April Foolishness

Back in the last decade a friend called to tell me that a business associate had been trampled by a herd of deer on his Easthampton property. I didn't question the story and immediately phoned my associate.

"Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay." Billy was a man of moderate wealth. He was in love with his beautiful wife and two daughters. His voice was free of pain.

"No reason." I realized that my friend had played a practical joke for April Fool's Day. "Have a nice evening."

I hung up the phone and sat on my bed slightly angered by my friend's prank, but it was April Fool's Day and my landlord got a good chuckle upon hearing about my gullibility. He was also friends with Billy.

"It's an April Fool's tradition."

"And my brother's birthday." I had contacted him early to wish happy birthday. "The tradition comes from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales with merry-makers celebrating March 32th by sticking a paper fish on the backs of friends and family."

"That's silly," AP's son commented from the next room. He had good hearing.

"Yes, it is, but back in the Middle Ages the New Year was celebrated on March 25th to match the Spring Equinox, then the Pope changed it to January 1st by the Edict of Rousillon."

'You know a lot of stuff." James attended an expensive neighborhood school. His parents expected him to excel in his classes.

"I read a lot." Not as much now as earlier in the year. The world is doomed to end on May 21 according to the Christian and they aren't joking about the Apocalypse. "James, there's a dog on your head."

"No, there isn't." His hands went to his head.

"April Fool." Six year-old boys are easier targets, but so are fifty-nine year old men.

And that's no joke.

Andretta the Giant's Hat

Ellen Von Wirth Party

Rent-Free Hell 2016

Yesterday was Easter Sunday and on the C train between Hoyt-Schemmerhorn and Lafayette Street a young man was preaching about the wrath of his lord. "God loves his flock, but hates a sinner. All you sinners will have a special place of torment in Hell." He glared about the subway car like Josef Mengele, the SS Angel of Death at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I met his stare with cold blue eyes, but smiled as I asked, "Are those places rent-free?" Most of the passengers were immune from his rant. Their headphones and earplugs filled their head with song. A few were free of any device and they laughed at my quip. The preacher was not amused and pointed a finger in my direction. "The end is coming soon." "Not soon enough for me, if it means you'll be taken to your holy heaven and I don't have to listen to you anymore." The train stopped at Lafayette and I stepped onto the platform, half-expecting the preacher man to follow my exit. He stood at the door of the subway shaking the Bible at me. "You're lost." The preacher scowled without joy. There are no jokes in hell for the Christians. "Not lost, but found in the beauty of humanity and the glory of love." "Damnation." "And I couldn't be happier." The subway doors closed and the preacher was dragged deeper into Brooklyn. I exited from the train station to enjoy the cool evening air thinking about the Jesus-lover celebrating Bunny Day with an egg hunt. No humor was one thing, but no fun was another, then again stranger things have happened to the faithful. Even to those without a sense of humor. I'll be laughing my head off in Hell. Rent-free of course.

On The March 2013

Yesterday afternoon I was working on a small film at the northern end of Mulberry Street with my friend Eric Marciano. I caught sight of a three young black robed priests carrying a large wooden cross. About a hundred teenagers followed the Jesus wannabes. Their faces glowed with devotion to their faith. The director, knowing my feelings about the Catholic Church, sidled up to me and said, “It’s their holiday. Don’t say anything.”

“I won’t, if they won’t.” I had been persecuted by the priests and nuns for my youthful atheism.

Several of the passing worshippers wished us, “Happy Easter.”

“Happy nothing.” I muttered up my breath.

“Zip it.” The director kicked my shin. Eric was a private apostate.

“Okay.” He was paying me to work, not harangue the believers.

They procession disappeared into Nolita and we returned to shooting our scene.

I have to learn some tolerance.

My mother would like my moderation of excess.

She was a good Catholic and a loving parent.

Happy Easter, Mom.

foto by jorge soccarras

The Dead of Tana Torajah

In 1991 I traveled the spine of Sulawasi into Tana Toraja, an idyllic mountainous area to meet an Indi friend. An earth brown river wound through the valley by the small town. Mistahs were scarce, since Iraq I was raging on the other side of the world. The Tana Torajans were Christian-animists with a history of head-hunting. None supposedly since the Dutch forces invaded the Highlands in 1905. I spent my days writing, hiking through the forests to visit burial caves cramped with ancestral bones of the long deceased. A few weeks into my stay my friend arrived to honor his grandmother and hundreds of family members traversed a ridge leading into a valley unconnected with the modern world. Bulls and pigs were herded over the divide in time to a traditional villages of ornately carved long houses. I drink warm arak with the celebrants attired in tribal garments. I wore all black. Later in the afternoon the men started trance dancing as the women unfurled the silk wrappings from the corpse to respectfully wash the deceased bones. I sat to the side with friends from my hotel. A bull was dragged into the clearing and a man threaded a rope attached to the beast's nose ring through a thick ring attached to a thick pole. The chanting rose to a crescendo and a young man with a kris stood before the bull, placed hand on the neck, and then slashed the throat, blood spurting wildly. The bull collapsed onto its forelegs and the men shouted with glee. They hauled away the dead creature and brought another sacrifice. It wasn't the last. I didn't move, except to drink offered arak by two young women in black. The chanting rose and fell and the bovines were replaced by pigs. My friend approached with a long knife. "You now " I must have looked hesitant and he said, "Before not buffalo. Men." I politely refused, saying that I obeyed the Fifth Commandment. He excused me and night fell on the. Fire-lit blood mud. We drank more arak and ate all sorts of meats and offal. I stayed awake until the last men collapsed in a stupor. I found a deserted long house and lay on the floor with my small bag as a pillow. In the darkness a long white row dully glowed from the main beam. I shone my flashlight upward onto a long row of skulls. I never get scared, but I was spooked. Thankfully I had drank enough arak to fall into the sleep of the dead. In the morning I rose with the roosters before the dawn. People were leaving the village to get to church in town. Only the tingri or spirits lived there. I joined their trek, smoking kretek cigarettes and showing them postcards of New York and my family members. They all wanted to know if I had a wife and children. I lied and said yes. Reaching the ridge I looked back to the valley. The centuries lay atop the land and I was glad to be several hours from the 20th Century and there was beer there. Cold too.

Jewish Guilt versus Goyim Guilt

Back in the 1990s I deserted New York to spend the Easter holiday with my family on the South Shore of Boston.

Despite my abandonment of God as a child my mother persisted in requesting my attendance at morning Mass. It was a small sacrifice to make for the woman who brought me into this world and I always said, "Sure.”

That morning I dressed in a dark-gray suit with a black cashmere polo shirt.

My mother came into the bedroom and asked, “Where’s your tie?

“Mom, this shirt is pure cashmere.”

“But you look better in 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 parochial school.

My mother frowned with disappointment at both my wardrobe and rejection of her God.

“I hope at my funeral you’ll wear a tie.” Her eyes were dewy with tears.

“I will.” Refusing my mother was impossible and I changed my shirt and put on a tie. It felt like a garrote.

"Better?" I asked in the kitchen. My father sat at the table in his best suit.

"Much better.” She smiled with triumph and kissed my cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

Upon my return to New York 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 asked for you to wear a tie at her funeral, if it had been me I would have said, “Once you kill me, I want you to wear a tie to the funeral.”

“Aha.” 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.

Holy Saturday - 2009

In 2009 AP and his family left Fort Greene for the Easter Weekend. I spent the time alone in the brownstone, feeding the cats, turtle, and fish. My sense of worth was low and I treat the self-loathing with beer, preferably Narragansett. That lager tasted of New England.

Saturday morning morning I finished re-writing IN HEAVEN ABOVE, my comedy script about a bankrupt nation fending off their debtor by outfitting their decrepit Space Shuttle to hold a lottery with the winning prize a trip to the stars and the chance to be the first man to make love in orbit.

After writing THE END I brewed a cup of tea.

As the teabag seep its essence into the water, I sweetened the cup with a spoonful of sugar and then poured in milk. It had gone bad and I cursed the cruddled container, then threw on my coat to get another quart at the local deli, Ralphs.

I stepped out of the house and closed the door.

As soon as the lock clicked shut, I checked my pockets for the keys.

They were upstairs on a hook.

"Fuck." I was speaking to my alter ego, Johnny Fuck-Up.

I called AP. He gave me the nanny's number. There was no answer. I called Joe the Plumber, the neighborhood handyman. He came over and said, "$50."

"Could you do it for $20?"

"Not a chance." He had his pride.

"Then I'll wait." I was hoping for a counter-offer.

"It's your party, but if you change your mind, you know my number." Joe was playing hardball. It was Easter weekend.

I wandered down the street to Mullane's on Lafayette. The Bruins were playing an early afternoon game againstthe Flyers. I ordered a beer. The telephone rang. It was the nanny. She was down the street.

"I have keys for you."

"You are the best."

I met her and got back into the house.

The turtle was happy to see me. They know how to grin and I poured him a little 'Gansett'

MADE ON HONOR, SOLD ON MERIT SINCE 1890.

Painting by Tristam.

Hide Easter Bunny Hide

IDF Easter Egg Hunt.

If they can't find eggs, then they go after the Bunny.

It's a bigger target.

BDS.

Free Palestine.

End the Genocide.

The Difference of Three Days

According to the New Testament the Hebrew legal council surrendered Yeshua bar Yosef to the Roman Prefect of Judaea. The Sanhedrin accused the citizen of Galilee of the blasphemy of claiming to be the King of the Jews. Pontius Pilate concluded that the healer was innocent of these charges, however the Passover crowd before the Prefect's palace cried for blood and the Roman offered them a choice; their 'king' or Barrabas, a violent insurrectionist. The mob led by the Pharisees and Sadducees, the two most powerful political forces in Judea, clamored for Barrabas. Pontius Pilate washed his hands and ordered his garrison troops to crucify their Yeshua.

The date was supposedly the 14th of Nissan and the year ranged from 28AD to 36AD, although the Vatican determined Good Friday and Easter according to the ancient calculations of the Council of Nicaea, which declared Easter to be celebrated on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the vernal equinox as was the pagan holiday honoring Isthar, the Babylonian goddess of fertility, love, war, and sex.

Her temples were reknown as sex cults.

The early church was adept at kidnapping the traditions of other religions, but not so good with arithmetic.

The priests and nuns taught the faithful that Jesus rose from the dead after three days. He died on a Friday. He stayed dead on Saturday. He rose on Sunday. Three different days, yet a time span of only forty-three hours or less than two days, then again the time between the Immaculate Conception and the Birth of Christ was only four months.

Maybe I'm too picky.

Clocks didn't exist in 33AD.

The hours were either sunrise, noon, sunset, or night.

Calendars were also hard to find in 787 AUC (Anno Urbis Conditae or the founding of Rome).

A long, long time ago.

Before I was born into this lifetime.

And I couldn't care less, because for me Easter is simply a day for chocolate and wearing a new suit and tie.

The former is for kids and the latter for my beloved departed Mother. She liked to dress up on Easter and even atheist shall honor the old traditions for their mother.

Happy Easter Eggs.

The Outrage of Christ

THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST by Nikos Kazantzakis was a revelation for a young Catholic boy living on the South Shore of Boston in 1967. I found the book in our town library next to his successful novel ZORBA THE GREEK. The blurb on the dust cover shockingly declared that Kazantzakis had written this book to argue the innate weakness of the flesh in the Son of God. Works of heresy had traditionally been banned in Boston throughout the 1950s. The lack of due date stamps within the front cover revealed that book had never been read by anyone in my town. I stuck it under my arm and walked to the check-out counter.

"This book has been here over seven years." The librarian examined THE LAST TEMPTATION, as if she had never seen it before. She opened the pages to the publishing date. "It was published in 1955. The Greek and Catholic Churches condemned it."

"Maybe it was in hiding." I was a weekly visitor to the library. The librarian was familiar with my reading habits. She allowed me to withdraw adult books without question.

"ZORBA THE GREEK was very popular. Any time someone makes a movie from a book, people come into the library to read it. Afterward I have to hear how the book was better or the movie was better."

"THE TEN COMMANDMENTS were better than the book."

I had seen the Bible epic at the South Shore Drive-In with my parents. I hadn't told them that I was a non-believer. An admission like that earned the belt from my mother.

"That's almost sacrilegious." She frowned from behind her desk, then laughed, "I was kidding. I liked THE TEN COMMANDMENTS better too. Let me know how this book is."

I left and read the entire novel over the weekend.

On Saturday night my older brother came into the bedroom and grabbed it out of my hands. He asked if it was a dirty book.

"No." Kazantzakis offered an intoxication of heresy more heady than sex.

Frunk threw the book on my bed.

Then what good is it?"

"None, I guess," I laid back on the pillows and returned to ancient Judea.

The author contradicted the very teachings of the Church. Jesus was a man. He succumbed to the pleasure of Mary Magdalene. The devil tore at his soul. After surviving the crucifixion Messiah fled in India and lived a long life, unfortunately it was all a dream and he woke to find himself nailed to the cross. Kazantzakis' suggestions created a Fifth Testament complementing my juvenile atheistic version of the last chapters of the New Testament..

Jesus had been crucified on the cross. The Romans had declared him dead, but he had been in a coma. After the earthquake had opened his tomb, the apostles had discovered him alive and declared him the Son of God. Jesus had believed them until Thomas had returned from India.

The missing apostle to the unhealed wounds in Jesus' feet and hands and told his friend that if the Romans had done this once, then they will complete the job, if they found him alive. Jesus hadn't come back from the dead to be re-crucified and he fled to India with Thomas, his mother, and Mary Magdalene.

My version was unfounded heresy, until I later read in VS Naipul's AMONGST THE BELIEVERS that a tomb existed in Northern India containing the body of a holy man from Judea. Yuz Asaf or Issar had been a healer and lived to the age of 127. Muslims in Kashmir revered the tomb as the final resting place of Mary. Craved footprints of Yuz Araf's gravestone bore wounds in the feet.

More heresy.

In 1988 Martin Scorcese released THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST. The movie was banned in the Philippines and Singapore and a Paris cinema was firebombed by Christian extremists. Thirteen spectators were injured in the attack. The same number of people at the Last Dinner.

Christians are very sensitive about any questioning of the divinity of Jesus or blasphemous exploitation of his image.

The controversial photo PISS CHRIST earned Richard Serrano a brimstone outrage for its use of urine. The artist received hate mail and death threats. His grants were cancelled, despite counter-protests for the freedom of speech as guaranteed by the American Constitution. The work was thoroughly trashed by Christian Fundamentalists in France that Spring and they have mounted a similar campaign against a Paris theater for showing a play in which a portrait of Jesus is covered in shit at the end of the play.

Outrage.

As an atheist I refrain from attacking anyone's religion.

If belief in a mythical Nailed God happifies the believers, so be it, but if they seek to change the way I think, then I'll resist the bible-thumpers and jihadists every step of the way.

And here's how.

Why did Jesus cross the road?

Because he was nailed to the chicken!

Yes, if there is a Hell, we're all going to go there.

I think that comes from a Curtis Mayfield song.

And I found Hell's address in THE LAST TEMPTATION.

IT'S IN THE STATE OF MICHIGAN.

Happy Good Friday

For Catholics around the world Ash Wednesday kicked off the Easter Season. Forty days of abstinence from a favorite pleasure was a token of sacrifice for the crucified Messiah.

On Palm Sunday the faithful brandished palm fronds to celebrate the Son of God entering Jerusalem.

Each and every Good Friday of my childhood the priests and nuns led a mournful procession around our church stopping at each station of the cross.

Prayers, incense, candles.

There was nothing joyful about the ceremony.

God's son was going to his death.

Good Friday was a day of buzzkills.

Ten Aprils ago I was working on a small film at the northern end of Mulberry Street. I caught sight of a three young priests lugging a large wooden cross. About a hundred teenagers followed them. Their faces glowed with devotion to their faith. The director, knowing my feelings about the Catholic Church, sidled up to me and said, "It's their holiday. Don't say anything."

"I won't, if they won't."

Several of the passing worshippers wished us, "Happy Easter."

"Happy nothing." I muttered up my breath, recollecting the persecution by the priests and nuns for my youthful atheism.

"Zip it." The director kicked my shin. Eric was a private apostate.

"Okay." He was paying me to work and not to haranguing the believers.

The procession disappeared into Nolita and we resumed shooting our scene.

I have to learn some tolerance.

My mother would like that.

She was a good Catholic and a loving parent.

Happy Easter, Mom.

Going To Hell Jokes

1. An Indian man dies and arrives at the Pearly Gates. “Yes, how can I help?” asks St Peter. “I’m here to meet Jesus,” says the Indian man. St Peter looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Jesus, your cab is here!”

2. What’s the difference between the real Jesus and a picture of Jesus? It only takes one nail to hang up the picture.

3. Did you know that after the crucification, Jesus pretty much lost his sweet tooth? The M&Ms kept falling through the holes in his hands.

4. What did Jesus say when they removed his hands from the cross?

FEET FIRST!!

5. What did Jesus say as he was being crucified? “Ahhhhhhhhhhh…!”

Is there any better way to celebrate Good Friday than having a good laugh?

Friday the 13th Umphang

Ten years ago my ex-wife, daughter, and I set out from Chai-nat for Umphang, which is one of Thailand's most remote regions. I had calculated seven hours for the 500 kilometer trip. It took almost eleven hours of white-knuckle driving through the jungled mountains. The road in Umphang had been known as Death Highway back in the last century and a pick-up truck nearly smashed into us on a blind curve. We were lucky to arrive at our destination in one piece, since I hadn't realized that that day was Friday the 13th.

While the number 12 symbolizes completeness for numerologists, 13 has a reputation of a prime number steeped with irregularity, further tarnished by Jesus and the Twelve Apostles numbering 13 at the Last Supper and now in the Christian world 13 people at a table is feared to doom one of the guests to death .

Other cultures also consider 13 bad luck. The Turks effectively banned the number from their language. Vikings feared that if 13 guests sat to dinner, all of them would die within a year under the curse of Loki, their god of mischief. Some humans reject this belief and Manhattan has both East and West 13th Streets, however many high-rises on that fabled borough are missing the 13th floor.

Many superstitions have their base in gambling and gamblers exhibit an extraordinary fear of the #13 aka triskaidekaphobia.

Unlike the West Thais regard the number 4 as unlucky, although you'll notice on Thai Air flights there is no row 13.

Personally I think 13's reputation comes from the age at which Jewish boys used to be circumcised and nothing is more unlucky for a man than losing a piece of your penis, unless you’re a ka-toey.

Black Sabbath also released their first album on Feb. 13, 1970.

The date had nothing to do with ladyboys.

Although with Ozzie you can never be sure.

Other well-known numerical phobias

Never sit at seat #10 at a poker table.

Always wear red underwear when gambling.

In craps, always blow on the dice before you roll them. That apparently seals in the luck. However, should the dice leave the table, the next throw will be a loser.

Poker players should switch card protectors if luck is running bad.

For some dropping a card during a game is considered very bad luck. Others, however contend you should raise your next bet in that circumstance suggesting that it’s good luck.

Always enter and leave a casino through the same door.

Singing can be either good luck or bad luck while you gamble.

Don’t count your money during a poker session.

Stay away from sex the night before you play. (Not the most popular superstition).

Never let dogs near a gambling table. (Apparently they’re bad luck and no good at poker).

Never accept being paid with a $50 bill. They’re called “Frogs” and are said to be unlucky.

Never touch someone’s shoulder while he is gambling.

Don’t enter a casino through its main entrance; it’s cursed.

Switch on all the lights at home before leaving to gamble.

Nothing really bad happened this Friday the 13th.

At least not yet.

Mary Magdalene Rage 2009

Fifteen years ago I received a very negative comment about my entry for Mary Magdalene on Mangozeen.

The Argentinean writer had responded to a Facebook survey of what Biblical character she would be. Zuckerman's website search engine chosen Deborah of the Old Testament. The prophetess had predicted the defeat of King Sisera at the hands of the persecuted Israelites. The Canaanites' assault chariots had been stopped by the muddy fields below Mount Tabor. The commander fled to his camp, where his wife, but also a prophetess, Jael, pounded a tent peg through the sleeping man's skull.

Extolled above women be Jael, Extolled above women in the tent. He asked for water, she gave him milk; She brought him cream in a lordly dish. She stretched forth her hand to the nail, Her right hand to the workman's hammer, And she smote Sisera; she crushed his head, She crashed through and transfixed his temples.

The Israelites were attempting to steal the Canaanites' land of Milk and Honey.

Same as the Zionists in Palestine.

My rebelliousness forced a rude reaction.

"Better you were Mary Magdalene. A fucking whore."

Opps, I never really thought of Mary Magdalene that way.

http://www.mangozeen.com/2009/04/22/religion/bound-to-burn-at-the-stake.htm

Here's Dampira's riposte.

I'd rather message you then comment on your "blog."

Mary Magdalene wasn't a fucking whore, you ignorant fucktard. You are the fucking whore for believing it after it was proven that she wasn't. It's been cleared up. You think it's okay to call a woman a "fucking whore" let alone a innocent woman like Mary Magdalene that had nothing to do with prostitution?

Ignorant douche-bag.

People like you should be fucking dragged into the street and get impaled by tons of crucifixes then shipped off to Rome to be imprisoned for two decades for being a ignorant fucktard you are!

It's amazing you have pictures of women dressed like fucking sluts on your blog and you lust after these fucking skanks. You worship them. Fuck them. Give them fucking respect.

Mary Magdalene never did these things and yet she gets flak. She was proper and didn't dress provocative unlike the fucking THAI tramps in that lame ass third world shit infested garbage dump you love so much. Fucking hypocrite. FUCK YOU GAY LAME ASS ANIMAL.

I'm out.

Don't bother typing back to me because you are not worthy and I don't plan on reading your trash.

I will never visit your sorry excuse of a so called blog. Goodbye, pig.

IGNORANT DOUCHEBAD ANIMALS LIKE YOU SHOULD BE ON LEASHES!

Wow.

It is true that I like sexy girls and the Church has never canonized Mary Magdalene, but the writer was correct in his assertion that Mary Magdalene was never an alabaster woman. There was no mention of her selling her body in the Gospel. Western Christianity mixed her up with an unnamed repentant woman anointing Christ's feet in the Gospel of Luke.

She was the beloved of all apostles and in the rotting pages of the gospel of Philip was written about Mary Magdalene, "Christ loved Mary more than all the disciples, and used to kiss her often on the mouth. The rest of the disciples disapprovingly said said to him, "Why do you love her more than all of us?" The Saviour answered and said to them, "Why do I not love you like her? When a blind man and one who sees are both together in darkness, they are no different from one another. When the light comes, then he who sees will see the light, and he who is blind will remain in darkness."

MM was his girl.

For better or worse.

I stand corrected as an ignorant douchebag, but every sinner deserves a reprieve and secondly the girls of Pattaya are more saints than any westerner will ever realize. So fuck Dampira too.

HELLBOUND by Peter Nolan Smith / Bet On Crazy -2011

TS Eliot wrote that April was the cruelest month of all in his epic poem THE WASTELAND, poetry's answer the Led Zeppelin STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN.

Those words rang harsh and true in 2011, as the combined holidays of Passover and Easter devastated business in the Diamond District. On Good Friday I waited for two customers to come back as promised. I had three Burma sapphires for an English broker and a quartet of GIA certified 2-carat diamonds for a Korean girl. Richie Boy insisted that I call the both.

"We needed the sales."

"No one is coming out today to celebrate a crucifixtion and a pogram against the first born's of Egypt, unless we have a special on Chocolate diamonds."

The Hassidim were celebrating the last days of Passaich.

"Can you do what I ask for once?" Richie Boy was pissed at my attitude.

"A raise in salary and a bump in my commission rate would elevate my resolve."

"Your raise this year is your job."

Times were tough after ten years of the Endless War.

"I'll call, but both these sales are dead issues," I complained and picked up the phone.

Neither customer answered the phone and I slumped at my desk.

Scratchy music itched the air.

My co-worker at the diamond exchange on West 47th Street was a born-again Christian and Ava was listening to Brazilian Jesus music at a low-volume. I didn't understand the lyrics, but the word 'Jesus' was repeated throughout the choruses. Ava fervently believed in the Messiah's Second Coming and that the Judgment Day was a tangible date in the near-future. I tapped her shoulder and Ava turned around to face me.

"Do you think I'm heading to heaven?" I was joking with her. I hadn't worshiped a God since the early 60s.

"No." Ava shook her head vehemently without condemnation. "You're not going to heaven?"

"I'm not?" My concept of the afterlife consisted of coming back as a skinny blonde go-go dancer, so I can control the destiny of men. Ava's version of heaven was the more traditional kneeling in prayer to the Lord, a boring forever without pain and suffering. Hell was lots of both and I said, "What if I repent at the last moment?"

"Then you are sent to Limbo after you die?" Ava's congregation believed more in black and white than the gray. It was either heaven or hell without a middle road.

"That's better than hell." The fiery pit was legendary for its lack of cold beer, although the only beverage in eternity were was limo's flagon of regrets and heaven's fountains spraying the ambrosia of God sweat.

"Only if you truly repent." Ava was asking a lot from an old reprobate.

"And who decides that?" I had a feeling that the arbiter of eternal salvation would not be fooled by my last-minute re-conversion to my old faith.

"God."

My old nemesis.

"He has to have too much on his plate than to bother with me."

"That attitude will send you to hell. God is all-caring."

"What about the Palestinians? He doesn't seem to care for them and they're living on the Promised Land."

"The damnation of your soul is no laughing matter." Ava harbored no sense of humor on this subject.

"Well, could you tell me when the Day of Judgment is coming?" My sins had broached the majority of the Ten Commandments, although I honored my parent and have never killed a soul, save my own, and none of my neighbors' wives are desirable.

"What is so important about when?" The Brazilian was puzzled by this question.

"So I can drink cold beer for a month before I go burn in Hell."

"Damned. You're damned, but I'll still pray for your soul."

"Thanks."

Ava was a good girl and a man like me needed a good girl to pray for his soul, because in Hell there will only be bad girls.

Go-Go girls, whores, sluts, trannys et al.

It will be a Hell of an Eternity and I will be in bad company.

But how bad can it be?

Passion Week Pattaya 2008 - Five Excuses for Sin

Back in 2008 on Good Friday morning in New York Christians prepared to commemorate the crucifixion of Christ at churches throughout the city. Catholics will chant the Rosary during the Stations of the Cross, as incense fumes from holy thuribles. I attended none of these rites and neither shall any atheists in Pattaya, for while I might be on the other side of the world, I have lived long enough in the Last Babylon to know that Friday night was special for wicked residents of that tawdry beach resort and most will be heading down to Walking Street for fun and games.

The crucifixion of Christ was the last thing on their minds, since most of the week had been spent recovering from the previous weekend.

On Saturday and Sunday every time you mentioned you were feeling like ten pounds of shit in a one pound bag, your Thai wife muttered, "Som nam nah." or "Serves you right."

Tuesday was wasted in a vain attempt to find your cell phone, with which you vaguely recollect a go-go dancer girl photographing you nude onstage and you judiciously decided that it was better to leave your phone lost.

After you purchase a new cell phone, your drinking partner called to say you didn't look too fat completely naked.

He had photos.

You whisper into the phone, "Speak to you later."

Wednesday your wife has stopped staring at you like she wished you lived in a two-story building so she can push you down the stairs.

Thursday evening you treated her to shopping at largest beachfront shopping mall in the world and dined at her favorite restaurant. She ordered the most expensive food on the menu. Things were almost back to normal, but tomorrow is Friday and there was no way you intend on staying in the house.

You could be a real man and say, "I pay for everything. I'm going to do whatever I want when I want wherever I want."

But you better be prepared to sleep with one eye open for the next few nights.

Personally I opted for the coward's way out and used one of following five excuses.

"My friend is having trouble with his girlfriend and needed to speak with someone."

In order for this excuse to work, you had to prep your wife by telling her various tales of friend's woe. Even better if the two women don't like each other, since your wife will be pleased at her counterpart's misfortune.

Of course your wife will understand why your friend was having trouble. He went out every Friday night and got you drunk.

Always blame the person not in the room. Believe me, he will do the same.

Excuse # 2 "It'll only be for an hour or so."

Thai women understood that when a farang said an hour he meant an hour, unless it had anything to do with drinking while looking at naked women. Then the farang's time reference was distorted by the international non-time zone.

This time warp was most apparent on your night out, when you looked at your new cell to discover that it was almost midnight and you had only imbided five drinks.

If you left now, everything will be perfect, except your friend, who's having all the trouble with his girlfriend, ordered another round of tequila and pushed you on stage with three go-go girls with whips.

You calculate.

"One drink. One dance. Another fifteen minutes."

Next thing you know it's 3am and you have no idea how you got to this hotel room.

When you stumble through your house door, your wife will ask, "Do you have any idea what time it is."

Once more blame it on your friend.

"Billie kept saying it wasn't late."

Blaming him is fair, because as previously stated he's not in the room and can defend himself later. All you need is enough time to get to bed.

Excuse # 3 "It's business."

Anytime you walk out of the house with 10000 baht it most certainly was business.

Especially since you invested every baht in booze and women.

Hopefully there was no return on this investment.

Excuse # 4 "It's my friend's last night."

This was maybe three times a year occasion.

Your best friend was either going home to replenish his financial coffers or else on a visa run to Malaysia. Your wife doesn't need to hear the whole truth. She knew you two together were no good, but at least there was only one more night of the guy who made you lose five cell phones in the last year.

Excuse # 5 "You can come with me if you want."

This one threw them off balance.

Your wife will say, "Okay."

But as the clock ticked down to blast-off she will realize that you'll make her miserable by taking her to farang pubs where Filipino bands do covers of dinosaur rock bands and the only food was burgers or sizzling steaks, and every man in the place was over 250 pounds and sweated like a Bengali laundryman.

One night like that and your wife will never come with you. This way you can be free to get drunk, dance naked on stage, and lose your cell phone, because that was what a Good Friday night was all about in Pattaya.

As for Saturday.

That was the day of repentance and saying "Never again."

But your wife knew better and so did that go-go dancer with your new cell phone.

LAZARUS II - POETRY ON SALE

LAZURUS II

BY

PETER NOLAN SMITH

FOTOS BY SHANNON GREER, RAOUL OLLMAN, AND FX TIMONEY

PUBLISHED BY MANGOZEEN BOOKS 2024

Nearing Christmas 2022 I was experiencing liver failure. At 69 my chances for a transplant were slim, however early on Yulemas Weill-Cornell called to say come in, "We have a liver for you>"

I packed a bag ready for all outcomes. 5-10% of transplant end badly. I had had a good life and showed up for any eventuality. After a ten-hour operation I returned to life from the dead.

Lazarus II.

This glossy booklet contains a long poem LAZARUS II about my miraculous coming and going with a happy ending complete with eleven high resolution photos shot by Raoul Ollman, the cover, Shannon Greer the interior, and the back by Francis X Timony. Shannon's photos are graphic nudes revealing the horror of one of the most intense operations on this planet. Many have likened them to the horrific photo of Andy Warhol wound after the Valerie Solanis shooting.

Price $12 plus $3 shipping in the USA

Venmo Peter-Smith-18

Essence

Last year I died three times.
Once on an airplane
Coming from Bangkok
Twice on an Operating table.

Passing from this life
To white oblivion
Not heaven
Not hell
Merely a white oblivion

Coming back
Not as a reincarnation
But
To this life
To this body
To the meaninglessness
Of the Now.

My body healed
Skin and bones
Looking like Willem Dafoe
My soul
Joyless
Still in limbo
Of a world Not of my making

Months pass
Healing
Winter to Spring
Healing
Alone
Spring to summer
Alive
No longer barely

Alive
Not looking like the before me
Not looking like Willem Dafoe either.
Halfway between the old me
And the new me

In June
Stronger and I went to the Rockaways
My friend FX
My lifeguard
A better than good swimmer.

The Atlantic shore break was dangerous
I stripped off my clothes
Naked to the elements
A long scar across my abdomen

FX looks at me
I at him.

I am not alone
I am with him
The wind
jThe earth
Water
Sky

The ocean calls

I race through the waves
Dive into the sea
Surface
The sun to the west

The glow of life
Surges
Through my veins
Duck under a wave
Surface
Alive
Filled with the memory
Of hundreds of beaches
Around the world

Higgins Beach Maine
My mother reaching down to pull me up
Nantasket Beach
A drowned man
Wollaston
Swimming around the sewer
The water warm
Moonlight Beach
California
LSD with seals
Mazatlan
Waikiki
Bingin Beach Bali
Nice, Cannes, Biarritz
Koh Phi Phi
I lose count

FX shouts
I shout back
The waves washing away the tears of joy

I am alive
And I no longer look like Willem Dafoe
Just another version of me.
Lazurus II

Blinding Snow - Mount Ranier - 1998

In 1998 my father, Todd Shikegane and I toured the Northwest in my friend's van. Arriving at Mt. Ranier in the morning Todd and I went for a hike. My father remained in the lodge by the fire with his crossword puzzle. In his 80s his tramping days were over.

The path climbed through sunny alpine meadows to the tree line. We were both wearing adequate gear. About an hour later Todd and I were caught in a snowstorm. I recommended going down. Todd kept on going. I watched him disappear to the flurries and descended to reach the lodge after a two hour descent. I reported to the rangers that my friend was still on the mountain. They weren't too concerned. It was still daylight. I went into the lodge and sat by my father, who asked, "Where's Todd?"

"He kept going."

He looked up at the cloudy mountain and said, "Oh well, he'll show up later. Care for a glass of wine."

Of course I said yes and Todd showed up thirty minutes later. A little cold. He also had a glass of wine.

Maundy Thursday

In 1977 I lived in Park Slope with James Spicer. The silver-haired jazz impressario representing several jazz stars only charged me $120 for a room in the spacious townhouse. We drank up the street at the Gaslight Pub. James thrived on the streetwise clientele and I sparred with a Frenchman for pinball supremacy. Michel the French bartender was better with the flippers, while I mastered the machine's bump and grind without tilting the ball. James drank hard and heavy, hitting on the young Irish thugs frequenting the old school bar. It wasn't unusual for him to get up in the morning with a black eye. He had a thing for rough trade.

Late on an April night I woke in my room. James knelt by the bed, anointing my feet with oil.

"James, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I thought you might like this. It's Maundy Thursday."

"So?"

"You're a bad Catholic." James disapproved of my atheism. "Today the Church celebrates the Washing of the Feet."

"By Mary Magdalene?" I didn't recall her having anything to do with Jesus' fatal visit to Jerusalem.

"No, no, no, that was early in the New Testament. "Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair." That was that time, but this is before the Last Supper. The washing of feet was by Lazurus' sister."

"James, thanks, but I really would like to go back to sleep."

"Sure, I understand you have no traditions." The forty year-old New Yorker stumbled from my bedroom and I wiped the oil from my feet.

I haven't had my feet oiled since, but across the world Catholics and Christians annually celebrate Maundy Thursday, on which Jesus hosted the Last Supper.

In Luxembourg children wander the streets with wooden clappers calling the faithful to church.

Throughout Western Europe and America bishops bless holy oils for the sacraments.

None of these rites can compare with the ablution of a drunken gay man.

It was an act of love.

Man O Manischewitz 2012

In 2012 Fort Greene was a friendly neighborhood. People said hello to each other. I smiled greetings, glad to be here. It was a 'we' world, although I wished I was in Thailand with my family.

Across the street an elderly Trinidadian woman collected beer cans and bottles for the deposit money. I gave Jinny all my empties, at least ten a week. At five cents a can my annual contribution added up to $25.

One rainy afternoon I exited from the Fort Greene Observatory, Ginny was struggling to drag her cart loaded with plastic soda bottles onto the sidewalk. Her daily effort financed her yearly visit to the casino. She loves the slots.

"Wait there," I shouted and walked over to help maneuver her load out of the street.

"Thank you, sweetie." She smiled and scurried back to her basement apartment, "I have something for you. Watch my things."

"Sure." I estimated that she had collected over two hundred bottles this morning or $10 for her battle with the one-armed bandits of Aqueduct. Thirty seconds later she emerged from her flat with a plastic bag.

"This is for you." Ginny handed me a bottle of Manischewitz Concord Grape Wine, 100% kosher for Passover.

"Thank you." I accepted the bottle with gratitude. No one had given me a Christmas gift let alone a Passaich gift. "I'll drink a toast to you with my landlord AP."

"He is such a good man. And those children are lovely."

"Yes, they are." I pointed to her cart. "You need any help with that?"

"No, I'm going down to Pathway to redeem the money. I think I might go to the casino on New Year's Day."

"Then I wish you luck." 2013 was a long way away.

I returned to AP's brownstone and showed my friend the bottle.

"Man O Manischewitz." AP made a face. He was used to better wines.

"I can't remember the last time I drank it. It must have been back in the Zapple and Boone's Farm years." I examined the bottle for percentage of alcohol. "It says 11%. Care for a glass?"

"Not right now." He had just eaten pasta with clams for lunch, which calls for white wine and certainly not glatt kosher wine. Of course clams are tref, but AK loved his seafood and bacon too.

"Later?" I hated drinking alone.

"Much later."

I had no reason to wait and cracked open the bottle in the top-floor apartment. The bouquet was pure sweetness. I poured a glass and brought it to my lips. A simple sip renditioned me back to 1966.

Man O Manischewitz.

Some things in life never change.

"Here's to you, Ginny."

Last Supper For Thirteen

The Synoptic Gospels recount Jesus Christ's Palm Sunday entry into Jerusalem on a donkey.

Seven days later the preacher had been betrayed by Judas, arrested by the authorities, tried by the Romans, crucified on the order of Pontius Pilate, buried in a cave, and rose from a deathlike coma a week later.

Over the centuries scholars have debated the date of the Last Supper. Most Biblical experts agree that the even took place sometime between AD 30-36 with one physicist, Colin Humphrey, pinning down that mythic repast with Jesus and the twelve apostles to April 1, 33CE.

A tumultuous eight days.

To celebrate Passaich one of the apostles hired a room just outside the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem in a joint called the Upper Room perhaps run by an Essene from Bethany, who must asked joked, “Everyone know what they want?”

"Something traditional," a member of the thirteen probably punned with a shrug.

There wasn't much of a choice.

According to culinary historians the Saarmeal consisted of leaven bread and other food cholent, a stewed dish of beans cooked very low and slow, olives with hyssop, a herb with a mint-like taste, bitter herbs with pistachios and a date charoset, a chunky fruit and nut paste.

No one ever said it was a good meal, but things soon went south with Jesus' arrest by the Temple guards of the Sanhedrin in the Garden of Gethsemane. His enemies within the temple wanted him gone and nine hours later Jesus was dead on the cross.

No last meal.

At least none I can find.

The Temple hierarchy really didn't like him.

A lot.

Last Passaic after a long walk to the Brooklyn Museum to view Jimmy DeSana's SM photos Dakota Pollack and I dined on cod, sweet potato, and broccoli.

Not glatt kosher, but none of it tref.

And since I don't drink anymore. No wine.

No beer either.

Sei gesund.

ps there is no such thing as a good kosher wine.

Feh.

Dinner With Lazurus

According to John 12:1 six days before Passover Jesus visited Lazurus, whom he had risen from the grave the previous year. Dinner was served by Lazurus' sister, Martha. His last miracle.

"Silami?" Aramaic for 'how are you doing?' must have been his Resurrectionist's greeting.

"Better than being dead or in Beersheba," Lazurus have joked.

"Anidanidi weyini ina yemībela negeri inidēti newi?" offered Jesus

"Love some."

This conversation is pure conjecture, since no one possessed a divine cellphone to record the dinner for the New Testament, but the Passaich fare was traditionally lamb and pita bread as ascribed by the tradition of High Holy Day celebrating the slaughter of the First Born to free the Hebrews from Egypt. Jehovah was a motherfucker.

After the feast Lazurus' other sister Mary about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. John 12:3.

As a child in Catholic school, the nuns taught that Mary Magdalene anointed the Messiah's feet, but it was Mary of Bethany based on Mrk 14:7

Judas objected, "“Why wasn’t this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year’s wages.” 12:5.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus replied. “It was intended that she should save this perfume for the day of my burial. You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me.John 12:7-8.

Luke 7;16 remarked a woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee's house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. The other books lean toward Mary of Bethany. A pure woman as was Mary Magdalene was a wealthy follower of Jesus much maligned by the Church since Pope Gregory's Easter sermon portraying Mary Magdalene as a repentant prostitute or promiscuous woman .

Later that week God's Only Son on the Cross called out, "Oh Lord why has Thou forsaken me?"

Mind that there was no capitalization in Aramaic.

Neither was there any further mention of Lazurus in the New Testament, although he and his sisters were rumored to have fled Judah to settle in Marseilles along with Mary Magdalene.

All of this coming from word of mouth.

And according to James Steele, "All stories are true, if interesting."

Lazurus II

Palm Sunday History

Palm Sunday traditionally celebrates the Passover donkey ride of Jesus Christ into Jerusalem. The Holy Day is so named, because the Messiah was greeted by followers with palms, signaling a triumph of the soul. There is no account from the Roman or Pharisee scribes of this event, although the literacy rate of Roman Palestine hs been estimated at 3%. Few people at that time never how to read or write. Stories were passed from people by word of mouth. The Gospel according to Mark written in Koine Greek originated in Roman Syria in 60 CE, although believers claimed that the New Testament came from a hypot The celebration of Palm Sunday first occured in the 4th Century CE at the Church of Jerusalem. The donkey symbolized peace as opposed to war by a horse and covering the path of someone was considered to the hgihest honor in the Eastern world.

It was a good day for the Messiah, who mythiclly wept upon seeing Jerusalem, knowing his ultimate fat.

This Palm Sunday was a very rainy day.

I went nowhere near a church.

I sat with the venerable Professor Bertell Ollman.

We ate lunch. Dessert was ice cream. Afterwards we watched a nature show about the Evolution of earth. There was no mention on God in the time of the dinosaurs. The Great Reptiles perished in the Great Extinction. Jesus understood that fate awaits us all sitting on a donkey overlooking Jerusalmen. Persons unknown passed that incident through a thousand mouths until reaching St. Mark, who wrote the earliest Gospel.

The Word of God.

Hearsay.

Standing as the truth through the millenia.

March Rain March Flowers

Once April rain May flowers Now March rain The willow green again.

Damn les Habitants - 2011

My introduction to French was via the heavy accent of a cartoon skunk, who appeared on TV every Saturday morning during the 1950s. Pepe Le Pew never got the girl. Skunks smelled bad and supposedly the French also never bathed with soap. I knew little else of France. That country lay across the Atlantic Ocean, but another France was much closer to my hometown of Falmouth Foresides and that France was Quebec.

The largest minority in Maine was the French Canadians. They worked in the mills and logging camps. A radio station from Montreal played songs for these workers and their families. I listened to the Quebec stations on a ROCKET RADIO, Miniman Model MG-302. Somehow attaching its alligator clips to the metal frame of my bed powered the crystal. I listened to the French music. None of the words had any sense, but several evenings a week in the winter a hoarse voiced announced the hockey games from le Forum in Montreal.

The Canucks in Maine supported the Canadians or 'les Habitants and the team dominated hockey in the NHL, winning six of the decade's Stanley Cups. My father came from an old New England family. We rooted for the Boston Bruins. They always lost to the Habs just like Pepe le Pew never got the girl.

n 1960 my father moved our family from Maine to the South Shore of Boston. My ROCKET RADIO was upgraded to a Japanese transistor and I caught the Montreal station clear of static. The music was changing from smooth to pop led by Francoise Hardy, the Yeh-Yeh Girl.

I bought her 45s in Mattapan Square. The nuns at Our Lady of the Foothills taught us French. I partially understood the lyrics and plotted to meet her one day.

Pop lost favor for rock in the late 60s.

I loved the Sultans' garage rock version of LE POUPEE QUI FAIT NON.

But some things never changed.

The Bruins continued to lose to the Canadians with regularity and the Montreal team captured four Stanley Cups in a row, until the Bruins' Bobby Orr scored a Cup winning goal in 1970. The victory was against an expansion team, the St. Louis Blues, but I didn't care, because this triumph was their first Cup since 1940, plus they had been lucky to avoid the Canadians during the playoffs.

They never lost to the Bruins.

A year later the Bruins were favored to beat the Canadians in the semi-finals. The goalie Gerry Cheever had allowed one goal in the first meeting. It was Easter Week and my three friends and I were driving down to Fort Lauderdale for Spring Break.

We had rented an apartment across from the Elbow Room, famed from the 60s movie WHERE THE BOYS ARE.

Below Washington DC we entered the Deep South. We were longhairs and rednecks hated hippies almost as much as we hated the Canadians.

Our only stops were for gas and food.

Throughout Georgia we listened to WBZ's broadcast of the second game between the Habs and Bs. The Boston-based radio station had a strong 50,000 watt signal. The Bruins went up 5-2 at the end of the 2nd period. The signal died at the Florida border.

In my mind the Bruins were returning to the Stanley Cup. We stopped for complimentary OJ at the state hospitality stop and drove the rest of the night to reach our destination at dawn.

I had never been to Florida and marveled at the palm trees, the Gulf Stream, and co-eds in bikinis.

At noon I went down to the store for beer and picked up the local newspaper, opening the sports section. I blinked several times in disbelief before the printed tragedy hit me with full force.

The Habs had come back from the abyss and scored 5 goals in the 3rd period.

The series was tied at 1-1.

After the Easter break Bruins pushed the Canadians to the limit and lose game 7.

That misfortune was repeated over the next four decades, but in late Spring of 2011 with history on the line the Bruins played the Habs in another game 7. I watched from Mullanes across the street from Frank's Lounge, which does not do hockey.

The teams went into OT tied.

I was ready for the loss, but the Bruins of 2011 were not those of 2010 or 1971. We won the game and I toasted my team with another beer. I was the only Bruins fan in the bar and I lifted my glass to Pepe Le Pew, hoping that he had been lucky to get the girl in the end, because no one loses forever.

Palm Beach Sunday 2008

In April 2008 I lived nowhere. My apartment in the East Village had been taken over by the faceless management company. I lived with my wife and daughter in Pattaya until this April. We had good times and bad times. It was home, then again I considered anyplace home once you buy a roll of toilet paper. I was sad to leave, but my January arrest by the Thai cyber-crime police necessitated a change in employment.

My wife and I discussed the options.

Teaching English paid little. At tops 20,000-30000 baht per month.

My friend Lisa in Palm Beach listened to my story and said, "You can come here. I have a house for you to take care of. It's a little money, but you can get a start."

Palm Beach in the middle of a recession seemed a good destination and I kissed my wife and daughter good-bye at the Bangkok airport. I had no idea when we might see each other again. The flight was long. I stayed in New York three weeks and then headed south to Palm Beach. Lisa greeted me at the airport. At 55 I was almost the youngest passenger in the terminal.

"Good to see you." Lisa gave me a hug.

"Thanks for having me."

"No problems, just remember it's low season." Low season meant the rich had vacated Palm Beach for more temperate climates; the Hamptons, Duchess County, Tuscany, Switzerland, the south of France, and the more tony zipcodes of New England. "I'm not going anywhere, because I'm broke."

I had about $200 in my pocket.

That evening I sent my wife half and my mistress half. She will be having my baby in July. I took over a house near Donald Trump's Mar-o-Lago. My job required walking the owners' Airedale. She was a crazy dog. My only social contact here was Lisa and her son Kris. They were was bunkered down at her place. We watched Euro 2008 together and ate pasta. Life was simple, but I craved some humanity and Palm Beach is short of that commodity any time of the year.

My friend Bruce lived in Miami Beach. Normally the writer resided was in the East Village, however he had rented out his flat to support his life in Florida. I called him and invited him up to Palm Beach.

"I'd love to come up." Bruce wrote stories about his sexual adventures with young foreign men. His last book won the Prix de Flore. The French had toasted him at Cafe de Flores. He was considered a young artist. Bruce was a little older than me only the mirror loses its youth juice after 50.

"And I'll bring some friends. Two Romanian writers and a young New York one, I think you met at my party." Bruce had hosted a party in honor of a French artist in May.

"Young man."

"In his 20s."

"Too old for you."

"Fresh."

My directions were simple and that Sunday they arrived in a rental car. Bruce was the first out of the car.

"Darling, you didn't tell me the mansion had a monster dog."

"Pom =Pom is a little crazy."

"Crazy? She tried to bit off my asscheek. Would have had it too if I wasn't so athletic." Bruce was wearing knee-high black sox and a Romanian soccer uniform anonymously tailored by machines to flatter his XXL frame. "Stop staring at the sox. They hide my varicose veins. Yes, even gods get old."

He introduced his friends. The Romanians were my age, however Glenn was a youth. Gay too, but not in that horrible steroid Chelsea way.

"I know some of your friends," he said shaking my hand. "Scottie and his wife, Sylvia."

"They are the best people." I escorted my guests inside the house. They were impressed by the swimming pool and scared by Pom pom. She growled a little too easily to be kidding around and I warned them to stay their distance.

"Vicious, hah." Bruce was fearless. "I spend 20 years with hustlers on 42nd Street. I know how to deal with tough."

He tamed Pom pom with a slice of cheese. The big dog beg at his side the rest of the day. We concocted a dinner out of my left-overs; pasta, carrotte rapee, toast with cheese. Wine was out drink of choice. Bruce whispered his desires for the driver's wife, although only in the most cerebral of liaisons.

After lunch we strolled through a garden path to the beach. Bruce and I walked down to Rod Stewart's mansion. He confided several secrets to me. We had known each other over twenty years. I gave him advice on love.

"A man with a wife and mistress in a foreign country must know the meaning of love."

"I do when I hold my daughter in my arms."

"And when will you go back?"

"I don't know." The sun dropped behind the palm trees. We swam in the ocean. I hadn't been with this many people in nearly a month. Lisa came down for a beer. Bruce taught Pom Pom do tricks. He was the master of ceremony. Palm Beach almost seemed paradise, then it was time for them to go. Bruce pulled me to the side and duked $20 into my hand.

"For some more wine."

"Thanks, I need it." I wasn't looking for veritas in vino, but oblivio.

"Darling, everything will be fine. You were arrested. You didn't go to jail. You came here. You still speak with your wife and mistress. You'll be a father again and________"

"And?" I hope for him to say I was a brilliant writer.

"And you're living in a mansion."

"Yes, with a crazy dog." Pom Pom ran up to Bruce seeking a last favor.

"Silly dog." Bruce patted the Airedales's head. "The only cheese I have is under____"

"Spare us."

"If I must." Bruce kissed me good-night. I waved to them, as they drove to Ocean Drive. Lisa beeped her horn. I walked over to her car. The sky darkened overhead.

"That was something we never see in Palm Beach. Real people. I can't wait till we get out of here." She was selling her house and vacating the USA for Paris.

She backed out on the driveway.

"Me neither." Pom Pom and I stood outside for several seconds. Rain splattered down from a black sky and we went back inside the house. It wasn't home, but I didn't need a home in Palm Beach, only a place to rest my head and this house suited that need fine.

For today.

December 16, 1978 – East Village – Journal

A Pleasant Paradise
1963 Snipers murdered JFK
1968 A sniper kills Malcolm Luther King.
Gunmen assassinate Malcolm X and RFK
Our leaders dying before their time
Before their replacements
Richard Nixon betrayed the USA
But kept coming back
The Messiah of the Silent Majority
Why did you live?
When so many others died.
Almost sixty thousand US soldiers in Vietnam
Millions throughout Indochina
And Henry Kissinger
The blood of Cambodia on his hands
Palestine too.
He will live to an old age
Never to go to Hell or Heaven
Only finally to death

Leaving us in a pleasant paradise.

Bad poetry

Happy Purim - Bet On Crazy - 2015

Five years ago I wandered through West 47th Street looking for a job. No one was interested in hiring a goy on Purim and my Hassidic friends cajoled me into having a drink with them.

"Whiskey is kosher."

They poured a good measure of Scotch into a glass.

"Shalom."

I clinked glass with the religious reformers following the tradition commemorating the six-month drinking feast by the Persian King Ahasuerus.

"What do you know of Purim?" Rondell invited him into his office and poured us Scotch.

"Me? A simple goy."

"There's nothing simple about you." The chubby diamond broker and I had cut a few deals, but none this year. "And you're more a sheygutz than a goy."

"A wise guy."

"So let's hear it."

"This Persian king drunkenly celebrates his reign and demands his wife appear naked before his nobles. Vashti refused this humiliation and the Persian ruler demanded all young women in his kingdom to audition to be queen."

"You didn't mention the queen's embarrassing skin condition."

"Probably bullshit." I had drunk three whiskeys with my friends.

"Please don't use that language."

"Sorry, anyway the king chooses a new queen to replace Vashti. Esther."

"That's not sure. According to the Book of Esther she was orphaned at a young age and was fostered by her first cousin Mordecai. Some rabbinic commentators state that she was actually Mordecai's wife, since the Torah permits an uncle to marry his niece. Anyway she finds favor in the king's eyes, and belongs his new wife. Esther does not reveal her origins nor that she is Jewish. Her uncle is appointed vizier, but the non-Jews plot against them. Is that enough?"

"No, I like the part, where the king kills all the Nazis for Esther."

"The Torah says nothing about Nazis."

"They were thinking about killing Jews."

"But Esther beat them to the punch. Not many goyim know this story. Another about killing."

"There was a lot of killing back then."

"And not enough drinking like we Irish." I tapped my glass for a refill and Rondell poured three fingers in respect for my ancient race. "You know why Yashim created whiskey? To keep the Irish from ruling the world."

"No, your people must have sold it to us."

"You're good customers."

"Repeat ones too."

I drank deep from the Scotch. I liked Jamison better.

"If you don't mind, I have to be going." It was Shabbas.

"Se`udat mitzvah."

It's a good time."

"With kosher wine."

"Yes."

"Better you than me."

"There was no such thing as good glatt wine and I downed the whiskey.

"Sie gesund."

"You too."

I walked back onto the street.

A starker and Irish to boot.

It was good to be one of the old Tribes.

Backmasking STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

Beware of Satan and his mysterious ways.

Supposedly if you play Led Zeppelin's STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN in reverse on a BizarroWorld Stereo ie backmasking the lyrics of the 5th stanza are transformed into a prayer to Satan;

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow
Don't be alarmed now,
Its just a spring clean for the may queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by
But in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.

INTO

Oh here's to my sweet Satan.
The one whose little path would make me sad, whose power is Satan.
He will give those with him 666.
There was a little toolshed where he made us suffer, sad Satan.

For a listen go to this URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgtxpRNT-r0

Shit I could never remember the lyrics either way.

Led Zeppelin Newport Jazz Festival 1969

On July 6, 1969 my older brother and I drove from the South Shore to Newport to see the Sunday show of George Wein's Jazz Festival. It was a sunny day and we arrived around 10. Parking was touhg and I stuck our VW Beetle on the edge of a Little League field. Thousands of hippies and young people were thronging to Festival Field. Our tickets cost $3.50.

Dave Brubeck opened the afternoon with his oratorio LIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS.

Around 2pm Nipsy Russell warmed up the crowd for James Brown

Everyone groaned, as the emcee introduced him.

We had only seen him on WHAT'S MY LINE.

No one was prepared for his off-color blue performance.

He told a joke about fucking bald-headed twins.

The pot-smoking audience begged for mercy.

Our ribs were stitched by paroxysms of laughter.

After an hour Nipsy gave up the stage for the Godfather of Soul.

Hippies gave up their arm waving and danced to the black soul of the JBs.

James Brown ended his two-hour performance with PLEASE PLEASE ME.

There was a small intermission and then the evening began the Latin bop of Willie Bobo followed by the Herbie Hancock Quartet. BB King rocked the night with his guitar Lucille and Johnny Winter joined him for a duet of scorching guitars. Buddy Rich's Orchestra warmed up the crowd for the final act.

Led Zeppelin.

They took their time taking the stage.

Jimmy Page was sick.

Rumors crisscrossed through the audience.

The show was to be cancelled.

After an hour the band hit the stage.

Jimmy Page later said, "You don’t blow a date like this one. Not after all that. The Newport Jazz Festival was far too important to us to just cancel out and I’m very upset at the whole thing. Wein should never have announced one of us was ill.”

They blew us away.

Here's Zeppelin tuning.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rpq5a1sPAYQ

And what about HOW MANY MORE TIMES

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0KQSyc7I02Y

We left during this song.

My brother wanted to beat the traffic.

We heard the bass line miles away.

I hear it now too.

But I still laugh at Nipsy Russell's joke about bald-headed twins.

And I can't remember it at all.

30 TRIPLE A - 2013

Skinny girls were an anathema in America's buxom 50s. The overt sexuality of Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Brigitte Bardot created a resilient male obsession for full-figured women and their curvaceous silhouettes cursed millions of patriotic men with a disdain for ingenues, method actresses, and slender showgirls throughout the Eisenhower years and the early 60s promised more of the same until the breastless Twiggy was selected as the fashion iconette of Swinging London and New York's Andy Warhol responded to the thin trans-Atlantic phenomena by selflessly promoting the anorexic heiress Edie Sedgwick as his Factory's Girl of the Year.

New was new and old was out.

An elegant Audrey Hepburn attained universal stardom playing a mercurially vulnerable Holly Golightly in the film version of Truman Capote's BREAKFAST AT TIFFANYS, Julie Chrystie symbolized sleek beauty in DARLING, and shooting up a bank regained its sexuality with the blonde goddess Faye Dunaway in BONNIE AND CLYDE.

Thin was in and Frank Sinatra mainstreamed the trend with his marriage to the strikingly boyish Mia Farrow. I resisted the flow by remaining true to my hometown's most beautiful cheerleader. Kyla Rolla attended the town high school and I went to a Catholic all-boys high school. The stacked seventeen year-old brunette dragged me to church every Sunday. My attendance was considered mandatory by my parents. They had no inkling that I was an atheist.

The 60s were the 60s only in New York and California, for Boston's devotion to religion was based on another century during which heretics had been burned at the stake. Declaring my lack of faith would have incurred the current version of that awful punishment.

Worst Kyla would have shunned me.

She read good books, danced like a Shindig go-go girl, and was built more like a Playboy centerfold than a Vogue model. Her divorced mother dated a foreign-born musician and their evenings out lasted well past midnight. Kyla and I had the run of the house for hours. Our relationship was the envy of our respective classmates.

That summer we listened to the Velvet Underground and Boston's own Ultimate Spinach on the living room couch. Our making out was well advanced beyond Second Base, but not close to Third Base. Sex without stripping naked was a physical impossibility.

I was committed for the duration. Teenage lungs were built for endurance. We rarely broke surface for air. Her hands explored my body without fear. I offered no resistance to her limited exploration like a dog in heat. Something more had to happen and one warm April night Kyla spread her legs as an invitation to another level. I had no idea how to proceed.

"Let me show you." Kyla led my hand between her thighs. A primeval instinct guided my caresses. Her beatified sigh signaled my success in helping her attain bliss. A Neanderthal gene demanded my humping her thigh like a greyhound. I fought off the urge, thinking 'ladies first'.

After I bought her over the edge for the tenth time, my finger dipped below her rosebud.

Kyla pushed my body off hers and said the most devastating words that a young man could hear from his girlfriend.

"I'm saving it for my wedding night."

"Your wedding night?"

I was no Albert de Salvo, so no meant no, unless a girl's date was the Boston Strangler.

"A church wedding means a lot to me." She loved Jesus.

That winter she had entered our names for a weekend retreat for young people seeking a life serving God. My best friend rescued my soul from eternal salvation by playing Led Zeppelin's first LP on a portable stereo. I packed my bag for an early departure. Several other boys joined my exodus. Kyla was disappointed by my defection. She had been enraptured by a vision of her as a nun and me as a priest. One listen to GOOD TIMES BAD TIMES cost Kyla her avocation, but she forgave my introduction to apostasy.

"Plenty of non-virgins get married in churches." Her plans were to get married after the 3rd year of college. 1973 was four years away from 1969. I was good at math. Our wedding bells were 1460 days away in the future. Tonight's frustration would be repeated on hundreds of other occasions

"I won't be one of them."

Kyla slipped off the couch and arranged her clothing to regain the illusion of unsullied innocence. The blush of a defended virginity suited her skin color.

"I respect your wish." I stuck my hands in my pockets, which trembled with caveman desire.

"And that's why I love you." She kissed me with bruised lips and the many nights I walked the three miles to my parents' house in a maelstrom of untapped lust. I was doomed by circumstances beyond my control. Our parish priest extolled the purity of my future bride. He had never seen the quiver of her bare breasts. My parents considered the athletic cheerleader their 3rd daughter. She prayed to Sweet Jesus in a state of passion. Our friends called us Mr. And Mrs. I didn't think it funny, mostly because I loved Kyla. She would make some man the ideal wife.

That night I went to sleep a free man.

In the morning I rode the T into Boston for my weekly visit to Skippy White's in Cambridge. I flipped through the LPs by alphabet starting with A. My fingers stopped shuffling in the Bs.

I picked up Blind Faith's debut release on Atco. Eric Clapton and Ginger Baker of Cream had joined with Stevie Winwood of Traffic and the bassist Ric Gresch from Family to form rock's first supergroup. I didn't bother to look at the list of songs on the back, for I had suffered a mesmerized demi-coma upon seeing the album's front cover.

A simple glance at the bare-breasted nymphette with the wavy blonde hair converted my preference from Jayne Mansfield to Mia Farrow. The sleek steel model airplane in the angel's hands translated as sin into my flesh. I had to have her, but this obsession didn't blind me to her being in England and I stood stunned in a record store, for I was trading one impossibility for another.

I paid the long-haired clerk with ten-dollar bill. The staff at Skippy White's breathed music as a religion and every genre of rock flowed in their veins. The clerk handed over my change and hesitated before putting the record into the store's paper bag.

"How old are you, kid?"

"17." None of the Combat Zone XXX shops checked my age. "Is there a problem?

"Not really, just that some do-gooders complained about the nudity."

Skinny girls were an anathema in America's buxom 1950s. The overt sexuality of Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, and Brigitte Bardot created a male obsession for full-figured women and their curvaceous silhouettes cursed millions of patriotic men with a disdain for ingenues, method actresses, and slender showgirls throughout the Eisenhower years and the early 1960s promised more of the same until the breastless Twiggy was selected as the fashion iconette of Swinging London and New York's Andy Warhol responded to the thin trans-Atlantic phenomena by selflessly promoting the anorexic heiress Edie Sedgwick as his Factory's Girl of the Year.

New was new and old was out.

An elegant Audrey Hepburn attained universal stardom playing a mercurially vulnerable Holly Golightly in the film version of Truman Capote's BREAKFAST AT TIFFANYS, Julie Chrystie symbolized sleek beauty in DARLING, and shooting up a bank regained its sexuality with the blonde goddess Faye Dunaway in BONNIE AND CLYDE.

Thin was in and Frank Sinatra mainstreamed the trend with his marriage to the strikingly boyish Mia Farrow. I resisted the flow by remaining true to my hometown's most beautiful cheerleader. Kyla Rolla attended the town high school and I went to a Catholic all-boys high school. The stacked seventeen year-old brunette dragged me to church every Sunday. Attendance was deemed mandatory by my parents. They had no inkling that I was an atheist.

The 1960s were the 1960s only in New York and California, for Boston's devotion to religion was based on ancient beliefs demanding that heretics were burnt at the stake. Declaring my lack of might incur the current version of that awful punishment. I kept my mouth shut about no god.

Worst Kyla would have shunned me.

She read good books, danced like a Shindig go-go girl, and was built more like a Playboy centerfold than a Vogue model. Her divorced mother dated a foreign-born musician and their evenings out lasted well past midnight. Kyla and I had the run of the house for hours. Our relationship was the envy of our respective classmates.

The summer of 1968 we listened to the Velvet Underground and Boston's own Ultimate Spinach on the living room couch. Our making out was well advanced beyond Second Base, but not close to Third Base. Sex without stripping naked was a physical impossibility.

I was committed for the duration. Teenage lungs were built for endurance. We rarely broke surface for air. Her hands explored my body without fear. I offered no resistance to her limited exploration like a dog in heat. Something more had to happen and one warm April night Kyla spread her legs as an invitation to another level. I had no idea how to proceed.

"Let me show you." Kyla led my hand between her thighs. A primeval instinct guided my caresses. Her beatified sigh signaled my success in helping her attain bliss. A Neanderthal gene demanded my humping her thigh like a greyhound. I fought off the urge, thinking 'ladies first'.

After I bought her over the edge for the tenth time, my finger dipped below her rosebud.

Kyla pushed my body off hers and said the most devastating words that a young man could hear from his girlfriend.

"I'm saving it for my wedding night."

"Your wedding night?" It was at the least two years in the future. An eternity for a teenager.

"A church wedding means a lot to me." She loved Jesus.

That winter she had entered our names for a weekend retreat for young people seeking a life serving God. My best friend rescued my soul from eternal salvation by playing Led Zeppelin's first LP on a portable stereo. I packed my bag for an early departure. Several other boys joined my exodus. Kyla was disappointed by my defection. She had been enraptured by a vision of her as a nun and me as a priest. One listen to GOOD TIMES BAD TIMES cost Kyla her avocation, but she forgave my introduction to apostasy.

Later that night Kyla explained "I plan to get married after the third year of college.” 1974 was five years away from 1969. I was good at math. Our wedding bells were over 1825 days away in the future. Tonight's frustration was doomed be repeated on hundreds of other nights.

”Plenty of girls go to the altar as non-virgins.”

"I won't be one of them."

Kyla slipped off the couch and arranged her clothing to regain the illusion of unsullied innocence. The blush of a defended virginity suited her skin color.

"I respect your wish." I stuck my hands in my pockets, which trembled with caveman desire.

"And that's why I love you." She kissed me with bruised lips and the many nights I walked the three miles to my parents' house in a maelstrom of untapped lust. I was doomed by circumstances beyond my control. Our parish priest extolled the purity of my future bride. He had never seen the quiver of her bare breasts. My parents considered the athletic cheerleader their third daughter. She prayed to Sweet Jesus in states of passion. Our friends called us Mr. And Mrs. I didn't think it funny, mostly because I loved Kyla. She would make some man the ideal wife.

In the morning I rode the T into Boston for my weekly visit to Skippy White's in Cambridge. I flipped through the LPs by alphabet starting with A. My fingers stopped shuffling in the Bs.

I picked up Blind Faith's debut release on Atco. Eric Clapton and Ginger Baker of Cream had joined with Stevie Winwood of Traffic and the bassist Ric Gresch from Family to form rock's first supergroup. I didn't bother to look at the list of songs on the back, for I had suffered a mesmerized demi-coma upon seeing the album's front cover.

A simple glance at the bare-breasted nymphette with the wavy blonde hair converted my preference from Jayne Mansfield to Mia Farrow. The sleek steel model airplane in the angel's hands translated as sin into my flesh. I had to have her, but this obsession didn't blind me to her being in England and I stood stunned in a record store, because I was trading one impossibility for another.

I paid the long-haired clerk with ten-dollar bill. The staff at Skippy White's breathed music as a religion and every genre of rock flowed in their veins. The clerk handed over my change and hesitated before putting the record into the store's paper bag.

"How old are you, kid?"

"17." None of the Combat Zone XXX shops checked my age. "Is there a problem?

"Not really, just that some do-gooders complained about the nudity."

"Seems harmless to me." Other than turning around my world.

"She is a little young. twelve years old."

"My youngest sister is twelve." We had bathed together as children. Six kids from 10 to 2 splashing in a tub. It was like the Garden of Eden.

"Your sister looked like this girl."

"She has dark hair." My younger sister was a beauty, but I told the hippie clerk, "My sister is a Catholic schoolgirl."

"Nothing wrong with uniforms on a girl." He smiled with a sinister grin and tapped the flat belly of the girl in the photo. "Don't worry, I'm into girls my age. Not like this twelve year-old Lolita."

"She have a name?"

"Not that I know of. The band wanted a girl full of youth. Someone sported her sister on the Tube. That's what they call the T in London. She was dressed like your sister. A schoolgirl. Fourteen. The photographer asked if she wanted to be on an album cover for Eric Clapton. Supposedly she asked if it required nudity."

"Does Clapton like young girls?" Slowhand had stolen George Harrison's wife. No woman was safe around him.

"Who doesn't?" The clerk slipped the record into the bag. "Don't let your mother see this. Sammy doesn't like trouble."

"So she isn't the fourteen year-old schoolgirl?"

"Aren't you listening?" The hippie clerk was losing his peace and love feeling. "The sister wasn't home, so they used the younger sister. The record company was scared about the controversy, but Clapton is God and the girl earned forty pounds."

"Which is how much?" I had about 500 dollars in my college savings.

"Maybe a hundred dollars. Why? You thinking about flying over to London to meet her."

"I already have a girlfriend." School opened in less than three weeks. Kyla was good to me and she had her heart set on her being named Prom Queen in the Spring. I could last until then and thanked the clerk for his help.

"No sweat. Have a good listen."

"Thanks."

I brought the record home and hid it under my mattress. It stayed there for months. I only looked at it on special occasion. Each time I thought about Frank Sinatra with Mia Farrow. A old man with a woman that young was enough to turn my stomach.

I remained true to Kyla until the Spring and then I did something stupid.

I refused her invitation to the Senior Prom. My older brother thought that I was an asshole. My parents called Kyla's mother to apologize for my behavior. Kyla was escorted to the prom by the quarterback. Joey and she were named King and Queen. Three months later I heard that she was pregnant with his baby. They had a church wedding.

I kept my distance on that day and finally opened the Blind Faith LP.

The music was good, but the special was the girl who changed my life and a miracle like that is no small thing.

Not like that girl’s breasts.

They were non-existent and existential at the same time.

Neither here nor there, but lost in eternity like Blind Faith.