More Than 500,000

Over 500,000 Americans have died from Covid.

My friends, Ro and Doctor Bertoni, were two of them.

As was Dakota Pittman and many others.

Last year this time I was atop Kilimanjaro. The 2021 team of Kili Initiative descended from the summit. I got an internet connection on the Saddle. Reports from the Guardian and BBCNews informed us of a deadly situation in Italy. Thousands were dying across that country and my Kenyan friends asked, "What do you think will happen?"

"I have no idea."

I certainly hadn't thought 500,000 dead.

That is more than the population of Kansas City, Cleveland, or New Orleans and the next year promises more of the same for a nation half-dedicated to the Trump story line on Covid fraud. Rest in Peace all of you.

Pig Snout a la Thai

Several years ago my Thai cousin and I stopped by the Jomtien tha-lat. My sister-in-law ran a food stall inside the open-air market. On my last visit Yai had been selling chickens. Now it was pig and Khim said, "We eat from tail to nose. Everything, but the oink."

On display were heads, tails, feet, innards et al.

"I have never eaten the jamook-moo. Ears and feet yes."

"Feet are good, but hoo are chewy. Nose more chewy than ear. Soup from snout a-loi."

My sister-in-law waved for us to sit down behind the counter. We obeyed Yai and the two of us planted at a table. Plates of feet, crispy ear, and a snout were placed on the table. I ordered three bottles of Lao beer.

Several other food merchants stood by to observe a 'farang' reaction to the food.

I had once been fooled into eating pig ear to cure my stuttering once.

I knew how to make a good show.

Khim's and my teeth wrestled with the tough ears. Better if we were hyenas or goat whose chompers can gnaw through beer cans. The feet offered easier prey and tasty, after the hair had been braised off the trotters cooked in a soy sauce. Our lips smacked with every rice.

Yai chopped up the snout and dropped the morsels in a wok adding scallions, soy sauce, and garlics.

We finished the beer and I ordered three more bottles. We were soon ten at a small table, chewing on the nostrils where there is only skin and gelatinously textured tissue. These are the chewy, crispy bits that taste like candy to some meat lovers. It definitely didn't taste of chicken. My wife and daughter showed up and I ordered another plate. Everyone was happy, because the Thais only love food more than having fun.

Dtik Ang - Stuttering in Thai

My speech problems were many in my youth across the harbor from Portland, Maine.

A stutter coupled with a lisp and stammer forced the school authorities of Falmouth Foresides to test my mental competence. The teachers were surprised to discover through a battery of intelligence exams that I was the smartest child within the school system, especially since I sounded 'retarded' to them.

Thankfully I had hidden my dyslexia otherwise the school ppolice

would have imprisoned me at Mackworth Island and nothing good ever happened on Mackworth Island.

My fellow classmates passed through these stages , but I still spoke with difficulty. Bullies had recognized a weak member of society and my teachers wrote in my report cards, "Great student, but can not say S."

My uncle Russ thought my saying, "I lub youd." was cute, however my father saw a hard road ahead and we went to see specialists at the Maine Medical Center in Portland. My grandfather had been a doctor there and I was treated like a damaged godling. After intensive examinations the doctors reported to my father that my tongue was too big for my mouth instilling laziness into my speech patterns.

"Best, we slice your son's palate to force his tongue to work harder."

Slice it how?"

"With razor blades."

My father was an electrical engineer, not a doctor, but realized these experts know nothing and said, "I'd rather him have a lisp than be tortured by doctors."

I spent years in therapy.

I learned how to black out time.

I allowed my tongue to wait for syllables.

Consonants were more problematic, but I passed more or less, although smarter sorts heard my weakness in other language as I lived around the world.

I learned the word for stutter in foreign languages.

Bégayer.

Sssstottern in German.

Gagap in Bahasa Indonesian.

Phūd tidx̀āng in Thai.

Even in my 50s I stuttered. My Thai cousin in Ban Nok suggested an easy fool-safe remedy.

"Eat the hee of a pig."

"Pig vagina?" I played along, because there's nothing better that upcountry-Thai rice farmers like better than making a fool of a farang.

"Mai CCCCCHua."

It can't hurt," my wife said, but she hadn't loved me in years.

"OOOOOKKKKay."

I dug into my wallet and said, "B-B-B-uy a pig and beer."

Atomic Bloom

Back in the summer of 2014 I bicycled from Fort Greene to Bushwick Avenue. Jane Dickson was displaying a sparse mirrored mural of mythical rock bands at the Silent Barn Gallery. The neighborhood was hard-core without any signs of encroachment from the art phenomena farther to the north. I locked my bike to a gate and hoped for the best. Jane's work hung on a brick wall. My favorite faux-band was THE DUH. Jane greeted friends and admirers. Her work on Times Square, Las Vegas, carnivals and commercial strip malls are well-loved by a large segment of New York and the world. Jane introduced me to people as a great writer. She is planning on using text from my unpublished punk novel MAYBE TOMORROW to add flavor to an upcoming show about Times Square. I had drank heavily the previous night and on Monday hard work was scheduled for the metal shop in Greenpoint. As I said my good-bye, Kenny Scharf showed up at the gallery. I introduced myself and he reacted as if I had been revived from the dead. I said nothing. Some people think I've died, while others are surprised by my appearance. I'm not the man I used to be. Kenny was railing against the radiation plume spreading from the damaged Fukushima reactor in Japan. "The radiation is entering the food chain of the West Coast. My daughter was told to eat sea kelp for iodine, but the seaweed comes from the Pacific. They're doomed out there." "I went through Japan after the quake. No one was traveling there." Narita had been empty. "The Japanese are safer than us, because the wind is blowing the radiation across the ocean." He was right and I thought about the gigantic plastic trash ball floating in the Northern Pacific. It was the perfect breeding ground for a Godzilla-type monster. Kenny invited Jane and me to a disco near his studio. "It starts at 12 and goes till 4." "Sounds like fun." Ten years ago I might have gone, but those hours are deep in my bedtime. I departed from the gallery and unlocked my bike. There was no sign of tampering. My ride back to Fort Greene took thirty minutes. The sky glowed with a pale blue. The color had nothing to do with radiation. At least not yet.

Journal Entry - June 22, 1977 - Gaslight Pub - Park Slope

Last night the improv class at Hunter College was crazy, as Chuck, Carla, and I created another version of STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE about trannys. Carla went home with her ex-husband. I headed back to Brooklyn. No one from Manhattan wants to bridge or tunnel to that borough.

At the Gaslight Pub the crowd was in full swing. Robert, a lanky blood, and his Italian cohort, Rabbit, were fighting over the split of a stolen IBM typewriter. They were fighting over the money split.

"60/40." Rabbit offered without a smile

"70 for me and 30 for you. Truthfully I don't know why I'm giving you a cent. I stole it."

"Because I carried it here."

"How much you want?" I asked knowing they cost about $500 brand new.

"$100," Robert said quickly. "They cost more than that."

"This one is used. $55 is my one and only offer."

"Fuck that, I'll smash it the street before I let you rob me."

I plugged in the typewriter. It worked like a dream.

James slumped against the bar. It was 2 AM. He had drunk like it was 6. I told him the story. He gave me $100. "Get it. Try and get it for less. Those two are junkies. It's late. They need a fix."

I approached with money in hand.

"Rob you. Go fuck yourself. I'll give you $60. Are we down?"

"Yes," they said as a team. I cuffed them $60.

Can you make it $80."

"Not a chance."

They gave me the typewriter.

We drank till closing and every moment Rabbit was jealous of James hitting on Robert.

They might have been junkies, but they were still in love adn love will conquer all for a junkie except for desire.

And a desire not for love.

Journal Entry - June 21, 1977 - Park Slope - Brooklyn

Throughout the night David the super of Berkeley Place played Got to Give It Up (Part 1) by Marvin Gaye over and over again very loud. James rolled into the apartment at 8 and pounded on Hazel's wall and the ceiling above his room.

"Shut that shit off."

He put on a tape of the World Saxophone Quartet - Point of No Return. I preferred Marvin to Hamiet Bluiett, Julius Hemphill, Oliver Lake and David Murray, but wasn't anything better to fuck with the neighbors, especially David, who turned off his stereo.

Around noon I spoke with Ro to arrange an afternoon rendezvous. She promised chaos. We met at the Riviera Cafe in the West Village. I ordered a vodka-tonic. She had water.

"I'm leaving for Paris to study painting at Beaux Arts."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Then I'll have to get a passport."

"You're coming to Paris?"

"Why not? Flights are cheap. Don't worry I won't bother you there."

She looked at me as if she wasn't so sure about that, but Libby was in Paris. She couldn't be that hard to find."

This evening I had tried to seduce Libby's friend Karen at the Rainbow Room. We danced in a very erotic way. my though between hers. We were both turned on, but she finally shoved me away, saying, "I can't. I have a boyfriend. I'd feel miserable if I did anything with you."

"I understand. I'm very used to being alone."

"It's not that I don't want to, but my roommate is at home, otherwise I couldn't trust myself."

"There's always the bathroom here."

She shut her eyes and said, "Okay, it's not like I'm going to be with my boyfriend forever."

Palm Beach Ne'er-Do-Well

Many of my female friends laughed upon hearing about my summer job on Palm Beach. "What's so funny?" "we know what's going to happen." Each women was possessed by a singular vision. "You're going to fleece some heiress." "Fleece?" Both my wife and mistress had green-lighted any multi-zero gigoloing with turtle-fleshed heiresses on the fabled island of the filthy right. "If I'm lucky I'll marry a 89 year-old woman with six weeks to live and give her the best month-and-a-half of their lives." Two months have passed since my arrival. Number of conquered hearts. Zero. In truth I was more happy in my mansion of solitude than haunting the Leopard Room for a horny dowager, which Adrian Dannatt recommended for a hunting ground. I went there once. The women were happy to flirt with their regulars. I was a rookie rogue. None of my clothes were Gucci. Their beaus dismissed me as no competition. My wife and mistress sounded disappointed by my failure. "Aren't you happy that I'm faithful to you?" I posed the question to them both. "Yes." Their answer was half-hearted. "I have two more weeks. Maybe I'll be lucky." Telling them the same thing makes it easy to recall my words. "Chok dii." "Thanks." And I need good luck too. 56, broke, and fading good looks. The ne'er-do-wells of Palm Beach. Ever faithful to my wives.

12:09PM Prosecco High Noon

My high school offered Typing 101. The class was taught by a woman. Every students were male. Xaverian-Westwood was all-boy. I was a math major. My foreign language was German. Tying 101 was for football players. Our team was State Champs. 9-0 in the Catholic Conference. I took Creative Writing instead of Typing 101. I never fathomed the effect of this teacher on this championship team, until I moved to New York in 1976. I showed up at 55 Remsen Street in Brooklyn expecting a greeting from Ro. The soft-skinned artist from the coalfields was the reason that I left Boston. "You look like an angel under candlelight." Lyrical. Love. Sex. New York. A magic formula. Her ex-boyfriend answered my knock on the door. "Ro's not here." Sorbonne. Painting. PETRIFIED FOREST. Going back to Boston was not in the cards. I moved into an apartment with a gay impresario from the Riviera Cafe. James Spicer had an extra bedroom in Park Slope. He had a typewriter. I wrote a screenplay about a hang glider thief. D....Descending. My typing was shit. My grammar even worse. I should have paid attention in English 101. My fingers sought letters on the keyboard like a blind pianist trying to play Chopin. Blind I typed with beauty instead of precision. My instrument was an Olivetti A series. I wrote the Detective Poems on this machine. In 1982 I deserted Reagan America for France. My job - physionomiste at the Rex Club. The boite du nuit was financed by Actuel. A counter-culture magazine backed by an aristocrat ne'er-do-well. His New York writer Bernard Zekri liked my poetry. None of the lines rhymed in my broken meter. It was very very punk three years after the fact. Violent Femmes, Toure Kunda, the Slits, the Bush Tetras and numerous other bands performed at the Rex. I met the underbelly of Paris. Models, drug dealers, artists, undercover flics, writers, poets, dancers et al. They came from everywhere. Paris was the center of the world outside of the USA. A German from Hamburg asked if I could transcribe his girlfriend's interview of Bryan Ferry for Vogue. Vivaca was a top model from Georgia. A girl that beautiful never had to take Typing 101. Jurgen offered 1000 French Francs for the job. Almost $200US. I said yes and took the Metro from the Marais to 16th Arrondisement. I arrived at noon. Jurgen lived in a small house on Rue de la Tour. Stark decor. He sat me in the white-walled living room with my typewriter. A tape recorder was on the table. "Do you need anything?" Jurgen was a playboy. Three years older than me. No one knew what he did for money, but he drove a 67 T-Bird. Same as Dennis Hopper in Wim Wenders' AMERICAN FRIEND. "Some champagne and a glass. Crystal, if possible." I meant the glass, however Jurgen smiled and left the room. He returned with a bottle of Cristal- Louis Roederer and a single crystal flute. He thought that I was cool. I thought the same and we became friends to the end, despite my shitty typing and today I opened a bottle of Prosecco with my landlord, Andy Pollack. It was before noon. I finished my fill before 2pm. Here's to you, Jurgen and all the bad typers in the world.

Over And Out - Senor Trump

Over the previous two months following the 2020 Election Trump, GOP politicians, and right-wing news stations had been very vocal about accusing the Democrats of having manipulated the counting of votes. Scores of lawsuits were filed by Republican lawyers against the results in Arizona, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and Georgia. None of them were accepted by the courts and the defeated leader of the 'Despicables' launched a hate-campaign against the victors, culminating on January 6, 2021 with Donald Trump hosting a 'STOP THE STEAL' rally for his far-right supporters on Pennsylvania Avenue to coincide with the Electoral College vote to confirm Joe Biden as President.

Trump spoke at length.

He catalogued the many perceived errors in the election process to his crowd, ending with this encouragement.

"And again, most people would stand there at 9 o'clock in the evening and say I want to thank you very much, and they go off to some other life. But I said something's wrong here, something is really wrong, can have happened.

And we fight. We fight like hell. And if you don't fight like hell, you're not going to have a country anymore.

Our exciting adventures and boldest endeavors have not yet begun. My fellow Americans, for our movement, for our children, and for our beloved country.

And I say this despite all that's happened. The best is yet to come.

So we're going to, we're going to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue. I love Pennsylvania Avenue. And we're going to the Capitol, and we're going to try and give.

The Democrats are hopeless — they never vote for anything. Not even one vote. But we're going to try and give our Republicans, the weak ones because the strong ones don't need any of our help. We're going to try and give them the kind of pride and boldness that they need to take back our country.

So let's walk down Pennsylvania Avenue.

I want to thank you all. God bless you and God Bless America.

Thank you all for being here. This is incredible. Thank you very much. Thank you."

Tens of thousands heeded his command.

There were no armed National Guard troops to stop the mob's progress. The Capitol Police were overwhelmed by the Trump fanatics. The Senate and Congress were under siege and the Proud Boys et al sought blood.

Some police backed the rioters.

THe American flag became a rallying point

Security was breached by the Zealots.

Guns were drawn to protect the lawmakers

People started to die.

Nancy Pelosi and Mike Pence headed the list of the mob.

Chaos reigned America.

Trump said nothing to prevent the disorder.

He moved out of the White House and drifted south to Florida, a loyal bastion of Trumpards.

Democrats sought to impeach him.

Their efforts were thwarted by the GOP's refusal to break ranks with a madman.

Now it is up to state AG's to prosecute this criminal and traitor.

And then we fly him to Gitmo, but waterboarding with dog piss.

He deserves nothing less.

HAPPY HEARTS - BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

Every Valentine's Day diamond dealers and jewelers on 47th Street anticipate a mid-winter spending spree by lovers for their loved ones, yet year after year sales numbers have fallen by double-digits, as the economic downturn cut into the income of the middle-class. Diamonds might be a girl's best friend, but not this year.

Yesterday the chocolatiers along 5th Avenue were packed with shoppers as were the high-end stores offering peach fuzz soft cashmere scarfs and arousing lingerie. Rose hawkers manned every corner and no man was going home empty-handed, if he knew what was good for him.

Hlove and I stood in our diamond shop at noon.

Not a single customer had entered the exchange.

"This is not looking good." I wasn't working this year. The Winicks couldn't afford me.

"Tell me about it." HLove hadn't made a sale in a week.

"I need money."

My kids in Thailand were expecting money for the weekend and I was late on my rent.

"Valentine's Day isn't what it used to be." HLove had given five guitar lessons in the last four days. The extra money came in handy.

"Not that it ever was good." I couldn't recall a good Valentine Day in recent memory.

My telephone rang and I checked the number.

It was an unknown caller and I answered the phone with caution.

It was a friendly voice.

"My name is Alex. I was recommended by a friend. Are you open?"

"Very open. What can I do for you?"

"I need a gift."

"Then come on over and I'll help you find something."

I hung up with dismay, because Richie Boy and Fat Karl had stripped the store bare for the annual Miami Beach Show. The two were the twin engines fueling the business. Without them and the merchandise we were almost dead in the water.

Lenny the Bum rapped on the window earlier and mouthed the question if we had been robbed.

"Not at all," I answered in mime, but we had nothing to sell and I complained to Manny my boss.

"Stop your kvetching." Manny had seen four score plus Valentine Days and he had spent most of today arguing with his girlfriend in Florida. Everyone on the Block was heading south this time of the year, because nothing said 'loser' louder than pale winter skin for non-Hassidic diamond dealers.

"Selling when you have goods is easy. Selling when you have nothing is the sign of a great salesman. When your G comes in, act if you're standing in Cartier, because you are in the center of the diamond world and you know where to get everything."

"Right." There was no sense in fighting Manny, since he was usually right, if he wasn't wrong.

At noon Alex showed up with a smile on his face. He worked for an internet start-up and I considered him a member of the middle-class.

"My budget in $3000."

"How long you been going out this woman?" $3000 was more than most men spent on their wives, but 2013 had not been a particularly good year for anyone not attached to the banks.

"Six months." Alex sounded like they were still having sex.

"Really? What she do?"

"She's from the Ukraine and studied at University of London. Now Svetlana works at the Bank of America."

"Oh." According to my calculations Alex was about one zero away from happifying this woman and I pulled out diamond hoops for $15000. They were the only ones left in the store.

"Way too much." Alex's budget was his budget, so I showed him a pair of Italian diamond earrings with two carats in diamonds set in 18K white gold flower design. I had sold several other pairs over the last month and I had guaranteed each male customer a happy ending, but suspected that might not be the case for Alex, so I asked my female diamond associate for her assessment of the diamond earrings.

"There's very nice." Danni was Eastern European, young, and adored jewelry. Her engagement ring came from Jacob and Company. Her mother-in-law ran Moscow's largest jewelry store. She examined the earrings and asked Alex, "How long you been with your girlfriend?"

"Six months. She's petite like a ballerina."

"The earrings cost $3000."

"They are beautiful. Italian too." Danni was telling the truth.

We always do, mostly because it is easier to remember than a lie.

"I'll take them." Alex paid the $3000 without haggling for a lower price. We gave him a nice box. It was a classic ring-box-go sale.

"If you don't get a happy ending, I'll give the money back."

After Alex left, I called Richie Boy was at the Miami Show. He wasn't happy with the sale. There was only $500 profit.

"He's a friend of a friend."

"Oh, great." He had to share the profit with me.

50/50 minus the expenses.

"Better than nothing." I hung up the phone and put the money in the safe minus my commission.

My Valentine's Day plan was food and sleep before calling my wife and children in Thailand.

The train to Brooklyn was crowded with couples carrying Valentine Day gifts. They wore smiling faces. My effort had made Alex happy. I spent $10 of my commish on a Mexican dinner and fell into bed with Pier Brendon's THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE. Within three pages I was out cold and didn't wake until 8am.

On Sunday morning I called my wife in Thailand. She was happy to hear from me. My daughters and sons wished me much love. I read a little more of the book. England had really put it to India.

On Monday I left my apartment in Fort Greene at 9am. I was expecting to sell a diamond heart to a private.

The subway was empty and I arrived to 47th Street a little past 10. Hlove waited by the safe. The musician's face wore a veneer of exhaustion and he said, "I couldn't get to sleep."

"Don't worry, I'll set up the front window."

"Thanks."

Rain was splattering on the sidewalk. It was promising to be a slow Friday.

I was wrong.

Alex showed up several minutes later. The chagrin on his face told a sad story.

"How'd it go?"

"Not good." He stood at the counter sagging with the weight of disaster.

"Let me guess." The $240 in my pocket didn't feel like mine anymore.

"Last night we were going to the ballet. She came out of her bedroom in a dress which looked like it was woven out of the wind. On her ears were two-inch long strands of diamonds. They were antiques and looked like her family stole them from the czar. I handed her the box."

"The box." I had luckily given him an expensive box. "It cost over $20."

"She looked for a name."

"Oh." The box was elegant, but anonymous.

"She opened it and her face dropped like I had called her mother a bad name. She examined the earrings and said, "You have to be kidding and she didn't stop either."

Most women like his wife don't stop when they're on a good roll.

"She said they looked like they cost $600." Alex was reliving the pain from his failed offering.

"Enough already. I blew it. It's my fault." I went into the safe and counted out his money. He handed over the offending gift and I returned his cash. "I don't know what to say."

Actually that wasn't the truth.

Several bad words floated at the tip of my tongue.

"I don't know whether to leave her or not."

Alex's day of romance had been ruined by this unfeeling chuva which is a bad word in Yiddish, so I said the only thing possible, "Do what you think is best."

My advice was non-committal and exactly what he wanted to hear, because any advice from me would be seen in a negative light. I had ruined his Valentine's Day.

"Thanks for taking care of this." Alex held up the money. "My wife might come by to check out this place. she's that type of girl."

"No problem." I waved good-bye. "I'll be polite."

After Alex walked away, Hlove said, "That sucks."

"Big time. Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything." We were partners.

I asked HLove to T the G or follow Alex for several blocks.

A half hour later he came back and said the lovelorn executive had beelined into Van Cleef.

"Sucker."

"Yeah." I phoned Richie Boy with the bad news, which he took with grace.

"We've lost bigger sales this year."

"That fucking bitch. A guy gives her a gift for $3000 and she shits on it. I can't believe it."

"It happens."

Manny said the same thing.

His son and he were from the same school.

Everyone was out for themselves and no good deed went unpunished.

Around 2:30pm a small blonde in designer clothing entered the store. A wide-brimmed hat hid her face. She was no ballerina in my book, but Alex must have seen a different performance of SWAN LAKE than me. The sumo wrestlette examined the jewelry and I pulled out the earrings.

"You mind if I ask you a question?"

"No." The thirtyish woman wasn't telling the truth.

"If someone gave you this for Valentine's Day. How would you feel? Good? Bad? It cost me $2300. Maybe it's a little girlish for you. Women in their 40s like something bigger."

"I'm not 40."

"Are you in your 50s?" I was being mean. Someone had to stand up for Alex.

She huffed out of the store and Hlove gave me the thumb's up.

He was happy that I revenged her slight. I would have been happier with Alex's money in my pocket, but sometimes you have to settle for what you can get and some days revenge is all there is, when beauty is in the hands of the holder.

Journal Entry - June 20, 1977

A long gap between entries.

I left Boston hitchhiking on the Mass Pike.

Libby and I went to the Other Side. The blonde model left with a tranny. I visited my parents, saying nothing about my life. I went over to Brookline to University Road. Hilde was with Dennis, but I was ignorant of her sister's wanting me. I am blind to those who desire me and those that do not.

I was late for a rendezvous with Libby at Chandler's. We met later and fucked in the stairway of the Ritz Hotel. Ronnie saw us afterwards and said, "You know her boyfriend is a fag."

He was speaking about Derek and I said, "So?"

I thought about verbally attacking him, but restrained from spouting off my mouth. I had no reason to speak the truth, since I didn't know the truth.

I walked Libby home. She had a plane to catch.

To Italy.

"At her door I said, "Libby, I would have liked to make love to you in a bed."

"I thought the hallway turned you on."

"It did, but I want more."

"Derek is at my place. I don't want to hurt him." She shield her Viking blue eyes.

"No, it's something else, but I'm happy to have you any way I can."

My cum was drifting down her thigh.

"I like feeling you met on my skin."

No one was at her Newbury Street apartment. We fucked two more times. She didn't bother to bathe. "I want you on me."

A racer friend drove us to Logan in a BMW. Her friends waited at the gate. She was amputating them. I stood in the background. The racer grabbed her, as she said, "Peter."

She touched my arm, as a photographer said, "I have to speak with Libby."

All her friends wanted a piece of her, a minute, a few seconds. She had little to give. The other passengers got on the plane. I went to the nearest bar and drank a beer. her blonde hair shone in the day's dying light. Libby spotted me and walked over, saying, "I haven't forgotten you."

I attempted to kiss her. She turned her head to offer her cheek.The loudspeaker called for her.

Lisa Fleeson to Aer Italia. "Paging Lisa Fleeson. Last call for boarding."

Libby ran up to me.

"Derek thinks I love you."

"Do you?"

Her haughty laugh told the truth.

"See you in your dreams."

She ran to the gate, waving to her friends.

They mourned her departure like they had lost a limb.

I walked to the end of the terminal. The windows ran 4' by 25' to the ceiling. Doctor Gonzo appeared at my side.

"Libby's gone. She isn't going to come back the same. Europe changes people."

The setting sun's dirty gold brilliance pierced the Mystic Bridge's steelworks. The brightness blinded me and I turned to watch my shadow lengthen on the stone floor. Libby's roommate joined us, but realized I was lost in a sad reverie of star, man, and earth. I exited from the terminal and started toward the MBTA stop. A Benz stopped at the curb. The driver was Doctor Gonzo and Derek was in the front seat with the hair stylist John Dellaria in back. Gonzo drove into the city. They spoke about Libby. I told them to stop at a Chinatown basketball park by the Pike. "Why are you leaving?"

I want to play hoops."

It always helps my mind.

LATER - Brookline 9pm

"Claire is interested in you." Ande said at the kitchen table in the Dean Street house. "She's depressed you didn't show up yesterday at Hi-Hat's."

"Huh? She's too young."

"Therese says she has a crush on you, but doesn't want to make a move, because you don't seem interested."

"More scared and I'm not sure she's 16.

I turned to Therese's beautiful sixteen year-old sister and motioned for her to join me outside. I was cold, cruel, and then friendly. When we reached Universty Road, Hilde smiled and said she wanted to play backgammon on the basement water bed. Claire joined us to smoke a joint and asked, "Is Peter sleeping here? What will Dennis say?"

"He's asleep upstairs. He hates the water bed."

It was unheated.

We talked about Dennis knowing about Hilde and me and Therese's wanting Ande.

"You know, Peter, my sister thinks you're her only friend. I'm going to sleep." Claire waited at the door. She left and then so did Hilde. In the morning Dennis woke me in a dream.

He was not happy.

Adrian Dannett - My Obituarist: DOOMED AND FAMOUS @ Miguel Abreau Gallery

Last week I walked into Miguel Abreau Gallery on Orchard Street to see Adrian Dannett. The smartly dressed Welsh writer, comedic child actor, discerning art spiv, poetic flaneur, global interlocutor, and arcane curator, was busy at work on a computer, messaging interested parties to schedule a tete-a-tete viewing of his art collection and promote his literary collection of obituaries DOOMED AND FAMOUS.

His wry smile betrayed the stress of time stolen from his dedication to erudite lassitude.

Opposite sat his editor Katherine, who gleefully recounted a tale of my calling the young drinkers at unheated tables on a Canal Street sidewalk, "Squares."

Her friends were aghast at my weird old man judgment of their lives.

"I know him."

"How?"

"Through Adrian."

Some time in the 90s I attended a West 57th Street art opening and a beautiful blonde British model came up to me. "Who?"

She pointed out a well-dressed, yet tattered man, looking very much like a middle-aged D'Artagnan.

Curious as to how annoying someone could be, I went over and introduced myself.

"I know you."

Surprisingly he recounted my life and we've been friends since that night.

"You know you lead off the preface of DOOMED AND FAMOUS.

"Not at all." I hadn't wanted to touch his book of the dead on my last visit to the gallery.

The Irish and Welsh Jews shared an affinity for death.

He opened his book and read most eloquently, "But this is my obituarist - he has to come in with me." Saying so my friend led me through the velvet ropes of Manhattan's most exclusive nightclubs. And his statement is true, for when he dies I will gather together the many details I have jotted down over the years, blotched notes from dawn bars and midnight wharf walks to write down his story, one most unlikely to be told otherwise; diamond smuggler, punk rocker, Tibetan motorcyclist.

"I'm here with my obituarist.

There is pleasure in the phrase, faintly ghoulish, slightly grand, your immortality assured by patient presence at your side writing it all down on these old shards, scraps of foolscap, and cancelled envelopes.

Thank you for these kind words, comrade.

I shall outlive us all, but not thee.

Sie gesund.

DOOMED AND FAMOUS: Selections from the Adrian Dannatt Collection JANUARY 16 — FEBRUARY 27, 2021 36 ORCHARD STREET

ADRIAN DANNATT'S ANNOTATED CHECKLIST

Miguel Abreu Gallery, in collaboration with Sequence Press, are delighted to announce DOOMED AND FAMOUS: Selections from the Adrian Dannatt Collection, an exhibition accompanying the release of Dannatt’s book of the same title. The show, somewhere between a brocante, an alpine monastery library, and a cabinet de curiosité, gathers highlights from the author's varied collections, assembled over the years and around the world.

The exhibition ranges from scraps of paper to rare signed publications, minimal sculpture and rococo treasures. Yes, there will thankfully be works by such renowned artists as Tina Modotti, Richard Prince, Nancy Spero, Richard Smith, Nan Goldin, Noguchi, Allan Kaprow, Rammellzee and Picasso. Yet, equally of interest will be a sweep of intriguing paraphernalia, objets trouvees and gifts by some more recherchez writers, political activists, artists and friends.

Accompanying notes by Dannatt detail the history of the objects, the often surprising circumstances under which they entered his collection, their problems and provenance.

Dannatt will be entirely present for private tours of the show by appointment.

Signed copies of the book will be available along with a limited edition print by Hugo Guinness.

Works by Mitchell Algus, Laurie Anderson, Jay Batlle, Christian Bérard, Sheila Berger, Roger Blin, Derek Boshier, Juan Boza, Karen Caldicott, Robert Creeley, Guy Debord, Bobby Driscoll, Graham Durward, Richard Floethe, Victoria Floethe, Jan Frank, Adam Fuss, John Giorno, Nan Goldin, Marie Gossart, Hugo Guinness, Brion Gysin, Anthony Haden-Guest, Hananiah Harari, Michael Holman, Duncan Hannah, Damien Hirst, Ralph Humphrey, Allen Jones, Jacqueline de Jong, Allan Kaprow, Tony Kaye, William King, R.B. Kitaj, Alison Knowles, Norman Lewis, Alexander Liberman, Siobhan Liddell, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, Claude Lorrain, Marisol, Maria Martins, Beaux Mendes, Eric Mitchell, Tina Modotti, Robin Morgan, Olivier Mosset, Danny Moynihan, Matt Mullican, Isamu Noguchi, Oporto, Paul Pagk, Paul Păun, Pablo Picasso, Peter Pinchbeck, Philip Pocock, René Portocarrero, Richard Prince, Patrick Procktor, Peter Rose Pulham, Rammellzee, Alan Reid, Marcia Resnick, Walter Robinson, Salvator Rosa, Kathy Ruttenberg, Will Ryman, Giorgio Sadotti, Pieter Schoolwerth, Paul Sharits, Luc Simon, Richard Smith, Dan Sofaer, Nancy Spero, Robert Stanley, Saul Steinberg, William Strang, Ena Swansea, Philippe Thomas, Ruthven Todd, Amor Towles, Jocko Weyland, and many more.

Doomed and Famous: Selected Obituaries Adrian Dannatt Illustrations by Hugo Guinness Sequence Press, January 2021

It's a great show for a great man.

Journal Entry - June 14, 1977 (Berkeley Street)

DREAMS

I walk through the darkness and the sound of bells peal from the Brooklyn churches call for everyone to leave Earth, except for me and 125 women. Why they left and we stayed is beyond me.

President Jimmy Carter and I pull up to a yacht club. He went directly to the Sequoia and I drank with friends. Cher came into the bar and couldn't find a seat.

I gave her mine.

LATER

Clinton Avenue

Matthew and I had a good time at Coney Island. He badly wanted a roller coaster ride, except the Cyclone was under repair. The ocean is hurting with tar and shit in the surf. The beach is covered wth trash, broken glass from decades of human abuse. Matthew and I rode the bumping car, which were great fun, until he lost a contact lens.

I'm heading to Hunter College for my bi-weekly acting class. Tonight should be strange.

Rare are the summer days of clear light The sun can not burn off the haze. Rarer still are the days of easy breathing But I knew that when I moved here From Boston in a stolen car At night driven by the need to leave a racist city Gambling all on the love of a southern woman. Ro left for Paris the day I arrived The stolen car gone with the dawn too.

LATER

I spoke with Libby on the phone. She has my silver brush. I won't have to stop in Westport on the way to Boston.

Class tonight with Billy reenacting a drunken bout and I released into a combative character, but improv is a game allowing people to walk inside you.

Chuck is enthused about my script D. DESCENDING. His reading from it makes me understand how far I have to go with writing. He and Carla play roles in various scenes. She goes home with me, but Turns around to watch Chuck. Man and Wife once. Still in love.