December 19, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Alice left 256 early to catch a morning flight to West Virginia. We have lived at 256 East 10th since August. I carry her heavy blue bag down to the street corner. It's not too cold and she wore a long green Mormon dress, a distressed purple sweater, and her favorite high-heeled boots. I want her to stay with me, but said nothing. We barely speak and both of us succumbed to the pull of our old homes. She to Appalachia and me to the South Shore of Boston for the holidays.

She hailed a cab and a Checker stopped on the corner of Fitst Avenue. I threw her bag in the back. Neither of us said good-bye, as if there was nothing in this city was holding her. Not me. Not her career. The taxi disappeared into the traffic. We hadn't had sex since before she announced she was pregnant after the New Wave Vaudeville Show. These last weeks I had watched her weight gain. Some, but she had been eating like she had been rescued from starving on a deserted island.

After an hour I get a phone call from Jim Bottomly. He's driving up to Maine and can drop me at the Sturbridge entrance to the Mass Pike. A good place from which to hitchhike to Boston. Last night the temperature had been below freezing. The New York Times forecasts it will be bitter cold tomorrow, but it's only fifty five miles from Sturbridge to Boston. There is no mention of snow.

Later.

The Patriots announce that Chuck Fairbanks will be leaving the Patriots after the playoffs to coach at Colorado U. This move must have really charged the team for the playoffs. Why couldn't he have waited till after the New Year? Probably because the Press had the news and couldn't hold their sand.

Lately ruminating watching television, playing solitaire, and listening to the radio has a greater appeal than writing at the kitchen table. Claptrap no one wants to read.

Other than a stand-up piano and books on drama Alice left little trace. I smelled the pillow. She is too clean to leave a scent. I wonder if she is coming back. She might just go west to hit it big in Hollywood. Another young ingenue to the slaughterwhorehouse. No chance of being the sex symbol Hollywood wants in their grips, but I could go with her. I'll be just as broke there as here.

Standing at the rear window overlooking the alley, I reflect on the past year. I fell in love for the first time in my life, not counting Janet Stetson, Linda Imhoff, Hilde Hartnett and Ro Lohin. All of them ended up in disaster. Not Alice. Our one night stand, a menage a trois in a chilly swimming pool graduated to a weekend fling to a summertime affair ot living together. I rescued Alice from her hometown. Chemical City. She would have come here anyway. The bright lights of the big city dazzled her hillbilly heritage. She is gone, but I live with her and she lives with me with no end in sight.

Second achievement also tied to Alice. I moved from the SRO on West 11th Street to 256 10th Street. My grandmother once said, "Better a bad apartment with a good address than a good apartment with a bad address. My SRO was a single room with linoleum floor and a sagging bed. Off a 5th Avenue. But a dump. 256 is a cockroach-ridden tenement apartment in a neighborhood beset by a drug epidemic, but I didn't have a phone on 11th Street and now I can reach out to people, not that I have been able to find a good job.

I have worked at Serendipity 3 as a busboy, a waiter at an executive dining room on Wall Street, as a production assistant for an Edward Albee tour, and painted Alice's father's house in West Virginia. I haven't done much since summer and the new year promises more nothing.

Bad things.

Too few to mention.

Maybe a baby.

What is Christmas
Snow falling between the drifts,
The glow on holiday lights in the windows
Falling on the winter wonderland.
Presents, giving and receiving.
Friends, old and new,
Families
Together
Telling old stories and future dreams
We celebrate the birth of Jesus
The legend celebrated by Christians. I'm an aethist.

I beleive more in Santa Claus.
The New Testament claims the Son of God
Was
Born in Bethelhem
The Son of God to be crucified
On a cross for our sins.
None of my sins required a death sentence.
Christians see Jesus as a God
Muslims regard him a a messiah.
Nothing like a religious war
For Jesus and Christmas Day to bring Peace on Earth.

Later

Grant and I discussed the fact that Americans are poorly read, rarely roaming from the curriculum prescribed by a Christian government and the churches ruling over our souls. We watch too much TV and eat too much potato chips. Where are the Renaissance men? Damn, I can't spell that word and I'm too lazy to look it up the the dictionary.

2023 Renaissance.

Got it right on the second try.

December 18, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry

Alice left the East Village to catch a flight to West Virginia. We have lived at 256 East 10th since August. I carry her heavy blue bag down to the street corner. It's not too cold and she wore a long green Mormon dress, a distressed purple sweater, and her favorite high-heeled boots. I want her to stay with me, but said nothing. We barely speak and both of us succumbed to the pull of our old homes. She to Appalachia and me to the South Shore of Boston for the holidays.

She hailed a cab and a Checker stopped on the corner of Fitst Avenue. I threw her bag in the back. Neither of us said good-bye, as if there was nothing in this city was holding her. Not me. Not her career. The taxi disappeared into the traffic. We hadn't had sex since before she announced she was pregnant after the New Wave Vaudeville Show. These last weeks I had watched her weight gain. Some, but she had been eating like she had been rescued from starving on a deserted island.

After an hour I get a phone call from Jim Bottomly. He's driving up to Maine and can drop me at the Sturbridge entrance to the Mass Pike. A good place from which to hitchhike to Boston. Last night the temperature had been below freezing. The New York Times forecasts it will be bitter cold tomorrow, but it's only fifty five miles from Sturbridge to Boston. There is no mention of snow.

Later.

The Patriots announce that Chuck Fairbanks will be leaving the Patriots after the playoffs to coach at Colorado U. This move must have really charged the team for the playoffs. Why couldn't he have waited till after the New Year? Probably because the Press had the news and couldn't hold their sand.

Lately ruminating watching television, playing solitaire, and listening to the radio has a greater appeal than writing at the kitchen table. Claptrap no one wants to read.

Other than a stand-up piano and books on drama Alice left little trace. I smelled the pillow. She is too clean to leave a scent. I wonder if she is coming back. She might just go west to hit it big in Hollywood. Another young ingenue to the slaughterwhorehouse. No chance of being the sex symbol Hollywood wants in their grips, but I could go with her. I'll be just as broke there as here.

Standing at the rear window overlooking the alley, I reflect on the past year. I fell in love for the first time in my life, not counting Janet Stetson, Linda Imhoff, Hilde Hartnett and Ro Lohin. All of them ended up in disaster. Not Alice. Our one night stand, a menage a trois in a chilly swimming pool graduated to a weekend fling to a summertime affair ot living together. I rescued Alice from her hometown. Chemical City. She would have come here anyway. The bright lights of the big city dazzled her hillbilly heritage. She is gone, but I live with her and she lives with me with no end in sight.

Second achievement also tied to Alice. I moved from the SRO on West 11th Street to 256 10th Street. My grandmother once said, "Better a bad apartment with a good address than a good apartment with a bad address. My SRO was a single room with linoleum floor and a sagging bed. Off a 5th Avenue. But a dump. 256 is a cockroach-ridden tenement apartment in a neighborhood beset by a drug epidemic, but I didn't have a phone on 11th Street and now I can reach out to people, not that I have been able to find a good job.

I have worked at Serendipity 3 as a busboy, a waiter at an executive dining room on Wall Street, as a production assistant for an Edward Albee tour, and painted Alice's father's house in West Virginia. I haven't done much since summer and the new year promises more nothing.

Bad things.

Too few to mention.

Maybe a baby.

What is Christmas
Snow falling between the drifts,
The glow on holiday lights in the windows
Falling on the winter wonderland.
Presents, giving and receiving.
Friends, old and new,
Families
Together
Telling old stories and future dreams
We celebrate the birth of Jesus
The legend celebrated by Christians. I'm an aethist.

I beleive more in Santa Claus.
The New Testament claims the Son of God
Was
Born in Bethelhem
The Son of God to be crucified
On a cross for our sins.
None of my sins required a death sentence.
Christians see Jesus as a God
Muslims regard him a a messiah.
Nothing like a religious war
For Jesus and Christmas Day

Later

Grant and I discussed the fact that Americans are poorly read, rarely roaming from the curriculum prescribed by a Christian government and the churches ruling over our souls. We watch too much TV and eat too much potato chips. Where are the Renaissance men? Damn, I can't spell that word and I'm too lay to look it up the the dictionary.

2023 Renaissance.

Got it right on the second try.

The Touch of Hands

A hand Five fingers The veined back and fleshy palm. Two hands Ten fingers A woman's hand

Mine are scarred Accidents and fights Only on my right hand.

A woman's hands Palms On my cheeks Soft and warm.

It's been years. Since a woman's touched Me. Eyes shut Soul open Bewitched by the palms Of a woman's two hands And the magic of a new memory. They last the longest.

Drawing by Egon Schiele

Imagine Peace

/div>

No silent night No peace on Earth Like Lennon sang Imagine Imagine Imagine

Imagine no more them Imagine no more us Imagine only we are the world We are us. We are us.

From the mountains And the valleys To the Oceans All around the world.

No more prayers No more thoughts Only the silence of guns And Peace on Earth

From the Jordan River To the Ukraine To the wars Everywhere Nothing but peace

For the children of now For the children of the future For we who were once children Peace around the world.

Imagine It's easy if you try Lennon sang that then Let's sing it together now.

All together now All tomorrows All together now We are us All of us Like it or not.

Moe-Ho Road Rage ala Thai - 2005

This Thai expression is rarely used while behind the wheel.

On Boxing Day 2005 a neighbor roared down my soi in his pick-up. He nearly hit my daughter. My wife later said he didn’t come close, but I took off after him on my motorcycle to give him a piece of my mind. At the end of the soi I slapped his door, but had to arkwardly brake to avoid entering the busier main street. The bike fell over and as I was picking it up, my neighbor, whose head appeared small behind the tinted windows emerged as a 6-3 football hooligan and he walloped my head several times. Bloodying my head, breaking my nose slightly, and blackening both eyes.

“Had enough?”

“Yeah, but your still an asshole for driving like one.”

Of course this was hardly an isolated incident.

Everyone’s temper worsens in their vehicle.

Sourette’s syndrome is pandemic.

“FFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUU.”

Up in Chiang Mai back in the 90s a German flipped a motorcyclist the finger.

A year later the Kraut was shot dead by the same motorcyclist.

Last week a Thai driver was angered by three kids on bike. They were driving in between the cars without any concern for life or limb. The driver beeped his horn and one of the bikers slowed down to shoot the driver. He was lucky.

Only wounded.

His girlfriend said, “I told him to be cool.”

And that’s what everyone should be

Cool.

Me too.

Like where we going in such a hurry?

7/11?

To get some shitty food.

Jai yen.

I’ve learned my lesson, but if anyone sees a blue Isuzu pick-up with 6522 plates, I give you the green light to slash their tires.

Beers will be on me at the Buffalo Bar in August.

No Silent Night

Yesterday the IDF pounded Gaza with bombs and artillery, killing scores of civilians and wounding hundreds. Their national holocaust soul demands retribution for Hamas' October 7 attack and their revenge has not be an eye for an eye. Not on Yom Kippur. Not on Hannukah. Not on Christmas. Extermination of the Palestiniand has been the only goal for Israel. Hamas, men, women, children. They have forced their fellow Semites to the edge of the Negev to march everyone intomthe desert as the Turks visited on the Armenians. From the river to the sea, Israel will be free of anyone, but Jews. Many of my Jewish friends see this as the only course. Extermination once and all. Americans remain silent on the subject. The Press only see one-side. Zionism supreme. Silence is the truth. But not for me. And not for others. We believe in peace, but not at the price demanded by Netanyahu and his fascist ministers.

And there is no Silent Night in Gaza last night or tonight.

No Christmas too.

Home By Christmas 2009

Published June 9 2009

In 2009 the Pentagon has announced the capture of an American soldier by the Taliban in Afghanistan. The young man supposedly walked off base with three Afghani soldiers, although there were also reports that Bowe Bergdahl had lagged behind a patrol. A video was released by the Taliban on which the soldier admitted, "I'm scared I won't be able to go home."

He added later in the twenty-eight minute interview, "Yo my fellow Americans who have loved ones over here, who know what it's like to miss them, you have the power to make our government bring them home. Please, please bring us home so that we can be back where we belong and not over here, wasting our time and our lives and our precious life that we could be using back in our own country. Please bring us home. It is America and American people who have that power."

The Pentagon was quick to comment that exploiting a soldier in this video was a violation of international law. Somehow that same international law was never applied to enemy combatants during the GW Bush years.

Next we'll be hearing that the USA does not deal with terrorists.

Political flaks know what to say when they don't know what to do.

Talk talk talk.

Only words I want to hear from Obama are 'Bringing the troops home'.

Bowe Bergdahl remained a prisoner of the Taliban for five years and the United States does not negotiate with terrorists.

A Pentagon spokeswoman said upon his release, "He will now return to regular duty within the command where he can contribute to the mission."

Once more condemned to the Endless War the soldier served as a clerk.

According to Wikipedia on June 25, 2014, the U.S. Army stated that there is "no evidence" that Bergdahl "engaged in any misconduct" during his years in captivity. A 2010 Pentagon investigation referred to above dealt with events leading up to his capture. In July 2014, Bergdahl was returned to active duty, having previously ruled that he had not betrayed the United States during his captivity.

The Army still sought justice and referred the case to the military court in 2015.

According to Wikipedia Oon November 3, 2017, Nance accepted Bergdahl's guilty plea and sentenced him to be dishonorably discharged, reduced in rank, and fined $1,000 per month from his pay for ten months, with no prison time. The fine and reduction in rank were to take effect immediately, while the discharge was stayed pending automatic appeal.

That judgment was vacated on July 25, 2023, Judge Walton vacated the conviction.

In 2021 President Biden ordered a complete withdrawal of American troops from Afghanistan after nearly twenty years of occupation. There are still 175 military advisers there.

They did not get home for Christmas.

Bowie Bergdahl is not known to be anywhere.

Paul Klee - Self Portrait.

Inspired by the break from the known by the painters of the 19th century the artists of the 20th Century explored the unknown to discover a new known.

This self-portrait reveals how we see outselves in the eyes of the unknown us.

GUILT VERSUS SHAME - BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

Written Dec 25, 2012

Back in the last century I left work on 47th Street early on December 24. Manny complained that I was deserting my post selling diamonds, but I had been working every day since Thanksgiving.

"I should pay you a half-day." Manny was a grinch of the first-order.

"Do what you want. I'm heading home." Boston was my destination. My mother was cooking a big turkey for our family's Christmas feast.

I caught a train north and arrived at our suburban split-level ranch house on the South Shore in time for drinks and dinner. Our guests left a little before midnight and my mother requested her prodigal son attend church with her. I had been a non-believer since the age of 8, but I respected her faith and said, "Sure.”

I dressed in a dark-gray suit with a black cashmere polo shirt. My mother came into the room and asked, “Where’s your tie?”

“Mom, this shirt is pure cashmere.”

“But what about a tie?” My mother was old school.

“You can’t wear a tie with a polo shirt.” I had worn a tie every day at Our Lady of the Foothills.

My mother frowned with disappointment.

“I hope at my funeral you’ll wear a tie.” The words were drenched in sadness.

Ridden with guilt I changed my shirt and put on a tie. Saying no to my mother was difficult, especially with tears in her eyes.

Later the next week I related this story to the mother of my diamond employer. Hilda tsked and said, “That’s the difference between Jews and goyim.”

“What?” Her son and I were befuddled by Hilda’s statement.

“Your mother simply shamed you to wear a tie at her funeral, if it had been me I would have guilted my son by saying, “Once you kill me, I want you to wear a tie to the funeral.”

“Aha.” Richie Boy and I replied, for Hilda had explained the true depth of Jewish guilt in a single sentence.

Matricide.

We were all bad boys, except to our mothers.

To them we were saints.

Even if we didn't wear a tie.

No Silent Night - Bethelem 2023

Yesterday the IDF pounded Gaza with bombs and artillery, killing scores of civilians and wounding hundreds. Their national holocaust soul demands retribution for Hamas' October 7 attack and their revenge has not be an eye for an eye. Not on Yom Kippur. Not on Hannukah. Not on Christmas. Extermination of the Palestiniand has been the only goal for Israel. Hamas, men, women, children. They have forced their fellow Semites to the edge of the Negev to march everyone intomthe desert as the Turks visited on the Armenians. From the river to the sea, Israel will be free of anyone, but Jews. Many of my Jewish friends see this as the only course. Extermination once and all. Americans remain silent on the subject. The Press only see one-side. Zionism supreme. Silence is the truth. But not for me. And not for others. We believe in peace, but not at the price demanded by Netanyahu and his fascist ministers.

And there is no Silent Night in Gaza last night or tonight.

No Christmas too.

Happy Yulemas 2022

Last year a yesterday ago Cornell Weill unexpectedly called to inform me that there was a liver waiting for me. I called my lifeguard Francis for a ride and then told my sister about this Yulemas miracle. She was silent for a few seconds, then said, "I was looking through my desk and a Christmas greeting sticker fell out." She read me the message. Peter Merry Christmas Santa Claus. My mother passed in 1997 and I cried grasping eternity. We are always us.

Hard Labor Xmas

In 2018 I had been working hard labor for two months.

Like an inmate cracking rocks.

Every night I returned to the small house of the Greenwich estate and downed three aspirins with a little vodka. My body was as weak as Superman encased in a igloo of kryptonite and I wished I could spent the day in bed, except I have a horde to feed and I wake in the morning telling myself, "This doesn't look anything like Christmas."

Tomorrow I return to New York.

A holiday party.

Dance and drink alone in the cold New England night.

I'll be better tomorrow.

Peace In No Man's Land

On Sunday 28 June 1914 Bosnian assassins attacked the motorcade of Austrian Archduke anarchists Franz Ferdinand. The first attempt was foiled by the Hapsburg heir deflecting a diabolical device. His bodyguards strongly recommended seeking safety, however Franz Ferdinand insisted on a hospital visit to see bystanders injured by the bomb. His driver took a wrong turn and nineteen year-old Gavrilo Princip stepped out of the crowd and fatally wounded the archduke and his wife with a Browning .32 pistol.

Within weeks massive armies mobilized across Europe.

In August Germany invaded Belgium, routing the French and British troops. The Emperor's troops were stopped 43 miles short of Paris a month later and after the Battle of Ypres millions of soldiers on the Western Front occupied two opposing sets of trenches stretching hundreds of miles from the Channel to the Swiss border.

The deadly stalemate continued into December without any end in sight.

Peace feelers were rejected by the High Commands of the Axis and Allies.

The daily grind of blood, sweat, and tears abated with the approach of Christmas and hundreds of thousands of soldiers declared an unofficial truce on December 24. Germans and British soldiers met in no man's land. Shared carols were sung in both languages. Fallen comrades were retrieved from the shattered battle ground. The truce continued past Christmas, but military commanders recognized the danger of fraternization and prohibited any repeat of the Christmas peace for the rest of the War to end all wars.

I myself am having a truce and wish everyone peace and love.

It's my gift to the world.

Peace, brothers and sisters.

All Hail Homer 2020

Last night I was alone after a Chinese take-out Christmas diiner with my young comrades downstairs.

After the dumpling feast I went outside to get some air.

The Brooklyn Avenue was deserted by everyone in fear of Covid. I had had the virus in May. I wasn't safe. No one was, but I felt like going somewhere, yet I had no destination, until a B54 approached the corner and I realized I had a refuge in times of the apocalypse like the lead character from SHAUN OF THE DEAD.

"The Winchester."

Fifteen minutes later I walked through the door of the 169 bar. I was only non-worker in the bar. My two friends greeted me with a smile.

"What's so funny?"

They pointed to the TV.

"THE SIMPSONS. 1994."

"Damn."

One of them served me a Gin-Ginger Ale.

We watched Homer. We laughed. We felt human.

Homer had saved my life during the baby brother's death of AIDS in 1995 and he saved the night for the three of us in 2020.

Michael Charles Smith loved Homer too.

He made us all laugh and Bart too.

All Hail The Simpsons, because laughter is the only cure for sorrow.

MOVEABLE XMAS by Peter Nolan Smith

Christmas 2014 belongs to the past.

That year I was too sick to travel to visit my family in Boston and I passed Christmas Eve hacking clear my lungs like Doc Holiday on his last legs at the Hotel Glenwood. Reputedly the tubercular gun fighter looked at his bare feet and spoke his last words, "Damn, this is funny."

Doc didn't die with his boots on and my condition worsened on December 26, but on the 27th I attended a soiree with longtime comrades. Our departed friends haunted the gathering and we drank hard liquor with the abandon of the wicked. Old Evil David lanced me with insults. I smiled back with a glass of gin in my hand and ignored his barbs, however one of our friends. Suzanne, was having an affair with a born-again reprobate. The tortured painter deserved happiness, but her beau's high-pitched dialogues were dotted with Jesus and he had bad words for us sinners.

I have been a devout atheist since the age of eight and hate Bible-thumpers, so I avoided born-again Ben throughout the evening.

After a venerable cinema professor recounted his parents' curtailing his possible baseball career with the New York Mets, I went to a table laden with deserts and bottles.

Ben stood before the chocolate cake. His lips moved in prayer and a knife quivered in his hand. Every sinew attached to my bones shivered a warning to shut my mouth, however the gin spoke for me.

"You look like Adam the first time he saw Eve, but a chocolate cake is not Satan." I pushed down on his hand.

The knife pierced the chocolate.

"I know that." Ben cut himself a miserly slice.

I cut my hunk and raised the richness in the air in my bare hand.

"To another Christmas to come." I hoped to spent 2015 with my family in Thailand. My children meant the world to me. Every parent in the world shared the same feeling and I stuffed the chocolate cake in my mouth. It stuck in my craw and I washed the crumbs down with gin.

"But there's one thing that bothers me about Christmas."

"Such as?" Ben shut a small pice of cake in his mouth.

"I worked every day of the holiday season and I'm not complaining since the one thing worse than too much work is too little work."

I had relearned that lesson through 2014.

"So what is the problem?"

"This year Christmas fell on a Thursday, which meant I couldn't take off Friday." My boss had cut out to Florida, the Holyland for the Chosen Tribe. "Not that I had anyplace to go, but millions of workers would have benefit, if Christmas was a moving holiday."

"Moving?"

"Yes, like Labor Day, so it creates a three-day weekend for the workers."

"Christ was born on December 25."

"Says who?"

"Says the Bible." He considered the Good Book as the Word of God.

"That date isn't mentioned in the New Testament, besides God knocked up Mary on August 8, which means that Jesus was probably born on May 8 as a Taurus."

"Jesus' birth was recorded by the Romans. He is God. His birthday is December 25th."

"What did you give him this year? An iPad, a tie, a blowjob?" I really hate Jesus freaks.

"Shut up, you old git." Old Evil David interfered with my fun, knowing I was about to get ugly.

"But___"

"But nothing, you wicked sinner." David swung his fingers over my head in a Picasso sign of the cross and led me away, whispering, "Our friend likes this guy. Leave him alone."

I turned my head.

He was right.

Suzanne was in Ben's arms. They were a happy couple in Christ. Ben gave her a bite of his cake.

"Thanks, Dave." I gave my friend a hug. He looked out for me and I looked out on the world with peace as would any atheist on the days after Christmas.

As for God. He could take care of himself.

White Dogs Love Turkey

On December 25, 1966 morning millions of mothers across America gathered their older children to peel apples, potatoes, turnips, and carrots for our eight family members and another five-ten guests.

My older brother called it 'KP Day'.

After the turkey was cooked almost perfection, my mother hefted the crispy-skinned carcass out of the oven and descended to the garage to allow the big bird to cook in its own skin, then returned inside to set the dining room table was my sisters.

Around noon my next-door neighbor came over to the driveway with a football. Chuckie and I had spent the yesterday at the football game between my hometown and their arch-rivals. The two of us went into the backyard to emulate yesterday's heroes. One of us forgot to shut the door. Ten minutes later after bobbling a long pass Chuckie pointed to the front lawn.

"What's with DJ?"

DJ was a neighborhood dog. I was in love with his owner, Kyla. The white German Shepard had his entire head was masked by turkey and I heard my mother scream, "The turkey."

I picked up a stick from the ground and charged to save our holiday meal. The big white dog fled with a slobbering snarl, leaving behind a mauled meal. My mother cried, "Where are we going to find a turkey now?"

My father looked at me.

"Who left the door open?"

"I did, sir." I didn't even bother to explain my side of the story, because when you're wrong as a child, proving you're right was a waste of breath.

My older brother and younger siblings sarcastically thanked me for ruining Christmas.

DJ's owners paid for our Christmas meal at a nearby hotel. The food was good and my mother didn't have to wash any dishes.

The next day Kyla kissed me on the cheek for not beating her dog.

So even bad Christmas can turn out okay, when life erpended on a big white dog.

John Water's 25 Days of Xmas

Day 1… Get naked and smoke.
Day 2… Ask a neighbor if they find it funny that every man in the neighborhood has a penis.
Day 3… Flash someone.
Day 4… Get your hair done.
Day 5….Go to a porn theater (or rent a porno movie)
Day 6… Whenever you hear someone say “shit” tell them you hate the brown word.
Day 7… Exclaim “What a day for an execution!” to strangers.
Day 8… Stomp on someones foot – laugh maniacally.
Day 9… Play “car accident.” (Be sure to have plenty of ketchup on hand.)
Day 10… Get a baby sitting job – throw wild destructive party. Trash everything.
Day 11… Admit to God that you are a whore.
Day 12… Tell your nephew (or other younger male relative) you’d be so happy if he turned nelly and found a nice beautician boyfriend.
Day 13… Seduce a bus driver.
Day 14… Refer to your daughter (or young female relative) as “that little MF”
Day 15… Write “I sniff jury underpants” (or other obscenity) in a bathroom stall.
Day 16… Have sloppy joes for dinner.
Day 17… Go to doctor and demand “a wang.”
Day 18… At the dinner table exclaim loudly “I’m so hungry I could eat cancer.”
Day 19… Tell someone that you’re a thief, a shit kicker and that you’d like to be famous.
Day 20… Condone first degree murder. Advocate cannibalism.
Day 21… Have sex with a midget in the back of a car.
Day 22… Be celibate for celluloid.
Day 23… Watch “Christmas Evil” with JW commentary.
Day 24… Send someone a bowel movement.
Bonus day – Return all your Christmas gifts for money because-”you can do that you know.”

Some people are genius and some are simply smart enough to appreciate genius.

John Waters.

May he live forever.

No Bah Humbug

Few holidays are more commercialized than Christmas. The chorus of BUY BUY BUY on TV drowns out any rendition of SILENT NIGHT, as hordes of Americans flock to the malls in their SUVs to buy products made in China. Credit cards are whipped out at the cash registers to complete their Xmas gift list on December 23 and 24, the last two shopping days of the shopping frenzy. My last purchases on Christmas Eve were two beers at Jacob Wirth's in Boston, a good luck cat from a Chinatown shop, and a T ticket from South Station to Braintree.

My hand went into my pocket in the train parking lot. My sister had bet that I wouldn't be on time. Our first rendezvous of 5:45 was blown, so I doubled or nothing for 6:10. I was three minutes late. Her lovely daughter Sara got the $20. I sat in the back of their Benz and we drove through Weymouth Landing to a party at my old neighbor's house. The orgy of buying was over. It was time to consume.

Drinks, food, friendship.

My cup slippeth over and my other brother-in-law dragged me from the house, a glass of whiskey in my hand.

"Merry Christmas."

My exit was cheered by the stayers-on. David said, "You won the drunk of the party award."

"There was never any doubt in my mind."

The next morning I woke in a wounded state. I called my kids in Thailand. They were happy and Mem still had a little money left in her wallet. I wouldn't have to go to send a Moneygram on Christmas. We opened gifts and no money passed any out of or into any of our hands. Dinner was free and I begged off going to the movies with my nephew and my sister that evening to drink with my brother-in-law.

Free.

I crashed on the sofa around 10pm.

A day without money.

If only every day was Xmas.

Christmas on Walking Street 2007

My 4 year-old daughter had a long Christmas Eve.

Gifts in the morning.

Khao Khio Zoo at noon and then a swim at the Shaba Hut pool. 

By 7pm her eyes drifted together and HER weary muscles refused to support her weight. I carried Angie into the bedroom and laid her on the mattress. She fell asleep within 30 seconds.

I cracked open a bottle of Chardonnay and poured two glasses. My wife took a sip. It was a little off, but I drank the wine while listening to Serge Gainsbourg's BALLADE OF MELODY NELSON. Not really Christmas music, yet still is the best twenty-seven minutes of music ever produced by France.

I wandered back into the main house and my wife was putting on make-up. This was not a good sign.

"Where do you think you're going?" I slurred in my Boston-accented Thai.

"We're going to Walking Street. My mother will take care of Angie."

"We?" My wife hated the nightlife and I avoided the popular destination during high season like an Ebola-infested Congo village.

"Yes, we." Nu glanced at my clothes.

My twenty year-old shirt and torn jeans didn't make it on Walking Street, the Champs-Elyees of Pattaya..

"Go get changed and look handsome."

"That'll be easy."

After a bottle of wine my reflection in the mirror resembled a young Rock Hudson. I changed into a white Armani shirt and Versace jeans with Gucci loafers. None were a copy either.

My wife waited in the garden. She was in a new dress. I kissed her on the cheek. "You look beautiful. What about we go to the bedroom first?"

"No." Nu wasn't buying this trick to not go to Walking Street.

Nu's mother waved tonight. I had 2000 baht was in my wallet and I surrendered saying. We hadn't been to Walking Street in years and . At least not together. "Okay, let's go."

We got on my motor scooter and I drove to Soi Diamond. My wife didn't want to go to any go-go bar. Neither did I. They were packed with sex-starved Western men and there was no telling what they wanted from man or woman. Instead we wandered through the throngs of sweating Russians, wide-eyed Indian men, and giggling Chinese tourists to the Hot Tuna bar.

Pi-Ek, the owner, sat on a stool. A glass of whiskey was on the small table. He wai-ed my wife and we sat down for a few drinks. My wife didn't take long to ask about my mia noi.

"Only time I see your husband here, he is always alone." Pi-Ek was telling the truth and I wouldn't ask him to lie, because I wouldn't be caught dead on Walking Street with another woman, because my wife would kill me and I have full intentions of living out my natural span of life.

After a 3rd drink my wife was enjoying herself. She laughed at our jokes and made fun of the passers-by, but by 11 we were ready to call it a night and headed back home. She kissed me before falling asleep and I laid on the bed ready for dreams of sugarplums.

Everyone wished us "Happy Christmas."

THe Thais love a good time.

Tonight everyone was all smiles and I drove back to our house with my wife's arms around my waist.

There was no telling what Santa Claus would do in Pattaya on Christmas Eve although neither would I tell Mrs. Claus and neither would any of his reindeers, if they didn't want to end up as reindeer stew.

And I knew the same.

The Xmas Drunk

Last holiday season I had a great part-time job being invited to office parties as the Christmas Drunk. $500 an appearance and all I could drink. Bad behavior was a must. Insulting the boss was a showstopper. Punching out the hated brother-in-law was most requested extra. $100/punch. Insulting a wife's obesity was a secret request of many husbands. I refused this boon. Punching a jerk was one thing. Hurting a fat woman's feelings was bad taste.

It was a good deal and the only downside was that I had to be drunker than anyone else at the party, so the family members and guests and co-workers could say the next morning, "At least I wasn't as drunk as the Christmas drunk."

Big Dave from the diamond exchange served as my back-up in case a situation spun out of hand, but I knew the limits and Big Dave never had to save my ass.

None of my clients knew my real name. Most guests asked at the end of a successful performance. "Who was that drunk guy?"

"The Xmas Drunk," the host would answered with pride and my popularity increased as the shopping days shrunk to single digits. I couldn't handle the demand. I boosted my rate to $200/hour. No one complained about my performance and by December 21st I was at the top of my game.

At a Hedge Fund soiree atop a skyscraper I ambushed the ruling CEO in the bathroom. I pointed a gun at him. Actually my weapon was a finger in my suit pocket. The capitalist fool was drunk enough to not question me.

Either that of very guilty.

I accused this czar of finance of impoverishing the world. He swore that he was simply doing his job and pleaded for mercy.

"I'll give you a check for a million if you let me go."

"Money means nothing to the Christmas Drunk." I grabbed him by his tie and dragged him into the main office, where his fellow execs ridiculed his surrender to a besotted revolutionary. I bowed to their applause and Big Dave escorted me out of the office.

"I was just getting started."

"That CEO was calling 911."

"Fuck him.

And I superglued shut the doors of the office. They didn't get out until 3am.

The next morning I received a complaint from the banker who had hired me.

"What do you expect from the Christmas Drunk? Emily Post manners. Fuck off." I had a wicked hang-over. I probably should have apologized, but he had paid me in cash. Everyone did, because there's only one person worst than the Christmas Drunk and that the guy seeking revenge by stiffing me, so I'm a strictly cash enterprise dedicated to being naughty and not nice and nothing says asshole better than the Christmas drunk.

No Santa 2011

America has been on a streak of bad luck ever since GW Bush was elected president in 2000.

The economy has boomed for the rich at the expense of the working classes.

No one buys jewelry.

No one buys perfume.

No one wants to be a Cheap Charlie, but this year has not been a good one no matter what the media pundits say, because they don't have to tell their children, "Sorry, Virginia, there is no more Santa Claus."

The media is needed for the masses to believe all is well and everyone wants to trust them this time of year, but our wallets and bank accounts tell the truth and parents will be sorely tested this December.

No money means no Santa Claus and children crying, "Where are the reindeers?"

"They have been laid off due to the dire economic conditions."

"Same as the Detroit autoworkers?"

"Good boy." The parents will be glad that the home schooling is improving their children's intellect since the public schools have been shut due to no funds.

Sounds ominous?

Maybe it is.

But my sons and daughters still want a Christmas.

Who am I to tell them that there is no Santa, when they know Santa is me.

11:59PM - Bet On Crazy

The Friday before Christmas was the Winter Solstice. I stopped by the diamond exchange on 47th Street. There were no customers in sight. Only the rich have money and the vast majority of the .00001 had fled south for Palm Beach or St. Bart's. Richie Boy was working with a wealthy friend, asking $260,000 for a magnificent sapphire in an exquisite platinum and diamond mounting.

"Burma no heat. They are the best stones in the world." Richie explained.

"I'll give you $150,000." The banker had settled a recent federal investigations into a multi-trillion dollar scandal and well understood that having money at a time of capital scarcity bestowed a wicked power of leverage, however Richie Boy stood firm at 260K.

The banker stood up and left the store, saying, "If you change your mind, give me a call."

"You'll be calling me before I call you."

The man's wife loved the ring.

I watched the door close.

"Bastard," Richie Boy muttered, putting the ring in the safe. "I'm making 6% on this sale. 6% and he wants to steal it."

"How do you think he got his money? From Santa Claus. No, he stole it like every rich person in America stole money."

"I don't need to hear your bullshit about only three ways to be wealthy."

"Be born into it, marry it, or steal it."

His octogenarian father snoozed in the corner. A smile was on his face. He had to be dreaming of better times.

"Your father worked sixty-five years. Is he rich? No. You've worked almost thirty five and while you have a nice life, you ain't rich."

"What about you?"

"For the past two years I slaved in the metal factory cutting bronze beams for a salary of $800/week and I was glad to have it, but now I'm working with Jeri on 3rd Avenue. Our store was close to Bloomingdales.

"How's business up there?"

"About the same as here. I sold a fancy yellow diamond for $40,000 and the profit was $4000."

"A luxury, although the other day I sold an emerald for 14K and made 7K on it."

"Sounds like the good old days. I'll see you later."

I picked up some diamond eternity bands for a customer. I returned to the Lexington Avenue store. Jeri sat with her pugs, while going over her bills.

"Anything happen?" It was a stupid question.

"The dogs slept for an hour."

"Lucky them." Samson and Delilah were old pets. I liked them, but they weren't buying any jewelry this or any year and neither were the disappearing middle class. Only the rich had money and they were bargaining like Gypsies with a Minnesota roll of $1 bills.

Jeri's client arrived on time and picked out the best ring. The Palm Beach blonde was in her 70s. Her husband wasn't healthy. I wished that Simon passed over the New Year, so I could marry Elaine. It was a dream too good to come true.

At 5pm we shut the store. It was already abysmally dark on 3rd Avenue. Thieves targeted stores daring to stay open in the shortest days of the year and days didn't get any shorter than the Winter Solstice. this was the winter solstice.

Jeri magnetically locked the front door. The pugs woke from their sleep. We gave them thin slices of apples. Their happiness had nothing to do with money.

"You close safely." Jeri put on her coat. It was fur. Warm too, but like Richie Boy and me she wasn't rich. No one who has to work was rich no matter how much money they have. The real rich don't have to work at all. "Remember you have to be here early."

After closing the safe and locking the door I took the Q train back to Fort Greene. I bought a very good bottle of wine for $41. The staff of Green Grape applauded my escape from single-digit priced wine.

After arriving home I drank the bottle with my landlord and his wife. They had given me gave me a bottle of Jamison's for the winter's solstice. I toasted AP and his wife. I babysit their kids. I don't make a mess. My bedroom has a view. My bathroom too.

After we finished the wine, AP and I retreated to my floor to listen to music. I opened the bottle of Irish whiskey. We drank a few glasses and AP descended into domestic 'for better or worse' bliss. I readied for sleep, listening to Jefferson Airplane's SURREALISTIC PILLOW.

COMING BACK TO ME.

11:59PM

It was time for bed, because tomorrow I have to be to work at 10AM.

She had a customer for an emerald.

The store needed money.

Jeri needed money.

I needed money to send my kids in Thailand.

Only a minute remained in the day.

Within sixty seconds the clock would tick into Saturday.

Tomorrow was filled with twenty-hours.

One of them had to be lucky.

White Christmas White Race - Dec 16, 2018

From Dec 16, 2018

HOLIDAY INN was released in 1935 featuring Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire. The composer Irving Berlin wrote twelve songs for the movie about a nightclub in the country. WHITE CHRISTMAS was the hit song.THe record has sold millions, but Irving Berlin was troubled by the lyrics, because of his Jewish faith.

I have always thought the song to be particularly racist, but even more so once I learned that the director had blackface scenes in the movie.

Bing had no trouble with that mask. People back in that time thought nothing about pretending to be black as long as they could wash off the cork at the end of the show. Was he a racist?

Every white person in America ia a racist.

Is WHITE CHRISTMAS a racist song?

It sound like it to me.

Especially since it's the only Christmas song Donald Trump allows to be played in the White House.

ps I am an atheist.

We have no Christmas songs.

Merry Yulemas December 23, 2022

In August 2021 I woke from sleep and vomited several liters of blood. The next day NYU ER doctors diagnosed my situation as life-threatening. An operation to staunch the bleeding was my only option other than death. The staff wheeled me immediatly to the Operating Room. I was knocked out with Profopol. Michael Jackson had ODeed from a strong doses. I only drifted for hours in the white limbo. Upon coming to consciousness the nurse said, "The doctor will be right with you."

He was young and read my condition from a chart.

"You have liver cancer, cirrohsis, Hep-C, and Diabetes. Your tumor is too large for an operation of chemo. It doesn't look promising."

"That's alright, I've had a good life." I had instantly constructed a short future in which I left New York to see out eternity with my family in Thailand accompanied by a large jar of morphine. THe next day their transplant team offered another path. The previous night's surgery had stop the bleeding. Later radioglogy shrunk the tumor to a size allowing a potential transplant and I regularly attended alcohol and drug treatment as prescribed by the antional liver transplant control. Six months went by without my being putof the list. While the surgeon and radiologist were brilliant, the rest of the staff were neglient and after eight months and after a serious bout with ammonia poisoning I realized that NYU had no intention of replacing my liver. They were too Christian to forgive an old reprobate like me and mine. In July I transferred to Cornell Weill. I had to undergo another six-month wait to clear the drug and alcohol ban, although the surgeon said that, "You're not on the list, but you're on the list."

August became September into October into November and December. I lose weight and suffered hallucinations thankfully without too much pain. As much as I wanted to see my kids and wives, I was in no tcondition to survive a demi-circumnavigation of the globe. The Cornell-Weill liver transplant team had forbidden any travel farther than two hours from the hospital. My blood work worsened and my health deteriorated drastically. Cornell said I would be put on the transplant in January. My body was capable of waiting that long and even a little longer without any complications. As December 2022 came to an end, Iggy left for California. We hugged and said good-bye.

"I'll be here when you get back."

"You better be," the leader of the Waif Movement and I had grown quite close during the last three years. We were as close to family as family can be. Blood isn't everything.

I awoke alone the next day.

Charlotta and Shannon were up the Hudson. It was the holidays. Everyone had someplace to be except for me. My universe had shrunked to a bed in a fourth floor apartment wit a view of Lower Clinton Hill. The occasional roar of a motorcycle broken up the monotomy of traffic on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. I sorted through old photos of my many trips to Africa, Asia, Europe, and South America, gratified to have seen the world.

The phone rang.

Cornell. A nurse.

"Mr. Smith, can you come in?"

"Sure." I thought it was for blood work. "Is noon good enough?"

"The earlier the better. We have a liver for you."

A transplant."

"Yes."

The good news sank in fast.

"Take your time. The liver and heart are last on the list." Her words made sense. A body couldn't live long without a liver. It died instantly without a heart. "We'll see you soon."

I called Francis X, my life guard. He offered to drive me to the hospital. I packed a bag. I had been hospitalized several times in the last year and a half and packed accordingly my glasses, a journal from 1978, earphones, iPad, chargers, my blankie, and a few tee-shirts. Cornell kept the rooms cool. Thirty minutes later I was passenger in Francis' old Saab. A sunny morning I rolled down the window. We crossed the Manhattan Bridge. The city all around us in its glory. Frances and I spoke not of life and death or the operation and thankfully nothing of the Christians' God of Faith ever so clos to Christmas. I said, "I'm really surprised that they called me. I'm not even on the list, although they always said I was on the list."

My blood type was amenible to all donors.

"You are an atheist and maybe everyone in front of you had gone away for Christmas. Gone farther than two hours."

"You might right." I thankeed the Godders for believing in Jesus and his birth as the child god.

Only an hour has passed since the phone call and wwe were only twenty odd minutes from the East Side hospital. Francis pulled into the emergency entrance as I had been instructed and I got of the car. I told Francis he didn't need to come in, which would have meant paying a dear price for parking.

"I'll call you when I know what's what. Thanks. Really thanks."

I shut the door and went to the ER's admission desk. Everyone was maskeed against COVID. I was as wlll. They were waiting for me and swiftly process me and a masked orderly wheeled my stretcher into the elevator and we rode up to the transplant floor. Nursses dressed me in bare-ass johnny pajamas. The surgeon explained the ten-hour operation. I had no questions. The procedure was 95% successful, but there was a 5% chance of my ending up dead. The head nurse had me sign a waiver.

No worries, I've had a good life. Just three things. No God no DNR, adn no Oxys." I hated the Sackler family for addicting millions of Americans to a crappy synthetic opiod and I wanted to live no matter what. AS for God I was comfortable with his non-existence.

"You'll be not out by Propofol. The anaesteolgist is very good. HAve you eaten anything?"

"Nothing."

"We'll be coming for you in a couple hours. Just relax."

That was no probelm and three hours later a nurse and orderly entered to transport me to the operating room. There were many people; doctors, nurses, technicians and orderlies. The equipment appeared new. Everyone was correectly attenive and appeared very professional. The anaesteolgist asked if I had any reactions to drugs. Everything was on my chart, but he ran down the list. I asked him the drug on choice.

"Propofol."

"Good, I'll be back shortly. You ready to go?"

"Yes." I listened to ANARCHY IN THE UK and STREET FIGHTING MAN, sipped some water, and texted everyone in my world. My wives in Thailand, my family in Boston, and 2.6% of my friends and everyone around the world.

"It's time," announced the nurse.

I handed her my phone and nodded okay. THe doctors stood aside and the anaesteolgist hooked me up the the needle.

"Tell me when you do it. " I was to see if I can count back to zero."

"You got it."He waved his finger down and I made it to a personal new best.

Seven.

White limbo>

No God.

No Gods.

Nothing just like always.

This eternity lasted forever until a dream emerged from the whiteness. I was on a large butcher's block at London's Smithfield Market. Butchers were slaughtering animals and my guts were scattered across the wood. I had no pain. No shock, but expected to get up and go to the 24/7 pub and have a bacon sandwich and a lager as was my friend David and my wont after working at the Cafe de Paris in the 1980s. The Londoner was nowhere in sight and the dream segued to consciousness.

The operation room.

I was in the stretcher. No blood in sight. I asked the nurse.

"When are we staring the operation?"

"It's over and was a success. You have a new liver. It came from a woman forty years old and who weighed 300 pounds without any Hep C or cirrohsis.

A Yulemas miracle and I was wheeled to my recovery room. A single overlooking the East River. It was night. I was hooked up to more than a few machines and an IV drip connected to a bag of morphine. They had obeyed my request for no Oxys. I hadn't done any drugs in over a year and a half. The nurse handed me the dosage control.

"The Propofol will be wearing off soo."

"Will I feel pain?"

"Yes, just try and be slow with that."

"I will."

As soon as she was out of the room, I pressed the button twice and turned on the iPad. The Celtics were playing. I made it to the second quarter. All in all it had been a great day as Yulemas turned into Morphinemas nor forever, but at least to the dawn of tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow. I felt the scar. It was angry. A woman's organ lay inside me. I called them Paula. They were in no condition to argue adn after another bump neither was I.

Yulemas was not the darkest day of the year, but the first day of the new light.

Serge Gainsbourg and Whitney Houston 1986 (2011)

Serge Gainsbourg was the coolest French musician of the last century. His hip stature reverberates to the present. THE BALLAD OF MELODY NELSON is a twenty-seven minutes-long gem of a concept LP. His conquests of women were legion. His loves were few. Jane Birkin was his muse for thirteen years. After their break-up the drink exacted a heavy toll. His decay was public. An infamous meeting with the American chanteuse of the MICHEL DRUCKER SHOW was marked by his slurring through a leer that he wanted to 'fuck' the singer.

Later in 1986 on another talk show Gainsbourg slammed a famous female singer for appearing in XXX films.

"You're nothing but a filthy whore, a filthy, fucking whore."

Tres uncool.

"Look at you, you're just a bitter old alcoholic. I used to admire you but these days you've become a disgusting old parasite." The actress was taking his abuse laying down.

Like Chris Rock said, "You don't want to be the old man in the club."

I know better than making a fool of myself in public.

I save that pleasure for special moments.

Otherwise the best action for an older man is inaction.

We ended up looking like we are thinking.

To see the 1986 interview between Serge Gainsbourg and Whitney Houston, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMdXi6f5KRg

The Last Christmas Tree

After Thanksgiving Christmas trees crowd the sidewalks of New York.

On the corner of Fulton and St. Felix Streets the holiday franchise has been run by Laurent and Amy, who have transported evergreens from the northern forest of Quebec for the last six seasons. We spoke in French with their accent a provincial Quebecois and my r-less speech betraying my Boston roots.

Last year they gave me a small tree for my bedroom at the Fort Greene Observatory. I called it Ole Tree.

I thanked them with a bottle of wine, which we drank together right before they returned to Canada.

"Merci." I was sad to see them go, but they said, "Next year."

We hugged good-bye and I returned home to adorn the two-foot tree with Buddhas, ribbons, and a silver star.

Most of our neighbors tossed out the drying trees after the New Year.

I kept water in the small bowl beneath the severed trunk and Old Tree remained green throughout the winter. AP's kids liked Ole Tree. We ate cookies in the Observatory, while I told them stories of the north woods. Lizzie and James liked my tales of lumbermen along the St. John's River. I had heard them from my grandfather.

The winter was a cold one and I told my landlord and his kids about burning Christmas trees on a lake in Maine.

"The ice is a foot thick and everyone brings out their orange-dry trees to pile them high. Someone tosses a match and the trees go up in the whoosh of flames. I wish they did that here."

Instead the city mulches the dead trees with a wood-chipper.

"Just what the city needs. A bonfire to burn down all of Fort Greene." AP was a good dad, but I had the feeling that Lizzie and James wouldn't have like to see Ole Tree in a bonfire.

"When are you throwing out your tree?" asked his wife.

"Soon."

January became February with March rolling into the city with a vengeance. April was also cold. Finally winter relinquished its grip in May.

Ole Tree seemed comfortable in my room, despite its needles turning orange.

"It's time for it to go." AP rightly considered the tree a fire hazard.

"Soon."

"You've been saying that for months."

"What if I burned it in the backyard?" A good fire was an honorable ending for Ole Tree.

"Not a chance. Those trees burn hot." AP had gone to RISD. He knew New England and New Englanders. People from cold climes are into flames.

In May I traveled to Thailand and visited my children. There were no pine trees bordering the rice paddies.

Upon my return AP said, "My wife wants the tree gone. Actually she wanted it gone long ago."

"Ole Tree's a ghost of Christmas past," protested James. He was my good friend.

"Christmas was six months ago. Get rid of it."

I didn't want to say good-bye and a few more weeks passed, then the summer turned up the heat. AP was worried about instantaneous combustion and I had to admit Ole Tree presented a clear and present danger.

On a hot July morning I apologized to Ole Tree and carried it down to the street on my way to work. I didn't want to leave my old friend in the trash, so I walked to the corner and poised the tree on the wall of a church.

"You be good."

"I walked away, expecting never to see Ole Tree again, but upon coming back from work at the diamond store I discovered Ole Tree had moved to a stump on the sidewalk. James and Lizzie went outside to speak with Ole Tree. AP thought I was crazy, but he was a New Yorker and not a New Englander.

A week passed before Ole Tree hit the road and vanished forever.

It didn't leave a forwarding address, but winter will be back and so will Laurent from Quebec with a new crop of firs. A new tree will become this season's Old Tree, but I still think about the old Old Tree.

I love thee for a long time and will love the Son of Ole Tree just the same.

Bien Sur.

Hate/Love l’Histoire de Melody Nelson 2013

I have always considered L'HISTOIRE DE MELODY NELSON as one of the most provocative pop LPs of the 70s. Serge Gainsbourg's opera musically melanged JG Ballard's CRASH and LOLITA into an opera of sexual authenticity. The accompanying video is a gem with Jane Birkin playing Melody to the hilt. I was thinking about her and wondered if Serge was a voyeur. I googled his name and voyeurism, finding this 2006 internet entry by Melita Teale; Why I Hate l’Histoire de Melody Nelson Fuck Serge Gainsbourg, that fucking voyeur pedophile satyromaniac. What sort of man writes a concept album about knocking a teenager off her bike with a Rolls, giving her piggyback rides, deflowering her, and mourning her subsequent death in an aeroplane accident? What sort of a worm of a Svengali records his young girlfriend Jane Birkin having a shockingly piggy orgasm on track six to flesh it out? Not to mention having her photographed with the most lamentable cameltoe in rock ’n’ roll history for the album cover – while she’s topless and holding a teddy. Talk about objectification. How can he so objectify a fifteen-year-old with a line like ‘une poupée qui perd l’équilibre, la jupe retroussée sur ses pantalons blancs... (A doll who lost her balance, her skirt pushed up over her white leggings)’? With his googly eyes and hideous looks, of course Gainsbourg would have fantasized about some poor disinterested ‘agréable petite conne’ of a virgin who would fall hard enough for him to let him take advantage of her. And he sang on the album about as well as Leonard Cohen sings now. Except Gainsbourg actually tried to carry a tune. Melita didn't hold back any punches, but then went on to write the following; Why I Love l’Histoire de Melody Nelson My god, Serge Gainsbourg made an enchantingly beautiful album about being a voyeur pedophile satyromaniac. I’m reminded of a story about Paul McCartney making a bet about being able to write a song about anything and coming up with one from Picasso’s obituary. Except it embarrasses me to compare Melody Nelson with anything that came out of Paul McCartney. Can I recommend an album this evil? Well... I recommend it like I recommend Italian strippers or hash oil. You’ll feel dirty, but if it’s your sort of thing you’ll like it. Outside of Jane Birkin squealing there’s nothing pornographic about its sounds; the lines quoted above are the naughtiest. I don’t write that to defend the album; I write that to exclaim over how the world of longing here is all the more artful for not being solely physical. Not one wasted word or note – they all take you right into the heart of a hard but besotted man who believes the girl he’s obsessed with is both a straightforward simpleton and an unearthly, irresistible force that he can never understand. His voice, crappy though it is, manipulates. In the "Valse de Melody", where he carries the tune as well as he can, the seconds where it breaks and snaps show us more desire than Ang Lee managed in three boring hours about star-crossed sheep herders sniffing each other’s shirts. And the arrangement is flawless. This being Serge Gainsbourg, the hero of French pop, and it being the '70s, he got an orchestra to use as a simple backing to his vocal crackling and to the three piece band that drives the action and the tune. He uses the orchestra not wastefully, but as one big ambient instrument helping beautifully bury the listener in the narrator’s perturbing emotions, letting the whole thing seem like a desperate quest not just to possess but to love. Right on Melita with the love/hate thing, because Serge Gainsbourg is too complicated to simply choose between love or hate. Moi, je l'adore.

The Immaculate Conception of The Blessed Virgin Mary

In the Second Century CE the mother of Mary debuted into Christian belief in the Gospel Of St. James. The tale of her conception without sex was cobbled together in the Gospel of James from Greek myths and an Old Testament fable Samuel's mother giving birthing without enduring penetration by her infertile husband, Joachim. The Holy Roman church furtheeed the concept by declaring that Mary conceived her son without any assistance from Joseph, thus rendering her free of sin unlike the rest of humanity.

As an altar boy in the early 1960s I helped celebrate the hometown congregation of St. Elizabeth, who is I remember correctly was Mary's aunt. The nuns tramped us from St. Mary's of the Foothills into the church. The mass was in Latin and a great mystery to the worshippers ignorant of the dead language. All I understood as 'mea culpa mea culpa, mea maxima culpa' or forgive me three times fast with the last one forgive me a lot'. A covert atheist since the age of eight I mumbled the Latin and sang, 'Oh Mary we crown you with flowers today, queen of the angels. Queen of the May'.

I was good in math and the numbers for the Church were way off. The time between December 8 and Christmas were under a month and most pregnancy lasted nine months, even back in Biblical times. I brought up the discrepancy to my teacher, Sister Mary Magdalene, who subjected me to a palm punishment. Ten slaps of the wooden pointer. As her favorite student she hated the punishment, but the Holy Roman Church had its rules against heresy.

According to Wikipedia The Immaculate Conception went so far as to hold that Anne had conceived Mary by kissing her husband Joachim, and that Anne's father and grandmother had likewise been conceived without sexual intercourse, although Bridget of Sweden (c. 1303–1373) told how Mary herself had revealed to her that Anne and Joachim conceived their daughter through a sexual union which was sinless because it was pure and free of sexual lust. The Greek church regarded the belief as a Roman novelty and the Muslims said nothing. Coupled with the dogma of the Infallibility of the Pope the Immaculate Conception served as a twin weapon against Marxism and the Red Terror of Communism.

My personal hunch is that Mary was impregnated by a Celtic warrior serving with the Roman warriors, thus explaining Jesus' depiction as a white man. Mary lied to her husband about the father, who accepted the claim to prevent being called a cuckold or having Mary stoned as a unfaithful wife. Of course that theory is heresy, however one only punished by excommunication and I exiled myself from the Church decades ago.

Still it was a Holy Day of Obligation and we students got the day off thanks to St. Mary and I will always be beholding to her for that miracle.

I missed the feast for another year.

As I will Christmas. Hail Pagans. Merry Yulemas.

ps In Giotto, Meeting at the Golden Gate, 1304–1306 Mary is portrayed as a twelve year-old.

God knows no bounds in his infallibility.

Happy XXXMas

Bordelle, the high-end lingerie line, came out with Christmas delights. One 18K-plated girdle dress will cost over $7000 in London's Selfridges department store.

There are less expensive options for a rich man to offer his mistress.

Fashion stylist Sasha Lilic asked, "Would you spend $7000 on lingerie?"

My answer was simple.

"I'd spent it to take off lingerie."

But I only have $200 in the bank, so for now I have to be happy with looking at $7000 on the flesh.

I have a good enough imagination to furnish the pleasure of giving and taking.

Plus I've been nice than naughty this year, although more out of laziness than choice.