Square S&M / The Castle - Pattaya

Several years back the Castle opened for business across from the Buffalo Bar on Pattaya's 3rd Road. The dress code was black. I was more interested in drinking beer and sat at the bar, but the Buffalo's bar girls watched young women exit from the S and M bar at the end of the night to mount new motor-scooters driven by their Thai boyfriends. None of them girls looked none the worse for an evening of hard work.

"2000 baht for 30 minutes." Tuk told me, then added. "No sex. Only beat man."

Later that week Nick was sitting with Tuk and he asked me, "What you think happens in there?"

"The usual. Whips, chains, handcuffs, fetish stuff." I had read on Stickman.com that the Castle was quite a nice place. "Do you want to share them with mates?"

"I don't see why not?"

Because you don't want to know what you like." Pattaya was where place where you indulged your innermost fantasies. Do you want to share those with your mates?"

"If you went there, what would you do?" Nick pointed to a man leaving the Castle, as if he had a plug up his ass.

"I don't know."

"You must have some hidden desire?" The Tottenham Spurs fan wasn't letting me off easy.

"None that I can think of." It was the truth. My only fantasy was lying in bed with Mam.

"Whipping a nurse?"

"No."

"Getting whipped by a nurse?"

"No." I lifted my finger to stop him, then wracked my brain for an answer. "I'm stumped."

"No sadistic menage a trois fantasies or masochistic domination wishes?

"No." My mind was a sexual wasteland.

"That can't be possible."

"Sad, but true, I'm a square." I was shocked by this admission and drove home to Mam in Jomtien. We made love and I felt her belly. We had a baby growing inside her.

I fell asleep in her arms, but two hours I woke with a scream.

"What wrong?" Mam was used to my snores.

Not screams.

"Nothing." I couldn't tell her about a dream of S and M Thai girls chasing me around the Castle.

Thai women are very jealous.

even of ghosts in your dreams.

There was only one way to exorcise this monster and a week later I departed the Jomtien apartment in a black shirt and black jeans.

"Who die?" Mam was suspicious.

"No one. I just want to wear black."

"You look like mafia."

"Thanks." I kissed her. "I'll be back early."

"I wait you." Mam knew once I had two beers, that I wasn't going to fool around and I had already finished two Leos.

I rode my Vespa over to 3rd Road and parked two hundred years from the Castle. I didn't want anyone from the Buffalo Bar seeing me enter the S and M establishment.

Stickman?had warned that the Castle?wasn't cheap.

Anything went there as long as there was no blood, so?1000 baht an hour?was a bargain, especially since back in the USA a good dominatrix could charge a $1000/HR.

Darkness was my friend and I touched my wallet. I had 5000 baht on me, however the security guards from the Buffalo spotted me. "Pai ngai?"

I pointed inside and they shouted out 'good luck'.

I opened the door. The bar was dimly lit with receding settees. The girls lounged at the bar. One set were vinyl dominatrixes, another slave girls in school uniforms, and lingerie-clad submissives.

On stage a stocky dyke in black vinyl dripped hot wax onto her farang victim. His screams of pain sounded real.

The matronly mama-san came to my table and explained the rates as well as the options.

"Drink with lady 250 baht. One hour with lady 3000 baht. Extra cost more. Up to you."

"If you want longer, girl can take it." The mama-san was proud of her girls. "Most farang come here English, German, Kohn Nippon. Khon Nippon like tie up girl and then whip her. German like sick thing and England man like spanking. What America like?" 

I had the money and the time, yet no idea what I wanted from a woman who would do anything. "I don't know."

"You not know? Ask what you want."

I was about to repeat my previous answer, when a big-breasted dominatrix in black leather emerged from the back room leading a fat German by a chain. Her hair was cut like Betty Page and she was no stranger, for I had been admiring Cochise for the past three years.

She had a vicious French boyfriend.

Yves was a pimp from Marseilles.

He had recently been recently deported from Thailand for selling phony credit cards.

"You like Cochise?"

"Maybe." I wasn't willing to admit yes.

I'll get her for you." The madam gestured to the hardened pro.

Cochise freed the German and then kneeled before the mama-san to kiss her boots. She looked up at me and I whispered my request to the mama-san.

"She never slave."

"I don't want her to be a taa-see.If she says no, then it's no, but ask her."

I gave her a purple bill.

500 baht got the mama-san to tell Cochise my request. 

Cochise nodded yes and sat by my side.

Her skin smelled of unwanted sex.

"I see you before. At Welkom Inn." She leaned over to touch my thigh

"I saw you there too."

A lady drink arrived at the table and Cochise sighed five seconds, "I not slave."

"Me too." I wasn't so sure that Cochise was telling the truth, since I had seen her sporting black eyes from her Froggie boyfiend, then again that was love and this was commerce.

"So what you want to do?"

"Chain you and have sex." The couple on stage had moved onto a paddling. The smacks ringed in my ears. I didn't want to hurt anyone.

"No whips."

Cochise nodded her agreement.

"Only one hour. 3000 baht. Have customer come later. He slave. Easy work. You maybe not easy. Maybe you do before."

Cochise signaled to the mama-san she was heading out back.

"Maybe you want other girl."

"Want you only."

"Barg wan." She walked down a small corridor into a white room. Chains hung on the wall. The cuffs were leather.

"No sweet talking. The truth." I wanted her but only really like this.

She stripped off her leather. Her breasts and small nipples. She was also not really a woman, but a ladyboy. She kept hiding the truth.

"You can be master now." Cochise kneeled on the floor. Her hair hung over her face. Her pose and the darkness of the room transported us back 100 years when most Thais were slaves. Royalty could do with kee kao or slaves as they liked. For an hour or two I could do the same and that's the beauty of the Castle, except I wasn't into it.

"What wrong?"

"I can't do it." Mam was in my mind. I had never cheated on her

"You love your lady." Her laugh was a whip.

"Chai." I gave Cochise her money. She waii-ed respectfully and said, "Maybe lucky can be your slave again or mistress."

She slapped my ass with a strength born of a rebel.

Two minutes later I left the castle and walked over to the Buffalo.

All the girls wanted to know. "Khun penh taat reu naii?"

Master or slave?

Tuk most of all.

"Kwam lap." No one needed to know my secret.

"Khun penh ajaan sadeet." A bargirl accused me of being a sadistic teacher.

"Not even close." I had realized her fantasy. Then again Tuk played a lot of roles for farangs.

I bought her a drink and a gin-tonic for me.

After three Cochise was out of my mind, but not 100% gone until I got back to Mam.

I was her slave and she was the mother of my baby, which meant I really was a square, but if you're looking for something a little different, visit the Castle. It ain't cheap, so bring cash since they don't accept Visa.

RATES

1-year membership for 15,000 baht

Non-members

900 baht entrance fee includes one drink.

Next drinks 300 baht

Bottle 7000 baht includes mixers

MEMBERS get 50% off

Lady Drinks - 250 baht

Dress code - black shirt required.

Hours 5:30 till closing.

Website http://www.the-castle-pattaya.com

THE CASTLE THIRD ROAD PATTAYA

visit their website

http://www.the-castle-pattaya.com/site.html

Objects Are bigger than they appear

Back in 2007 a British wanker in a pickup sped down my street in Pattaya.

Nearly ran down my daughter Angie. I chased him on my scooter and at Soi Buakow banged on his passenger window.

My bike fell over and as I struggled to right it, the driver got out of his truck and I thought, "Damn, he's big."

I covered up my head.

Whack whack whack.

I'm on the pavement. Him over me. He gets up.

"You had enough?" I've heard the question before in similar situations and replied the same way as always, "Yeah, but but you still are a wanker."

I don't learn easy.

WHAT IS AMERICA 1980 - JOURNAL ENTRY

[caption id="attachment_29375" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Boy Scout Shota[/caption]

WHAT IS AMERICA

What is America?

It isn't an easy answer

As it was with the Pledge of Allegiance

Said with a hand over my heart

In a two-room schoolhouse in Maine

Said in unison with other white students

We had learned in a young heart

Within a week

Without out any explanation

1958

America

It was a flag.

The State of Maine was one of the States

On the northern border of America

1960 my family moved to the South Shore of Boston.

Deeper into America

I attended a Catholic School

Sister Mary Magdalene taught us geography.

I memorized the states and the capitols.

Sister Mary Magdalene awarded me a gold star.

I learned more about America.

My uncles had fought wars.

Against the Nazis

Against the Japs

Against the North Koreans and Commie Chinese Reds

American stood for freedom

Superman stood for truth, justice and the American Way.

Talking in class was not allowed in parochial school Not by the students.

Opening your mouth earned a trip to Mother Superior's office

A wooden ruler on the palm

Ten times on the knuckles for bad boys.

Freedom was a word taught by the nuns

Under the Blue Hills

Boy Scouts

Memorial Day parades

Veterans of the wars.

America was in South Vietnam.

Older teens fought the Viet Cong.

For freedom.

At school

History

Geography

It was the Sixties

Some things did not make sense

A war in Asia. Siccing dogs on blacks. God. None of what they taught in school.and the men from our neighborhood Only math seemed the truth.and the men from our neighborhood I was a youth on a rampage,

Rock and roll, Louie Louie, Janet Stetson, The Velvet Underground, gas 35 cents a gallon.

July 4, 1968

The Quincy Quarries

Brewster's

A 110-foot granite cliff

Jimmie Lianetti dives off the Rail He is the coolest of the cool

Something goes wrong.

Our idol breaks his back

His friends drag him from the water

Not dead but never again him

I finish high school.

My draft number is 91

Soldiers and civilians die in Vietnam.

If I don't go to college

I could be one of them.

I want to leave my town

Boston

America I'm a fighter

Not a baby killer.

I go back to school

To learn more about America

Math major

That summer

Linda Imhoff.

An elegant junior exec at my father's office

Long legs, aristocratic accent, clean shaven body,

We fuck at the Hatchshell by the Charles River

Emerson Lake and Palmer onstage

We were in the bushes.

Gas 38 cents a gallon

The 1970s were not kind to America

The city closed the Quincy Quarries

In the 90s

Boston buried them in the rubble from the Big Dig

All to save suburban commuters fifteen minutes

The tunnel saved them nothing

It wasn't all gone

The concerts, the fights after school, the racism, the bullying, the murders, guns, the them against the other them.

I was a hippie,

I am a punk

I am a father

I am a grandfather.

I am nothing

I am everything.

I am an American

I know what it means to me

Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

And that's it.

May 12, 1990 - Langtang Trek, Nepal - 1990 - Journal Entry

Yai Chang - Pattaya

Outside my house on Moo 9 in Pattaya I had a mango tree which bore fruit every year. The mahouts of the tourist traps wandered the night with their elephants, selling sugar cane to people to feed their friends. One older pachyderm Yai eyed my mango tree when the flowers burst from the limbs. I knew what time of year it was, but we had an understanding and that understanding gave us a friendship.

To hear the finish of this tale, please go to this url

https://youtu.be/Gmht6sgSqSE

Maine Coast - MARCH 2021

CAPE PORPOISE MAINE MARCH 2021

FORT GREENE PARK SLUMBER

Laying on one of Fort Greene's Shady Groves The afternoon Not quiet Hammering from a construction site, Sirens, The rumble of Brooklyn A mumbled conversation of two young women The chirp of two grakels a distant dump truck dropping its load. Another conversation High-pitched. I can make out phrases The two young people are not discussing poetry A trio of young teenage girls replace the young women For a second they were hippie chicks in Boston Common 1969 Their laughter reinforced that mirage Their language is from the future. I can decipher their words Except for "...they're like..." I love the park of Babble. The spring wind hushes over the grove The leafy boughs bob in the breeze. More laughter Non-stop hammering Sirens. The silent wind rushing through the trees. The people The park The city We are us Alone apart together Fort Greene Park

Boston Celtics Forever 2023

I am a diehard fan and I am extremely grateful for this past season when they gave in my darkest days and night another reason to live

Forever green

The 2022-23 Celtics squad is the 150th NBA team to fall into an 0-3 deficit in a playoff series. The first 149 teams all lost their respective series.

"Don’t let us get one,” Brown said during Tuesday’s morning shootaround.

2004 Red Sox.

The Curse no more.

1968 Celtics.

RESUME Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. Dorothy Parker

Several years back I was in the same mood and my landlord AP recited this poem.

He put me in my place and my place is with the living.

Same for you and all of us.

Live for today and live for tomorrow, which will be today tomorrow.

Please go to this URL to hear LIVE by the Merry-Go-Round

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live. Dorothy Parker

Several years back I was in the same mood and my landlord AP recited this poem.

He put me in my place and my place is with the living.

Same for you and all of us.

Live for today and live for tomorrow, which will be today tomorrow.

Please go to this URL to hear LIVE by the Merry-Go-Round

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXFEuKKhQJ0

No Run Left

Jocko Weyland sent an announcement for the publication of Stephen Aiken's Artists in Residence: Downtown New York in the 1970s.

Great photos reminding anyone that the city was off the tracks as it is today with million dollar apartments overlooking chaos. Back then the city had the feel of Rome after. The Goths burned it to the ground. That bar in the seaport. I never went there, but on a rainy afternoon it would be almost empty except for core drinkers

I hadn't yet to begin my early start in the 70s

All the abandoned buildings have been renovated as out of price residents mostly techies. The developers never realized that even they can't afford $5000/month and the neighborhood killers remain standing with 30% occupancy

I had never wanted to grow old here.

But I am.

Stranded by a life-threatening condition, a Yulemas operation brought me back to life.

As Lazarus.

A doctor wrote in my chart.

"Mr. Smith is an elderly man..."

Indicating that I am healing into elderdom.

I had never wanted to grow old here.

My deceased friend Old Bill had said at Franks Bar, "One of the worse things about getting old is no one thinks you're dangerous."

The septuagenarian pulled open his jacket to reveal a revolver in a shoulder holster.

"This 38 changes his mind."

Talk like that isn't chat in the bars now. The city of the 60s and 70s is gone.

The majority of new people have no sand, have no style, and practice no couth, but they could, if the danger here gets worse. If times like these you either adapt or run. I don't any run left in me.

Yesterday I was on my way to SAGA, the gay senior center next to the Walt Whitman projects.

On a Myrtle Avenue street corner these young project teens harassed an old drunk. They had just been released from school. A girl with long braids restrained a slight boy of thirteen, who thought his shabby attempt at his filthy little mustache made him tough. His friend, a hulking hippo with a Jiffy Pop bun atop his skull, walked up to the old man and clocked him. The assailant ran towards me and I elbowed him in the head. He turned around and rubbed his jaw, then resumed his flight. I grabbed the mouthy skinny teen by the arm.

"I didn't do nothing." next to the Walt Whitman projects "Nothing. Your mouth caused your friend to hit that old man."

The old man was probably my age, but his hard times had hit him harder than mine.

The girl pulled my hands off the young punk.

They all ran towards the projects.

Me, cursing at them, then going up to the old man, who must see the same kids every day. He said, "Gettin' old is shit."

I shrugged my agreement.

I said nothing and walked down Myrtle to my destination, remembering Old Bill's words.

I don't have a .38 and I'm not going get one.

My temper's fuse is hair-trigger and I don't want to kill anyone. Not even myself.

I ain't running either.

I don't have no run left in me.

Never did.

Just like Old Bill.

An exhibition of Aiken's 1970s NYC photos will run June 2 through June 26 at The Schoolhouse Gallery in Provincetown, MA.

Best Meal Of All

Next week my younger sister and her husband are leaving for a holiday in Northern Italy. I am so envious, as I have been confined to New York City for the past year, due to a long illness. My body has been steadily healing after a major operation over Yulemas, but the doctors have strongly advised that I stay put until my immune system has recovered from the major procedure and drug treatment. So I wish my dear sister and her loving

Italian food is one of the best cuisines in the world.

In the late-1950s, our family lived on Falmouth Foresides, Maine.

Every Sunday my father drove across the two bridges into Portland to pick up two pizzas and an antipasto plate of Italian meats and cheeses from Angeleno's on Washington Street. This change from cooking dinner for seven every night greatly pleased my mother, even more so since we sat in the living room and watched TV.

THE TWENTIETH CENTURY followed by THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW.

Pizza was all we knew about Italian food other than Italian sandwiches, which had nothing to do with Italy.

They were only sold in Maine and only from the Saco River to Yarmouth Maine and inland to Cornish, Maine.

We had to wait until our family moved from Maine to the South Shore of Boston.

Both our neighbors were of Italian descent. The first day our neighbor Elda Menconi invited our family over to their house to eat lasagna. We children were in heaven. Nothing had ever tasted this good. Not even the pizza from Angeleno's.

Frank and I never told our mother how much we liked Elda's cooking.

We lived on meatloaf and pasta covered with canned spaghetti sauce, regularly stopping over the Menconi's for an early dinner.

We always told my mother, that her cooking was the best.

In the winter of 1967 my older brother Frank exited off 128 without stopping for gas. The needle was on E. There was a gas station on Route 28. I warned him that we couldn't make the two miles. He said there was plenty of gas, although the station wagon had shuddered twice in the last minute. We were running on fumes.

He stepped on the gas and we entered the Blue Hills Reservation, a long straightaway through the woods to our housing development in Milton. The car came to a halt within a minute. It failed to start. We were out of gas.

I had to walk to the gas station in a slushy storm and upon my return found out that the battery had died, because Frank had ran radio. I left to get Adele Menconi. I was in love with the teenage brunette, as was every boy in my hometown. It took forty-five minutes to walk in the cold rain to 109 Harborview Road. Adele jumped in the family Valiant and drove to our stalled car. I tried to get in the car, but she ordered me to stay behind.

I entered our house and was greeted by a fantastic aroma. A pot of beef stew simmered on the stove. It was an hour or two from perfection. I poured some in a bowl and sat at the table

That stew was one of the best meals in my life

To this day.

Everything is the best when you're hungry.

As for my sister and her husband I wish them 'Buono Appetito'.

I'll be traveling come the New Year.

I can hardly wait.

PTSD Too

Several years ago I was at Grand Central Terimnal with my sister's younger in-laws. All military back from the Endless War. A twentyish Ranger said with young envy for a lost time that New York must have been crazy back in the 1970s. I replied yes and then flashed on the ghosts. Too many to count or remember.

AIDS, ODs, Craziness.

They took their toll.

I broke into tears.

The soldiers gathered around and hugged me saying they knew how I felt.

Tyey had lost frineds too.

Too many firnds.

Same as me.

Suddenly I realized I had been repressing PTSD for decades.

And it was okay because these soldiers had it too.

All together without knowing it.

We are us.

Passing Wind

My best fart was at the Ritz club. Adam and the Ants were playing. The place was packed with pirate wankers. I had eaten something dodgy. Cheap Indian and had cut a level 15 in the men's. The pissers scurried out and I went back into the audience to join my friends. The band hit the stage and went right into their one hit.

I felt another urge and warned them about the impending doom.

They told me to piss off

I said okay and let loose.

I hurried up to the balcony and stared down

There was a circle fifteen foot wide in the center of the audience.

My friends arrived several seconds later.

Gasping for a clear breath.

When Adam Ant finished the song, he commented on the fart.

My personal best ever.

NORTH END MIRACLE by Peter Nolan Smith

Throughout my childhood my mother cooked dinner for six kids and every Friday evening she drove our station wagon into Boston. We picked up my father at 50 Milk Street, where he worked for Ma Bell as an electrical engineer. He took the wheel and headed to a restaurant.

Throughout my childhood my mother cooked dinner for six kids and every Friday evening she drove our station wagon into Boston. We picked up my father at 50 Milk Street, where he worked for Ma Bell as an electrical engineer. He took the wheel and headed to a restaurant.

My father loved my mother and they loved dining out even with us in tow.

One evening my father strode from the NET&T headquarters like a man in a mission.

"Where to tonight?" asked my mother.

She always dressed for the occasion.

"A little restaurant in the North End." He pulled out into the street. "A co-worker said George's was cheap and cheerful.

Feeding six hungry kids was a struggle even on a white-collar salary.

"Parking's horrible there," complained my mother

"I always find a parking spot." My father crossed Atlantic Avenue and weaved through the traffic on Hanover Street to turn onto a crooked lane.

"Not for me it is and look, there's a parking spot." My father pulled into the space.

The two burly men outside the eatery frowned at my father, but said nothing, as our tribe trooped into George's.

The restaurant had no customers. The men at the bar glanced over their shoulders and then returned to muttered conversations. The tuxedoed waiter approached our family, as if we were lost.

"You really wanna eat here?" He waved his hand at the empty tables.

"I have six hungry kids and you have food. Where else you want me to go?" My father came from Maine. There was only one Italian restaurant in Portland. Every Sunday night of my early years he traveled across the Martin Point Bridge from Falmouth Foresides to pick up pizza and antipasto, which we ate while watching THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW on our Zenith TV. We were no strangers to Italian cuisine.

"Nowhere, but here. I give you da best table." He led us to a big booth underneath a painting of Naples. My father ordered meatball and spaghetti for us. My mother had a plate of pasta reeking of garlic and they shared a small carafe of red wi

A few more men entered the bar.

They narrowed their gaze upon seeing us.

One of them pointed at my father and I ate with my head down to avoid his black eyes. My brother did the same, but my mother and father ordered another carafe of wine. The waiter put a coin into the jukebox and played YELLOW BIRD. The men in the bar spoke louder, until my mother sang along with Harry Belafonte.

I had seen her quiet a cathedral choir with her voice and my father beamed with pride as she wrenched every emotion from the Jamaican song. I was embarrassed by her singing so loud. In many ways I never understood her gift, however when she finished the men at the bar applauded my mother.

The toughest man crossed the floor to our table. A scar bisected his forehead. He bowed to my mother.

"Lady, you have the voice of an angel. My name is George. This is my place. Anytime you want to come, you call and we'll have a table ready for you and yours." He gave my father his card and waved for the waiter to bring another carafe of wine and ice cream for us.

"On me, but you mind if you song some more."

"I'll be my pleasure."

My mother sang Dean Martin's THAT'S AMORE. Her rendition of Dean Martin's hit bought the eternal gratitude of the gruff clientele and her version of I'LL TAKE YOU HOME AGAIN, KATHLEEN brought tears to every man's eyes.

After that evening we returned to George's at least once a month. My father parked in front of the restaurant and his kids marveled at this driving feat. We never strayed from the meatballs and spaghetti and my mother always sang a few songs for the bar, as my father beamed with love. She was the one woman in his life and his kids were his pride and joy, even as I rebelled against his way of life.

One night in the Spring of 1971 I decided to take my hippie friends down to George's.

Hank Watson, two co-eds from BU, and I took the T to Haymarket. We walked under the Artery into the North End. The parking space in front of the restaurant was filled by a big Cadillac. The two men on the sidewalk blocked our entrance. Hank had hair down to the back of his ass. Mine was shoulder-length. Hippies weren't welcome in the North End.

"Youse ain't coming inside." One of them placed a hand in my chest.

I looked over his shoulder.

George sat at the bar. His eyes glared at me with a puzzled recognition and then he snapped his fingers.

"Hey, Louie, let them in, the good-looking one's the son of the songbird," George shouted from the bar.

"Thanks," I politely said at the bar.

"How's your mother and father?"

"Good." The bartender served us wine.

"Come here. I wanna talk to you a second." George led me into the back and spoke with his arm around my shoulder, "Listen, I don't got no problem with longhairs, but my people they don't like hippies. You coming here is no problem, but you bring other hippies and people will start talking, you understand?"

"You want me to leave?"

"No, I can't do that to you, but next time dress a little better and only come with a girl. No friends. Out of respect for your mother."

"No, I can't do that to you, but next time dress a little better and only come with a girl. No friends. Out of respect." She always dressed for the occasion.

After that evening we returned to George's at least once a month. My father parked in front of the restaurant and his kids marveled at this driving feat. We never strayed from the meatballs and spaghetti and my mother always sang a few songs for the bar, as my father beamed with love. She was the one woman in his life and his kids were his pride and joy, even as I rebelled against his way of life.

One night in the Spring of 1971 I decided to take my hippie friends down to George's.

Hank Watson, two co-eds from BU, and I took the T to Haymarket. We walked under the Artery into the North End. The parking space in front of the restaurant was filled by a big Cadillac. The two men on the sidewalk blocked our entrance. Hank had hair down to the back of his ass. Mine was shoulder-length. Hippies l weren't welcome in the North End.

"Youse ain't coming in." One of them planted a hand in my chest.

I looked over his shoulder.

George sat at the bar. His eyes glared at me with a puzzled recognition and then he snapped his fingers.

"Hey, Louie, let them in, the good-looking one's the son of the songbird," George shouted from the bar.

"Thanks," I politely said at the bar.

"How's your mother and father?"

"Good." The bartender served us wine.

"Come here. I wanna talk to you a second." George led me into the back and spoke with his arm around my shoulder, "Listen, I don't got no problem with longhairs, but my people they don't like hippies. You coming here is no problem, but you bring other hippies and people will start talking, you understand?"

"You want me to leave?"

"No, I can't do that to you, but next time dress a little better and only come with a girl. No friends. Out of respect for your mother."

"Whatever you want." I was a good boy when it came to family. "Can I ask you one question?"

"Maybe."

"That first time we came to your restaurant and my father parked in front. He wasn't supposed to do that, was he?" THE GODFATHER had come out the previous year. Any questions about George's business were answered in that film. He was one of those guys about whom no one talked if they knew what was good for them.

"That's my spot. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that, but after your mother sang it became her spot. Still is. Enjoy your meal and give your best to your mother." He started to walk to the bar, then stopped, "One more thing, don't ever tell your father that. He's a good man. Name's Frank, right?"

"I call him 'Dad' and my lips are sealed."

"Good boy, one more thing."

"What?"

"Cut your hair. You look like your mother with that thatched roof."

"My mother?" Like most teenagers in the 60s I had told myself that I would never grow up to be my father. Nobody had warned me about my mother. The hair had to go.

"Yes, your mother."

I never mentioned this incident to my father or mother, but every time they went to the North End I call George and the parking spot would be waiting for them. It was a miracle, but then again so was my mother's voice.

Guilty As Charged

Two days ago a New York City jury of six men and three women found Donald Trump guilty of sexually abusing E. Jean Carroll as well as publicly defaming her character. He was absolved of rape and assault by the jury. The GOP 2024 presidential candidate was not assigned any jail time, as this was a civil suit. Damages awarded to the writer were set at over $5 million. Donald Trump immediately announced that his legal team would appeal the judgment.

While the jury found that Trump sexually abused Carroll, sufficient to hold him liable for battery, the jury did not find that she proved he raped her. He does not face any jail time as a result of the civil verdict. Trump said he will appeal the verdict.

"Somehow we’re going to have to fight this stuff," Trump said. "We cannot let our country go into this abyss. This is disgraceful.”

Trump understands the power of money in the legal system.

No one really trust a woman's word in rape.

The police infamously always ask the victim, "What were you wearing?" to suggest that her or his clothing provoke the attack.

Rape victims are reluctant to report the assault for just this reason.

People will think it was there fault.

When the plaintiff was on the stand, Trump's lawyer continually asked E. Jean Carroll why she hadn't screamed. She had answered that she was scared. Trump is much bigger than her. He held her from behind in the dressing room. He was stronger. She was weak.

"I was scared."

The jury believed her.

Not his followers who once more announced their support for Trump as the Orange Messiah. Not surprising, as he had once said, "I could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and get away with it."

Appeal is his right.

He has more hurtles to come with trials set for Georgia and Washington on electoral obstruction and sentencing for his role in the January 6, 2022 insurrection in Washington. Somehow someday I hope this traitor goes to prison, although this is America and every guilt is innocent, if they have the money to pay for innocence.

I can only hope that one day Trump will behind bars.

ANGUS

I had a Scottie in Paris
1980s
Angus
Not really mine.
Bridget's,
But the Vogue model was rarely home.
Angus and I were alone
A lot
We went drinking together
Angus liked Kronenburg

He lapped the beer from a dish
On the bar
Not much
He wasn't a serious drinker
Preferred to be on the floor.

Angus was always on a leash.
He loved to roam around the Brassierie d'Ile.
A few snouts of beer too
But once he had had enough
Angus pulled the leash.
The tiny Scottie had strength.

Once he wanted to go
We went
I drowned my drink
We set off for home
On Ile St Louis
Along the quai
The Seine running to the sea
Angus sniffing dog pee
All the way back to Rue des Deux Ponts.
How I loved that dog.
Dirty
Shaggy
Dear Angus

THE ROOTS OF CONTACT 1976 - April 18, 1978 - BAD POETRY

THE ROOTS OF CONTACT 1976

By

Peter Nolan Smith

Downtown
A disco.
Flashing strobes,
Deafening drum bass.
A young weekend crowd.
Dancing.

Sexually fearless males on 'ludes
Disco waifs on blow
All of us 99% dead by dawn.

A thin wanton teenager sensually sways to Donna Summer's ' LOVE TO LOVE YOU, BABY'.
She dances with me.
Her body seducing my drugged libido
She's high.
"Love to love you, baby."
She lipsynches the chorus
"Love to you you baby."

Sara
Her name.
Sara is in high school.
Private school.
I push Sara away hard. Hard.
Girls like her are danger.
To themselves
To everyone around them.

I thread my way to the bar.
"A vodka-tonic."
The bartender wants me.
Jhoury pours a double and slips me a 'lude.

I lean against the bar.
A voyeur.

White boys dance with black men
Girls with girls.
No one is straight.
Not even 10%.

The DJ pushes the beat on and on and on.
I drop the 714.
It's my second.

Across the dance floor a brunette
Beauty.
Alone
Surrounded by admirers
Famous
A Vogue model
Everyone knows her name.
Gia.
I am a no one, but I am the most no one here

Gia sees that.
Her eyes fall on me
Mine on her.
Mirror to mirror
I know her.

Gia is famous.
A Vogue model.
I am no one,
But I am the most no one here.

LOVE TO LOVE YOU BABY
Segue to silence.
The dance floor stalled to a near-stop.
The DJ smiles under a spotlight.

More silence,
One second, two seconds fifteen seconds
Then Diana Ross' breathless voice.
We all know this song.
We sway
We all know what is coming

LOVE HANGOVER

Almost a ballad
Then Magic
The bass, the drums, the guitar and Diana on top of it all
Gia and I meet on the dance floor

She said her name
I tell her mine.
Names mean nothing in our world.
Her body to mine.

The 'lude hits
The madness of flesh

Gia and me
Immortalia.
For now and eternity.

Mukhannath Alone

Last week while waiting for the B54 bus at JayStreet-Metro Tech I spotted a figure in a chador crossing the plaza. Not an usual sight in Brooklyn with its sizable Muslim community, however this person's gait was unusual for a woman and I realized that they were trans-gender. They weren't wearing a veil and their face was male. I was surprised but also happy that this person was strong enough to be their self, considering rampant American transphobia and Muslims' disapproval of any sexuality other than male or female.

I wanted to approach this brave soul, however respectfully refrained approaching them.

THey were unaccompnied by a male.

This sighting was a first, but perhaps not, since many Fatwahs have been issued by Mullahs on the sexual diversity in the cause of social justice. The Koran reads in Surah 42 Ash-Shuraa, verse 49-50), "The dominion of the heavens and the earth belongs to Allah. He creates whatever He pleases. He grants females to whomever He pleases and males to whomever He pleases or grants them a mix of males and females, and causes whomever He pleases to be barren. He is All- Knowing, All-Powerful."

Fundamentalist interpretations of the Koran have led to the persecution of gays and transgender people through the Muslim world as their Christian counterparts seek to criminalize transgender and gays throughout their realm, going as far as Uganda seeking the death penalty for the violation of their Transgender God in a MuuMuu's Ten Commandments.

Based on Al-Tabari’s understanding of the Hadith, he at first, acknowledges that the Prophet did not forbid the hermaphrodite and mukhannath from entering the women’s quarters until he heard them giving a description of the women in great detail.

There was an understanding which rejected the belief that Allah never makes a mistake.

As an Atheist I reject such blind judgments by a mythical Supreme Being and vow as I have always to protect those without protection. I used to use violence to do so, but I am a seventy year-old man with a recent liver transplant. My anonymous donor was a forty year-old woman weighting three-hundred pounds and who might have shot herself in the head. I took it on myself to call them Paula whose final sacrifice granted me life.

We are us.

We have no gender.

We do not reject others with multiple genders.

We are travels of eternity and eternity only exists in the Now.

Resist all attempts to make us 'them'.

There are no absolutes.

And bonne courage to that brave soul crossing the plaza.

please read the June 2020 article: Countering Islamic conservatism on being transgender: Clarifying Tantawi's and Khomeini’s fatwas from the progressive Muslim standpoint by Aisya Aymanee M. Zaharin

https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8726683/

Dog Yum Yum

The islands of Ternate and Tidore had been the destination of European explorers seeking to circumvent the Ottoman Empire’s spice trade monopoly . Only one ship from Magellan's fleet returned from their historic voyage around the world and the spices purchased on these islands paid off the cost of the trip and enriched the investors beyond their dream.

In 1991 I flew from Ambon, the Spice Island's administrative capitol, to Ternate. I was the only westerner on the airplane. George Bush had ordered troops to the frontier of Kuwait to confront Saddam’s invasion of that oil-rich country. Indonesia is 95% Muslim. Ternate was 100%. The hotel manager asked if I were American.

"No, I'm Irish." I dropped the green passport on the counter. I had received citizenship thanks to my Nana from County Mayo.

"Maybe tidak apa-apa."

He gave me a room next to the front desk.

"I want a room with a view.” The volcanic island of Tidore lay across the bay. Its slope were covered with cloves. Their fragrance mingled with the Kretek cigarette smoke. on the tropical night air.

"Room with view apa-apa banyak."

Apa-apa means trouble. Banyak much trouble. He feared something worst than mosquitoes.

"You only Mistah here."

"Any Israelis?" A bunch of discharged IDF soldiers had occupied the Dutch hotel on Biak. The Indonesians thought they were dirty. I didn’t disagree. They smelled even worse. Indonesians disliked them almost as much as haughty Italians.

"No Israeli, you only “mistah."

The Dutch overlords had insisted on the Indonesians calling all white men ‘mistah’.

“Then no apa-apa. Like I said I am Irish.

The tropical evening fell like a black cloak on the streets lit by 40-watt bulbs. I walked to the harbor for dinner. The eyes in the doorways were sullen. The TV screen were filled by the 'Shock and Awe's destruction of Baghdad. The war had started in Iraq. Mullahs at the Mosques called out for evening prayers. The faithful kneeled in the direction of Mecca, but not all.

Some followed me. The quay was illuminated by the bright lights of restaurants. I stood before an offering of foods. None of them were familiar. One smelled good and everyone else in the restaurant was eating it. I ordered one plate with rice. More men stood glaring at me. I ate quickly, but the dish was so good I ordered another to show I wasn't scared of the gathering crowd.

Each man had a clove cigarette dangling from their lips, I came from the South Shore of Boston. We never ran, unless we could and retreat was became impossible as the 20 became 30 and the 30 grew to 50. It was time to order the bill. The older waitress placed the bill on the table. I read two orders of Danjing.

"Danjing?" I knew this word in Bahasa Indonesian.

"Yes, danjing?"

"Dog?"

"Yes, dog," she said it loud enough for the mob to hear and they laughed realizing I had unwittingly dined on dog. I smiled as the butt of joke should and said, “Irish eat dog.”

"George Bush eat dog." A voice in the crowd shouted and the men laughed without humor. I agreed with the mob. George Bush had trained the Guatemalan and El Salvador troops in counter-insurgency. Hundreds of thousands of Mayan peasants had died in his pogroms.

"Walk, don’t run," I told myself. Two cops were across the road. They turned their heads. I bought a loose cigarette from a tobacco shop and smoked the kretek butt, as the mob tramped several feet behind me. Upon reaching the hotel the manager asked, "Tidak apa-apa."

“No problem.” I grabbed my room key and barricaded the doors, as the crowd chanted, "George Bush eat dog."

The police ordered the crowd to go home, I listened to the BBC on my world-band radio. The battle of all battles was a blow-out. Iraq’s tanks burned in the desert, but my safe escape was seriously in doubt, since I figured the odds were 5000-1. Worse than Custer, yet no one smashed down the door and in the morning when I ventured from the hotel, the faces on the street were smiling.

Several men gave me the thumbs up.

"Rambo #1. You # 1. You eat dog."

And like that they switched sides, because everyone loves a winner and I liked dog enough to eat it twice.

DEEP MUD FROM DANAU POSO By Peter Nolan Smith

Indonesians travel by ships, boats, and ferries between the many islands of the Far East archipelago.

In 1991 I had been diving off Bunaken Island and after two weeks of drifting along the reefs I boarded midsize Pelni liner at Manado with a second-class ticket. I was headed around the top of Sulawesi to Palu with a brief stop on Borneo.

I phoned my mother collect from the hotel. The operator connected with Boston in less than thirty minutes. My mother was happy to know where I was. I had left her a map of Indonesia with my planned itinerary. She was concerned about my safety.

"No one is giving me a hard time about being an American." The USA and its allies were fighting the mother of all tank battles with Iraq. Indonesia was 95% Muslim.It was better that I didn't tell her about a mob harassing me in Ternate. "I'm taking a boat tomorrow."

"You never wanted to leave home as a young boy. Now you travel the world. Be my eyes and ears."

"I will."

I boarded the Pelni liner an hour before departure. The pier was packed with Javanese deportees headed to remote islands. I had an air-conditioned berth to myself and listened to the BBC on my bed. The war was progressing well for the Coalition of the Willing.

The ship cleared Manado harbor and skirted the coast past coconut plantations and Bugis villages. Few of their names were marked on the Nell's maps. Palm trees were the taller than the houses. A small dirt road veered in and out of sight. The overland journey from Manado to Palu on the island's west coast was a three-day ordeal.

"Jalan tidak jelek," said every passenger with a shiver.

"Sepanjang japan di Sulawesi jelek," warned a Javanese businessman.

Bad roads were bad roads no matter where.

I had driven icy rutted roads in Maine.

Death had waited around every curve in the French film THE WAGES OF FEAR.

I wondered how dangerous the roads could be in Sulawesi and enjoyed the smooth surface of the sea.

Everyone was glad to be on the ship. Its top speed was 12 knots. Our ETA in Palu was for tomorrow morning.

Dinner was a simple nasi goreng, fried rice with chicken and an egg. I washed the food down with a cold Bintang beer and went out on deck to watch the night sky. A lightning storm throbbed in a distant thunderhead and the stars numbered in the millions.

I lay in my bunk and read Joseph Conrad's VICTORY.

His novel was set on these island back in the last century.

On shore it was still 1890.

The ship arrived in Balikpapan around midnight. Oil tanks lined the harbor. The stop lasted about two hours. I stayed on board. A large number of Indonesians of all tribes and clans hustled up and down the gangway. I was getting used to the chaos and drank another beer.

The crew called 'Semua papan' or 'all aboard'.

Hundreds of people waved good-bye from starboard. The ship leaned several degrees off the beam and the captain blew the departure horn. Within minutes we were once more under way.

That night the BBC announced reported that Saddam's army was surrendering in droves. The liner's engines pounded out a steady beat. I fell asleep dreaming on the tropics.

AS predicted the ship reached our destination a little past the dawn. Palu was a small port. There were no Europeans on the dock. A driver came up to me and asked, "Dari jalan?"

I explained that I was heading to Lake Poso and asked how was the road.

"Jalan bagus."

Bahasa Indonesian was an easy language. Good road was a good thing and I sat in the front of his Toyota Pathfinder for the hundred mile ride to Poso.

Poso on the Gulf of Tomini was a bigger town than Palu with a population around 40,000.

Most of them Muslims, but also a melange of ethnic groups; Butung, Kaili, Bugis, Tolaki, Muna, Gorontaloan, and numerous others.

No one was driving to Lake Poso until tomorrow. Poso City seemed pleasant enough and I booked a cheap hotel for $5.

Nothing about it was clean and that night I opted against dining in their dingy restaurant in favor of a Chinese karaoke restaurant. The cuisine was a nice change from cold Malay dishes and I watched several women sadly sing songs, while gazing with longing at the pictures of Singapore or Hong Kong, wishing they were there and not in exile from their homeland.

At my small hotel I slept feeling like I was on the other side of nowhere, but nowhere was up in the mountains to the south.

The next day I rode up into the highlands. The road was paved thanks to money from the Japanese. The Empire's troops had occupied all of Indonesia during the War of the Pacific.

"Nippon bagus." The driver liked Japanese tourists. They paid twice as much as other tourists.

"Nippon bagus sekarang." They were good now, but now was different from 1945.

Not the jungle on either side of the road.

This was true rain forest.

Teakwood trees soared overhead.

No one lived here, but the road was paved and I enjoyed the view, as the car struggled up the steep inclines.

Coffee bushes dotted the slopes. The beans dried on the verge in the sun. The smell was tantalizing.

We stopped at a small roadside warung to let the engine cool down. The coffee was instant powder and the sweetened milk came out of can. For hundreds of years the Dutch colonists had shipped the spices and coffee to Europe. Some things never changed, but Asians liked talking about good things and I said to the driver, "Jalan bagus."

"Ya," he explained that the road on the other side of Lake Poso was the worst in Indonesia.

"How bad?"

"Sekali jelek."

The rest of the passengers murmured their agreement and the driver motioned for us to get in the LandCruiser.

Lake Poso was the third largest lake in Indonesia. A covered bridge crossed the outlet river. The driver dropped me at the ferry.

I once more asked about the road to the other end of the lake.

The driver laughed in my face and said that the road was a river of mud.

"Tomorrow you see."

The other passengers filed onto the ferry and laid in the shade. The boat wasn't leaving till the night, because of engine trouble.

I walked to a high hill in the hot equatorial sun.

The lake was bigger than it looked on the Nell's map.

Mountains rimmed the horizon. The people living on the slopes had been headhunters. I stayed close to the lake.

The ferry left near sunset. Another Westerner was on board. Ilke came from Germany. She was traveling alone. Michael Jackson's BEAT IT was on the radio.

I love Michael, but you can't play this around a campfire."

She didn't laugh. Her mind was on our trip.

"Have you heard about the road on the other side?"

"Everyone has been telling me that it's bad, but people tend to exaggerate. When I was in Ambon, the people there told me that the people living on Seram were all witches and the people on Seram said the same thing about the people on Ambon. Same thing probaly for this road."

"So the road will be fine."

We'll see soon enough."

The light faded fast from the sky.

The sunset was spectacular.

The darkness was complete.

The winds picked up and the ferry pulled into an inlet. We drank beers around a fire, as a young boy played Michael Jackson hits. One was BEAT IT. The reach of Jocko was worldwide.

We arrived at the southern end of Lake Poso at dawn. Clouds of fog lingered on the mountains. The air was cool as to be expected this high above sea level. Passengers from the ferry packed onto a waiting bus. The cost of a ride down to the Makassar was $3. A Toyota Pathfinder driver offered a seat for $10. For Indonesians as well as us. It seemed expensive.

"What do you think?" asked Ilke.

"The bus is cheap, but I'm not taking a chance." I was hoping to reach the mythical highlands of Tana Toraja by evening.

"I'm with you."

The road was paved for a good ten miles.

We stopped at a warung, where a young girl served us sweet instant coffee and cold rice with a salty egg.

"Why we stop?" I asked the driver.

"Jalan apa-apa." He pointed to a bulldozer hauling a bus from the mire. The high line of mud was well above the wheels. Two foreigners on board told us that they had been stuck for over a day.

"We tried walking, but almost drowned in it," the girl cried into the shoulder of her friend.

"Jalan sekali jerek."

I walked around the corner and saw how bad.

A mudslide had covered the road for about a hundred feet to a depth of ten feet. Workers were clearing the avalanche. I returned to the warung and said to Ilke, "We'll be here for hours."

The driver tapped his watch. "One hour."

His English was good, but I doubted he was an engineer and drank some more coffee. The cute girl's name was Indah.

After an hour I decided to walk to the other side of the slide.

The coffee was strong for instant.

Ilke joined me for the ankle deep trudge through the muck.

"When I left the USA, I wanted to come someplace like this. Someplace lost from the rest of civilization."

"You have gotten there and so have I." Ilke was in a good mood.

Standing in mud got boring fast and we trudged to the nearest warung.

Road crews were eating breakfast. We joined them. Our Nissan showed up thirty minutes later. We got back in the car and left behind the bad road for good.

By afternoon we reached Tana Toraja. The town had primitive feel to it, but we booked into a clean hotel for $5. Ilke got her own room.

That night I bought Ilke several beers and we had a good laugh about the mud.

"I wonder where the bus is."

"Still in the mud."

And that was the difference between $3 and $10 in 1991.