Social Distancing a la Covid

Phase 2 of the Covid re-opening was announced by Mayor DeBlasio on Monday June 22, 2020

Outdoor dining was to be allowed, although it didn't happen till July with Governor Cuomo assessing that wth less than 1% infection test levels, New York State had exited from the death grip of April and May. New Yorkers wore masks. The hospitals offered free testing. People respected distance, except for Trumpards, who regarded Covid as a hoax. I lost three friends in the Spring. They have not risen from the graave. They died alone. Covid is not a hoax, but we have entered Phase 4 and allowed to gather in groups of ten and restaurants are permitted open at 25% of their table capacity.

In April and May ambulances raced across Brooklyn. Sirens were never-ending and I stayed home to avoid getting sick, but I succumbed to Covid in April.

A mild case thanks to I don't know what. I have the antiboies and test every two weeks, but I play it relatively safe. I wear a mask and keep to myself, but meet with more people as long as they have recently taken a Covid test.

The other day I celebrated a young friend's birthday in Fort Greene. We numbered ten. I posted a photo on Facebook and my family members criticized for our gathering in a clump. I explained NYC was in Phase 4. They haven't been with anyone else in months and I don't blame them for the isolation.

One day we will all dance again.

I can't say when, but one day we will dance and I practice my steps, because fuck Chris Rock.

There's nothing wrong with beng the oldest man in the club.

Together or alone.

Noblesse Ne'er-Do-Wells

Ten years ago Thaksin's red shirts of targeted Bangkok's luxury shopping malls of their political rivals, the elite yellow shirts. The riotous schism between the two classes was a mystery to most foreigners who regarded their adopted country as the land of Smiles, but a restrictive way of life to the majority of Thais.

I Googled 'thailand five families rule' and the search engine offered thousands of five-star hotel rooms without a single url leading to any information on the ruling cliques of Thailand. A second attempt on Thai hierarchy revealed little of the hi-so or high society other than saying that the King came first above all others and the loyal army of the elite repressed the uprising with beatings, bullets, and death.

Still to both sides of the conflict Bhumipol remained the one pure Thai and his family has been deemed sacrosanct followed by lesser nobility and then monks. For centuries social status receded from this monolith according to income, occupation, education, age, connections, and family, which is why Thais are inadvertently curious about the background of farangs in the West.

"Are you hi-so or lo-so (low society)?"

"Mi-so'"

Not that middle-class really mattered to zenotrophic Thais, who considered all farangs lesser than the the lowest drunk in the Klong Toey slum and recognize status with a glance.

Twenty years ago I was befriended by an aged female member of the royalty. The refined seventy year-old ran a grade school in Yala. I was one of the few westerners in that town.

"Why are you here?" Yala was the Deep South.

"I'm a writer. It's quiet and out of the way." Yala back then was peaceful.

"Too quiet." Anana assumed most men were in Thailand for women.

"I like quiet." The search for sex was partially true for many foreigners, although I didn't have a girlfriend in the provincial city. Anana accepted my answer as a half-truth and told me about her university years in New Paltz during the 1940s.

"I know that town." It had been founded by the Huguenots. The paradiasical lakes above the Gunks are surrounded by a boreal forests of eastern hemlocks.

"I've never met any westerners from there." The older woman exuded etiquette by not calling me a 'farang'.

She invited me to dine with her often and after a month asked, if I wanted to drive her to Chiang Mai.

"I'd love to." Yala to Chiang Mai was a long way, but I was game for a road trip.

We took off in her BMW and stopped at temples along the way. The monks greeted her with deference and treated me as if I were part of her family. It wasn't until we visited Songkla for a seafood dinner that I noticed how high was her placement on the social ladder.

We entered the airy restaurant without any fanfare, but the owner fell to his knees. The rest of his staff followed suit as did the diners. We walked through the dining area to a table vacated by the previous guests. We sat and Anana signaled everyone to rise.

"Now you see why I like you. You greet me like a normal person. I only wish that Thais could do the same."

We had a delightful meal during which she discussed THE KING AND I at length.

"No one in Thailand has seen this film. It's too much fun and the king is not fun. At least that's the way the Thai people think of their father."

And with good reason.

The King has presided over the rise of his country from a Third World pit stop to an economic miracle, however the riches reaped by the nouveau elite challenge the old ways.

Several years ago I was at a golf range and the Thai pro asked if I could move to another slot. I could tell the request hadn't come from him and turned around to see several Mercedeses parked behind us. Their occupants were dressed in the height of shopping mall splendor. I was wearing Celtic green.

"Tell them to wait a few minutes." I only had five balls left in my basket.

"They want you go now." The Thai pro didn't look in the direction of the parking lot.

"Really." I waved to them that I'd only be a few minutes. Their eyes bulged in their sockets. One of them came up to me and said in good English, "Do you know who we are?"

"I suspect you come from good families and as such you should extend the good manners of your class to an older guest of your country. Thank you."

I teed my ball and duffed my drive.

They laughed at my shot and the next one went about 50 yeards before burrowing into the grass. My third and fourth attempts flew left and right about 200 yards.

More laughter and I placed the final ball on the tee. I peered at the distant 300 yard marker and set my stance. I concentrated on the ball, the air, and my target and swung with all my might. The ball launched into the air about 200 yards and fell straight down 100 yards from the driving platform.

More laughter.

"That was worth the wait." The oldest man said with tears streaming down his face.

"I'm glad I could be of service." I shrugged and tipped the Thai pro 200 baht.

"Chok dee." I waved to the Mercedes mob and got on my motorcycle to drive home.

Not a King, but a master of a bad swing.

The Ghost Town Of Anarchy

During the last debate Donald Trump called New York City a ghost town.

Having lived here in the 1970s I refuted the pseudo-POTUS.

The Big Orange doesn't know shit from Shinola.

I admit the city blacked out in 1977.

I had a good time that night, drinking with my gay friends and trying to smash Fiorucci's window to snatch a gold lame Elvis Suit.

Only twenty-five I easily outran the security.

The city was burning in the Bronx, Harlem, and the Lower East Side.

Sin was worshipped in Times Square.

This was our city, but it was never a ghost town and neither is New York now.

I am an anarchist. I only put only dog on a leash.

Pom Pom.

We lived two blocks from Mare-De-Lardo and nowhere is more a ghost town than Palm Beach after dark.

Duane Hanson statue guarding art.

The beach.

My godson wasn't scared of the ghosts of Palm Beach nor those anywhere else in the world.

Trump doesn't love anarchists and threatened New York and Portland with a cut-off of federal funds.

As a life-long anarchist I say, "FUCK YOU. No more years." and I like living in a ghost town.

I might drink in the 169 bar alone, but one day we will dance again.

The ghosts of anarchy are voting all day-long.

Today I exercised my right and cried seeing the old Sistahs of the Hat struggling to cast their votes, dressed as if they were were going to church.

They know the battle is on.

For our children.

VOTE all you Ghost Town Anarchists.

Peace Love and Happiness. ps my old dog Champoo was also an anarchist.

And a ghost along with Pom Pom.

But I love both ghosts and anarchists.

We are the future of the greatestd city in the Solar System.

Are You A Neanderthal?

Test Yourself : Are you a Neanderthal?

1. Do your eyebrows meet in the middle? +5

2. Can you lock your knees in an upright position? -5

3. Got a chin? If the answer is no, +3

4. How about a forehead? If not, +3

5. Is it easy for you to balance a book on your head? +5

6. Do you ever open beer bottles with your teeth? +10

7. Are you frequently more comfortable squatting on your heels than sitting in a chair? +5

8. Is your head attached vertically to your neck? If not, +1 for every five degrees of slope.

9. Less than five feet tall? +1 for every inch under.

10. If your lower arm is shorter than your upper arm,+1 for every inch of difference.

11. Ditto for your lower and upper legs.

12. Pigeon-toed? +5

13. Have you ever felt like bashing a postal clerk with a club? You're normal--no points.

14. Is the space between your big toe and your other toes big enough to hold an apple? +5

15. Do you regularly eat apples in this fashion? +15

16. Do people think you're wearing your hair in a bun when you're not? +10

17. Can you count your vertebrae while wearing two sweaters and an overcoat? +5

18. Is your nickname "Duke", "Butch", or "Animal"? +3

Scoring

0-20 points: You are a virtually pure homo sapien. Feel free to build bridges, compose symphonies, and overrun the world.

20-40 points: A slight Neanderthal strain means that you will occasionally have spells of primitive behavior, crawling around on all fours and whooping wildly. If you live in California, no one will notice.

40-60 points: You can still function quite well in the modern world, but avoid eating in fancy restaurants lest your table manners give you away.

60-80 points: Your Pleistocene heritage is predominant. You should consider a career in pro football.

80-100 points: Unfortunately, your genetic makeup is Grunt City; there is no place for you in human society. A career in politics is recommended.

Couvre-Feu

The curfew comes for the old French phrase 'couvre-feu' meaning 'cover fire'. William The Conqueror adopted the Middle Ages 'curfeu' to call on the people to extinguish the household fires to prevent conflagrations. 8PM was the normal hour for the curfeu. Same as declared by Mayor DeBlasio and Governor Cuomo this afternoon, but these corrupt politicians serving the racist classes are simply enacting an old racist policy against blacks such as juvenile urban policing violating young people 1st, 4th, 5th or 14th Amendment rights, then the suburban malls and corporate stores instituted bans on urban youths after a certain hour harkening back to racist 'after dark' curfews of the South, North, West, and East.

AKA Sundown towns.

The evil that lurks in men's hearts does not die in the grace.

SEPTEMBER 2020

September 2020 was a horrible month.

Forest fires torched California and Oregon.

Trump gathered his devotees to maskless rallies and claimed Covid-19 was nothing to worry about as long as you rejected science in favor of the absolute beleif in the Almighty.

Everyday our troops fought in Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, and scores of nations across the globe.

No one in America cares about peace, especially the KKK Front seeking to bring back the the goold old time of complete white supremeacy.

Not this year.

IN September Thar, Jay-Jay and No One visited the Met.

Jacob was easger to view the Jacob Lawrence's STRUGGLE RETROSPECTIVE.

"He refused to sell individual paintings according to what I heard."

Probably true." I read a quote by Jacob Lawrence.

"As I read more of the history of the United States, I gradually began to appreciate not only the struggle and contributions of the Negro people, but also to appreciate the rich and exciting story of America and all of the peoples who emigrated to the ‘New World.’ — Jacob Lawrence, December 1954 letter

A modern man.

There were the Rockaways.

Many people on the beach.

NOne of them wore masks.

I expected to live through all this.

Maybe the Fortune Tellers are dark, but a future is always a breath away from the past.

Dave Henderson, Kate Teale, and I might endup at Higgins Beach.

They didn't bring Italian Sandwiches, but I have a lovely Higgins Beach Sweatshirt.

I saw my first memory underwater at that beach, but the future is blank .

People were leaving the city, befause it wasn't a city anymore.

Just another place in the world to kill time.

My bed isn't on the sidewalk.

I have crashed on the trains.

Sleep Sleep Sleep.

A thing of beauty.

Ga-baGabbah-Hey with Angie.

I miss you long time.

Murderous Che

During the late 1950s Fidel Castro's revolutionary forces hid among the dirt-poor farmers of the Sierra Masetra Mountains. Batista's forces hunted the small band of ill-armed rebels. Commandante Che was in charge of discipline and regularly executed spies, turncoats, and deserters to save the movement. Eutímio Guerra, a peasant army guide first victim, admitted to having directed the Batista air force to bombed the clumn as well as betraying peasant sympathetic to the cause.

The price of his treason was 10,000 Cuban Pesos or $10,000.

Che executed the traitor with a single shot to the head with a .32.

The other day I mentioned Che to the young son of a Cuban emigre.

"Che was a murderer."

Killer was probably more apt, because after the Revolution's triumph Che conducted trials against the previous regime's most notorious functionaires as well as the repressive officers of police and army. Most were executed without mercy and Che claimed the only way to defend the Revolution was to execute its enemies.

I agree with him.

They numbered between 55 and 122.

Che personally supervised the summary shootings.

My friend claimed Che killed thousands.

There is no chance of convincing him otherwise.

People believe what they want to believe.

Same as me.

Sex Pistols In the Lone Star State

NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS by the Sex Pistols was released in late-October 1977 The LP was buoyed by the hit singles GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, PRETTY VACANT, and the hot HOLIDAY IN THE SUN and while rejected by the BBC and various UK record stores, the Sex Pistols' album reached the # 1 spot without ever getting airplay.

Political pressure and police presence in Britain forced the controversial band to hit the road and their provocative manager Malcolm McLaren scheduled a USA tour through the Deep South for the sake of headlines.

Sid Vicious gave him what he wanted from the neophyte bassist.

The audience thronged to the venues to watch punk's top band sink into an ocean of hostility.

S was fucked up for every show.

Sporting a recently blooded body carving 'Gimme a fix' Sid Vicious hit the stage of Dallas' Longhorn Ballroom. According to Wikipedia 'he spat blood at a woman who had climbed onstage and punched him in the face.'

Over 2000 people saw that show.

An Austin reporter wrote the following;

"Sid was really fucked up. Really drunk. He played for a while without his guitar plugged in. He played for a while with a fish. I think somebody threw it up there, a bass or something. People seemed pissed at him. He'd spit on the audience; they'd spit on him. That's what you did. There was this element of, "You paid to see us play?"
The memorable thing about the show was the crowd and how tightly packed it was. Everybody had moments when you were suddenly not on the ground anymore, being swept along with the crowd. Some people were genuinely scared of being crushed. But that's an old British football tradition, too.
I don't remember anything about the song list. I'm sure it was all their favorites. They didn't have all that many songs, but they were entertaining songwriters. Their songs still hold up. "God Save the Queen" is a wonderful song. And it was a great rock & roll show."

Another attendee wrote;

"Sid hits the bottle hard before the show. Being in Texas again, he and Johnny mock the "Cowboys" in attendance. About half of the 1,800 in the crowd are fans; the other half are Country & Western fans defending their territory against these British punks. They play SEVENTEEN.

John wears an ugly pink shirt and black glove for most of the show, while Steve wears all black, including boots, spurs, and a Sheriff's star. Next song NEW YORK.

Although he contributes nothing musically, Sid knows he's stealing Johnny's limelight, which is more important to him.

EMI

With "Gimme a Fix" on his bare chest, Sid barely played his bass and seemed more interested in jumping around instead of performing music. Plastic cups and other assorted objects flew toward the stage for the duration of the performance. (No glass bottles were sold.)

At the end of "Holidays in the Sun," Sid gets head-butted by an overzealous woman and receives a bloody nose. Instead of wiping up the mess, he lets the gore flow down his torso. After smearing it on his face, he spits into the crowd, yelling off-mic and over the din,

"All cowboys are queer!"

During PRETTY VACANT Sid takes a broken bottle and carves his chest. He removes the pus-soaked bandage from his arm and throws it into the crowd. The other band members continue the show. With his newly carved chest, Sid isn't playing bass as much as using it, while jumping around and staring, like the heroin-deprived, schnapps zombie he now is.

After a blistering version of ANARCHY IN THE UK the band left the stage, and, surprisingly, the crowd yelled for more. As the band reappeared for an encore, Sid showed the audience an obscene gesture and Steve yelled,

"You must be mad to want more of us!"

No Fun

In the middle of NO FUN Steve confronts a heckler by throwing a couple punches and jabbing him with the headstock of his guitar. The next morning, the Dallas newspaper read:

"Most of the people last night came to see the people who came to see the Sex Pistols."

Now why ain't all Rock Concerts like that. Fucking Amazing."

I GUESS YOU HAD TO BE THERE.

To view the Sex Pistols at the Longhorn, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-MFo25_3hI