bank. Not unless she fell into the hands of the evil Serge Gainsbourg and I plotted a trip to France. A rumor was whispered across Boston about a jet plane leaving Boston every morning for Paris.

Its cargo of Maine lobsters was traded for eclairs, creme brulees, and pomme tartes.

Two weeks before the start of school I emptied my bank account and took the T to Logan Airport. None of the terminals listed the 'lobster' flight and I spent the greater part of Saturday hunting for the mythic plane to Paris.

"Ha." A Boston cop laughed upon hearing my query. "Once a week some kid comes up looking for that plane. There ain't none. Some bullshit story someone invented for who knows why, but the weird thing is that all these kids want to meet the same girl. Francoise Hardy. You ever heard of her?"

"No." These other boys' feelings for Francoise Hardy could never rival my love.

"Me too. Must be some kind of film star. Like Brigitte Bardot."

I fought back an explanation, not needing any more converts to the faith, and returned home in defeat.

That summer America was deep mourning after the murder of RFK in LA.

MRS. ROBINSON replaced Archie Bell and the Drells' TIGHTEN UP as # 1, while Simon and Garfinkel sang about an older woman from the movie THE GRADUATE. Francoise Hardy was eight years older than me. I changed the words from Mrs. Robinson to Francoise Hardy. I never sang it in front of my girlfriend. Kyla was the same age as me.

COMMENT TE DIRE ADIEU was not a hit and the radio station in Quebec played less and less of her songs.

Kyla and I went steady. I liked to think that Francoise would have approved of my selection, but I was stupid and left Kyla for no good reason in 1969.

That year Francoise released Francoise Hardy en Anglais. Like the Catholic Mass in English her songs lost their magic in the translation.

My travels in the late-60s and 70s were confined to hitchhiking across America. None of the drivers played TOUS LES GARCONS ET LES FILLES, but I defended French music to hundreds of hippies, rednecks, and disco fanatics by saying, "You've never heard Francoise Hardy."

In 1973 she appeared in the film SAVE THE TIGER. The director failed to break the 29 year-old singer to America. She remained a creature of France.

The Atlantic Ocean separated America from the Old World. My opportunity to cross the waters came in 1982, when I was hired to work as a doorman at the Bains-Douches, a popular Paris nightclub. At first I was unfamiliar with the French pop stars, but over the course of the next year I met Johnny Halliday, Yves Montand, Catherine Denevue, Yves St. Laurent, Coluche, countless Vogue models, arms dealers, and other lightbulbs of the night, but never Francoise Hardy and I asked the owner about her absence.

"She doesn't go out at night. Her husband, Jacques Dutronc, is very jealous."

"Of what?" Dutronc was a rock star for the French. Nobody in the USA knew his name, but ET MOI ET MOI ET MOI was a great song. I had it on tape. "Other men?"

My boss warned that her husband was capable of almost anything against any man seeking intimacy with his wife. "He is very much in love with her."

"Who wouldn't be?"

My boss shrugged with mutual understanding, He was a Francoise Hardy fan too.

The nightlife was a small world in Paris and I didn't mention Francoise?s name again. People had big mouths.

Jacques Dutronc visited the club on several occasions. A thick cigar hung out of his mouth. I hated the smell. He never came with Francoise. The rumor was that she was terribly shy after having been the Ye-Ye Girl for so many years. I made her husband wait to get in more than once.

Jacques complained to my boss, who laughed behind the singer's back.

My job was to make French stars feel like getting into the Bains-Douches was a privilege, however my friends were granted an easy entry, especially Suzi Wyss, the mistress of a Getty Oil heir. On my days off I smoked opium at her oriental pad in the 13th arrondisement. The Swiss courtesan was superb cook and traveled through many cliques. One night she invited me to a dinner, but said, "Don?t tell anyone, but Francoise Hardy will be coming."

"I thought she didn't go out." This was a miracle.

"She doesn't, but she loves my cooking and I am always discreet. So not a word."

"Silence will be my vow" I wanted Francoise to myself. "Will her husband be there?"

"Not for dinner, but he might come for dessert. He has a thing for my Swiss chocolate torte."

Suzi's piece de resistance was a culinary delight and I prepared like a nameless suitor for this rendezvous with Francoise Hardy.

I bought a white shirt from Agnes B and a gray suit from arrondissement. No tie was better than pretending to be a business man and I purchased Cuban heels from the flea market. They dated back to the time of her greatest success. I cut my hair short and didn't bathe for two days to emulate French men, who avoided bathing in fear of losing their masculinity.

That evening I showed up on time with a bouquet of roses. Suzi loved flowers. We smoked hash. Opium was for after the dinner. The door bell rang at 9.

Francoise arrived at the apartment with a young gay man. We opened a bottle of wine. She wasn't a drinker, but was amused by my stories of New York nightclubs awash with beautiful women and crooked cops.

"It would make a good movie."

"Only if you played the lead." I envisioned us on the podium of the Academy Awards receiving Oscars.

"I'm too old to play that role."

"You're never too old to be a star."

"Didn't I tell he was sweet?" Suzi lit another joint.

Sweet as your torte."

I was falling in love again.

In fact I had never stopped loving Francoise.

She spoke about her music and picked up a guitar from the corner. The Ye-Ye girl sang two new tunes. I was in paradise and was about to tell her about hearing her music on a little radio twenty years ago.

A knock on the door trashed my moment.

The guest was Jacques Dutronc.

Francoise's face said that she loved him and no one else.

Any man would have been a fool to not love her the same.

"I know you." He pointed his cigar. "Bains-Douches. Doorman."

"Yes, that's me."

"A writer too." Suzi was on my side.

"Pouoff" Dutronc had witnessed thousands of writers attempt to seduce his wife. "Women only love directors and producers. They prefer chauffeurs before a writer."

Francoise laughed at her husband's joke. Suzi thought it funny too. I might have joined them, if the riposte hadn't struck deep. We rejoined to the living room, where Jacques Dutronc picked up the guitar.

"Francoise and I did a song in 1978. BROULLIARD DANS LA RUE CORVISART."

He put down his cigar and sang the song's opening lines. Francoise accompanied him on the chorus. I applauded their duet as well as their shared love. I didn't stand a chance, for the odds were stacked higher against me than the records in Mr. Osburg's music store.

An hour later the famed couple left with the gay friend.

Francoise didn't even said good-bye.

Jacques winked to me. I wouldn't make him wait at the door any more.

"Poor Boy." Suzi patted my cheek. "Everyone loves her."

"Yes, I suppose we do."

"And I know how to make you forget, if only for a few minutes." Suzi handed me a pipe. Opium was a good doctor for a broken heart.

The three of us met several more times at Suzi's apartment.

The same routine as always, dinner, wine, and a joint or two.

Jacques came late and they departed ensemble.

I imagined myself being him, but I didn't like cigars and my French was even worse than my German. Francoise loved Jacques and that was good enough for me, because all men at one time in their lives need a goddess to teach them about love.

Even if they were another man's woman.

To Hear Francoise Hardy's LE PREMIERE BONHEUR DU JOUR please go to the following URL

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

La Belle Francoise Hardy

Francoise Hardy remains an icon of beauty.

The brunette had tons of hits in the 1960s.

Francoise was the ultimate Yeh-Yeh Girl.

But Mlle. Hardy is a beauty today.

And Forever.

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

No More Ice - Stanley Cup Final

In January the St Louis Blues were the worst team in the NHL. Tonight they beat the Boston Bruins at home in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup. A second goal with 7 seconds left in the first period basically sealed the fate of the home team dashing my hopes for victory.

Their rookie goalie stopped every shot, but one.

Final score 4-1.

Drat.

I thought this was our year.

I was wrong.

No more ice.

Not until the start of the 2019-2020 season.

I stowed away my Bruins gear.

And as all fans say after a loss, "Next year."

HItchhiking Delaware 1970

In 1970 Peter Gore and I were arrested by a Delaware state trooper on this stretch of I95. We were fined $25 and put on a bus to New York. I never paid that ticket which has probably ballooned with penalties and interest to $1100. That is why I fear Delaware.

Especially the Delaware Welcome Center.

A slice of pizza $7.99.

And no beer.

ps the following Peter and I also were ticketed in George, Washington by a zealous state trooper. He threw us off the highway and then the on ramp. Peter was standing on a tree stump and a car stopped for us. The trooper pulled over the vehicle and ticketed the three of us.

I never paid that ticket either.

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Culiacan, Mexico 1975

In the winter of 1975 I rode a train south from Mexcali. The journey was slow on the sun-warped rails. Our stops included towns without names as well as bigger cities.

Hermosillo-Guaymas-Los Mochis.

I got off in Culiacan at dawn.

The city lay on the Gulf of Cortez. The temperature rose with each hour. I had not come to Mexico to be here and took a bus a short distance to Teacupan, a small village on mangrove estuary. I traverse the town and bought three tacos and six beers. I found an abandoned hotel on the beach. The sheltered ruins echoed the waves crashing on the sand. I pulled out my transistor radio and listened to Mexican rock, watching the stars cross the evening sky to a destination before the dawn. After the fourth beer my eyes closed for the night and the universe tugged my soul not to the cosmos, but oblivion. It does give a good sleep.

Foto by Jocko Weyland

Monday, June 10, 2019

One More Game Stanley Cup

Wednesday night TD Garden will host the 7th Game of the Stanley Cup.

The St. Louis Blues versus the home team Boston Bruins.

In January the Blues were the worst team in the league.

They toughed their way to the finals.

Last night the Blues could have hoisted the Stanley Cup before their fans.

Tukka Rask stopped them cold.

Go 'Ruins.

Then no more ice.

Bobby Orr Bobby Orr Bobby Orr.

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

Where Is Tank Man?

Thirty years ago a lone Chinese protester blocked a line of tanks heading east on Beijing's Cangan Blvd. June 5, 1989 in front of the Beijing Hotel one days after the Tiananmen massacre. Cameras and videos captured the young man's defiance of governmental power.

Steel versus flesh.

After a conversation with the driver of the first tank, security forces hustled him into the crowd. He has never been seen since and his identity remains a mystery, although some journalists have reported that his name was Wang Weilin, a 19-year-old student, who was later charged with "political hooliganism" and "attempting to subvert members of the People's Liberation Army". This claim has been refuted by many sources as have reports that Tank Man was executed by a firing squad several months after the incident.

"I can't confirm whether this young man you mentioned was arrested or not." said a CCP secretary, leading to rumors that the young man is hiding on the mainland.

Whatever the truth the world owes this man the greatest honor for his courage in standing for truth along with the thousands of students in Tiananmen Square. Their memory has been obscured by the Communist Party and the two months of protests ignored by the young of China.

They don't want a revolution.

They only desire iPhones.

Same as the rest of the world.

We can't have everything.

But I honor the man on the tank.

Watch this video;

One man against the power of the state.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-nXT8lSnPQ&

Tankman is my hero.

Saturday, June 1, 2019

GAY BOY by Peter Nolan Smith ON SALE

GAYBOY is a semi-fictional novella of my experiences with gay friends and family. The central character is my baby brother Michael Charles Smith, a gay radio personage in Boston. He like so many of others succumbed to AIDS and GAYBOY is an attempt to reincarnate my younger brother and the good times that exist in the Here-Before.

Here's an excerpt from GAYBOY;

In the Spring of 1966 I won a math scholarship to Our Lord’s High School. Its enrollment was all-boys. The football team was State Champs and the coach tried to recruit me onto the freshman squad. At 5-10 I weighed 180.

“You’re built for running. Short powerful legs and a strong torso.” He assessed my strengths with a slaver’s eye.

“I’m here for math.”

“Brute force timing impact.” Coach Amado understood the poetry of geometry.

“I’ll think about it.”

I ran cross-country instead.

I had short legs and finished fourth and fifth.

After practice and meets I hitchhiked home on 128. Men picked me up and after a mile asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

At first I answered yes, but these men exploited this opening as an invitation to discuss sex.

“You look like an athlete. Do you shower with other naked boys?”

They all glanced at my crotch.

Getting a ride from the rush hour traffic on 128, so I endured the come-ons.

Sometimes they gave me a ride home. On the long stretch through the Blue Hills I fended off their

gropes. A slap on the hand scared them. I told no one about these rides.

Exactly what they wanted from me was solved by Chuckie’s discovery of dirty book stash in the woods.

The moldy photographs depicted depraved intercourse without anything left to the imagination and the crumbling pages of written words described unspeakable acts never to be confess to priests. Chuckie let me pick three. My favorite was THE ITCH by Steven Hammer, who opened my body and soul to the broad spectrum of sexuality with an erudition bespeaking experience. I must have read Chapter 3 a thousand times. I started letting men do things to me. Not all of them were bad.

One day I came home to find Michael crying on his bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone saw me playing with Barbie dolls.”

“And?”

“He called me a queer.”

“And you know what that means?”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t want to say.” The label of a snitch was almost as bad as being a queer.

“Who?” I wasn’t in the mood to hear no.

“Bobbie.”

“Bobbie with the fat brother?”

“Yes.”

“You stay here.”

I ran down the street to a white ranch house. My brother’s persecutor was a thirteen year-old.

Bobbie refused to come outside.

“No one calls my brother a queer. Do it again and I’ll burn down your house.”

I wasn’t kidding either.

Back home Michael was singing OVER THE RAINBOW to a Ken doll.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be playing with Barbie Dolls.”

“Every boy in this neighborhood plays with his sisters’ dolls. Anyone who says that they don’t is a liar.”

Michael had me dead to rights.

To order GAYBOY please go to the following URL:

https://www.ebay.com/itm/GAY-BOY-by-Peter-Nolan-Smith-A-Novella-of-an-Era-or-Errors/162968178082