The Middle Of Nowhere # 11 - 2019 Kili Initiative.

The younger members of the 2019 Kili Initiative team were exhausted from the slog up Lolopange and were happy to depart from the thorny slopes of the arid hill. I asked the group, "What would rather do? Climb Lolopange or spend a night in jail?"

"Jail," they answered as one and we all laughed at their losing the way to the summit, but now they were experts at avoiding the barbed thorns.

The sky was clear and the sun was hot. The team drank water and the guide JM said, "Better to carry it in you than on you."

Everyone nodded at his wisdom. They came from the cities, but two days on the trail had given them a fast education about hiking. I hit a fast pace and told JM, "I want to go ahead to take pictures."

"I will go with you. Our destination is only an hours away."

None of us walked alone, for while the grazing lands weren't wilderness, wild animals owned it and my only weapon was a long Maasai walking stick and my unwashed body.

Kilimanjaro came into view.

We saw no people and at the valley's crest I turned to find the team. JM pointed them out.

"They are about thirty minutes behind us. We'll meet them at the next village."

JM was a good man. He didn't need to speak and neither did I, as we tramped along the trails.

Civilization existed only a dirt road passing through croplands to the south of the highest mountain in Africa. The wind was the only sound and not a single plane flew overhead.

"I know it doesn't look much, but people have been living here for thousands of years. Smiling villagers greeted us with 'jambo'. I hadn't seen a house in an hour and asked, "Where are they going?"

"Cattle need land. Houses are far apart. Maasai aren't scared of walking," answered JM without losing a step and pointed to the ground. "But everyone is scared of lions."

The paw print was huge.

"There aren't many attacks, but there are some every year."

This was the Tsavo Plains.

Over a hundred years ago two male lions killed over thirty villagers and Indian railroad workers.

I was supposed to be watching over the Kili Initiative trekkers. I searched the valley and listened for a savage roar. My ears only picked the wind.

"Not to worry. That print is old. We will meet everyone at the school, where we spend the night."

Both of us spread our gait and didn't stop till we reached the remote school.

The Kili Initiative team wasn't at the school. The tuk-tuk driver had set up the camp. Thirty minutes later the hikers tramped into camp no worse for the wear.

They were happy to shuck their packs.

Vanessa sat down and said fearfully, "I saw lion tracks."

"Me too, but Im more hungry than scared."

Vanessa, Maureen, and Ubah.

Jackman, Larry, Steve, and sausages.

We ate sausages twice a day.

After Jackman and Nathalia played cards.

The school's students observed us from at a distance. I gave them the leftovers. They were happy.

The sun set early. We were on the equator.

I listened to the night.

I heard no savage roar.

Near or far.

A fire blazed before the tents.

"I wish we had John Moran with us," said Laikyn about the Kili Initiative trekker from this region. The young Maasai warrior had killed a lion with a fifty-meter toss spear at the age of 20.

"Lions don't like people," said Ma'we.

"Yes, we smell bad and taste worse." I thought it was why we dominated the planet.

"Someone is certainly smelling bad," added Ubah.

"Funny, I don't smell dirty," I countered with the classic Van Halen line from I'M HOT FOR TEACHER.

"Yes, you do," the squad laughed and I joined their laughter.

We were together. We were safe. We were in the middle of nowhere.

Someplace in Africa.

Bad Mouthing the Eagle

Back in the 18th Century Benjamin Franklin proposed the turkey for the national bird. The wild turkey of his era was a cunning wood creature living in large communes of fellow avians. Huge flocks of brightly plumed turkeys would cloud the skies. Benjamin Franklin was vehemently against the choice of the eagle as the national bird.

"I wish that the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country, he is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly, you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk, and when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to its nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him. Besides he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, not bigger than a sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest. . . of America.. . . For a truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on."

Nice talk for the national bird.

As for eagle as a meal, I googled cooked eagle and only came up with the following query on answers.com

I was driving the other day and hit a bald eagle that was flying across the street. It was a country road that usually isn't very busy, but I figured I would cook it since I've never had eagle before. Are there any recipes I should know about? Or any spices specifically? I live in Eastern Iowa so you know what may or may not be available to me. I didn't mean to hit it, it was like if a deer ran across the street.

2 years ago

This posting attracted outrage and weirdos.

KILLER: I kill eagles all the time, for fun. Especially since bald eagles don't even exist where I live.

maie: okay i believe you didn't mean to kill it, well you cant help things like that all the time, but they are an endangered species and it is illegal to kill it (on purpose I'm sure they will forgive an accident) and it is also illegal to have possession of it. i would call the local animal control center and see what they would tell you to do cuz if someone says that you have one, or sees it in your trash then you can get arrested. at that point you haven't made a report and you cant prove what happened.

OUTRAGE: It is a Federal Offense to Kill a Bald Eagle, or even HAVE one of its feathers in your possession.

MOR: WITH HOT SAUCE AND POSSUMS! NOM NOM NOM! just cook it like chicken

Otherwise nothing else on the internet.

So I guess eagles don't taste good.

Oh, the poor Turkey

The Elegance of the Wampanoags

The Wampanoags were not the savages, but the people of the dawn were driven near-extinction by a bacterial infection carried the Pilgrims, which left them defenseless to raids by the Micmacs and Pequots.

Despite these calamities the Wampanoags living near the Plymouth supposedly celebrated a particularly good harvest with the Pilgrims in the autumn of1621.

The event was poorly documented by the colonists, but the legend has endured in the minds of Americans as a cherished moment of peace between the Old World and the New World.

Within forty years the Wampanoags would once more be tested to the limit by the King Philip War.

Only 400 survived the fighting.

The Wampanoags sought refuge on Martha's Vinyard.

Today the the tribe numbers almost 2000.

I know one.

Big Ralph.

6-8.

A big man.

Wampanoag and proud of it.

Happy to be alive.

And me too, because I'm half-Irish.

And we were almost wiped out by the British.

Three times.

Happy Turkey Day.

One and all.

Flat Earth USA

Only 2% of Americans believe in a flat Earth.

This would be heartening, except 69% have faith in Guardian Angels.

Go figure.

USA # 3 in Climate Change Denial

This week Venice has been flooded by historic high tides three times. St. Mark's Plaza has been deluged by the Adriatic Sea. Tourists had fled the city, as the Lido flood gates fail to hold back the water. The citizens of La Serenissima's 118 islands have struggled to find higher ground on the Po Delta. There was none.

The rightist City Council voted against any measures against climate change such as banning plastic and cruise ships only minutes before the building was swamped by the rising sea.

Throughout Europe over 10% of the populace deny the increasing threat of climate change.

Indonesia at 18% and Saudi Arabia at 16% beat out the USA at 13% and most recently the Trump Regime greenlighted the EPA's rejecting weather science in favor of biblical history.

Obviously ignorance is easy to achieve than enlightenment.

$148 LEVIS by Peter Nolan Smith

My mother dressed my older brother and me in jeans for most of the 1950s and early 1960s, however when the hippies adopted the tough western trousers as part of their unofficial uniform, Cardinal Cushing of the Boston diocese banned Levis on his evening rosary program. A fierce Catholic my mother obeyed the Pope's representative refused to buy them.

One afternoon in 1966 I got off the school bus to discover her burning my treasured jeans and suede Cuban heel boots.

"No son of mine will be a slave to the Devil." she spoke with a heavy Boston accent as would anyone reared in Jamaica Plain.

"I don't worship Satan." I had tried to sell my soul on several occasions to the Fallen One without his appearing with an offer binding my eternity to Hell. The Devil like God was a myth, except in the minds of my mother and the nuns of Our Lady of the Foothills south of the Neponset River.

"He doesn't want your worship. He wants your soul."

Beelzebub also existed as a villain in many movies, but neither their belief nor Hollywood's depiction of Lucifer made him nor God real.

"I'm a good boy."

"You better be."

"Yes, ma'am." My heels of my boots added a funny color to the flames.

My mother never suspected my disbelief in God. My father was equally ignorant of my apostasy, which was a good thing, since atheism was unacceptable to the vast majority of Americans. Thankfully heretics were no longer burned at the stake, but I thought it better for my mother to think that I was a good Catholic boy.

My grade for religion at school was an A. I served as an altar boy at Mass. Latin was my second language. I earned $10 a week from my paper route. My mother banked most of it. I kept the tips and after a few weeks my savings came to almost $12.

"What are you going to do with it?", asked my best friend, Chuckie Manzi.

"Buy Levis at Walker's." the newest style cost $6 at the store opposite the Public Gardens.

"I thought your mother banned them."

"She did, but I'm unbanning them."

"Fuck the Church?"

"Yes, fuck the Church."

That Friday after school Chuckie I caught the trolley into Ashmont and then rode the Reed Line into Park Street.

We walked across the Commons into the Garden over to Walker's Western Store on Boylston Street. The store ran a radio ad on WMEX for jeans. I bought a pair of jeans. The salesman sold me a paisley shirt too. Chuckie got a buckskin jacket. Our hair was a little over our ears and we strolled over to hippie corner in the Commons to listen to a free-spirited band.

I recognized the lead singer.

The messianic leader of the Fort Hill Commune was famed for his 30 minute solo of ROCK OF AGES after Bob Dylan's electric performance at the Newport Jazz Festival of 1965. Mel Lyman blew in his harp, as longhaired girls danced in the sunshine. They smelled of patchouli.

Chuckie and I left at 5. My father was on the same train. He looked at my jeans and said, "You better change out of them before you get home."

I did in the woods behind our house and I hid the Levis in the garage. My father never snitched me out, which was a surprise for a man 30 years older than me. All he cared about was that I scored good grades and that I didn't cause my mother any problems.

My waist size back in the 60s was a 28. It's more than that now and so is the price of Levis. Most stores offer them for $40-60. I buy mine in a second-hand stall in Pattaya. They come from aid shipments to Cambodia. Americans don't realize that Cambodians don't fit into big jeans, so the relief foundations sell them to Thai traders. I pay $10 for used Levis.

A good price, however the Wall Street Journal reported that Barney's on Madison Avenue are selling American-made Levis for $148 and investment bankers are buying piles of them. I went up there to look at these high-priced jeans. They felt the same as my used jeans and the $6 jeans from Walker's Western Store.

Some things never change.

Only the price.

To hear The Lyman Family with Lisa Kindred - James Alley Blues, please go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DuE-7U8RTA

White Trash Fairy Tale

Traditionally there are only three ways to get rich; birth, marriage, or theft.

Anne Nichole Smith, Texas sex bomb, stepped off the runway of a strip club into popular culture by wedding an admiring oil tycoon. Their sixty-three year age difference evoked cries of gold-digger from the billionaire's family. That accusation might have been true, but the old man certainly looked happy in all the photos of them together and upon his death his lawyers announced that Anne Nicole Smith had been bequeathed a third of his fortune.

This rags to riches fairy tale was denied a happy ending by her in-laws. They contested the last testament with the traditional viciousness of white rich people. $300 million was a fortune to give a buxom blonde high-school dropout. I was pulling for the blonde heiress, but each week her name tarnished in the tabloids by another scandal. The in-laws were playing for 'winner takes all'.

Nothing those scandal sheets liked better than to see someone from the lower class fall back to white trash earth.

First her son died of a drug overdose and then Anna Nicole Smith herself was found dead of a drug overdose administered by her 'doctor'. All the drugs were legal. She left a daughter and the US Federal Court has decreed that the deceased starlet's young girl will never see any of the money left to her by the tycoon, proving once more that the rich stay rich and the poor get dead.

Her daughter should be happy to be alive.

The only question is for how long.

07-07-07

The Great Powers singed the Armistice of Versailles to end WWI on the 11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. Soldiers continued to fire artillery rounds after the deadline, but soon ceased the final bombardment. The repetitive numerology of 111 was most effective in stilling the disturbing cosmic vibration as the sequence signals a new life cycle.

Of course rationalists' ridicule the power of numbers.

"Numbers are just numbers."

But not to the 70,000 couples celebrating their weddings on July 7, 2007 in agreement with the greek philosopher Pythagoras designating 7 as a perfect number i.e. the sum of two prime numbers create another prime number. 3 + 4 = 7.?

Some wedding planner received requests for the wedding vows at the 7th hour. A few happy couples must have gone for the full seven. The 7th minute of the 7th hour et al.

"C'mon lucky 7."

This call can be heard at dice tables around the world.

Casino house managers can recognize a sucker bet years ahead and have promoted Lucky Seven trips to their gaming establishments in hopes that dice players will be unable to resist the siren call of seven, especially since you crap out on seven, if it comes up after the first roll.

Most brides are betting on their newlywed husbands will remember their anniversary thanks to 07-07. It's another sucker bet. Men don't remember birthdays. Especially once we're over 50. Birthdays become days to forget.

Numerologists connect the number seven to these people and adjectives.

Philosopher, sage, wisdom seeker, reserved, inventor, stoic, contemplative, aloof, deep-thinker, introspective, spiritual, faith, esoteric, exotic, unusual, hidden, seeking perfection, ethereal, other worldly, enigma.

When I moved to New York in 1977, I didn't think much about numbers, but my girlfriend's ex- went crazy on numbers. The bearded hillbilly read significance into the millions of numbers floating around New York. He told me that his ex- never kissed him. I said maybe she didn't like bears. He thought that was funny. I tried to get him a carpentry job. the first day he counted all the nails. The numbers added wrong and he walked off the job. In the end the onslaught of number overloaded his brain and he ended up living in a northern park of Manhattan much like the demented protagonist of THE CAVEMAN'S VALENTINE. Not a stitch of clothing and in a cave. He didn't survive the winter.

Numbers can be that strong.

I don't think seven in very lucky.

I'm a Red Sox fan.

Reggie Smith wore # 7

Mickey Mantle's # was 7.

The BoSox lost three 7th games in the World Series.

1949. 1975. 1986.

My lucky number is 8.

At least according to http://www.spiritual-path.com/numerology.htm

And that number belonged to Carl Yastremski.

# 8

I thought I would have to wait until 08-08-2008 for getting married, but I got there before that.

Twice.

And the number 8 had nothing to do with that.

Glaringly Guilty

In the Spring of 1969 I was driving home from Nantasket to the Blue Hills in the 1968 Volkwagen Beetle.

Outside Hingham Center was a traffic light blinking yellow. That day was no different, however a town police cruiser flicked on his siren and I pulled over to the shoulder. The officer approached my car and I rolled down the window.

"You know you ran that red light?"

"What red light?" I turned around and saw the signal was yellow. "That light has always yellow. I've never seen in red."

"Well, it was ten thirty seconds ago. Let me see your license."

He wrote up a ticket for running a red light. I took it from him and pointed to the light.

"It's still blinking yellow."

"You wanna spend the night at the station. No, I didn't think so. Get out of here."

I obeyed him, but returned to watch the light for ten minutes.

It never went red.

At home I explained the traffic stop to my father.

The ticket was $25. I said I would pay it.

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we will fight it."

Two weeks later my father and I showed up at Hingham Court dressed in jacket in tie. The officer was there. I smiled at him, thinking I would get off, since my father and I had waited at the light for ten minutes without it ever changing to red.

The two of us sat in the front bench.

The court officer announced the judge. We rose for his Honor and he motioned for everyone to sit down.

Ten seconds later the door opened and two cops led in four teens chained together. I recognized two of them and someone behind us mumbled that they had fired a shotgun at the judge's vacation house. The two boys waved and said 'hello'. The cop smiled at me and my father said, "Plead guilty."

Guilt is not all about being guilty, but yesterday a New York judge has ordered President Donald Trump to personally pay $2 million to settle the state attorney general’s civil lawsuit against his now-defunct charitable organization, The Donald J. Trump Foundation.

Looking at the above family photo I would have to say all of them look guilty as sin.

Of course the DA had originally asked for $6.5 million, so looking guilty can also look like success for a conman and his family.

And he isn't even a Roma.

BET ON CRAZY / The Blue Diamond Affair

In the autumn of 2008 Richie Boy opened our jewelry store in the Plaza Hotel's Retail Collection. I thought we were going to coin a fortune. The Plaza was a legend. Rich people stayed there.

It didn't take me long to see a disaster looming on the horizon. The American economy was in the can after two endless wars and the theft of trillions by the banks.

The new management of the Plaza had hoped to convert the entire building into condos. The hotel union forced the city to only limit the change to 50% and the rest remained the hotel, but Israelis owners were developers unaccustomed to the hospitality business and they treated the guests like schlumps and played the same pop music in the Retail Collection for days on end like we had been renditioned by the CIA.

No signs were posted on the hotel entrances to inform passers-by about the score of high-end stores in the basement of the landmark hotel and few guests strayed down to the renovated boiler room.

Worst Richie Boy's two partners were pieces of shit. The Persian financial backer from Great Neck was bankrupt Persian from Great Neck and the other was a thief from Long Island.

Weeks passed without my consummating a sale at our jewelry store. My 60 year-old co-worker was having a nervous breakdown. Her husband had leveraged the mortgage on their New Jersey dream to the max. Everyday my work wife spoke about suicide.

"Madoff ruined me. How am I going to pay for my Botox?"

At least she had an excuse, but I wondered what crime I had committed in a previous life to be punished by imprisonment in this purgatory.

The only redeeming aspects of the Retail Collection were a weekly salary, the cakes of Demel's Pastry Shop, and an after-work beer at the Oak Bar. The bartender was an old friend and I would sit at the historic bar, happy to be away from the subterranean room of gloom underneath my feet.

The clientele of the Oak Bar was a mixture of nostalgic guests, loud tourists, and hard drinkers not offended by the management's edict to measure out the alcohol in shot glass. I mostly minded my own business, but one night a young Arab man took the stool next to me. He asked the time and commented on my Omega.

The automatic dated back to the 40s.

"I love watches." He was sporting a Audemar-Piguet retailing at $45,000.

I explained about my diamond store in the Retail Collection and he mentioned that he had a 4-carat blue diamond in his hotel room.

"A blue diamond?"

"Deep blue. What do you know about blue diamonds."

"Not much. Boron reflects the blue within the diamond. Only a few atoms of Boron in the millions of carbon atoms created the color. I saw the Hope Diamond at the Smithsonian Museum in Washington. Someone told me it had been stolen from the statue of Sita and the diamond was supposedly cursed by this sacrilege."

"Are you superstitious?"

"I'm Irish."

"But you work for the Jews?" His accusation gestures were extravagant.

"Why not?" Richie Boy and his father Manny had been relatively good to me over the years other than being more miserly than a French Canadian.

"No reason." Everything about Mubarrah said royalty or fake.

"Not at all. I know nothing. How big is the stone?"

"4 carat-plus. You want to see it?"

"Sure." I was very curious about his stone, since I had only seen a few blue diamonds in my 20-year career as a diamantaire and none had been as big as his. "Are you staying here

"In this hotel? No a chance." He laughed with a disdain and signaled for his check. "I'm at the St. Regis."

"I love the King Cole Bar." I paid $9 for my Stella with a ten and dropped a $2 tip for Orlando. The bartender and I went back to the Blackout of 1977.

It was a winter night, but not too cold, so we walked over to the St. Regis.

Mubarrah came from the Gulf. His family was connected to an emirate royal family. The Islamic right to have multiple wives . The doorman greeted Mubarrah with practiced deference and we went over to the elevator without getting a key.

"He didn?t make any moves on the ride up to his suite.

It was bigger than my lost East Village apartment by several hundred square feet.

"One minute." He took off his coat and sat on the brocaded couch.

I shucked my cashmere coat and sat on an elegant chair.

Mubarrah reached into a bag and pulled out a box of jewelry.

"Looks like someone is getting rid of their unwanted possessions."

"A friend needs money."

"Who doesn't these days?"

All the necklaces, bracelets, and ring dated back to the 80s and 90s. None of the pieces were stamped by Cartier or Tiffany. Our store on 47th Street brought such merchandise for 20-30% of value. Most people imagined their treasures were worth more. After my brief examination I said, "There's not much money in this."

I know, but there is in this." Mubarrah unfolded a small diamond parcel.

A iceberg-blue diamond flashed in the low light and Mubarrah handed over the loose emerald-cut gem for a closer inspection. My loupe revealed that the stone was clean. I had never seen a stone this beautiful.

I want to sell this." Mubarrah gestured at the diamond, as if pointing was ill-mannered

"Is it yours?"

"I used to wear in a ring." His voice betrayed the loss of privilege.

Mubarrah was twenty-five. His open palm bore no signs of having worked a day in his life.

"Have you shown it to anyone else?" It was a stupid question.

"No one."

It was a lie neither of us had to believe.

"How much you want?"

"$2.4 million."

I liked him saying 2.4 instead of 2.5. It showed he was willing to 'hondel' or bargain.

"But I know nothing about money." Playing dumb was a trick, but Mubarrah was as skilled at this game as an old camel dealer.

"2.4 million is a good price."

"You have any takers?"

"You?re the first person to see it in New York."

I feel honored." I pretended to believe him.

My boss Manny would think that he was a liar and Manny was rarely wrong in these matters. The Brownsville native had worked in the jewelry trade for over six decades. He had heard every story and considered most of the bullshit.

Can I show it to some privates?"

"Only here." He wasn't letting it out of his sight.

"Does it have any papers?"

"Here's the GIA certificate. Show them that." His fingers plucked the parcel from my grasp with the delicacy of a tiger snapping off a turtle's head. The diamond disappeared inside his jacket. "I'm here for a week and why don't you take the jewelry? Get an offer from your friends."

"Now?" We barely knew each other an hour.

"You're not Jewish. right?"

I had spent over 40 years with the Chosen People in the nightclub and diamond businesses. I spoke Yiddish. The Hassidim and I argued the dietary strictures of the Talmud. Some of this exposure had rubbed off the good way, but I once more admitted, "No, I'm a gentile."

"Then I can trust you."

"Thanks." The #1 rule on 47th Street was 'trust no one' and that adage worked for the rest of New York too. Even Staten Island, however the young Arab?s confidence was based on the fact that none of the outmoded jewelry belonged to him.

I said good-night and rode the elevator downstairs to the lobby where I telephoned Manny?s son, Richie Boy. I rattled off my find without mentioning the blue.

That information was better scherried to Jakob, an Afghani colored stone broker. That market was controlled by that tightly knit group of exiles. If one of them had seen the stone, then each of them would know of the gem.

The next day I excused myself from the Plaza. My co-worker was high on Valium. I doubted whether Janet registered my presence or departure. Her American Dream of being a millionaire was dead and she wasn?t alone, but none of them were willing to blame the banks.

I strolled down 5th Avenue under a bright winter sun and a cold wind whipped around the edges of the buildings. A good cashmere coat and leather hat kept me warm and I arrived at the colored diamond dealer within ten minutes. Jakob greeted me in his 17th floor office.

"You seen this stone before?" I handed him the certificate for the blue.

Jakob was a small man with a big family. They had fled Kabul before 1975. Very few Jews remained in Afghanistan, but those there were family.

"The certificate is interesting. How much he want for the stone?"

"$2.4 million."

"How did he get that price?"

"Probably someone offered him 2.3." It was only logical. ?It is a beautiful stone.?

"And you have seen many blues?? Jakob was big in his field. Hundreds of gem diamonds passed under his eye every month.

"Not many, but I can recognize something special." The previous spring I had sold a million-dollar ruby the color of pigeon blood and clear as a fine burgundy wine. "This diamond is as blue as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic."

"Deep blue. 4 carat." Jakob handed back the certificate. "Someone was showing this stone in Switzerland. The same numbers. Tell him I'm interested at 2 million. At 2.3 no one makes money, but him. Understand?"

"Of course." I wasn't getting involved in this sale for my health. I had two wives and two kids in Thailand. They liked eating every day. I bid Jakob good afternoon and walked over to our diamond exchange on West 47th Street. Richie Boy was unimpressed with Mubarrah's dreck.

A waste of time."

What about this?" I handed over the certificate. My commission on this sale would be in five-figures. ?I saw it last night. A beautiful stone. Worth about 2 million.

"It Still sounds like a waste of time. You have a buyer for it?"

"Jakob said it was worth 2 million."

"Yeah, but how much would he pay for it" Not 2 mill." Richie Boy got on the phone. The conversation was short and not so sweet. Jakob was still owed 90K for the ruby sale. Richie Boy changed the conversation and asked, "Does the Arab really want to sell the stone?"

"He says he does.?

"Then get him down here."

It was more an order than a request and my friend's tone said that I would get cut out of this deal by Jakob and Richie Boy. I would have loved to back-door the deal to another broker, but the other Afghanis were even more untrustworthy than Jakob.

I called Mubarrah to tell him about the jewelry and the offer for his diamond.

"Come see me."

On the way back to the Plaza I stopped by the St. Regis.

Mubarrah was in the lobby. He bid me to sit down.

"Tea?"

"Please."

I passed over the bag of jewelry.

"Like I said, there's not much money in it, but the blue diamond is another story."

He understood their disinterest in the dreck as well as the appeal of the blue diamond.

"A stone with clean and blue is rare. 2 million is an honest offer, but I have a better one from a friend in Geneva."

"Oh." My big commission evaporated with the confirmation of his shopping the stone. He had wasted my time and I sought to regain the upper hand.

"I lived the last twenty years in Thailand."

"Selling and buying rubies and sapphires."

"Something like that." Actually it was counterfeit Formula 1 shirts and jackets. "I arrived in 1990 a year after the Blue Diamond Heist. Are you familiar with this story about how a Thai janitor stole $20 million worth of jewelry and gems from the Saudi Royal Palace. He smuggled the loot back to his native province and started selling the jewelry at a 1000-baht each. A Bangkok jeweler discovers the treasure trove and buys it for nothing. The janitor buys a new tractor and some rice fields."

"I've heard some of this story." Anyone from the Gulf knew what happened next, but he said, "Go on."

"The Saudi King considered this theft an insult to his throne and send two diplomats and a royal thug to find the jewelry. The royal thug thought he was tough, but the Thais are tougher than a ball of barbed wire and his messengers were shot dead. The investigating police commander arrested the janitor and jewelry, but another two Saudi 'diplomats'. Finally the police handed over the stolen jewelry in a public ceremony. Only most of it was fake. A month later the Thai media photographed many of the cops' wives wearing the swag at a Red Cross function. This was not a shining moment in Thai-Saudi relationship and it worsened when the Saudis sent back 250,000 guest workers. In the end the cops killed the jeweler's son and wife looking for a 50-carat blue. Heads rolled in the police hierarchy and the thief exited prison after serving two years. His family and tractor were waiting in Lampung. The head cop was convicted for the murder of the jeweler's wife and daughter. His death penalty was lowered to 25 years. He claimed to be innocent."

"Everyone in that story was innocent depending the point of view."

"That diamond was bigger than yours. Maybe yours was cut from it." I was making this up, but guilt spread wide from a crime.

"It's been in my family for years."

"The certificate is new, but that's unimportant."

"I don't like bad stories and like them less with bad endings." Mubarrah toyed with his jacket. The blue diamond was inside a pocket.

"Behind all big gems and forture are a bad story." I could have punched him once quick, grabbed the diamond, and then ran out the door and catch a taxi to JFK. A 24-hour flight took me to Bangkok. The fence's price of 20% would last 10 years, except Thailand had a bad habit of re-writing happy endings and I might have been many things, but one of them was not a thief.

"Cursed like the Hope Diamond." Mubarrah tightened his grip on the hidden parcel. I had put a fear in his bones.

"You know your gems. If you can't get your price in Switzerland, give me a call.?" I thanked him for the tea, then strolled up 5th Avenue to the Plaza.

It had been a waste of time just like richie Boy had said in the beginning.

I would never sell the blue diamond.

I was stuck in New York like it was a minimal security prison, but one day i would escape Manhattan.

I came back to the Plaza's Retail Collection to find my co-worker crying behind a People magazine.

"What's wrong now?"

"Same as before. I still can't pay for my Botox." This line was a mantra attached to Janet's new-found destitution and I brought her a glass of wine from Demel's. I had one too. She popped a Valium and asked, "Where were you?"

"I had to go to the bathroom."

"You were gone three hours."

"Are you punching my clock?" she asked like a snitch. She wasn't bad, just paid to watch me like a hawk. "I hope you washed your hands."

"Twice." I appreciated her advice. She was a good work wife and knew that all men were alike and my wives thought the same, but women were all alike too. They would have loved that blue diamond. It was magic, then again so are all things of beauty.

Liar Liar

Several evenings ago a friend accused me on lying.

He was backing another friend's accusation of my misrepresenting the truth in the telling a story about skating on black ice. Both said that I had claimed to have skated up 2nd Avenue after an ice storm had glazed Manhattan with black ice. Neither had ever worn skates, yet their other friend backed up their claim. I let it go. What does anyone from Arizona know about ice?

Today I heard more of the same.

"It was just a story."

Johnny said, "It was a lie."

"A lie."

"Up to you."

"How can I trust you if you tell lies?"

"Don't trust me then."

I shrugged off the abuse, recognizing it for collective bullying.

All stories are true if interesting.

Fuck The NCAA Especially for Football

ESPN posted a story about the hundred and fifty greatest NCAA college football games of all time.

No. 1 Nebraska 35, at No. 2 Oklahoma 31 Nov. 25, 1971 The Sooners and Huskers presented Americans with a Thanksgiving feast: 829 yards of total offense, four lead changes, only one penalty and a game billed as the Game of the Century that lived up to the billing. Johnny Rodgers' 72-yard punt return wasn't the game winner that people think: It came after Oklahoma's first possession. Oklahoma scored on five drives of at least 69 yards against a defense that didn't allow more than 17 points to anyone else. The last of Huskers fullback Jeff Kinney's four short touchdown runs -- this one with 1:38 to play -- flipped the scoreboard to the visitors.

4. No. 10 Boston College 47 at No. 12 Miami 45 Nov. 23, 1984 When Doug Flutie scrambled to his right, again confounding the exhausted Hurricane defensive front; when he heaved that 48-yard pass into the end zone scrum with zeroes on the clock; when Gerard Phelan, camped just behind the scrum, caught the ball like it were a punt; when Brent Musburger screamed, "I don't believe it!" into CBS's microphone; when the Eagles accepted the Cotton Bowl's invitation; when Flutie won the 1984 Heisman; when in 2008 Boston College erected a statue of Flutie, shoulders angled as if throwing this very pass: Maybe then we grasped the full meaning of this Hail Mary.

NCAA players should be paid by the colleges.

And not a small amount.

Corporate thieves versus the people.

ps Fuck Miami.

To see the rest please click on the following URL

https://www.espn.com/college-football/story/_/page/CFB150games/the-150-greatest-games-college-football-150-year-history

The War Is Not Over

President Eisenhower had prevented the USA from becoming involved in the Vietnamese civil war.

He was a military man who understood that the military-industrial complex was only interested in profits as well as the logistic strain of transporting troops and weapons halfway around the world to fight support the despised Diem dictatorship. Unfortunately after the disastrous Bay of Pigs and Cuban Missile Crisis the Kennedy administration had to play tough against any form of communism to placate the arch-conservatives on Congress. The CIA okayed the assassination of the Diem and set up puppet governments to fight a 10,000 Day War.

The 1968 Viet Cong Tet Offensive basically proved to a large segment of Americans that this war was unwinnable by the Pentagon, who only cared about 10-to1 body counts of VC versus the dead soldiers from the USA.

The Pentagon turned our troops into baby-killers.

Still I wanted to enlist.

Mostly to get out of my hometown on the South Shore of Boston, but my mother, an arch-anti-communist, refused to singed my underaged enlistment papers.

Like millions of other American youth I became a hippie.

I marched against the War and I cried the night of RFK's murder by the Dark Cabal.

I miss his life.

Almost 50 years gone.

A long time ago.

Nixon, The war criminal Kissinger, the Fall of Phnom Penh, the bombing of Laos, millions of dead.

The Khmer Rouge.

All the world needed was peace.

But the War dividing America is stronger than ever.

I'm living in Juneau Alaska this summer.

Four year ago I was selling jewelry to the tourists off cruise ships.

"Most of them are from the South.

This afternoon a four-year vet came into the store.

He wasn't buying and I said, "I'm trying to get a pension from the Pentagon for my anti-war protests."

"Maybe you should ask Jane Fonda. She was a traitor to America."

Our war was not over and I said, "Same as Nixon.

He said nothing and my boss came over to ask why I failed to score. She was not a hippie and had abandoned her son at 14.

"He didn't want to buy nothing."

"You'll get lots of those."

And I did for the rest of the day.

Curse you Jane Fonda.

"And peace on Earth.

My Son Fenway

The Damned Live 1979

Hurrah was a walk-up nightclub on 32 West 62nd Street. The second-floor had been a disco in its previous reincarnation. Studio 54 stole that clientele and the owners brought downtown uptown by having Jim Fouratt book punk bands.

The live music was the main attraction to Hurrah. The bookers loaded the stage with New York bands such as Klaus Nomi, ESG, Polyrock, and Ballistic Kisses to opened for headliners like the B-52s, Gang of Four, the Dead Boys, and the Ramones.

Between sets video monitors played music and strobed a kaleidoscope of images. My friends and I worked the punk disco as barmen, DJs, bookers, management, security, cashiers, and me employed as the doorman.

Our crowd were cute high school girls, long-legged models, generous drug dealers, wild movie stars, aspiring musicians, though teenagers from the outer boroughs, off-duty cops, druggy diplomats, doctors, and ne'er-do-well artists as well as a diverse collection of undesirables.

$10 bought entry for anyone other than a rat pack of bridge-and-tunnel boys. They were trouble.

In June of 1979 The Damned from the UK hit Hurrah for a one-night stand with the Dead Boys. I was familiar with the band from their newly-released LP MACHINEGUN ETIQUETTE. The Jefferson Airplane?s WHITE RABBIT was a cover from the album. I had the single. RABID was on the B-side.

Aside from letting in underage girls from Fieldston Academy and cuffing twenties for extra wages, one of my tasks as doorman was to lead the top billing bands from the dressing room in the rear corridor through the crowd onto the low stage.

A distance of 150 feet through a crowd crammed past capacity, since a cashier and I had racketed the door and resold tickets to SRO shows.

The night of The Damned's concert I probably had packed another hundred fans into the club. The Dead Boys had torn up the 700+ boys and girls. They wanted more and the more that they were going to get was The Damned. Hundreds chanted for the band. Their boots stomped hard on the wooden floor. The booker signaled me that it was time to get the band onstage. I went to the dressing room. The five bandmembers sat on its asses, surrounded by the usual punk groupies. Cheetah Chrome of the Dead Boys sulked in the corner. The lead guitarist was not used to being ignored by his faithful sluts.

"What's the problem?" It was obvious that the Damned weren't going anywhere.

"No Vodka. Our contact stipulated four bottles of Vodka. We ain't got none." Captain Sensible, the lead guitarist was wearing a gorilla suit. Pink top. Yellow bottom. It was a warm June night and sweat rivuleted down his face. Hot pants and a tube tops would have been a better choice.

"No vodka. No show." The black-haired singer announced with folded arms. His skin was covered by a film of white. He so wanted to look like a vampire.

"Gimme a minute." I reckoned that the owners had refused the vodka fearing the band would hit the stage drunk, but if they wanted vodka, I was going to get them some. Jhoury was the head bartender. Long thin and gay, he had a thing for the lead singer. I told him the problem and his hands elegantly seized five bottles of bar-well quality.

Old Cossack.

"Lead the way." The bottles, glasses, and mixers appeared on a tray, as if Jhoury had anticipated this call all evening. He had a thing for straight boys with English accents and reveled in his glory, when he entered the dressing room with their request the band sprang to their feet at the sight of the vodka.

“Good man." The redheaded drummer, Rat Scabies, grabbed the bottles and distributed to his fellow band members. He waved away the glasses and mixers. "We'll be drinking it neat."

The Damned screwed off the tops and lifted the open bottles to pour the vodka down their gullets like baby birds swallowing their mother's spew. Some of it made it down their throats. The rest spilled onto their clothes and floor. Jhoury was in wide-eyed awe. He like his drink too. The bottles were half-empty within a minute. Cheetah Chrome drank most of one. The drummer Rat Scabies smirked at him and said, "It's showtime. Get us on the stage and keep any lit cigarettes away from us. We're combustible."

"Jhoury, you're coming with me." I eyed his tray. Jhoury smiled with thanks. He never got out from behind the bar and now he was leading rough boys through a thick crowd. He didn't have to be told twice and we wedged out way through the phalanx of fans. The band picked up their instruments and opened the set with NEW ROSE.

It was a great show.

They performed WHITE RABBIT as an encore.

By 3am Hurrah was empty and the band ready to hit the road on their bus.

The Dead Boys with them. They were a double bill for the tour.

Destination Cleveland.

No one could find Cheetah Chrome and the bus pulled out without him. It wasn't until Buffalo that someone opened the storage area under the bus and found Cheetah passed out on the speakers. He didn't wake up until Cleveland.

The lead guitarist knew the smell of his hometown.

I never saw the Damned again, but Jhoury and I spoke often about their glugging the vodka. They were our heroes, then again so were so many of the bands that appeared at Hurrah.

It was the best of times.

ps Cheetah Chrome called me a phony for writing him into the story, but I recall him under the bus.

Plus this is semi-fiction and I love the Dead Boys.

Check out NEW ROSE by the Damned

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTfyUqVqX-0

I'm A Poseur Too

This morning I re-wrote a story about the Damned's show at Hurrah in 1978. I thought that the Dead Boys from Cleveland were touring with the British group. Cheetah Chrome emailed a comment excoriating my time-misplacement.

What an honor.

Here is his email.

SONIC REDUCER rocks.

The Damned Live 1978

Cheetah

Nice story , too bad it never happened. Do yer research man.The only gigs we ever did with the Damned in the US were at CBGB.The only tour we ever did with them was in England. Documented fact. Christ, you lame-ass posers...

My replies

Mr. Chrome, I will change the facts about the gig. I was there and recall passing out in the underneath baggage compartment of the Damned's tour bus. Don't worry you were my favorite band from Cleveland. Sonic reducer will forever rock. Plus this is semi-fiction. And I don't give a shit for nothing other than seeing you guys live. My memory has been savaged by time. Once I was in a taxi coming down down 7th Avenue from Hurrah. Probably 2 in the morning. With a few high school girls from the upper west side. There was a traffic jam around MSG. Didn't make sense until I spotted you bare-chested in the avenue facing the traffic. The girls asked who was that.

"A true dead boy."

And that's the truth.

Thanks for the comment, Mr. Chrome.

ps I saw the Dead Boys every chance I had in the late-70s.

They were better than great. They were most excellent.

Fuck 12

I was just at a demonstration at jay Street Metro Tech calling for the abolition of the NYPD. About 3-4000 people shouting FTP after two separate incidents of police brutality at this subway stop.

End the reign of the rich. End the 12. Free the POWs of the Drug Wars. Defund the DEA. Empty the prisons for profit.

The PO Dee were shocked by this message.

They are calling for reinforcements.

Helicopters are flittering overhead.

Don't they know we are not going to take it anymore?

Obviously not.

Resist.

Friends responded on FB

EW - And turn this city into pandemonium stupid people without the rule of law you have nothing

JD - there is no question that the NYPD needs major reform and that the department needs retraining. But to completely abolish the NYPD and have no law is nonsensical. We need to stop the militarization of the police force. And we need to reform and overhaul our prison system. There is a lot that needs to be done, but to totally dismantle or abolish the police force would be foolish. We need to fight corruption and injustice, but we also need laws and law enforcement.

AT - Ahh. That's what the helicopters were about. Hope we have enough sense to fight injustice with out the absurdity of "abolishing" the police.

FS - New York City has only angels and saints ,now living there? Hypothetically,in your police free state,who will protect the victims of crime,or will crime disappear with no police?

"The police are not here to preserve order, they are here to preserve disorder." - Mayor Daley Chicago 1968

And eat donuts.