PEOPLE SUCK Gus and the Snowmen

It's Super Bowl Sunday and I am wandering around the Fort Greene Observatory in a green cotton robe.

The windows are open and the curtains are up.

The people in the new condo building are probably staring into their binoculars and saying, "That crazy old coot is naked again."

Those squares are dead wrong, but I'm about to get real naked in my bathtub.

The water was too hot, so I decided to kill a few minutes on Facebook.

A New Yorker had posted the above photo about Charles Bukowski and then wrote the dead poet sucked.

Me and a woman defended Bukowski.

"Who care about a dead wino?"

"I do."

"Read my blog."

I did and his poetry sucked.

The courageous woman wrote that she liked sleeping with dead winos and I added, "Dead winos don't snore."

The failed poet had no sense of humor and called the woman 'an ass hole'.

She reminded him that 'asshole' was one word.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1189N7mcS1Q

I posted PEOPLE sung by Barbra Streisand and joked that Charles Bukowski had written the lyrics.

"Who cares."

The woman retorted, "You do."

And their text intercourse got rough.

I next accused the New Yorker of being a Jets fan.

Those losers have no sense of humor.

He then blocked me from the conversation, but not before I posted PEOPLE SUCK by Gus and the Snowmen.

To hear PEOPLE SUCK by Gus and the Snowmen please go to this URL

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

BROKEN ICE by Peter Nolan Smith

Back in the last century the rivers, lakes, and ponds froze solid during the New England winters. Fishing shacks were dragged onto the ice and young boys played hockey in sub-zero temperatures with fires blazing on shore to warm frostbit fingers and toes. Daring teenagers drove across the smooth surfaces and their big Detroit cars gracefully spun 360s like sequined Ice Capades performers.

Everyone loved the ice, but respected the danger of falling through the ice.

Mickie Finn tried a shortcut across Turner's Pond. He didn't make it across and two days later the police divers found his blueish body. The entire town mourned his passing. He was one of us and any one of us could have been him.

Dead well before our time and every parent in the town forbad pond hockey after that tragedy.

None of us heeded their warnings. The young were destined to live forever, but we always brought a long length of rope to our afternoon sessions on Dog Pond.

Hockey was in our blood and with any luck one of us might play for BC High or even for our beloved Boston Bruins.

I was not a good hockey player, but I was no bender.

My cousin, Oilcan, or his two brothers, were the stars. Our scratch team included my next door neighbor, Chuckie, and my older brother, Frunk, in goal, who skated out to join me on defense, and our family ruled the swampy pond near Rubber Road.

"Puck." We slapped our sticks on the ice whenever we were free.

Slap shots were banned after a clapper smacked my face.

My girlfriend, Kyla, thought I was cute with two black eyes.

The bullies at my school thought different.

"No one else better be beating you up. You belong to us," said Joe Scanlon before punching me in the stomach in the school corridor.

"Too bad there's no black stomach," laughed his friend, Mark Tully. "It'd go good with your black eyes."

Both were older and bigger than me.

After a year of their persecution nothing really hurt anymore and I looked forward to the games.

Everyone called me 'Mad-Dog', because of my vicious checking.

My older brother pulled me aside one afternoon and said, "Ease up."

"Why?"

"Because no one here is called Joe or Mark, are they?"

"No."

"Do you want my help?"

"I'll handle them. I only need you to win this game."

We were a team. We knew where we were on the ice. We played game after game until near dark and then shucked off our skates and ran through the snow-drifted pastures to reach home before out fathers arrived home for dinner. Showing up late meant a missed meal and none of us liked going hungry.

Skating on pond ice has a different sound than a rink. Sharp blades barely scratched the thick hard ice. Occasionally the puck effortlessly glided in defiance of the Laws of Friction to the reeds or worse to the thin ice around the pond's outlet to the Harland swamp. The puck stopped on the brink of open water. They cost $2 and $2 was twenty Coca-Colas at the gas station by the church. Both teams stood paralyzed by fear. We had all known Mickey Finn, but Oilcan devised a method to retrieve the biscuit.

"I'll tie my hockey stick to a rope and knock it free."

"That sounds like a good idea, except your mother will kill you if you lose the twig."

Auntie Gee-Gee had a temper and a good stick cost much than a puck.

"You want to stop playing?"

"No."

"Then grab my heels and don't let go."

My youngest cousin tied his hockey stick to the rope and lay on his stomach. He swung the CCM stick at a wide-arc to knock the puck back onto solid ice. Oilcan scrambled to his feet and headed toward the opponents goal.

Two big rocks.

His brother saucer-passed the puck to Oilcan.

Another goal.

We were unstoppable that winter. I should have been on the bench, but I excelled at shutting down snipers.

Dog Pond was our home ice. We never played away games. We took on all comers and then one blustery February afternoon six older and bigger boys appeared on the edge of the pond. Two of them were Joe Scanlon and Mark Tully.

"We heard you girls think you're unbeatable." Joe laced up his skates. "You look like hosers to us."

"That's them," asked Frunk.

"Yeah." I blew in my hands. Flurries floated in the air. The sun bore through an opaque overcast. It was wicked cold and we had about thirty minutes left to sunset. My cousins and Chuckie glided up to us and my next-door neighbor said, "These guys are big."

"Fuck 'em all," swore Oilcan. Uncle Jack was a Marine. He taught us some right things.

"Us against them."

"Fuck 'em all."

We took first possession and Stevie shoveled a pizza to his older brother, who deked out the defense and scored within ten seconds.

"Let's get it back," Joe Scanlon had come down here to say all ice was his ice.

But not Dog Pond.

We were fast. We understood the ice. The puck belonged to us, but somehow they kept close and I was to blame.

Both Joe and Mark owned me and I gave up position.

And the sun dropped beneath the trees and the ice was invisible. Joe scored two goals to tie the game.

Only minutes remained in the match.

"Stop 'em," ordered my brother and I nodded to say I'd do what i had to do.

Mark stole the puck from Chuckie and charged up ice. There were no stripes on the pond and I swung out my stick to trip my tormentor. He thumped on the ice and glided to the outlet. Oilcan went for the rope. I skated to Mark, but he crashed through the thin ice headfirst and disappeared into the water.

Mark sputtered to the surface. I stopped to check the hole. This wasn't good and I thought about watching him drown, except I recalled Mickie Finn's family crying at the funeral and I lay on the ice.

"Hold my feet." My brother was first in the chain. Joe Scanlon was second. Chuckie was third in the chain and Oilcan threw me the rope.

Mark bobbed like his skates were dragging him down to the bottom of Dog Pond. Panic swam in his eyes. He had been at Mickie Finn's funeral. If he didn't get out of the pond, we would go to his.

"Catch this."

I threw the rope, but he couldn't hold on with his gloves.

"Take off your gloves."

"I can't. I got them for Christmas." His mother was the meanest woman in town.

"Fuck Christmas," shouted Joe.

Mark tried to take off his gloves and sank out of sight. Joe started to get to his feet to save his friend.

"Don't."

Losing one was bad.

Losing two was worst.

I edged closer to the watery hole and Mark burst to the surface sucking air. His gloves were gone.

"Catch."

I tossed the rope and he caught it. We pulled him out of the water to safety and dragged him over to the fire.

"Fucking hosers," he chattered a foot from the blazing flames.

"Really?"

I turned around and spotted the puck on the ice. I skated towards the biscuit. No one realized what I was doing until I shot at the opposing goal. The puck pocked off a rock to give us the victory. It was the first goal I had scored this winter and I returned to the edge of the pond to sluiced ice onto Mark.

"Game over."

"Fucking shiesty."

"Better than being losers." I motioned for my cousins, brother, and Chuckie to go. The sun was almost down. Food would be on the table. We might eat any of it, but we smiled in the wintery evening, because it was always good to win on your own ice.

BAD DOG by Peter Nolan Smith - An excerpt from AN ITALIAN PLAN

CHAPTER 1

The winter of 1987 was cold enough to freeze the Housatonic River and the town of Kent erected an elaborate float on the thick ice. Each year the townspeople organized a pool to guess the date when the ice could no longer bear the float's weight. Two days after a January blizzard I picked March 21 and my writing partner, Monty, close April 4. Neither of us were natives to the town.

Coming from Maine anyplace west of the Connecticut River wasn’t really part of New England, although Kent came very close with its private school, worn hills, and hemlock pine forests. The pale-skinned producer spoke with a Georgian drawl. His family bottled Coca-Cola there. Monty never mentioned the Civil War, as we wrote WHERE THE HIGHWAY ENDS, a screenplay about love and murder in the Florida Everglades.

We lived in a turn-of-the-century cabin set on the shoulder of a pine-strewn hill. Monty had converted it into an Adirondack camp complete with a chandelier of deer antlers. It came from Scotland.

Every day snow drifted against the windows of the cabin. A big fire warmed the living room, as Monty and I discussed the previous day's scenes during breakfast. He was a vegetarian. No meat was allowed in the house.

No eggs. No Bacon.

Soy milk. Tofu.

I lost weight.

We worked every day from 8am till 4pm. I typed out the interactions between a burnt-out drifter and a young heiress. Both the main characters were both good-looking; James Dean if he had survived his car crash with Nico of the Velvet Underground. The location was the last untamed barrier island in Florida. The dialogue was terse. Seven word sentences with a few long paragraphs about love, nature, and wealth. We read the dialogues aloud after dinner. Monty got to play the male. I was the girl. Anyone peeking in the window would have thought we were mad. On Wednesdays Monty drove into Katonah for health food supplies and I roamed through the pine forests with his dog. Maulwin loved chasing deer and one afternoon he pelted across the river in pursuit of a buck. The ice broke underneath the Shar-pei.

Twenty feet from shore. He sunk into the black water.

His hooded eyes blinked with canine desperation.

I stared back at Maulwin.

Every winter people drowned trying to rescue friends and dogs from an icy death. Maulwin's

paws scratched at the edge of the break. He wasn't getting out without help. "Damn dog."

I crawled on my belly from the shore. The ice crackled like brittle glass. Maulwin whimpered with a hopeful shiver and I tossed the jacket to him. He bit on the sleeve and scrabbled from the frozen river. My reward was a sloppy hand licking and we silently agreed that his master was better off ignorant of this near drowning.

"Maulwin awfully quiet." Monty observed upon his return from shopping. Maulwin lay on the floor, as if he were entering a deep sleep. Good dogs know when to play dead.

"Really?" I patted the Shar-pei's head. "Seems the same to me." February laid more snow on the ground. March added a few more inches. The valley stayed below freezing until the end of the month, then a southern wind melted the ice from the eaves and on April 4 the float sank into the river.

Monty won the $300.

No More Beer For Lent

I'm an old atheist.

Non-Belief runs in my family as strongly as the acceptance of the Divine.

I was raised a Catholic.

The Old Religion.

My rejection of faith at the age of eight failed to deter my buying into the celebrations of the saints throughout the Church calendar; St. Brigid's Day, St. Padraic's Day, the Blessing of Throats, the Immaculate Conception, and most recently Ash Wednesday.

"Remember, man, ashes to ashes and dust to dust."

Who could reject such certitude.

Aside from the burnt offering of incinerated Palm Sunday palms I have always attempted the second most important aspect of Lent i.e. the giving up of a pleasure and this year the old reprobate has decided to stop drinking beer, the holiest liquid of pagans and non-believers.

ten years ago in the Fort Greene Observatory I informed my landlord/friend AP about this attempt and asked, "You think I can get to the end of Lent without drinking beer?"

"When's the end of Lent?" AP was spiritual, but not religious.

"Holy Thursday." Some sinners regarded Palm Sunday as the finish line.

Not me.

"And when is that?"

"April 2nd."

"That's six weeks away." AP was an architect and had a good head for numbers.

"Over forty days." Jesus had gone forty days in the desert without succumbing to the temptation of Lucifer. "You think I can make it?"

"Not a chance." AP hooted in derision, but he wasn't taking into consideration the frigid weather. Beer below zero was 'tref', plus I like my wine in the cold climes.

"You wanna bet?'

"No way."

His son James stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the Forth Greene Observatory.

"James, you think I can not drink beer for forty days."

"No way."

"You want to bet your allowance." I gave him and Hippie Girl, his sister, a dollar each every week.

"No way." Like father like son, but I'm sure I'll find a sucker to take my bet.

I didn't drink beer on Ash Wednesday and I made it through today.

Only forty days to go.

Like the rain of Noah and the fast of Jesus.

If those two can do it, then I can too.

The Lent Of No Beer

Lent is the six-week period of Catholic fasting from Ash Wednesday to Easter, allowing the faithful the chance to atone for the previous year's sins by mirroring the span of time the Messiah spend in the desert before He succumbed to the temptations not of Satan, but his own mortal flesh.

While I'm a full-blown atheist, this last Ash Wednesday I decided to give up beer for Lent.

"No beer?" Uncle Drunkey asked at the 169. "Why?"

"Just to see if I can do it?" I haven't given up anything in years.

"So you still drink wine and liquor."

"Not to mention cider," added Dakota, the lead singer of Wicked Womb, from behind the bar.

"Then here we go." I drained my last 'Gansett and ordered a Bombay Tonic.

"Gin's nasty." Uncle Drunkey like his Jamison whiskey. "You know why Hitler didn't drink Gin."

"No." I recalled hearing the joke, but not the punchline.

"Because he said it made him mean," jibbed Dakota with wry smile.

"Too soon," said another drinker.

We told him to fuck off, but it was true.

Gin makes you mean and even worse were the hangovers from the old Dutch spirit derived from juniper berries, even though the drink was initially marketed as a remedy for kidney ailments, lumbago, stomach ailments, gallstones, and gout.

"Gin tonic," I ordered from Dakota.

"Nice death wish."

"No death wish at all." I drank several glasses of gin throughout the night without succumbing the the temptation of 'Gansett' beer. I might have arrived home at a decent hour, however the next morning I woke with a hear-death hangover.

I didn't move out of my bed for the day, but remained faithful to my sell-denial.

No beer.

No stout.

No ale.

No lagers.

No exception.

Last night at the 169 Dakota suggested giving up the ghost.

"I can handle the gin," I slurred from my bar stool.

"Yes, but I can't stand the belligerence."

I wasn't in any mood to hear any drift from a long-haired guitarist and said, "What the fuck you talking about, hippie boy?"

"Enough is enough." Jimmy the bouncer had heard my comment and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Time for you to go home."

Jimmy chucked me gently out of the bar and apologized, "Sorry, man, but you were out of line."

"It wasn't me. It was the gin."

"Then do us all a favor and switch back to beer."

"I can't until the end of Lent."

"And when is that?"

"April 2nd."

"See you then."

"You're banning me?"

"Not you. Monster Gin."

I understood and nodded my head.

I slept in the taxi over the Manhattan Bridge. The driver deposited me at the Fort Greene Observatory. I tiptoed up the stairs and fell into bed in no condition to take off my clothes.

That Sunday was a long novena of suffering.

My only positive act of the day was to change into pajamas.

I watched crappy films on Netflix and ate a hot dog cooked in my toaster oven. It was my one day off of the week.

Monday wasn't much better, although by evening I regained 30% of my power.

I came home without any alcohol in my shopping bag and called an old friend from Boston. Bishop Ray was high up in the church. He heard my confessions every ten years.

"Are you a little early?" he asked from his sacristy on Commonwealth Avenue near my old alma mater.

"This isn't about my sins."

"No?"

"No, I gave up beer for Lent."

"And everything else?"

"No, I've been drinking gin instead."

"At your age?"

Pay was no tee-totaler, but firmly believed in excess in moderation.

"Yes, your eminence, but St Padraic's Day ids coming next month and I was wondering if I broke fast, would that be bad?"

"Aren't you an atheist?"

"Yes." Proudly.

"Then by the power invested me by St. Peter and his Holy Roman Church I waive the abstinence for Lent. Of course I am required by faith to ask, if you are seeking to rejoin the Church."

"No, your eminence."

"Then go back to your heathen ways. I'm watching the last episode of THE WALKING DEAD."

"Thank you."

"and say one Our Father and Three Hail Marys."

I thought___"

"Five Hail Marys and stay away from Mother's Ruin. It's been the end of many a strong man."

Ray was right.

Gin had killed millions in London.

I hung up the phone and put on my pajamas.

I wasn't drinking tonight.

My heart wasn't in it and I had a funny feeling that tomorrow might also belong to sobriety.

It's not such a bad thing.

Especially when beer was waiting for you somewhere in the future.

Chinatown DREAM

My cousin's photo inspired a marvelous dream last night.
I was dressed as an officer and was aggressed by millenniums at a bar.
"If it were not for people like me you wouldn't be here now."
My uniform had been earned for my service in the War on Drugs for the other side.

I walked away without incident and two lesbians asked, if I wanted to go to a club in Chinatown.
It's not straight or vanilla."
"Sure."

Their offer was music to my ears and I slung on my leather jacket.

There was no noise on the street.

The lights and muffled music assured this place was it.

The door person saluted me for having fought the DEA for decades.
We went inside and my companion abandoned me to hit a room of bearish women and frail waifs.
I silently wished them good luck.

The nameless club melanged into an orgy disco, a Lausida drug den, and every other den of inequity across the centuries was out of control.

Everything was go.

I danced a little and retreated to a strangely quiet room.
I sat and a agelessly beautiful trans joined me.
Their tightjeans had been cut at the crotch to reveal their penis and they pulled out a bottle of syringes.
"My name's Ava. This is the Nod Room. Wanna get busy with me."
"I only wish I could "
"I really like getting in the ass and eject heroin while you're cumming in my hole."

Fifteen years ago I would have been sold by the offer.
"Sorry, Ava, I got to go."
My flesh was too weak against this temptation.

I left Ava and went to bar, hanging my jacket over a chair.
There was no sign of the two women.

I was happy until I discovered someone had stolen my leather jacket.
I trawled the club looking for thief, until I found an abandoned Armani leather.
It was a little large, but better than mine.

Ava caught me at the exit
"Last chance."
"Maybe next time."
Ava kissed me on the lips.
Wake up.

Bobby B BADD By Peter Nolan Smith

Gather round my friends And I'll tell you a tale. About a young man no one knew so well. A drifter dropping off a freight train south. Happy to be in the Panhandle. Bobby B BADD. A beat-up black suit covered a scarecrow body. A hundred and fifty-four pounds soaking wet. He bent over to a trickling hose. Washed his face and slicked back crow black hair. The drifter stretched his bones. A smile. A miracle. The Neon Bar gleamed in the Texas sun. Bobby B BADD tasted a cold Lone Star and strode across the street. Two things on his mind. The door of the Neon Bar swung inward. The few morning drinkers turned to the silhouette. Strangers were rare this far from the Interstate. Bobby B BADD slapped a twenty on the zinc bar. "Drinks for all my friends." "You got friends here?" Bobby pulled open his jacket. "No gun no knives only a thirst to wash off the taste of train diesel. And, Darling, give me four quarters, please." The bartender liked stranger too. Sheila liked being called Darling even better. The Neon Bar had a real jukebox. Real 45s. Scratchy too. Dolly Parton JOLEEN. Sly's EVERYONE IS A STAR. Merle's MAMA TRIED. The Stones' RUBY TUESDAY. And like that the town was his. Every women in town knew his name. Everyone laughed at his jokes. They loved his tales of freedom. Travels from coast to coast, As he rode with the wind Bobby shot pool like Minnesota Fats But never gambled a game. The B Badd family hated trouble But man, could that drifter dance. Every teenage boys wanted to be like Bobby. Old men too. A drifter owing nothing to no one not even himself. All the young girls came down to the Neon Bar A quick trip to the alley with Bobby B BADD. He was kind to them Never went all the way Kind to divorcees and cougars too. Bobby B BADD hated trouble. After two weeks he packed his bag. He had almost stayed too long. People wanted to know more. And he had no more to give. Just tales of the wind. A long train was heading west. The girls began to cry. The men at the Neon Bar begged him to stay. He trotted to the tracks. "I don't know when I'll be back this way." Everyone knew the truth. Never. He waved from a freight car. Nobody waved back. And soon Bobby B Badd was gone. The town ain't been the same The boys wear black With hair slicked back Playing Bobby B BADD. But no on could play that part as well As Bobby B BADD.

THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD by Peter Nolan Smith

Two weeks after my arrest by the Thai Cyper-Crime Unit in 2008 I was drinking at Donovan's Sports Bar on Pattya's Sai 3. Most of the clientele was watching a golf match, while I concentrated on drinking a vodka-tonic. Golf meant nothing to me.

After Tiger Woods birdied a hole, the TV went to commercial break. Conversations of a normal nature resumed between the drinkers.

An oil worker complained that his new girlfriend slept most of the day.

His friends said that their girlfriends suffered from a similar somnalepsy.

The oil worker hailed from Texas. He was overweight and bald.

"And when she wakes up, she eats like an escapee from a concentration camp, then watches Thai soap operas before dropping into a coma."

"Same with me." His two friends were also dumbfounded by the malaise.

"Sleeping 20 hours a day has to be a disease."

"I'm just glad that it wasn't infectious."

Donovan's owner had a 4-handicap. To the oil worker this skill was genius and he asked Steve, if he had any idea why their girlfriends slept like the dead.

"I don't have a girlfriend." Steve was the smartest man in the bar. His Thai waitresses understood more English than they let on and he changed the subject. "Think Tiger Woods will play the Hong Kong Open?"

The golfers bailed after another drink. Their tee-off at Khao Kheo Golf Course was scheduled for 9. I paid my bill. Steve forestalled my departure with an offer of another vodka-tonic. He knew my story. The police might not have thrown me in jail, but their geek shut down my website. I couldn't leave the country until my trial. My money was very tight.

I accepted his buy-back with gracious humility.

Steve and I discussed Eli Manning's Scramble in the Super Bowl, which gave the Giants the win.

"In the regular season he would have been whistled dead. Caught in the grass. Then again rules are made to be broken by the refs in the Superbowl. They had a lot riding on the game." Steve felt that the only people who can fix games were the officials.

"The secondary stopped playing defense to watch him get his." I believed that the NFL officials were also on the fix.

"Never stop playing until you hear the whistle."

We clinked glasses and I asked about his bachelor status.

"I don't have a girlfriend, because I hear too many stories from my customers about theirs."

"I won't ever tell you about winning the Worst Girlfriend of the Year in 2001."

Bee had left me for an Italian five times in two months. I wanted her to go. She just couldn't say good-bye. She was stuck in my life like gum in hair. She had to be cut out in the end.

"Thanks, my head filled with enough unhappy endings to write a soap opera, but I have a question. Why you think Thai girls sleep so much?"

His question echoed off an unspoken affair whose mysteries defied his rational mind. I speak Thai. I know bar girls on a platonic level. They tell stories about 'customers'. Some of them might be true.

"The most obvious answer is the one no one wants to believe."

"Which is?"

"You try spending a night with a drunken farang sucking down beers and tequila like the Taliban were at the city gates. I promise you that you would be a little slow to get out of bed."

"But that's not the real answer, is it?" Steve wasn't accepting the easy way out.

"No, their sleeping sickness is either pretend or a reaction to having to spend so much time with a farang. Faking sleep keeps a farang off them. Not many people have a fantasy about sex with a sleeping woman. The second option is that they are so freaked by being with a farang that they wrap sleep around them like a blanket. You have to think of it like astronaut in suspended animation for inter-planetary travel only Thai girls sleep after they've landed on Mars. They have no interest in the Martians."

"You mean us?"

"Did you ever see BOB CAROL TED AND ALICE. Ann Margret sleeps throughout her affair with Jack Nicholson. Why? Because she didn't want to be there. So what do you do when your girlfriend sleeps?"

"I certainly don't wake her." The peace during their slumber was priceless.

"Let sleeping dogs lie."

"As long you're in bed for when they wake up."

We clinked glasses again and another drink was pushing my budget, but I ordered it anyway.

Mam was already asleep. She was so cute under the sheets. She was safe and so was I. Tomorrow morning was another story.

WIN AT ANY COST by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1968 the Baltimore Colts entered Super Bowl III as 18-point favorites over the New York Jets. The NFL champions were led by Earl Morrall in place of Johnny Unitas, while the AFL underdogs were quarterbacked by the flashy Joe Namath and the Alabama native boasted in Miami, “We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”

The Colts were infuriated by this brash statement and quashed the first drive by the Jets, however big games are won on injuries as much as luck and after the bruising fullback Matt Snell knocked out the Colts’ safety and the secondary was open by the deception of the injured Don Maynard, allowing George Sauer to score 2 TDs.

The NFL champs never really challenged the upstarts, as Unitas replaced Morrall, who had missed several opportunities to hit receivers in the end-zone. The legend fared no better against the Jets defense and the victory acted as a turbo-charged boost for the AFL, however the Jets never again competed in the Super Bowl.

Betters lost millions on that game. No one ever questioned the outcome. The Jets seemed to have simply outplayed the NFL juggernaut.

In 1984 I ran into Bubba Smith at the Deauville Film Festival. The Colt defensive lineman was in France to promote the film POLICE ACADEMY, while I was attending the event as a journalists for the French magazine ACTUEL.

After the screening most reporters were huddled around Steve Guttman, the star of the comedy. Bubba was off to the side. He wasn't on my list of interviewees, since ACTUEL was more interested in my speaking with Rock Hudson about acting with James Dean in GIANT.

That rendezvous wasn't until after tomorrow's screening of George Stevens' epic and I introduced myself to 6-7 280 pound ex-NFL All Star as a longtime admirer. His fearsome tackling at Michigan State had earned the enormous lineman the motto 'Kill Bubba Kill'. I half-expected him to crush my hand, but he smiled when I told him how much I liked his acting.

"Just playing myself."

Neither of us had anything scheduled for the afternoon and I suggested that we retire to the Bar of the Hotel Atlantique. It had a great view of the beach and the bar served great wine.

After ordering oysters and a chilled Chablis we spoke about his being in the film and his hopes to become an actor before moving onto football.

You ever play?"

"No, I ran track. Once jumped eighteen feet."

"Not bad."

"I'm a Patriots fan."

"Tough luck."

"yeah, tell me about it."

Last year the Patriots went 8 and 8 last year. The Baltimore Colts beat them twice. Both games were close, but I was more interested in the past and I asked Bubba how it was to play with Johnny Unitas. He said great without any reservation, but I was dodging the real question.

After our second bottle of wine Bubba said, "Go ahead."

"Go ahead what?"

"Go ahead and ask the question."

Bubba was a big man. The Colts had won Super Bowl V. I took a breath and said, "You won Super Bowl V, but you don't wear tat ring."

"Nope. I won't wear that one, because we lost against the Jets in Super Bowl III." His Texas drawl was more pronounced and I deepened by Boston accent, asking, “The Colts were such a favorite in Super Bowl 3, how did you lose to the Jets?”

“They got to the quarterback,” Bubba answered without caring who heard that accusation.

Not that it mattered.

Most everyone in the bar was French. None of them had ever heard about Joe Namath's boast about winning against the Colts. They were frogs and they worshiped soccer. Not football.

“The game was fixed?”

A shrug indicated that the answer was mine to decide and I remembered Unitas throwing the ball to the Jets defender and Morall’s three interceptions.

“Who fixed the game?”

It was a stupid question undeserving of an answer and Bubba stood away from the table.

"Excuse me. I gotta get back to work." Bubba Smith went over to watch Michael Winslow delight the reporters with his imitations of a helicopter. I laughed at him too.

"No worries. Best wishes with your movies."

"Thanks."

A few of the froggies gawked at him exiting from the restaurant. They had never seen a man or woman that huge.

The retired footballer avoided me the rest of the festival, especially after spotting me dining with Rock Hudson.

Back in Paris I didn’t mention Bubba's confession to the editorial staff of Actuel. None of them were interested in a rumor about a football game in 1969, plus the editors were having trouble with my article with Rock Hudson. My typing was atrocious.

While I've never seen a replay of Super Bowl III, I have mentioned Bubba Smith's statement to several bookie friend, who have mumbled under their breath about how the Mob had threatened the lives of Earl Morrall’s and Unitas’ families.

It made sense, especially considering Broadway Joe Namath's claim.

“We’re gonna win the game. I guarantee it.”

Joe Namath's words were carved in stone thanks to strong-arm gangsters. Neither league complained about the fix, since the win saved the AFL from extinction. Everyone made more money. Even the Colts, however these days games are never fixed by players. They make too money.

Refs on the other hand control the game from start to finish.

Not that I'm pointing any fingers.

In truth I don't know nothing and I'm happy that way.

Knowing even less would only make me happier.

ps Anita Bryant sang the National Anthem in 1969 whose later anti-gay campaign was immortalized by David Allan Coe’s 1978 song “Fuck Anita Bryant”.

Tom Verlaine RIP

In the summer of 1978 Television played two shows at the the Bottom Line. MARQUEE MOON had been the best LP of 1977 for us at CBGBs. The first one I missed, because I was working uptown at Hurrah. For the second at the end of July I took off the night and left my apartment on East 10th Street an hour before the announced time of the show
Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the nightclub on Bleecker Street only to discover the show was sold out and there were no admissions.
I explained to the doorman that I was his counterpart at Hurrah on West 62nd Street.
"I know who you are. I'd love to help you, but the two FD are standing inside the door with clickers. They said one more and they'll shut down the show."
"A shakedown."
"Of course."
Every cop and inspector on the city payroll looked to nightclubs as an easy touch. Obviously the Bottom Line's owner wasn't playing that game tonight.
"What about the back door?"
"FD there too."
"You go around the corner and the stage backs up to the wall on Mercer Street. You should be able to here it okay there." You "Thanks."
And he was right. I could feel the bass through the bricks.
They opened with FIRE ENGINE followed by GLORY.

I knew every song and wished I had a beer, but I wasn't leaving my listening post. Not for nothing.

As the band played AIN'T NOTHING a young woman appeared from the alley.
Maria Duvall.
I knew the ingenue from Divine's show WOMEN BEHIND BARS at Hurrah. The Latin beauty was in her teens, but lived a rockers's life. Billy Flicka from Television was her boyfriend and a rich man paid for her acting lessons at Stella Adler. Those didn't come cheap. She glanced down the sidewalk at me and tilted her head with a smile. I thought she had seen something funny, but she walked up to me and said, "I know you. You work the door at Hurrah. Why are you out here? Waiting for someone?"

"No, I couldn't get in. Sold-out."
"Great show, but I've seen them a lot and needed some air." She stepped closer.
16? 17? She played her body older. Stella Adler was a great acting school. "Why are you pressed against the wall."
"I can feel the music. the bass, the guitars, the drums. The vocals I hear in my mind. Try it."
I stepped away and Maris pressed her back to the bricks."
"I feel it too."
The actress pulled me close. The music pulsed through her flesh
MARQUEE MOON and we were one.
I shut my eyes and enflamed my soul with the simple raw elements of rock.
I shuttered against Maria. She slid from underneath me. I struggled to regain my breath. She smiled and walked towards the alley, turning to say, "I have to go, but I'll see you again."
And i knew that was not a lie.

GOOD DAYS FOR US ALL

I was born on May 29 1952 at Boston's Richardson House. My mother's labor had taken hours and she had always claimed that she had gone down to the Valley of Death to deliver me. I was born healthy, so my first day on Earth was a good one.

Many followed. Too many to come, but shared good days for the Grand Collective are much fewer.

In the 1950s the launch of Sputnik.

Man's first ascent to Space.

We were meant to be frightened by the success of the Soviet Empire, but my father brought us out to the backyard of our house on Falmouth Foresides, Maine and pointed out a speck of light traversing the night sky.

"This is a great moment."

The Maine native wasn't a Commie. He was an electrical engineer and loved Progress.

The next great days for humanity were the election of JFK in 1960 and the Berlin Airlift but that dark decade descended into tragedy with Kennedy's assassination followed by the murders of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King as well as the Viet-Nam War and the USSR crushing the Prague Uprising.

The 1960s was a time of despair until NASA reached the Moon and Woodstock lifted our hearts to a future of peace and love. Rock and Rock, freedom,and the power of peace.

The Age of Aquarium was cut short by Altamont.

We were a horror, but we didn't give up on our dreams, despite the Forces' of Evil relentless assault on Humanity.

We glorified Disco and Dancing during the Sexual Revolution. Richard Nixon was impeached by Congress. Punk liberated the Soviet Union. A black man, Barack Obama, was elected President and the Boston Red Sox finally broke the Babe Ruth Ruth Curse in 2004.

These events brought us together.

Too few, but as with the rescue of the Thai soccer players from the caves south of Mai Sai we were one and we will be one again.

Chai Yo!!!

The Holiday of Imbolc

Today Celts around the world celebrate Imbolc, the midway point between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox.

Groundhog Day is an adaption of that ancient Gaelic festival during which Cailleac, the hoary hag, decides how much longer winter will last. A nasty day means that the bad weather is almost over and today in New York is a wintery day of mixed sunshine.

Tomorrow I will light a candle at St. Patricks' Cathedral in honor of St. Brigid, the Hibernian goddess of poetry and healing. The more candles the faster comes the spring and if that doesn't work then I'm going to drink a little wine.

It's an old tradition.

New here, but then now is the time for the awakening of the cosmos.

ps Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow.

Six more weeks of winter.

Forty-two days.

Today was one of them.

THE LONG MEMORY OF THE CHURCH by Peter Nolan Smith

After the Roman Emperor Constantine I accepted Jesus, the once-persecuted Christians sought their revenge against the Greco-Roman pantheists. The burnt became the burners and the killed were the killers, as the diverse cults of the Empire shriveled under the iron fist of the Messiah's ruthlessness. Mithra and Isis were forsaken en masse for the one True Nailed God, even though the cult of the new divinity was divided into an incestuous menage-a-trois.

God, Jesus, his son, and the Holy Ghost.

The Church waged several centuries of crusades to exterminate any trace of the Old Religions from the European continent, but the bishops of persecution desired live souls more than dead pagans and persuaded many non-believers to abandon their idols through the adoption of traditional rites of the Northern Nations.

The Winter Solstice celebration was transformed into Christmas. The Irish Cross became the Cross of Jesus and Thor's Oak evolved into a pine tree adorned with lights and color for Christmas. Many pagan gods and goddesses changed faith and today marked the feast day of St. Bridgit of Kildare, the patron saint of Ireland, which coincided with Holiday of Imbolc honoring Brigit, the one-eyed Celtic goddess of healing and poetry.

A statue of St. Bridgit graced the first apse on the left in St. Patrick's Cathedral on 5th Avenue and several years ago I decided to visit the church on my lunch hour. My boss asked where I was going.

"To lunch."

Most companies gave their employee an hour to eat. The 82 year-old diamond dealer considered lunch a waste of time and he repeated his question, "When are you coming back?"

"None of your business to be truthful."

Manny had stiffed my raise two consecutive years.

"You show me no respect."

"That's true." Respect was accorded not to his age, but how he treated his two employees. "Since you're so interested, I'll tell I'm going to St. Patrick's to light a candle in honor of Breo-saighit or the Fiery Arrow."

"Brio-sate?" Manny was mean, but he wasn't stupid despite having never finished high school.

"It translates into Bridgit, the Celtic goddess of health and poetry."

"Bridgit like Brigitte Bardot."

"Close."

"I saw her movie AND GOD CREATED WOMEN with my first wife. She was gorgeous." Manny had a good memory for women and like so many men of the 1950s, Brigitte Bardot stole away the breath in that movie. Manny handed me a dollar and said, "Light a candle for me. Can't do nothing, but good."

"You got it." Manny and I were friends going through a tough stretch. No one was buying diamonds and Manny was still paying my salary. He acted like a piece of shit, but he was my piece of shit.

It was winter. It was cold and I strolled up 5th Avenue through the tourists meandering the broad sidewalks like lost cows. The steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral were crowded with sightseers posing for photos. None of the shooters had read the camera's instructions about perspective or distance.

I entered the cathedral without wetting my fingers in the fount or genuflecting to the Crucified Man from Bethlehem. I headed straight over to the first apse on the left aisle holding $3 for three candles; one for Manny, another for world peace, and the third for my family.

The offering box was in its normal place, however the array of candles had been stripped from the apse and a black sheet covered the statue of St. Bridgit.

This was sacrilege and I looked around for an explanation.

Several rows closer to the altar a guard was evicting a groggy tramp. I approached him with a lifted hand.

"I only do what the priest tell me. No one can sleeping in the church." His accent was Jamaican. Maybe Trenchtown and his dreadlocks were short. Jah would forgive the cutting. These days every man needed to keep his job.

"Not even during the sermon?" Nothing put the snooze on me faster than a priest preaching salvation.

"There are some exceptions." The guard gave up on waking up the bum and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I'm just wondering why St. Bridgit doesn't have any candles and why the statue is covered with a sheet."

"The priests told us to tell anyone asking that question that the candle holders were removed for repairs."

"Repairs? The candle holders were steel. Their only enemy is rust.

"That’s what I was told."

"But there's another reason?"

"Jah, mon." The guard’s shrug answered my question. "Last year Pagans came to honor the Saint. The Church don't like that."

"Really?"

"Jah, mon."

"Thanks for the info."

The Holy Motherfucker Church had not forgotten its crusades, for her memory stretched back 2000 years and the Vatican was not surrendering its position as # 1 to a dead religion, but I was here to honor Brigit and Imbloc.

I purloined three candles from St. Bernard's apse without dropping a dollar in the offering box. I lit them in front of Brigit. The black robes could clean off the wax after Mass. I mumbled a quick prayer to health before the goddess's statue and then hurried out of the cathedral into the cold winds of 5th Avenue.

I gave the $3 meant for the candles to Lenny the Bum on 47th Street. He's no saint, but the Hassidic beggar was funny after a few chugs of cheap cognac.

"Damien, you're a good goy." Lenny lived with his spinster sister in Washington Heights. "Jesus loves you."

"Lenny, I'm an atheist. There is no God. Only you and me and the rest of the Cosmos." My boss was watching my conversation with Lenny. Manny hated loafers and considered Lenny a disgrace to the Jewish race. The octogenarian from Brownsville tapped his watch.

"So neither of us are going to heaven or hell?"

"Not a chance.Besides Jews don't believe in Heaven or Hell, but Olam Habah, the world to come, where you'll study the Torah for eternity."

"I'd rather go to Gehinom."

"No such luck. You beg to care for your crazy sister. At worst, you'll go to Sheoh." It was the Jewish Purgatory.

"Thanks, Damien."

Manny greeted me at the counter.

"Why do you waste your time with that bum?"

"Because he's a human same as you and me." I stopped taking off my coat and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going now?"

"I forgot my food. I'll be right back and eat at my desk."

"First a candle to Brigitte Bardot and now lunch." Manny rolled his eyes in disgust, then dipped his hand into his pocket. "What are you getting?"

"Pizza."

"Sounds good." Manny handed me a ten. "Get us both a slice of pizza. I did like that Frenchie broad."

“Brigitte Bardot?"

"There was only one."

"And that's the truth." I had worshiped Brigitte Bardot's movie poster as a young man. It was no sacrilege to St. Bridgit. My adulation was pure from afar and a goddess would have it no other way.

ps St. Brigit is also the patron Saint of bastard children.

THE LITTLEST BEAR a poem

Vernon fished the Casco Bay from Peakes Island.

The other day-fishers know his boat.

A 1985 Seaway 22-footer ran the Drunken Ledge, the Cod Ledges, Big Ridge, and the Tanta's 'punkin bottom' for pollock and cod in the winter.

All in sight of the Ram's Head Light station.

Vernon was 56.

Fishing was all he knew.

He didn't speak much, except to the fish and his boat THE LITTLEST BEAR.

Forty years of fishing

Still had all his teeth and hair.

The cougars at Billy Ray's Tavern once thought he was worth one night. No more.

He smelled too much like fish.

On a sunny January day Vernon trailed two long lines over the blister bottom of the Klondike.

Catching a good haul of cod to sell at the Portland pier.

This was his life.

The wet of the sea, the smell of fish, and.....

A three-foot wave broke his bliss. The sun was low o'er the shore. No other boats were in sight The wind shifted to the north. Dark clouds gathered on the flat horizon.

Casco Bay wouldn't be flat for long. Heavy seas were coming. There was still plenty of fish on the lines only two options; Haul in the catch or cut bait head to the shelter of the nearest island

He inhaled the air and the cold Atlantic wind skated across his skin.

Something bad was brewing Down East. Bad but not wicked.

"Fuck it."

Vernon cut the lines. He was no fool. It was time to outrun the weather.

Throughout that evening the storm got serious. No one had seen Vernon at Billy Ray'. Not at asea nor ashore They feared the worst They said nothing. Saying something was bad luck.

They drained their PBRs and watched the Bruins. At midnight the tavern door opened wide.

It was Vernon.

Drenched to the bone.

"Rough ride home. Two Jamie's, a ‘Gansett."

He eyed the bar. Four other fishermen sat on the stools. They were dry.

"Get these landlubbers a drink too." Vernon said nothing else. There was nothing to say.

He just lifted a finger to orde r another round. As many as he could before last call. Vernon knew his limits. At sea and on shore