Reno Nevada Blackjack May 29, 1974

In 1974 my 21st birthday was spent driving across Nevada with Andy, a pot-smoking pianist, and Carole, a blonde co-ed heading to the West Coast. We had made good time in the rent-away station wagon up to this point and I decided to celebrate my coming of age by gambling at every desert town along I-80. Elko, Winnemucca, Lovelock, and Sparks were generous to my cause. I was up about $1000 from playing blackjack or 21. It was a simple game and I had a good head for numbers as would anyone who had been a math major in college.

Sunset fell over Reno, the Biggest Little City in the World. The first bright lights since Denver. I picked out Harrah’s as my next victim. Before entering the casino I handed Andy my traveling money and $500.

“Don’t give me this no matter what.” I had seen gambling movies. No one came out on top. Carole shook her head. “What’s wrong?”

“If you’re going to play, then play. Never fix a limit.” Carole was a junior at a girl’s college outside Boston. She was studying business. Her advice sounded dangerous.

“I’ll leave the money with Andy.”

I sat at a blackjack table. The dealer was kind. I was up another $500 and felt like I could kill the bank for another $1000. Andy asked me to call it a night.

“We can crash in the Sierras.”

“Another ten minutes and I’ll buy us hotel rooms.” I couldn’t lose and tapped a passing cocktail waitress. She was tall and wearing a very short dress. I ordered a Jack and Coke. My favorite drink. I had several more. I recall something about threatening Andy for money and then nothing until I woke up along the Truckee River. The ground was no soft hotel bed and my hang-over not a crown of victory. Carole and Andy were standing over my resting place.

“Did I lose everything?”

“Everything but the car.” Carole wore an expression of pity. It wasn’t until we reached Sacramento that Andy returned my traveling stake. All my birthday winnings had reverted to the casino. There are no winners and I’ve avoided casinos ever since that day, having learned that blackjack doesn’t mix with Jack and Coke.

It’s a lesson that stays with me. I might not have scored good grades, but I was a good student and Reno was an even better teacher. It was a lesson I only needed to learn once.

May 30, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Alice is very disturbed with the lack of the progress on her senior project THE GENTLEMEN FROM VERONA at EST. She hates everyone. Mostly herself. She started on me, as we walked away from CBGBs. She had once more been made to pay. I never did. I had wanted to stay to see Patti Smith, but Alice was still recovering from her drink at the Four Gemini party two nights ago. Too much Jack Daniels. same for me. I was only drinking beer.

"I hate you get in for free. Why? It's not that you're anyone."

"Can't you channel that hatred?" Most people transfer their self-hatred to the one closest.

"What do you know? Are now a psychiatrist?"

"No, I know nothing." I readily accepted my role as whipping boy. My adolescence had two years of bullying and my self-esteem was still scarred by the beatings.

"Nothing?"

Alice had her own issues. Like mine they never saw the light of day or the depth of darkness.

We're on the Bowery and silently head over to West 11th Street. She hated my SRO. I hated it too.

yeah ask myself doesn't stop bending her anger at me for over a month is the breaking point because I came upstairs to get my contacts Alice thought I was leaving for CBGBs. we walked back to my SRO. she said, "Fuck you. You expect me to come upstairs?"

"You can go home."

"I don't want to be alone."

I didn't either. We entered. The desk clerk didn't lift his head from the Post. Probably had it turned to the horses. I didn't say hello.

"I hate this place."

I hated her sublet. I might have been there once. She shared a room and thought her lesbian roomie wanted to fuck me. Both of us. She wasn't my type and I loved Alice. not that I didn't have sex with other women. I was sure Alice did too.

On the 4th floor we stripped naked. I threw her a towel.

"Shower."

There was a grimy shared bathroom in the hallway. This late at night is was free. The water ran hot and long. I soaped her back and ass, then turned around, so she didnt see my erection.

We returned to the room. my feet stuck to the linoleum floor. Alice lay back, her belly pouting. Legs apart, blonde hair rimming her vagina. I stuffed the towel over my groin.

When I turned away seconds later her voice broke,

"Don't hit me."

"You stupid fucking bitch. Who do you think I am? A rapist? You say you love me words, but fantasize about me raping you. I'm not that man. That's all you care about. getting fucked like an animal. Go find someone else to filfill your fantasy. Someone else to use."

I pushed her away.

"Don't hit me, please." She was begging me to be hit like the heroine of THE STORY OF O.

I was very hard. I wanted her badly. Like this, but no.

"I don't want to hit you and I don't need this shit from yo. That's all you've been giving me and you know it's when you know it's my birthday. All you care about is yourself."

"Same as you."

She was right on the money. Women are always right and I admit it I care about nothing. Notto her. only about myself.

"But I do love you."

"I'm sorry."

She said the words like she had learned the line for a play.

"Big shit. More words show me that our words all you have to do to make me stay."

"I'm afraid of everything. Afraid to do anything. Afraid I want to be afraid."

"I'm here. Don't be scared.".

I shut off the bed light Alice and I don't talk. The bed is too small to sleep apart. She guides me in. She cums. I fake it. We sleep. I have a nightmare of being hunted on an interstate chased by unknown monsters.

I wake up. Broke. I'm twenty-six. She gets up. We kiss. College is over. Alice is leaving New York to go back to West Virginia for the summer. Apart will be hard. Once again I care for some someone. Alice and I want her to see how strong this love is. January to May.

May 29, 1992 - Bangkok - Journal

May 29, 1982 - Paris - Journal

Drunken Bully - C'est Moi

Almost ten years ago my faux-sister Pip was defending 1970s porn star Marc Stevens on Facebook. I caught the thread in mid-stream and joined the fray. Marc and I had and I had almost been lovers.

Here's the exchange; PIP - Marc Stevens was a next-door neighbor and pal...here he is on David Susskind...We partied all the time...but our scenes were different...viva la difference, he was oddly fatherly to me...and if though I knew he was a porn 'star', I never saw his movies...but he did give offer me advice about boys..which I was happy to hear. Sad to see him had such a tragic end...like so many of that time...famously photographed by Mapplethorpe. ah me!

WOMAN FROM BERLIN I wondered why he was coming to Club 57 - it was you who told him. Wednesday at 3:07pm.

PIP - yup...hung with Peter Nolan Smith, my sister Kyle Davis Cadley and a whole motley crew....ah woe!

ME - Marc was good fun.

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - He was very polite and nice as I recall.

PIP - A good fb friend, gay english teacher is Fla., was bemoaning a Porno star making a PSA...it rankled and brought Marc to mind! What a great role model he was for gay kids! Did we live in a particular place in time that enabled us to be open and happily accepting of each other? The more I know about what people 'out there' think, the less I feel I belong.

ME - it was a special time. we accepted each other for what we were and our opinion evolved from relationships after overcoming prejudice. The era of errors.

WOMAN FROM BERLIN One is brought up to be accepting and loving of others or not. I think it's that simple.

ME - Most people are raised with the bias of their community. It is up to the individual to change the thinking of the majority through our thought deeds and words.

PIP - So we made our own community...and now we're in a right wing hell hole.

WOMAN FROM BERLIN So what's new? We were always in one. Remember Anita Bryant? The Moral Majority? America, Love it or Leave it? Yuppies? Nancy Reagan's red cloth coats? Ring any bells?

PIP - Vaguely...Anita was mean to Harvey Milk...orange juice...we in the thick of it could dismiss the wacko's..harder now, somehow, perhaps my view is too narrow and shaped by our unique perspective...I get pissing mad when I think of people in closets and suicidal teens...Surely we have gotten somewhere!!!!Do You remember that party you had in Chinatown...someone fell off the roof ( is okay, I believe) and I made out with a beautiful girl all night!!!! Cyrena. Ah YES, I'm an old goat now lol

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - Steven Kramer who was married to Patti Astor at the time pulled that tap dancing trick on the ledge, which is something he often did, but alas fell off that time. Brilliant artist of many talents. You kissing Cyndria Fox maybe? I know that night Robert Gordon propositioned me with my pal and his girlfriend Snooky nearby. What a creep. That was the opening party for NWV. Andy Horn was there, he says, but I haven't the slightest recollection of having met him then. PIP - My only GF Cyrena...wow...flashback.

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - Everyone had them in Boarding School, but unfortunately I was expelled before I got one and the irony was that I was accused of sneaking out to meet boys - at the tender age of 11? and kicked out. I actually think the "Ban The Bible" pin that I wore on my uniform and my disregard for the rules made them have it in for me. You had a girlfriend?

PIP - She was everyone's girlfriend! LOL..not girlfriend...What do the kids call it??? Friend and hook-up?

PIP - Ban the bible...good one LOL Marc Stevens www.ovguide.com Watch Marc Stevens Videos. Free Streaming Marc Stevens Video Clips. I Added this after a long day research Trappist Beer in Belgium. Always trying to make a story about me.

ME - I remember Steven dancing on the edge. Anthony Scibelli and I pulled him down and two minutes later he was back up there. We went to grab him and he fell the wrong way. Crunch. We looked down at him. He was lying facedown in a pool of blood.

ME - David McDermott and I leaped to the billboard on the other roof and climbed down to him. Patti was screaming at the top of her lungs. David was a little horrified by the sight of so much blood, but was brave enough to say, "If we don't move him, he's going to drown in his own blood., but I asked Steven if he could move his feet.

ME - "You're right. Can you move your feet. He moaned 'yes' and I turned him on his back. Someone yelled from your roof. "What do you need?" -

"I yelled back a beer."

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - Another stunt that he used to pull at Kristian's loft would be he would be hanging on the ledge outside of the window and when you noticed him he would wave at you while holding onto the ledge with the other arm. It would scare the you know what out of you.

ME - I ran into him months after his fall. He asked if I knew him. I said no, thinking he might be embarrassed. finally I succumbed to his insistence and said, "I was the guy who turned you over on that roof.' He walked away without another word.

SQUARE GAY - I stand by my post of yesterday. We are supposed to be reminding gay youth that they can be gay and healthy and happy throughout their lives. I don't think we need more reminders that the gay world is hyper-sexualized and that many, wrong...

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - You know, I think I remember you shouting for that beer. I was so sensitive years ago

ME - I must say that many teens of whatever sexuality are self-loathing. I was wheeling in my bed at this moment.

ME - Noel, the Aids epidemic was manufactured. Me - straights shared the same lifestyles. We had a good time. Don't demonize the past. L 7

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - Oops, this is my stop, gotta get off. Bye Y'all.

PIP- Noel is dismissing us as drug addled losers from the 70's!????

CARO!!! Ha ha. not quite.

ME - Noel, this world is too filled with squares telling us we were wrong. You want to shout that out. Sing to a different choir. We are altos and falsettos in this crew. Buzzkill someone else

PIP - Noel, could I be wrong in thinking that this is a case of the oppressed becoming the oppressor? It seems you want a place at the dinner table of Middle America! You'll never feel better until you (collectively) accept yourself...oh dear.

ME - believe me, i can still throw the buzzkills off the bus. Noel, stop looking in the mirror and admire the shadows

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - Lucia, not all are enlightened or have drank from the same fountain. Au 'Reservoir'.

ME - Marc 10 1/2 Stevens. he had some crank on him, drool factor 12

PIP - I never sorted all my pals out...gay..straight..we were individuals baby...As Ann Magnuson said in "The Nomi Story" which I saw for the first time...we were all outcasts who came to NYC to find a place to feel free and express ourselves...the miracle is we found each other. Peter...I saw the Mapplethorpe 'penis' today ! Hello!

ME - the uncut version. what a schlong. Off to sleep after drinking Trappist beer on the Belgium border Aulne 8, was anyone really straight

PIP - not then...well...some 'girls' LOL, well, my brain is a fried kitten from all the drugs and sex I've had.

WOMAN FROM BERLIN - Poor Noel, shame on us, or you, for allowing a drunken bully like Peter to run wild (again). Non-Quitter or Non Sequitur? Hard to say and honestly if we were all drooling over penis sizes the human race wouldn't have an over- population problem.

SQUARE GAY - Squares? really? Are you twelve? Look who's doing the judging now. and I am obviously waaaaay to L7 to get the mirror/shadow metaphor. and, Kimmy, I am opressing no one. Drag queens and leather daddy's have long had too high a profile in the gay community. I can be out and proud--even to my teenage students--without becoming a parody of myself. i think that's what a gay student of mine was referring to recently when he told me that i was the reason he stopped seeing it as a curse. to each his own, but I'm not going to support yet another gay cause that thinks its de rigeur to bring out the porn stars or present caged masters and slaves at their galas or whatever else just because it's part of the "wonderful patchwork of who we are."

PIP - recently 'out', not too proud, a gym rat is just another way to say gay...I don't think I mentioned 'leather queens' once...but my cousin would describe himself as such, as well as a member of Boston's symphony...stereotypes indeed Noel. Drunken bully.

WOMAN FROM BERLIN knows him from way back when.

THe WOMAN FROM BERLIN knew knew me. She is more wrong than right, but then a woman is never wrong, but she and Pip defended Marc Stevens. He was a good guy and a lot of fun!

ps He wasn't into squares either and I wouldn't have trust the woman from Berlin with a bag of mud.

Then and now and I wouldn't have beem intimate with her even on 'Ludes.

photo of marc stevens from robert mapplethrope. Redacted by the uncool censors of Facebook

May 26, 1978 - East Village - Journal

Tonight is the Four Gemini Party at Kim and Kyle Davis' apartment on Bleecker Street. We have sisued 'invitation only' passes to our many friends and flings. Kim is concerned about fight or fights. I'm not too worried, since I know how to stop a fight.

"You know how to start fight too." Her younger sister had seen me battled in CBGBs more than once.

"I promise to be good." I meant it too.

I handed in my guest list.

Bruce, Lewis, who couldn't get into CBGBs last night, Jaci from Dojo, Tommie DeMeastri from MCBElls, Anthony Scibelli, Cookie Mueller, Klaus, Willem and his girlfriend Liz, Roz from the Socialist Review, Michael Stumm, Fred and George from the SRO. I invied more males than women, but who cares? It should be fun.

Later

I was saved from eviction from the SRO by Mark Amitin. He had received my last unemployment check from the Boston School Committee, plus xeroxs of the missing checks. James had lied. Who is there to trust in this city? Mark said, "Looks like you don't owe him any money for rent."

"I paid rent." At least I thought I had. "He ripped me off for $250."

"He asked about the typewriter. I guess that make you a little even. It's yours now."

"Yeah, it's a dead issue. How is James?" The old jazz impressario had given me a room on Berkelel Place on Park Slope, when I had nowhere to go, but back Boston. James had introduced me to the loft jazz scene adn Cecil Taylor and Bobo Shaw and Ornette Colemen.

"Not good. He's looking really old. The curse of the Irish."

James and I met at the Riviera Cafe. We liked drinking together. Before I left, he came home bloody and I thought some rough trade had beaten him, but Michel, the bartender at the Gaslight Pub on Seventh Avenue had told me that James had exited the bar several times tofall on his face.

For some reason the life has been sucked out of James.

"He's going to drinking himself into the grave, unless he leaves the USA."

There was no chance of that. I tried to figure out how old James was. He had fucked James Dean, the big movie star. James had been very handsome even when I met him last year. The drink was destroying him. THe fate of all hard drinkers.

My first drink was Vermouth after school. With Paul Keenan, who had stolen the small bottle from his fatehr's liquor cabinet. He said cracking the seal, "It was in the back and covered with dust. He'll never miss."

We were in 6th Grade. THere were three of them. We liked the way we felt. Afterwards he brought them into school and we lifted out desk to sip during classes. Sister Mary Osmond saw nothing. It was just a small buzz. I drank Miller beer behind St. Elizabeth's church with my friends. I puked and haven't drunk Miller since.

May 25, 1978 SRO - Journal

"Don't you want to fuck?" asked Alice. She was naked under a sheer and I sat in my unzipped black jeans on the edge of the small bed in the West 11th Street SRO. I wanted to have sex, but I wasn't going to make the first move, since I often felt her cringe to my advances. One of the main problems with our sex life was that I always had take charge. I looked at her unmoved by her request. THere was no invitation in her eyes. Her hand reached out to touch my cock, as if it were uncooked hamburger. No erection.

"Not if you aren't into it. I don't feel like raping you again."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's nothing."

She slipped over to rub her crotch against my thigh. No erection. I asked myself why. I knew why. This was all pretend.

"So you don't want to fuck?

Silence was the easy way out, but I looked into her eyes.

"Every time we fuck, you act as if I'm raping you. Even if I'm gentle. You like it rough. I don't like the rape game. Lastly I'm not fucking you, unless you want me to."

"I want you to fuck me. Physically." She rolled away with wet eyes. "I don't know what is wrong with my libido."

"I do. You like sex. You cum every time we have sex. I don't think you're faking it." I faked ejaculation, since I had leather dick from jerking off too much. "Before me you were a lesbian. Maybe you want to go back to girls."

"No, I want your cock in my cunt. I want it in my mouth."

That got me hard and I fucked her hard. She came several times and I finally came in her mouth. Wiping away my sperm, she asked, "Was it good for you?" Breathless I said yes.

It was the truth, but it wasn't the best.

Across the street from the SRO were the ruins of 18 West 11th Street. According to Wikiedia the Greenwich Village townhouse explosion occurred on March 6, 1970, in New York City, United States. Members of the Weather Underground (Weathermen), an American leftist militant group, were making bombs in the basement of 18 West 11th Street in the Greenwich Village neighborhood, when one of them exploded. THree of them died. These were the only three deaths in their campaign against the industrial-military complex.

We felt that doing nothing in a period of repressive violence is itself a form of violence. That's really the part that I think is the hardest for people to understand. If you sit in your house, live your white life and go to your white job, and allow the country that you live in to murder people and to commit genocide, and you sit there and you don't do anything about it, that's violence.

— Naomi Jaffe

The Muse of the Sex Pistols

Lesson 2. Establish the name Sex Pistols.

Who was this girl?

Not a natural blonde. British. Now about 50. Then 18.

This goddess of punk was in THE GREAT ROCK AND ROLL SWINDLE. Film credit - Soo Catwoman

Where is this icon now?

Back in 2020 Unknown wrote in comments, "Her name is Judy Croll. She was allegedly fourteen years old in this movie. She was portraying as Soo Catwoman."

Mystery solved, although another remains. What was lesson # 1?

From Wikipedia : Soo Catwoman began developing her distinctive hairstyle in 1972, when she began to spike up the sides of her hair in reference to Bride of Frankenstein, while also having a pink-striped fringe. Displeased with always having to style this hair, in 1976 she had the middle of her head shaved in an Ealing barbershop. She used Vicks VapoRub to style this cut. This haircut led to her and Marco Pirroni being approached by a woman in summer 1976 to join Club Louise, a lesbian club on Poland Street, where she befriended the members of London's early punk scene.

Fade to 2010 Soo covered O’Jays hit “The Backstabbers” with Derwwod Andrews (Generation X)on guitar, Rat Scabies (The Damned)on drums 2010.

Soo Catwoman's last Instagram on Instagram dates back to 2020.

I wish her the best.

Punk Forever.

Castration Craze

Back in 2009 Bangkok's The Nation reported on a growing castration (lopping off the testicles) or gaan dton trend amongst young wannabe ladyboys without funds to finance a complete sexual transformation. The castration operation costs $130US or 4400 baht and in most cases required parental approval.

These young boys were convinced that ridding themselves of their testicles will soften their masculine features much like a eunuch of the royal courts of China, however a leading homosexual support group had called on the Medical Council of Thailand to curtail this selective surgery for under-18s, since the youths might be succumbing to peer pressure rather than acting with a true desire to join the Third Sex.

Thailand is relatively ka-thoey friendly with gorgeous ladyboys competing on national television for beauty pageants, although the Thai TV way of life drives many ladyboys to work as streetwalkers on the sidewalks of Pattaya and Bangkok to support the constant need for drugs to maintain their female appearance. It’s a tough life and few sixteen year-olds can foresee the future before they irreversibly remove their offending manhood to achieve a dream of beauty.

Castration was not only an Asian phenomena.

In the 17th century young boys were castrated by church choirs to insure the salvation of their angelic voices. Klaus Nomi strove to re-enact these castrati soprano songs in the late-70s without undergoing surgery. He was a hit with David Bowie and in the back rooms of the West Village.

Not all castrations were for beauty or art.

The Skopsi of Czarist Russia created a blasphemous sect under the belief that the road to heaven was achieved only through castration. Numbering in the hundreds of thousands the sect appealed to the common man with Utopian communities based on Christian redemption on Earth. Their leader asked the czar to castrate himself. Peter III was a little mad, but not that mad.

Neither are the young boys of Thailand.

The boys just want to be girls.

Grace Grace Grace 1995

Strangely Grace Jones performed SLAVE TO THE RYTHYM at the Queen's Jubilee, while spinning a hula-hoop around her waist. An odd choice for QEII, but Grace Jones has reached a broad audience over the years.

In 1995 Grace Jones had performed in LA and after the show she came to the Milk Bar in Beverly Hills, where I was working as the doorman. The singer greeted me with a kiss. We knew each other from New York. A fellow denizen of the night. We had mutual friends. Arthur Weinstein, the Prince of the Night, for one and when the night ended she suggested that I accompany her party of Hollywood bankers to the Beverly Hills Hotel for further fun. I had nothing else to do and rode their limosine to the famed hotel. I knew one of the bankers from New York. JZ was trouble and under investigation for insider trading, but this evening he and his friends were enthralled by the presence of the charcoal black disco queen.

We were seven in a limo counting two starlets. A gassed banker had a bag of blow for twenty. Inside the hotel suite Grace grabbed the stash and we locked ourselves in the bathroom rather than listened to three zooted investors brag about their millions to the coke-glazed starlets in a bad remake of Tony Montana from the last scene of SCARFACE.

Grace and I spoke about friends from New York in the toilet.

Drugs sex and rock and roll

In Hollywood was only the drugs.

The bankers banged on the door. I opened it and told them to fuck off. Grace and I spent a few more minutes in the bathroom, then rejoined the party. At dawn we shared a taxi home. Her to the Marmont. Me to a small bungalow over the Hills in North Hollywood. The sun was harsh. Both of us had sunglasses, I didn't get to sleep until noon.

That was in 1995.

Grace seemed to be my age.

41.

Maybe my math is bad.

Everyone lies about their age and weight after 30.

God save the queen of disco indeed.

David Bowie Versus Sha Na Na 1972

My friend Keith and I share mutual musical tastes and this week he posted a Youtube video of David Bowie singing with Cher. Keith had actually seen the Ziggy Stardust tour. I missed it for a stupid reason.

My girlfriend at the time was 26.

Linda was a junior exec in my father's office. I worked there as a summertime clerk. Linda walked through the aisle like a high fashio model with her hips thrust forward. I lost my virginity to her at an Emerson Lake and Palmer concert on the Charles River.

A sleek divorcee had long legs and wore French lingerie.

For my birthday she offered to take me to the Ziggy Stardust tour. I picked Sha-na-na instead. Linda left me at the end of the summer, saying the only reason she had slept with me was because my father would not and that Bowser of Sha-Na-Na was more my type than the Thin White Duke.

She knew me oh too well. Upon hearing that story Keith shook his head. He knew me well too.

Happy birthday David Bowie.

Bowie and Cher 1975

David Bowie's career saw ups and downs. The worst period was in the early 70s. The English glam rocker succumbed to heroin. His best friend was Iggy. Money went faster than it came and his financial commitments required his appearing on the CHER SHOW in 1975. Their duet covered YOUNG AMERICANS and several pop classics. Their timeless collaboration went through than the Hollywood studio.

Lovers.

Cher and Bowie.

Fame has its price and the morning after a long session of sex the bedroom door opened for Bowie's wife. Angie served Cher and David breakfast and left the room. Cher was freaked by the intrusion.

David was merely high.

Here's the Youtube URL of that momentous show.

Great trash

N'est pas?

And what's with Cher's thatched roof?

Bowie Ball

In 2011 I received an invitation to the Bowie Ball.

A homage to David Bowie's Glam Years on Columbus Day at Le Poisson Rouge or Red Fish.

I had nothing to wear.

My gold Elvis suit is history. My platform shoes were tossed in 1975. I was so out I can never be in for the In Crowd, unless I showed up with quaaludes.

And those I do have.

Three from a 1974 jar of Rorer 714s.

Those originals pleasure pills grant credence to everyone.

Even to old queens.

"Oh, I love 'ludes."

And I have three.

Two for me and one for Ziggy Stardust.

But let's not forget Slade.

RUN RUN AWAY

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

Forever Young

I live in the now The now was is will be It's all the same The Now of Forever

A teen in the 60s The 70s A hippie, then a punk Paris the 80s Such a life Such a life And more

The young wish Then was now To be free To travel To be free

But it's all the same The Now of Forever

Wherever we go it's there Forever there

Bali, oh yeah Africa oh yeah Tibet oh yeah Paris hell yeah

The now of then The Now of Now Always here Hell yeah Always here Hell yeah

For us all In peace Hell yeah Forever Now We're only young forever

Dedicated to Colonial Rockford

Foto Had Rayong Thailand 1999

Villa Ineprium Sine Fine - Rome

All empires collapse from greed. Rome gathered the plunder of the known world. Virgil described the city on the Tibet as Imeprium sine fine. The Glory of the Empire without End attracted the Visigoths to plunder the fabled wealth of eternity. Not the first nor the last army to lay waste the Eternal City. Yet as much as the invaders looted, there was always more treasure in the ruins to reveal the Splendor of Rome, until all that remained were stone ruins too heavy to be hauled to Ultima Thule.

“I found Rome a city of bricks and left it a city of marble.” Augustus (Roman Emperor 27 BC – AD 14)

"Rome was too grand to be burned in a day."

Pascha Ray - unknown poet

Painting by Joseph-Noel Silvestre "The Plunder of Rome"

A L'Enfer Baby Doc

In 1971 Baby Doc Duvalier inherited his father's dictatorship over Haiti.

At twenty years old Jean-Claude was the youngest ruler in the world.

His power was enforced by the dreaded Ton-Ton Macoute. The cadres of these sunglassed henchmen tortured and killed thousands of people over the decades with the support of America, Land of the Free. Jimmy Carter tried to back away from the ruthless regime, but the Ivy League CIA's hatred of communism preserved the Duvalier's lock on the most wretched nation in the Western Hemisphere. The family controlled all aspects of life and commerce. The sale of Topsiders shoes, Rawlings baseballs, and Haitian body parts enriched the family's coffers. Baby Doc married the most beautiful woman on their side of Hispanola.

Michèle Bennett Pasquet from the mulatto elite of Haiti.

The wedding cost $2 million dollars.

The fete was paid by the people of Haiti who were earning less than $200 a year.

Revolution was impossible.

The CIA helped the Ton-Ton Macoute suppress dissent.

Hundreds of thousands fled to Brooklyn.

Pope John Paul II called for change during his visit to Haiti.

Porte Au Prince was a transport center for cocaine.

More money to fuel the repression.

Baseballs were sewn tight. More hone runs were hit in the Major Leagues. Ivy Leaguers loved Topsiders. Ronald Reagan's CIA transported arms to the contras in Central America. Mayans were massacred in Guatemala. They had nothing to do with baseball.

The people rose against the Ton-Ton Macoutes. Baby Doc attempted reform. Too little too late for a people too abused by his power.

On February 7, 1986 Baby Doc left Haiti with his wife for France. She looked so happy to go, especially to Le Sud de France.

Michelle took a lover sur le Cote d'Azur.

Her 1993 divorce beggared Baby Doc according to the Press.

They were telling lies.

His family had Swiss banks and Swiss bankers never lie and they never tell the truth. A 2004 Global Transparency Report said he had over $300 million in Geneva.

That money belonged to Haiti.

The people.

The Swiss said the money belonged to no one.

They are super thieves.

Baby Doc remainded dead.

The money is gone.

It exists as a binary-column in the database of a Swiss bank.

All that murder and mayhem for nothing.

I expect little else from the banks.

They always get what is theirs.

Ton Ton Macoute a Geneve.

Allez-allez.

Ode to Johnny Thunders

May 18
Friday afternoon
Post op
Weill-Cornell Hospital.
Apple juice
A bagel
And IV Dilaudid.
Not Chinese Rocks
But feeling no pain.
Oh Johnny Thunders.
We hardly knew yah.

MAY 18 1978 TIMES SQUARE JOURNAL ENTRY

Yesterday Clover and I acted out mini-dramas on 42nd Street. Both of us dressed in the nines. Her skirt cut high to her thigh. We weren’t from the sneakers and jeans brigades. The pedestrians wondered who we were; a young blonde runaway and her protector. Anthony Scibelli snapped shots of us. He seemed very pleased with the results, even without printing the shots. We went into a peep show and the cashier allowed us to engage in various suggestive poses. The XXX shop's customers voyeured with honest intent. One man rubbed his groin. Clover shut the door on everyone, including Anthony. We made out and groped each other.

Afterwards the three of us walked over to piers. As we posed in the soft afternoon light before the derelict USS Pennsylvania, dancing over the barnacled dock, we drank Jack Daniels. My stomach reacted badly, still recovering from the previous evening's drunk. The shoot stopped when Anthony dropped his Minolta.

He headed home uptown to Harlem, hoping to fix his camera's shutter.

We wandered back through Times Square.

No one paid attention to us now.

“I’m from San Francisco. I used to crowds like this.” Clover said and then added, You haven't been coming to Tim's lately.”

“Yeah, he thinks I stole money from him.”

“Andy Reese told him that, but it was probably Andy, who was the thief. He has a drug problem. You might be a thief, but you don’t seem the type to steal from friends.”

“Thanks,” I explained that I had gotten rid of gas-guzzlers from Boston for people who would file an insurance claim for a stolen car. The owners had gave me the keys and $300 to vanish them in New York. They reported the disappearance a day later. I had done it three times thanks for a lawyer's friend ands had helped also James Spicer with the ATM scam, which entailed opening accounts on dead people’s IDs and putting $300 in the back. The ATM machines had a 45-60 minutes lag before registering the withdrawal. You could hit three. Four, if you were lucky. Once I left James’ apartment in Park Slope, I had been honest,

We entered Bryant Park. The shadows stretched across the lawn. Clover was a little drunk. We sat on a bench and finished the Jack.

“Could I kiss you?” she asked leaning close. Her breasts pressed against my arm. Her neck smelled of youth.

She wore red lipstick and after a long session none remained on her bruised lips. Some of mine. I thought fucking her would be nice, but when we arrived at her St. Mark's Place apartment, she said, “Not tonight, but I was curious to find out how you kissed. Nice.”

Nice, yes, nice.

The Smell of Eucalyptus 1986

In June of 1986 I came back from France to write porno scripts with an old girlfriend strung out on H. North Hollywood, the ground zero of the XXX film industry. Obviously I was not thinking straight, but I had confused lust with love, especially since Sharon was a porno actress skilled at faking orgasms.

One rainy night Sharon drove her big gas-guzzler over to rescue Harry Reems for an OD. She called 911. the dispatcher said EMS had been to that address too many times.

"It's a waste of time," said the dispatcher.

A junkie herself Sharon knew better and on a very rainy night we drove over the Hollywood Hills to a Laurel Canyon cottage. The nocturnal gloom was thick with the scent of eucalyptus trees. The door was open. I recognized Harry, having seen DEEP THROAT once in a Times Square theater. We were in time to revive Linda Lovelace’s co-star from death. He groaned, “Stop slapping me.”

I sat by the bed, as she rummaged through the desk, closet, and under the mattress without finding a stash. Sharon left to score and never came back.

The rain worsened to a deluge. I was going nowhere and settled into a lounge chair with a blanket over me. It was cold and damp. I was going nowhere.

The next day Harry woke around noon and asked, "Who the fuck are you?"

I explained, And then threw me out. My parting shot.

"You have a small dick."

I walked outside.

It was a sunny California day, but weren't they all.

MAY 17 1978 EAST VILLAGE JOURNAL ENTRY

The Bruins lost 2-1 at the Forum against the Montreal Canadiens

What else is new?

Hilde Harnett is crossing the Hudson for a Saturday night on the town. She had been babysitting her aunt’s children in New Jersey. Her grandfather had been mayor of Jersey City. A powerful man. Her father is the editor of the Boston Globe. Hilde is no longer a teenager. Or almost not a teenager. I like her more than before, although I really liked her before. She thinks I ignore ( hate ) her, because of how crazy things were between us. Her and Dennis. Me living there, Dennis and I fighting in the hospital, while she was sick with a blood disease. He actually won the fight and her. Actually I’m indebted to her. Without those crazed episodes I might have never left Boston. And not become the me who is now.

And not become the me who is now.

And I loved her back then.

Maybe always will love her back then.

Solar Flare May 2024

Last week the extreme electromagnetic radiation flares burst the 93,000,000 from the Sun to Earth in less than nine minutes creating intense Aurora Borealis over a swarth of North America. Friends driving to the Canadian border were reward with the most dynamic cosmic display in a decade. I saw nothing from the roof of this Brooklyn brownstone, but I felt the energy washing over the planet on its way to the farthest reaches of the Solar System, although my hair did not stand on end.

I was treated Anonymous texted this

OH 7001: Night falls swiftly! Darkness takes hold.

My response.

The day lengthens in May. The night retreats. Flowers come to life.

ps I embrace the night Maybe this evening The Northern Lights O'er New York

A Night Without Northen Lights 4/13/2013

Fort Greene April 13, 2013 From my roof I sought the Northern Lights The moon shone silver in the clear night Vanishing the aurora borealis from sight Banning the promised show from a city too bright. Clouds soon blanketed the heavens with a soft white Disapointed I descended from the roof's heights To my room and drink beer to soften the plight Of Man's futile search for the Northern Lights. and I don't have to rythme anything with beer, because the dance of the sky is always there after the sixth beer.

Aurora Borealis - Jack London - 2013

“With the Aurora Borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself--one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad.” Jack London

Speeding In Montana 1995

Once upon a time in Montana the speed limit was WHATEVER IS REASONABLE AND PROPER. In 1995 I was hauling on I-95 west of Butte, a favored drinking town in that state. 95 mph in a rented car with Ms. Carolina 1994 as co-pilot. Passing a piggyback rig I was surprised to see a Statue cooping off the semi's front bumper "Slow down," screamed Ms. Carolina. Strange since she drove with a lead foot. "Not a chance. Brake lights are a sign of guilt." We were both holding sippee cups from the Silver Dollar Bar, Butte's finest. 95 with the wind, sipping on my gin-tonic. No flashing lights. Montana. Nothing like it 1995. Ms. Carolina Yellowstone.

Mellow Yellow

Throughout the 00s I lived on Moo 9 on Soi BongKot in Pattaya. My house backed onto a nature reserve. The Thais called it a 'chaai laehn' or swamp. Their definition was justified by the hordes of mosquitoes haunting the dusk, but the various birds thrived on the nightly swarms. Few farangs or westerners lived on the street. I spoke with none of them.

My ex-wife regarded them with contempt.

The Thais are like the French in their haughtiness.

They are better than anyone.

My Thai neighbors tolerated me.

I spoke their language with a Boston accent and wore funny clothes.

My Sikh tailors made me egg-yolk yellow trousers.

"I will never go out with you wearing those." My ex-wife hated them, even though the color yellow honors the King.

"Fine." I wore them whenever I wanted a night out on the town and Pattaya was quite a town in the 00s.

My dog Champoo had no problem with my trousers.

She liked me no matter what I wore, because a dog is man's best friend.

And none were a better dog than Champoo

To hear Donovan's MELLOW YELLOW please go to the following URL

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

Bible Topless Poolside - North Hollywood 1995

In 1995 Scottie Taylor invited me out to LA to run the door at the Milk Bar in Beverly Hills. As usual the nightclub's opening was delayed several months. I had no money. Only a credit card from my dear mistress, Ms. Carolina. Scottie and I lived on about $10 a day and the occasional treat at Jerry's Deli on Ventura. Scottie had a battered Pinto, which he drove over every day to South Canon Drive to work on the club, which had one time been owned by Dean Martin of Rat Pack fame.

I took the 420 bus from North Hollywood over the hills to see friends.

"You're the only person we know that we see walking in LA," One said after picking me up on Hollywood Boulevard.

We were staying in a large pool bungalow behind his friend's house. Dennis a warm-hearted man, ran Fantasy Island, a go-go bar on Santa Monica Boulevard. Every few days the dancers cane over early to sunbathe by the pool and hold a nude Bible reading. Scottie and I liked our sleep, but refrained from asking to the sun-worshippers lower the volume of their prayers. They were nice girls in a wicked town. They said they were praying for our wicked souls. Bless their hearts. Dennis too and his ragamuffin street dog Rascal. Good people and beast.

O'er Bleecker

A bee buzzed the 9th Floor
O'er Bleecker
Seeking sweet nectar
Only Dead Flowers here
The bee a Rolling Stones fan.

DEAD FLOWERS

https://youtu.be/kn0gsaTuf4E?si=FouWjIaPgFHdc_c7

Myrtle and Broadway Hell

Over the past few years Myrtle and Broadway under the elevated J and M trains ranked as the scivviest intersection in Brooklyn. During COVID the triangular corner had been colonized by a cult of Meth heads, K2 fiends, Oxy zombies devoted to a collective intoxication. A ragged woman set up shop selling drugs from her filthy encampment under the subway stairs by the bus stop. She was very popular with members of the collective.

One night I was waiting in front of the greasy Chinese takeout for the B54, surveying the comings and goings of the lost. One young unsoul noticed my attention and angrily demanded if I was the police. My answer 'no' was ignored and he threateningly raised his hand, holding a full 40. I stepped closer and said, "You don't want to do something stupid and smash that beer on me. Waste of good beer. Mother fucker."

Somehow through the haze he understood that logic and shambled away. The woman selling the drugs looked at me with distant crackhead eyes.

"I see you ain't the po-lice. What are you?"

"No one."

It was my favorite disguise in a city of countless faces. The tweaker retreated into the shadows. I went into the Chinese take-out. The B54 was ten minutes out. The egg roll wasn't half-bad. It seemed like that corner would never come right, but the other day a flower stand stood its ground. The junkies and fiends were gone. The Chinese takeout survived the transition. Greasy as ever.

Now that the Myrtle and Broadway corner has been reclaimed by humanity, Hoyt Schmerhorn has once more regained that dubious distinction of the worst subway stop in Brooklyn that I know. I'm sure there are others.

May 11, 1978 - East Village - Journal II

And doesn't care for my writing. She only reads this journal for passages about us about her. never any of my hand written fiction, but for real reason. " I don't think you ever finish anyhthing."

I have to be honest these journals have no purpose. Their value is zero. All the stories I write die someplace in the middle. Alice wants to read the end.

I'm selfish, but we both are. I wanted her to stay in New York this summer. At dinner her father asked, "what are your plans?"

Alice answered for me, "He doesn't know."

I don't know. But I want Alice with me and she has to go back to West Virginia. Family calls. A life in Charleston. I don't even ask for her to stay. The months of caring for someone will disappear with her departure. That would be left this journals and I fucked her. She's young. Everything to live for. I don't have anything to offer her other than hang around CBGBs and watch me play Pinball.

At Dojos having lunch, Kim said, "Alice only stays with you, because you're good fuck and you protect her in this city"

"She said she loves me."

"Probably, because that's what cause you want to hear, but maybe she does love you, then again, she's a good actress."

Such kind words.

Later.

On Staten Island Ferry. Manhattan is a ghost town disappearing into the mists. I'd rather be hitchhiking across the Americas, leaving all this behind. No Junkies, no ghettos, no assholes, no crazy disco, rockers, CBGBs all of it gone. All the buildings, All the skyscrapers. Just standing the middle of a desert on a road with no cars.

I used to be a math major in college, but I failed multivariable calculus. I never understood the reason for such quixotic formulas. Especially since zero negated all everything. My professor Rene Marcuse calculated orbital functions for the missiles of the Pentagon. He once addressed our class. "Nne of you will find out probably what all these formulas mean to real life. "

He was right about me.

Later

I wandered around Staten Island and took the 5:00 ferry back to the city. Afternoon sun flayed the fog. I'm sober but broke as always.

My money disappeared fast. I paid back Alice $100. $40 for rent leaving me $40 for the rest of the week. At least I drink for free at CBGBs and eat at Dojos for free thanks to the loving waitresses. The absence of money makes me nervous. It should be so easy. Everyone here has a 9 to 5 job. I do not and everyone asks,"Why don't you make more money? Get a real job."

Later in the week another $100 will come from Ebasco the catering service dining room. The job sucks. I need to work three nights a days in a row and make $100 approximately $4.25 an hour. Even working 40 hours that ends up being $170 a week. Nothing.

At least I don't have to sell my body it might looks might keep me alive touches me if I don't want them to it's difficult for me to see people you are sexually as I am. Call girls don't turn me on.

Jancy from Texas very much fun, but I didn't like fucking her. Libby I only had sex with in bathrooms quick sex. They're about my size everyone else has been shorter tomorrow the rightness waiting to be plucked. I desire well-dressed elegant women. There are none at CBGBs.

Last night while waiting for Alice to get out of her theater class I cruised porno stores of Times Square looking through the picture books. None of the clerks asked, if I was going to buy something. They had seen me before. i never stole anything. i just searched for something new. Other customer, eyed my crotch an left open the door to a XXX booth. They expect me to come in to go in. Just a jerk off, but I didn't have any quarters. I came across an entire series of Swedish magazines with John Holmes and his 14-inch cock. I wonder how it might feel in my ass, but I've given up sex with men.

I sort of felt sorry for him, because all the photos show that he couldn't really get his horse dick into women's mouths or their cunts except for an extreme horsey actresses. One whose pussy could be used for a railroad tunnel. She looked as if his monster cock didn't phase her.

Later

The Red Brigade blew away Moro. The police found the ex-minister's corpse in the center of Rome. The Red Brigade executed him for past political crimes, like not keeping an open mind to Communism. The fascist marched in Rome.

A good year for the left these days. Angola Afghanistan and Indochina. The the Russian Navy is larger than the US Navy, even though the USSR hasn' fought a naval battle since the White Fleet sank off the streets off the streets of Korea. The North Vietnamese Army destroyed South Vietnam and all our army and strength the dead and wounded did nothing to stop our defeat. Americans always a little bit isolationist have no interest foreign affairs. And no one young wants to fight a war again.

What about a nuclear war?

In the 20th century n bombs are obsolete. because of sheer destructive power of Overkill like dropping a piano on a gnat. People fear it, but only as long to turn on the TV and watch a comedy stupid police show. But I have dreams about nuclear bombs falling. No bones no Graves my standing naked waiting for the Flash to burn me into nothingness 5 Mi around a spot on the Earth's crust nuclear weapons only for the desperate.

Angry White People - 2011

When I moved in the East Village with my hillbilly girlfriend in 1977, I never walked down East 10th Street between 1st Avenue and Second Avenue. I told my girlfriend to not do the same. She obeyed my edict, because it was the right thing to do and she was from West Virginia. No one from the hollows had seen the evils of New York and even less the horror of the Lower East Side.

Two whorehouses and numerous drug dealers controlled the offending block. These motherfuckers tolerated no protests against their rule. Alice left me in 1979. My life was going in a different direction from an ingenue actr=ress smart enough to recognize that I was trouble.

I met new people. Uncle Carmine lived further East on Avenue C. He believed in carrying a gun and thought that I should too.

"This is for you." He handed me a heavy paper bag in his plumbing office. I was friends with his wife. Aunt Jane came from Washington County, Maine, which she considered the lat place of Earth created by God. I was from Falmouth Foresides. She thought we had easy winters. She was right.

I hefted the bag. The weight belonged to a gun. My hand grabbed the weapon. A 5-shot .38 revolver made in Germany. Uncle Carmine had been in the Merchant Marines.

"I got it in Bremen. Never fired it once. Maybe you'll be just as lucky."

"I doubt it." I stuffed the revolver in my jacket and walked back to my apartment counting the number of people whom I would have shot for trespasses against the community. I would have run out of bullets on the first block. The East Village needed a death squad to combat the criminals. Thankfully they executed themselves in a series of wars aimed at controlling the heroin trade of the Far East. I never had to shoot my gun.

Not once, because the next day I returned the weapon to Uncle Carmine.

As for the gunmen in the East Village, they did all the shooting themselves, but the East Village in 1986 is not America 2011 and certainly not Arizona where a young man decided to shoot up a political gathering at a Tucson food mart.

A congresswoman gravely wounded by a right-wing assassin. A judge dead from a disgruntled GOP supporter. An 8 year-old girl killed by an errant bullet and they weren't alone. A very sad moment too often repeated in the USA, but even worse was the climate of hatred wound up by the media. Fingers pointed in all directions. Blame spilling over the the TV and they smiled at the cameras.

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

Neither left nor right.

Only fucked up.

Because that's what America does best these days.

Fuck up with guns.

Now that I think about it, "Where the fuck is that old .38?"

Happy Mother's Day From 1957 to 2012

Falmouth Foresides, Maine 1957.

My mother in bliss.

A summer afternoon with her kids and my father.

We were a happy family.

Then now and forever.

I'm on the far right.

Eight years from my first beer.

Happy Mother's Day.

We all had one.

Bah Humbug Stop your Kvetching

My 2009 Xmas season consisted of a marathon work schedule at the diamond exchange. 7 days a week. 9 hours a day. No caroling or egg nog or festive cheer. I was at work to sell diamonds and jewelry to the public to support my families in Thailand. Business on 47th Street is better than last year at the Plaza Retail Collection. After the banks' collapse in 2008, sales weren't good but it was not dead.

Our clientele make big money. Earlier in the year I had sold a ruby for a million dollars to a woman from Detroit. Richie Boy had sold a D-flawless Pear Shape for $600,000. None of my friends were buying anything for their wives. Maybe a cashmere scarf and a bottle of perfume. Not a single call for a strand of pearls or diamond studs. Only the rich had money and the other day Richie Boy called me a hypocrite.

"For all your talk about re-distribution of wealth, you end up earning your money off the upper class."

"I never said I wasn't a hypocrite, but how I make my money has nothing to do with my political beliefs."

"You want to overthrow the capitalist system. What kind of jewelry do you think revolutionaries buy? Nothing?"

"Our customer base shrinks year by year. The rich get richer and the rest of the world has no money. That's why they don't buy anything, but potato chips." I had been thinking about a red star ruby ring for myself. I remain true to the cause. My tastes run left of anarchy. My only jewelry at the moment is a claddagh ring and a half-dozen Buddhist talisman.

"Well, I couldn't be happier for my friends, who are richer this year than last, because without them we wouldn't be in business." Richie Boy had met most of his customers at bars and discos during the 70s, 80s, and 90s and even now. They liked to party as did we. Neither of us were quitters.

None of the rich ever spoke about their good times with the wives around them. They were smarter than Tiger Woods that way, but I didn't have to like them.

"They're all schlubs.

"What about your customer this week. Owns a natural gas company. Was a submarine commander. He's on MSNBC."

"He's a nice guy." The customer was looking for a $300,000 Emerald-Cut Bracelet. I had one from Cartier. The stones were not a great color. The broker pulled the three biggest diamonds. When the setter put them back, he polished out the 'Cartier' stamp. The piece lost $100,000 on that mistake. "I'm going to make him the piece. It will be gem. He'll be happy. His wife will be happier."

She had liked my story about Uncle Carmine being buried with his dogs ashes. Aunt Jane had no idea whose cinders belonged to whom. The three cans are resting well above Schoonic Bay.

"You shouldn't think any of these people are your friends. They're are all Gs." A G was a Goy. They bought retail. "Why not? You do." Richie Boy hated the idea of my customers becoming friends because the commission ratio lifted from 10% to 25%.

"Today's strangers are tomorrow's friends. Opportunity knocking on the door."

"Fucking commie."

"Goddamn fascist."

The door opened for a couple. The husband visibly was in a hurry to buy something for his wife of twenty-some odd years.

"You're up, Che." Richie Boy always gave me the opening. I was the fluffer for the firm. A hypocrite with a golden heart. A man too lazy to lie. A revolutionary waiting for retirement.

My second wife is only twenty-seven.

That's revolution enough for me.

Guns On Avenue C - 1986

In the 1970s I always said that the East Village looked like Rome three days after the sack of the Visigoths 410 CE. Buildings burned day and night. The overstretched 9th precinct triaged the streets beyond 1st Avenue. No patrols ventured farther than Tompkins Square Park. Shooting galleries outnumbered bodegas and hordes of thieves fearlessly prowled their newly-won turf for victims. Nobody honest could survive in a neighborhood more burnt-out than a junkie’s vein and families of all races, colors, and creeds fled the outlaw DMZ for the suburbs.

256 East 10th Street was my home. Sinse dealers ruled the 1st Avenue corner. We got all well. They showed respect for how my friends and I had scammed the 9th Precinct at our after-hour club on 14th Street. East of Avenue A life was tricky. Gunfire was heard day and night. My neighborhood was rough. His was dangerous. Very dangerous.

My friend Uncle Carmine lived on East 11th Street between Avenues B and C. The first time I visited the Sicilian plumber at his ground-floor office. We discussed military history, while Carmine sucked on an unlit cigar. He ate them more than smoke them. We had a good laugh. Our conversations were between two men with convictions about truth and justice. We discussed some schemes only involving us. We were sworn to secrecy. Not Omerta. Carmine was connected, just not that way.

As I got up to leave, he said, "Wait a second."

He reached into his desk and pulled out a 38. He slid it over to me.

"For your protection, this neighborhood is fucked."

I laughed and asked, "Where are all the bullets? I'd emptied this before I reached B. I don't need a gun. I need money."

"Don't we all." He stashed away the piece. "I'll see what I can do for us."

"Thanks." I walked onto East 11th Street. Hakkim was across the street, scoring dope. The junkie thief glared at me. He had a death wish. I was glad not to have a gun. At heart I was a hippie sometimes. Thou shalt not kill.

Memphis Underground - Herbie Mann - Hull, Mass. - 1970

Memphis Underground

In the winter of 1970 my friend Chet and I went down by car from the South Shore to a coastal neck of land guarding Boston Harbor from Atlantic storms. An Irish Riviera in the summer Hull was a ghost town in January. Our dealer Rich had a pound of Lebanese hash. We were splitting an ounce to sell in Boston to our college friends.

We arrived and chilled at our friend's house, listening to Herbie Mann's MEMPHIS UNDERGROUND. Jazz funk Stax soul with Muscle Shoals groove. Beer and hash. High as 18 year-olds could get in the 70s.

Then a knock on the door. Cops. A shiver of fear. This was a felony class A. It wasn't the police. Worst it was Chet's mother. We had no idea how she found us. Screaming at him, bringing us down. She dragged her son out of there, leaving us both stoned to groove on Larry Corryll's guitar.

Damn, he was good.

ps MEMPHIS UNDERGROUND was one of Hunter Thompson's favorite LPS. Mine too still.

pps In the morning I took the bus back to Boston. It was a long ride. Chet's mother forbad her son to speak with me. His sister picked up his half of the hash. Rebels all of us.

Myrtle and Broadway - Axis of Axis

Myrtle and Broadway under the elevated J and M trains ranked as the scivviest intersection in Brooklyn. During COVID the triangular corner had been colonized by a cult of Meth heads, K2 fiends, Oxy zombies devoted to a collective intoxication. A ragged woman set up shop selling drugs from her filthy encampment under the subway stairs by the bus stop.

One night I was waiting in front of the greasy Chinese takeout for the B54, surveying the comings and goings of the lost. One young unsoul noticed my attention and angrily demanded if I was the police. My answer 'no' was ignored and he threateningly raised his hand, holding a full 40. I stepped closer and said, "You don't want to do something stupid and smash that beer on me. Waste of good beer. Mother fucker."

Somehow through the haze he understood that logic and shambled away. The woman selling the drugs looked at me with distant crackhead eyes

"I see you ain't the po-lice. What is you?"

"No one."

It was my favorite disguise in a city of countless faces.

It seemed like that corner would never come right, but the other day a flower stand stood it's ground. The junkies and fiends were gone.

The Chinese takeout survived. I once ate an egg roll, It didn't killed me.

May 10, 1978 - Journal Entry

Antonio and I look out the windows of the Ebasco executive dining room. A thick fog obscures Lower Manhattan, as the last gasps of the winter was strangled by a spring breeze from the south. We have finished with serving lunch and wipe the silverware clean. The Spanish waiter surprises me with a small ball of black tar.

"Opium?"

"You ever try it?"

"Never."

Lots of punks used heroin. I hadn't tried that too.

"It's not a killer like smack."

"I don't know."

I had first smoked weed with Tommy Jordan and John Gilmor, driving back from Nantasket Beach. I sat at the Hingham lights for five minutes. Two weeks later with Thomas Welby some Acapulco Gold blew my mind. Basically it was the last time I got high, since every time after that I was chasing an unattainable high.

"Thanks for the opium."

I wrapped the small ball in paper.

If I was doing it, I was doing it with one person.

Alice.

LATER

On the Staten Island ferry. There are only a few passengers. I chased the dragon on tin foil in the men's room. I feel it immediately

The fog follows its wake.

This is the first time I've left Manhattan since returning from Boston.

I can't see anything of that island.

Only fog swallowing our wake.

The harbor air is fresh, smelling of the sea beyond the Verranzano Bridge.

The grey water is darker than the grey air.

The world a maze of opaque sameness.

The ferry approaches St. George.

THe passengers disembark and return to Manhattan on the same ferry.

A horn sounds our departure.

The wooden dock is enveloped by grey.

Fifteen seconds later we are lost in it.

After reaching Battery Park I called Alice, "Are we going to dinner?"

"Are you alright?" She didn't want to make a scene in front of her father.

"Yes. Are you mad at me?"

"I was last night. Not now."

I attempted to explain last night, but it was futile over the phone and we agreed to meet at 7:30.

At dinner before her father arrives, she says that she isn't really interested in my writing, "Everything is in that journal. Secrets. Not for anyone to read. None of it is finished."

The way she said that sounds like she has read it, but she is right.

My journals have no purpose.

"I'm sorry if I'm jealous." We both were, but most of all me at myself.

May 8, 1978 - Journal Entry

Alice and I had a small spat at my SRO room this morning after I said in bed, "There's noplace else I'd rather be than between your legs."

"Is that all you want from me?"

"That and..."

"What?" She was pissed. "All you ever want is sex."

"I'm sorry that I want you."

"Want me? All you want is to fuck me."

"Sorry." The fury of my libido doesn't match her desires.

"It's all about you."

"I try and make you cum."

"Only so you can fuck me more." She sounded like she was accusing me of rape, but then said, "I have a horrible hang-over."

Bourbon and beer at Max's.

For some reason I was rock-hard and held down my erection to keep from forming a circus tent under the sheets.

"I can't take a shower here."

I shared the bathroom with six other men. Classic SRO accomodations.

"Let's go to my place," Alice suggested.

"I'll make breakfast."

Bacon and eggs was the first meal I had made us. Neither of us spoke and she left without saying good-bye.

That was weird but whenever someone walks away from me, I wish for them to turn around like Orpheus in fear of Eurydice not being there. Instead I stared ahead knowing Hades has his tricks, plus people are never really gone, they're just not here for a moment.

LATER

That evening I called Alice on the phone and she told me, "I slept all afternoon and had weird dreams. Boy was I wet, when I woke up."

"Guess it as a good thing I wasn't there."

"No, I wished you were here. Guess our timing is off for making love with a satyr."

"Better a Satyr than the Marquis de Sade."

"For me."

"Me too, I answer, but God knows why our civilization can't support libertines more.

Blood, sex, death, money, and power in 18th Century France versus the chaos of the East Village in the 1970s.

It's a good contrast of wickedness.

My homosexual experimentations have been discarded. I don't see many of my gay friends. Only William. The entire experience consisted of sloppy kisses, small cocks, loose anuses, lisps, queer mannerisms, generally bad sex, but a lot of laughs and dancing and I owe the boys that. They were my friends when no one else was. They kept me alive in a world hostile to outlaws.

I found more pleasure in my hand than a stranger's touch.

I never went to any orgies with them, but once at the Cave I took on several men. Not being able to see their faces. Having a cock in your mouth and another in your ass was close to total degradation, unless it was your cock in someone else. William was there that night. He looked on and jerked off with tears in his eyes. He wanted me for his own, but I belonged to no one. No men. No women.

Not until Alice.

She has my heart.

MAY 7, 1978 - Journal Entry

Back in April Johny Blitz of the Dead Boys was attacked on Second Avenue by people unknown. He was stabbed five times and luckily survived after a miraculous Eemergency Room operation. In order to pay his hospital bills, Arturo Vega organized a thirty band Johnny Blitz benefit. Blondie closed out the shows at CBGBs with a cover of a Donna Summer hit. The club was packed the house four nights, despite rumors of funds being siphoned off for a continuous party. Even I paid. At least their drummer survived the attack and will be back with the Dead Boys soon.

New York remains our city.

The hippies had been forced into the country by the rising tide of crime and police brutality. The hinterlands were beautiful, but real farms are run with machines and chemical fertilizers and poisonous pesticides.

Punks have come back to the skeleton cities to recolonize Harlem, the East Village, Detroit, and LA.

Capitalism seems ripe for a fall, as the Kremlin plots take-overs in Afghanistan, Angola, Mozambique, and Ethiopia, but the Soviet people don't have frisbees, GTOs, skateboards, Malibu blondes, or punk. They live on vodka. They will never beat us on the drag strips or baseball fields. On the hockey ice they Red Army machine is triumphant, but winter doesn't last forever. Not even in Siberia.

Alice's father is in town tonight and we will meet at Act 1.

Tomorrow night my parents are visiting setting up a meeting between our parents.

LATER

Marilyn was the epitome of American beauty in the early 60s. She was sex. Blonde and soft. She seemed sad. I don't think anyone made her happy. Both RFK and JFK are rumored to have had affairs with her. She died in 1962. Supposedly of a drug overdose. Norma Jean should be with us.

In 1978.

LATER

After the benefit Alice was sick on the street. She had once more drank past her limit. She wanted to be alone and handed me $10.

"For a taxi."

"Come with me and I'll take of you."

"No, you only want to fuck me. Same as always. I'm just a hole for you."

"No, you're not."

"Leave me alone." She got in a cab and it took her into the night.

It felt like she was paying me for service and I walked back to the SRO to sleep listening to the radio.

A pillow to hold instead of her.

Off To Rockaway - Full Speed Ahead

May 7
Seven months in New York
Like a marooned sailor
Like Richard Burton
The Nile explorer
On the beach in Trieste
Ships sailing away on the Adriatic
Burton going nowhere
Like me yesterday.

But
Today I stand on
I
On a Wall Street Wharf
Spring
75 degrees
Sunny
On a Wall Street Wharf. Catching the 12:17
To Rockaway.
Not many passengers aboard.
Diesel engines reverse on the slack tide. The ferry pulls out
Into the East River
On time.
12:17

Full speed ahead
Past Battery Park
Across the Inner Harbor
Past the Statue of Liberty
Coasting between Brooklyn
And Staten Island
Under the Vertanzano Bridge
Into the Outer Harbor.
Calm waters
Barely a ripple.
Escape on a white wake Full speed ahead.

Ahead To the south
Between Breezy Point and Sandy Hook
The open ocean
The Atlantic spanning the horizon
Rising as a cliff
At the end of the world.
Calling me
Calling my blood
A siren song in my marrow. My family once sailors and whalers
Now landlubbers
I feel the pull The tug of tides
Down to the sea. Full speed ahead.

The ferry turns away from the ocean.
Into Jamaica Channel Ashore one lone person on the beach
A few boaters fish the tide.
Beneath the Gil Hodges Bridge.

My soul sings an ancient sea song.
Words lost three generations ago
My soul hums the shanty.
We are meeting an old friend.

Not seen in seven months.
The Atlantic.

The captain slows the ferry
Docks without a bump
Two score passengers off load
Some walk to the beach
I catch a bus to Riis Park
The nude beach.

Seven people on the beach
I
Lie Alone
Naked on the sand
The sun on my skin.

An ocean breeze
Filling my lungs with longing
To be one with the sea
To float beyond the waves
To drift toward Montauk
Maine
Gaspe
Like a drowned passenger from the Titanic Drifting
Arctic bound.
I rise to my feet
Walk into the shallow eddies
The sea North Atlantic cold

Waves
The music of the ocean
So good to hear
Rockaway Beach
The Ramones loved it here.
The Atlantic calls
From all points of eternity.

Seven months since my last swim In this sea
At this beach
Late October
Here
I strip nekkid
Stride into the sea.
Up to my ankles
Up to my knees
Up to my thighs
Brrrr
A wave licks at my groin
XXX cold.
The Atlantic wants more from me
Mermaid sirens sing
Be one on the current
Singing The call of the Wild. I go no farther. A man. Alone is no match for the sea. Even if the blood comes from the sea Today A landlubber I be Tomorrow maybe not The sea was is will always be Full speed ahead.