Rocking Rock

Back in the late last century my English friend lived in a first floor duplex on 4th Avenue and 12th Street. The main door was on the avenue, however the side door exited onto the street. It was kind of an alcove and homeless slept there and used it as a urinal. To stop this practice he hauled a huge rock down from the country. About the same size as the rocking rock and placed it in such a position to successfully stop the squatting. Happy story. Yes, but not for long. A week later he opened the back door and discovered that the rock was gone. Vanished. No trace of it. End of story. No. Two weeks later the rock returned to the alcove. I. The same same position, as if it had rematerialized from another dimension. We often speculated on the possibilities without arriving at a satisfying answer. A rock. A rock isn't. A rock is.

A HERO OF OUR TIME by Mikhail Lermontov

Written 2016

Mikhail Lermontov wrote A HERO OF OUR TIME in 1839. The short novel romanticized the life on the frontier of the Caucasian kingdoms. Lermontov was a troubled soul and spent two exiles with the Army of the Don fighting the rebel mountaineers.

Lermontov painted and drew scenes from his service.

A world lost to time.

The kidnapping of Bela

'Many fair maids in this village of mine, Their eyes are dark pools where the stars seem to shine. Sweet flits the time making love to a maid, Sweeter's the freedom of any young blade. Wives by the dozen are purchased with gold, But a spirited steed is worth riches untold; Swift o'er the plains like a whirlwind he flies, Never betrays you, and never tells lies.'

Cities of fables.

"Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move!" said Vulic, pressing the muzzle of the pistol to his forehead. We were all petrified.

The duel of Pechorin and Grushnitsky acts as a harbinger of Lermontov's demise from later match with Nikolai Martynov, who had described his fellow officer and friend as "the young man who was so far ahead of everybody else, as to be beyond comparison."

Thousands came to his funeral.

He was a man of his times.

How Dem Old People Do It

 

Great Pyramid of Giza's latitude of 29.9792458°N is the same as the speed of light in meters per second in a vacuum, 299,792,458 m/s. Some say that the pyramid's builders intentionally encoded the speed of light in its latitude, but others say it's a coincidence because the Ancient Egyptians didn't measure the speed of light or use global lines of longitude and latitude. 

Everyone knows nothing.

Zero was unknown to Greeks and Romans which is how the ideology of heaven was developed by the Christians

Modern scholars have denigrated ancient civilizations due to a tragic inferiority ideology refusing to accept the obvious. No one discovered the speed of light. It exists.

No

More perplexing is the construction of the granite base.

The Great Pyramid of Giza used 8,000 tons of granite in its construction, including granite beams that roofed the king's chamber and the chambers above it. The granite was transported from Aswan, which is over 560 miles south of Giza, and some of the granite beams are estimated to weigh over 70 tons.

The ancient Egyptians who built the pyramids may have been able to move massive stone blocks across the desert by wetting the sand in front of a contraption built to pull the heavy objects, according to a new study.May 1, 2014.

The Liebherr LTM 1070 4.2 is a versatile mobile crane with a maximum lifting capacity of 70 tonnes. With a lateral reach of 2.50 metres, it can lift heavy loads safely and precisely. The telescopic boom ranges from 11.00 metres up to 50.00 metres, which provides a good reach for various applications.

The truck is so huge that it blocks the entire road when it moves. Its each axle has 32 tyres. The average distance it travels a day is a paltry 5 km; until now the most it travelled in a day was 11 km. It has a set of 32 assistants to remove power lines and other hurdles on the road to ensure smooth movement of the massive vehicle.

The Ancient Egyptians transported the megalithic pyramid stones over wet sand. They used sleds and water to level the sand while the sled was being pulled

All conjecture

Archaeologists believe that the pyramids were built by paid laborers, not slaves, as is commonly believed. In fact, they have found no evidence of slavery or foreign workers, and have even discovered the remains of a village built for the workers who built the Giza pyramids. The village included dormitories, and the workers were likely recruited from farms, possibly near Luxor, and may have been enticed by the opportunity to work on a prestigious project and receive high-quality food.

The Exodus is so fundamental to us and our Jewish sources that it is embarrassing that there is no evidence outside of the Bible to support it.” Apparently, archaeologists dislike questions about the Exodus because, Rosenberg says, “there is nothing in the Egyptian records to support it."

Back to zero...I remember the scene in The Ten Commandments when a woman is trying to lubricate with water under the giant stone and her garment gets stuck under and Edward G Robinson tells the haulers to continue on and she gets crushed. I just googled that scene In it the slaves were Jews, E G Robinson was a Jew and in that scene 54 men were hauling the stone towards the pyramid.

So now A Hollywood movie THE TEN COMMANDMENTS is your scientific proof.

Oi ist mir

No...thought it was funny but I remembered wrong. Charlton Heston, playing Moses, rescues the old woman. But the point is that moving those stones with pulleys and rollers was what I always thought but when u consider the logistics, very doubtful...then how?

The granite blocks were supposedly quarried in Swam 750 miles up the Nile.

Worked well with the storyline

ps Egypt is a Greek name. Original Kemet.

The pyramids were built 4-5000 years ago. About the same time as Stonehenge

I think it was Cecil b DeMille's idea that they built them.

There are also postulations that the Pyramids are even older.

In Exodus the Hebrews are brick makers.

Suspicious minds rejecting the ideology of Western imperialism

A Bacchanalian Mirage

Associated Press - Paris Olympics organizers apologized to anyone who was offended by a tableau that evoked Leonardo da Vinci’s 'The Last Supper' during the glamorous opening ceremony, but defended the concept behind it Sunday.

Da Vinci’s painting depicts the moment when Jesus Christ declared that an apostle would betray him. The scene during Friday’s ceremony featured the DJ flanked by drag artists and dancers.

I thought the same, but then realized the line-up on the bridge serving as a runway for the preceding fashion show had closed ranks around Barbara Butch, an LGBTQ+ icon, whose was wearing a halo crown. I clocked the Last Supper and rejoiced the blasphemy, until I thought that Da Vinci's The Last Supper was in Milan and had nothing to do with Paris or France, although Da Vinci spent his last three years in The Château du Clos Lucé in Amboise, Loire Valley under the patronage of King Francis I.

As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so a life well spent brings happy death." Leonardo da Vinci.

The illusion shattered with the lifting on a huge lid to reveal French singer and actor Philippe Katerine as a blue Dionysus surrounded by fruit on a dinner plate. THe ancient god – known to the Romans as Bacchus – has a close tie to France: In Greek mythology, he is the father of Sequana, the Goddess of the River Seine according to USA Today.

This last slice of mythology was unknown to me, but I thought, "Genius."

Then again I am a non-believer.

ps no video of this event is available due to a ban on Youtube.

Que scandalle

A bas a le troiseme estate.

All life is illusion.

Jesus Everywhere Even Paris

According to the Baltimore Cathecism of my youth, God is omnipotent, all-knowing, and omnipresent, so that Christians seek to see their God everywhere, as happened in the Dionysius tableau on the Paris bridge for the Olympics Spectacle. They saw blasphemy, instead of recognize the Last Supper as miracle, although they see Jesus everywhere. Believers in my hometown, Milton Mass. once espied an image of Jesus on a condensed window at the local hospital. Another miracle with the faithful praying to the Nailed God. But Jesus is everywhere, meme sur les fesses de un chien.

Their Lord moves in mysterious ways.

Off With Their Heads - Marie Antoinette - Olympic Opening Spectacular

One more from the opening ceremony of the Olympics 2024 in France

From Robert Carrithers. The author and translator Bérengère Viennot had the final word. “This ceremony married classical and popular culture, atrocious taste and High History, wokeism and unchecked humour, technical prowess and the genius of Piaf – and has succeeded in provoking a terrific argument,” she said. “It’s a perfect allegory of the French spirit.”

Singing queen … Marie Antoinette performs from a window in the Conciergerie. Photograph: BBC

Posted by Robert Carrithers from Prague.

One comment - It was a scandal.

Ma riposte -the transgender travesty of the last supper was sublimely divine

M-A with the metal band Gojira singing Ça ira, the theme song of the Revolution. Loved it. And the romp through the old Bibliothèque Nationale! So many quirky, funny, and drop-dead gorgeous moments. You don’t have to love it all, there was something for everyone.

But the best part is that the ultra-right almost choked on their rage. It was an in-your-face of un-rivaled proportions.

nothing, absolutely nothing of this satanic circus reflects the French people, thank you for keeping that in mind.

Just a rumination of mine: I always felt that the 2 countries that murdered their own Royal Family, France and Russia, in a sense, cursed themselves. I felt that by killing their own Royal families the vibration of the country itself, their inherit nobility was lessened. I'm sure I'm going to get a lot of pushback on this but it is what I feel. The soul of the country lost a little bit of it's shine.

Ma riposte - there is only one way to rid the people of the ruling class. A la guillotine.

Once more bravo la France.

Bravo Le France - Paris Olympics Opening Spectacular - 2024

Quelle Scandale

The spectacular Coming Out extravaganza of the Paris Olympics caught me entirely off guard. I had been expecting the traditional tramp of national teams into a stadium. I was watching the coverage at the Explorers Club. As first I thought it was 'eh', but as the show progresses, I was amazed to see how much license the organizers had allowed the art director. A decapitated Marie Antoinette, the flotilla of boasts carrying the teams. Fireworks, light show, heavy metal, Lady Gaga and the piece de resistance the living tableau of the Last Supper.

Aghast I thought of the poor Baptists and Fundamentalists.

My thoughts and prayers went out to them.

As an atheist I said, "Bravo."

But the Wrath of God rose in True Believers having had blasphemy shoved down the throats. Organizers of the Paris Olympics apologized on Sunday for a performance during Friday’s Opening Ceremonies that featured a reenactment of Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” amid mixed messages about the piece’s intent.

The tableau included a woman with a halo-like crown in the role of Jesus as well as drag queens and gay icons as disciples; it was crashed by a scantily clad blue man wearing a headdress of fruit — Dionysus, the Greek god of fertility, wine and revelry.

Church leaders and some conservative politicians condemned the performance as a perversion of the scene, recounted in the Bible, on the eve of Jesus’ trial and crucifixion.

House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) on Saturday called the performance a “mockery [that] was shocking and insulting to Christian people around the world.” A U.S. telecommunications firm, C Spire, said it was pulling its advertising from the Summer Games. The French Conference of Catholic Bishops also objected.

Boo hoo.

At last the Olympics burst out of the Closet

Bien fait la France.

https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=458953257043813

Youtube has banned the video of the Opening Ceremony.

So much for the Land of the Free

More the Land of the Freaked.

Too Few Guns

Gun freedom stems from the need to repress the freedom of the others. - James Steele - unpentient counterfeiter

Foto - Joey from New Hampshire - Pattaya 2007

Rolling Stones - Shea - October 1989

October 1989

Joey from Bay Ridge, a client at Manny's diamond store in West 47th Street, repaired elevators.He was as filthy as a coal miner and as greasy as an oil rigger.

"Every job was an emergency." He pulled out a wad of bills with a filthy hand. "I like getting paid in cash."

A steady customer. He came into the store. Richie Boy and I were glad to see the grimy Brooklynite, but he was not buying. He was selling.

"I found two tickets to the Stones at Shea in an elevator shaft. I can't go, but I was in the neighborhood and thought you might buy 'em. $30 each." Joey found lots of stuff in the bottom of the shafts. Once $5000. Other times jewelry. At first we thught he was a thief, but no one got that dirtier doig dishonest work I looked at the tickets. They were legit Steel Wheels tix. They were for tonight. I was familiar with Shea. A friend and I had the third base seats racketed by duking the ushers $10.

"Where are they?" Richie Boy asked.

"They're on the field to the right of the stage "

"I'll give you $30 for the two." Richie Boy never paid retail.

Joey shrugged at the offer for half and nodded 'deal'

Neither of us had money after a long night on the town.

"Get the money from petty cash "

"Your father is not going to like that," whispered, Manny hated both of us. Richie Boy drank like a goy and his father blamed me, the Shabbats Goy.

"Get the money. He's not here. So I'm the boss." His name wasn't all the wall, but I got the money for Joey. We loved the Stones and the seats were great.

Ditch Out in Berkeley - 1973

May 30, 2024 Scan Production was screening our movie OCTOBER CROW. More than fifty people, mostly young fans or Brigette Lundy-Paine aka Jack Haven were spawl across the large third floor apartment, I told the crowd we were waiting for a friend and related my tale of abandoning him in Berkeley for a ride in a Pinto with Marilyn and her daughter. Making hippie love on the Bonneville Salt Flats. Waking with the dawn. Covered by the brine of a dead sea. Dropping me off in Cheyenne. Her coming to Boston and Ann Marie cockblocking me. I spoke of over a half-century of friendship.

Several minutes later I introduced Neil the audience, who responded to his entrance with a rousing applause as my medical saviour and legendary traveler.

Playing With Fire

January 1, 2014 My young friends sometimes complain that these times are no fun.

Gwen O'Neils' comrades aren't like that.

To quote the band ART, "Our fun begins where other peoples' fun ends.

And they know how to play it safe too.

Notice the plastic cup filled with something.

Opps, I guess it was gasoline.

Burn baby burn.

Of course the best song for this is PLAY WITH FIRE.

Pyromania never goes out of fashion.

Fotos by Gwen O'Neill

To hear The Rolling Stones' Play With Fire, please go to the following URL

In Heaven Above

SWritten 2012

Sir Richard Branson's spaceship THE VIRGIN ENTERPRISE will bring humans to the edge of Space. Its apogee will created a window of weightlessness. The small craft is built for two crew and six passengers, however there must be provisions for those space lovers who want a little privacy in order to become the first people to have sex in Space.

Supposedly US and Russian astronauts have had sex in space for separate research programs on how human beings might survive years in orbit. The greatest challenge to intercourse is the weightlessness. Astronauts and Cosmonauts alike have failed to achieve erections because the blood pools in their extremities. Pressurization is the key.

IN HEAVEN ABOVE is my tale of a bankrupt ex-Soviet republic threatened by a multi-national conglomerate with extinction. The triumvirate in charge of this nation turn to their mad economist to save the country and he proposed that they repair their decrepit space shuttle and hold a global lottery with the first prize to be a ticket into space to be the first man or woman to have sex. None of the studios clicked on this comedy. Maybe it wasn't funny enough, however a respected French scientific writer claims that sex in space has already been achieved by NASA and Moscow, although in deep secrecy.

NASA's Sex in Freefall program was codenamed STS-XXX and astronauts supposedly computer-tested about 23 sexual positions to divine the most viable in a conditions of no-gravity. They then used guinea pigs and reputedly videotaped the results. Censored except for those White House officials with agricultural training. NASA scientists discovered only 4 positions were possible without help from robots and high-tech equipment.

The missionary position is impossible in space.

You can push up and down when there is none in space.

IN HEAVEN ABOVE coitus galactica was a long languid session of foreplay followed by a drift to heaven among the stars.

NASA never contacted me, but I'm still waiting for the phone to ring.

Not NASA but Virgin.

"Hello, VIRGIN. We have contact."

Nyet Gay In Russia

Written 2012

The Russian criminal code in 1832 "muzhelozhstvo" or men lying with men a criminal act punishable by exile to Siberia for up to 5 years according the Wikipedia. The police rarely arrested men for this crime against nature, since the hunger that dare not speak its name was reserved for the upper classes of Tsarist Russia, however homophobia has been deeply engrained into the national psyche and a third of the population think that homosexuals should be executed and another third call for their exclusion from society. That draconian attitude has improved since the collapse of the USSR, but a gay men or boy are regularly persecuted by their countrymen.

According to www.pinknews.co.uk a Moscow teenager recently escaped from a rehab clinic after his traditionalist father locked him up after he came out to him aged 16.

“I’d rather have you disabled or a vegetable than gay,” the father told the son according to local Ekho Moskvy radio.

The more things change the more they stay the same.

Back in 2009 I was in Moscow during the gay protests. Thousands of cops encircled the Kremlin to prevent any demonstrations before the palace. I retreated from the chaos and sought refuge in the baroque confines of Sandunovskye Bani. In this famed banya naked straight men were beating each other with oak branches for their health. None of them were ashamed by this act of S/M, then again there are few more profound blindnesses than hypocrisy, then again nothing more relaxing that a good whipping.

Flirting With Death

2013 In 1988 I exerienced a series of dreams about nuclear annihilation. The first one was situated in New York. The sirens sounded the alarm and thousands of East Villagers headed to the subway for shelter. There wasn't room for all of us. Someone pointed to the sky and I spotted a black missile falling earthward.

White flash.

The next dream was situated in Moscow. The populace filed into trains with calm order and got off at the next station to allow other passengers to repeat our hopeless exodus to safety.

White flash.

The third dream occurred at a Siberian airfield. I was making love with a Red Air Force female pilot. The sirens sounded once more. The Comrade Pilot excused herself from my embrace and ran to the bomber parked outside the dacha. I watched her take off moments before mushrooms clouds rose over the tundra.

White flash.

I liked the last dream best, but I always thought that you weren't supposed to die in your dreams.

Guess I was wrong.

But I woke up to survive on all three occasions, because luck asleep or awake runs in my family.

We're half-Irish.

Moscow Taxi Touts

Written 2013

New York newspapers frequently report about naive visitors paying excessive taxifares into Manhattan. The record was set by a Japanese tourist. The cab driver extorted $2500 from the hapless visitor and ropped him Harlem when he wouldn't cough up another $500.

Things have improved at JFK, however the age-old practice of soaking the uninformed voyager has a global reach.

Back in 2009 I deplaned in Moscow's Terminal 2. My connecting flight to St. Petersburg was in Terminal 1. No signs suggested how to reach that destination, although a taxi tout was willing to drive me the 5 kilometers for $60.

"Sorry. I don't have to be there that bad."

"Special deal. $40." He showed a price card. $60 for Terminal 1

"Why so cheap?" I figured that rate was from Moscow.

"Because I liked George Bush."

"Fuck George Bush."

He wasn't my president and I walked away from the taxi tout.

An old bababuska cleaning lady was heading home. I followed her outside and we boarded the free transit bus. Free, which got me to the other terminal in plenty of time. I even was able to drink a beer.

$5 for a large stein of Stella.

It was a good place to drink beer.

Back In The USSR

Written 2012

Back in the glory years of Soviet Russia express lanes were reserved on Moscow's major roads for top officials and leaders of the Communist Party in the ZIL limousines. Those privileges came to a sudden end with the collapse of the USSR, but the London Olympics instituted the special lanes throughout the city for the swift transport of athletes and world politicians attending the Games. Anyone else will be hit with a 500 Pounds fine and that includes bicyclists and pedestrians.

Watch out for the ZIL lanes.

They are not for you.

Na zda-ró-vye Nyet

Written August 2013

Soviet Russia attempted three times to curtail alcohol consumption.

The last temperance movement was in 1985-1987 under Mikhail Gorbachev. Vodka and other spirits were rationed throughout the USSR and public drunkenness was punished by prison time. The loss of tax revenue was in the hundreds of billions of rubles and this economic shortfall led to the collapse of the Soviet Empire.

Even Josef Stalin never dared to ban vodka and ex- KGB Boris Putin has followed the Red Tsar's lead.

There is only one ruler in Russia and that is the man with the bottle of vodka.

Russian don't toast each other with Na Zdorov'ye!

They prefer a lengthy personal toast, but I will drink no more Russian vodka.

Not since Putin's government has declared homosexuality a sin.

I will toast Russia with other vodka, raising my glass and shouting, "Poshel na khuy."

Simply translated as 'fuck you'.

And I say the same to the New York Times, for last week in the Op-Ed pages the happily married with three kids Mark Lawrence Schrad, an assistant professor of political science at Villanova University, declared that the gay boycott on Russian vodka would have no effect on the treament of gays and lesbians in Russia.

Asst. Professor Schrad has a website;

http://www.vodkapolitics.com/Welcome.html

He does not look like a drinker, but his NY Times article argued that a vodka boycott will not help gays in Russia, since 'polls estimate that two-thirds of Russians consider homosexuality unacceptable under any circumstance'.

Asst. Professor Schrad avoided this issue to launch into a lengthy treatise of his expertise; the politics of vodka before defending the continued drinking of Stolichnaya by writing 'most political scientists agree that sanctions rarely bring about desired results and can undermine the effectiveness and credibility of domestic opposition groups' and that the impact of an international boycott wouldn't effect the Russian economy.

Firstly vodka sales to the West amount to hundreds of billions and Asst. Professor Schrad rightly stated that the vodka conglomerates were unhappy with Putin's decision to repress gays and lesbians, but the tax revenue from vodka helped support the Putin regime ( in Soviet times it was 25% of the tax revenue ).

Secondly boycotts work.

Maybe slowly, but doing nothing accomplishes nothing.

So once more the New York Times gets a nice 'fuck you' from me.

They only care about the rich.

And the people who pay their ads like Putin.

It's all the fucking same.

'Poshel na khuy' or 'fuck you'.

Newspapers Versus TVs and Cellphones

TV and cellphones will never replace a newspaper. You can’t swat a fly with a newspaper. - Pascha Ray - traveler

Gun Freedom - James Steele

Gun freedom stems from the need to repress the freedom of the others. - James Steele - unrepentant counterfeiter

Childcity, Aprilcity - Gregory Corso

Baby City, April City, angel spirits hiding in the gates, poets, parasites in their hair, beautiful Baudelaire, Artaud, Rimbaud, Apollinaire, contemplate the night city - Whistleblowers and goalkeepers, Penalty of Montparnasse, mortal Notre Dame, contemplate the night circle, the inherited dome, Hugo and Zola buried together, harleccino's death trap, the Seine breeds filthy sludge, The Eiffel looks from above - it sees the Apocalyptic scorching with ants. nyc city , Town of dead and buried Germans. Mamma Guerra's doll house.

Gregory Corso with Jocelyn Rothschild - Chez Rothschild sur Ile St. Louis

A poet ugly as sin with a dark view of the City of Light, although anyone who has lived there long enough to identify a friend at the morgue by the Seine is no longer fooled by the lights.

Le Quai de Le Rapee. The black hearses of the State driving the departed from the Bastille to the cemetery de Pere Lachaise.

ps. the opening line of another version is recorded as ‘Childcity, Aprilcity’.

pps My search for Jocelyn Rothschild came up goose-eggs.

ppps The only found meaning for Harlecinno as the Itlaian word arlecinno, an amusing servant in theater

I found this poem thanks to Eric Mitchell, Pittsfield Capitalist and B-Movie legend.

It's Da Shoes

Jacques Negrit et Moi avant le porte de le Royal Lieu - 1985 Foto by Anon -

As a doorman in New York, London, Paris, Hamburg, le Sud de France, and Beverly Hills from the 1970s to the 1990s the bosses always asked about my criteria for admission. Many other doormen said, "Shoes."

Me, it was a look.

A look like you wanted a good time without any trouble, although I never gave entry to undercover cops. Their shoes were dead giveaways. Cop shoes. Of course if they were off-duty, then they were fine, but I always warned them, "Don't pull any cop shit inside or else I'll never let you in."

And they didn't, although a few clients scootered out the back door reconizing arresting officers. They knew trouble when they saw it and I always checked on the off-duty 12 to see if they weren't trouble.

An undercover cop from the 76th Precinct in Red Hook, Rob Cea, explained, "People get nervous when they see us "

"It's the shoes. Change 'em next time. And next time come alone."

Damned, next timeRob Cea changed his shoes and came alone, and no one left the club, when he came in after that.

Ari my cobbler. I'm his Shabbas Goy.

OCTOBER CROW Trailer

OCTOBER CROW Trailer The 2024 film by Scab Production marks the directorial debut of Jack Haven aka Brigette Lundy-Paine creating the tale of Bella ( Alex McVickers ) fleeing Kentucky to the Last Babylon to be befriended by James (Peter Nolan Smith) a dying benevolent fiend introducing her to the other side of life as a dominatrix in. religious brothel run by La Bruja (Laura Lundy). As always no good deed goes unpunished. OCTOBER CROW breaks the rules. No script. No money. No car chases. No gun ballets. No commercial value. No sell-out. A tale dedicated to opening our eyes led by a cast of unknowns with the common goal of rejecting the 'What Is' in favor of the 'Is' as a homage to Amos Poe and John Cassavetes. Music by Mina Walker and Avshaa. Coming to Drive-Ins at cities and towns near you soon. We are coming for your children.

Horseshoe Crabs And Us 2050

I have visions
Not dreams
But visions
Of the Future
2050
Sitting on the B38 bus
Traveling down Myrtle Avenue__
Summertime
No cars
None
More trees
More flowers
Vegetable gardens too.
Everyone walking
Riding bikes
Less people than 2024
A lot less
The rich escaped to the Moon
To Mars
We hear nothing from them
Nothing
Good riddance___
After 2024
The tipping point
Things went bad
Very bad
And fast
Wars, fires, famines, floods
No place to run
No place to hide
Many prayed
Many more screamed
Bad to Worst
Wrath of God worst
Worst for the good
Worst for the bad
Thoughts and prayers
No help___
Then one day___
Worst went to bad
And then not to good
But not bad___
Not everyone survived
Not everything survived,
But the horseshoe crabs
They multiplied by the billions
And the fed the world
As horseshoe crabs had other speices
Through other extinctions___
Now 2050
Me
98 years old
With my wives
My children
My grandchildren
My great grandchildren
And friends____
A miracle But like horseshoe crabs
My blood don't die easy____
Deconsume, children, deconsume
It's the only solution__

Foto by Doug Wechsler

Pawh Den Always

Monsoons late.
Months after Songkran.
Buffalo wander the rice paddies.
Looking for their old friend.
Den Khongbua
Grandfather gone.
Kwai remember him.
Den the only one
Who knew their names.
Den Gone
But not from memory Kwai.
Not gone forever.
Not from our memories too.
I see you soon, grandfather Den But not today.

May 30 1992 - Bangkok - Journal

Two mornings ago I was making an overseas call at the phone booth in the Malaysia Hotel. A young bearded man entered the lobby with two young ladies. I had last seen Dice in Kathmandu 1990 after a ten-day trek to Lantang Glacier. Upon departure westward to Europe I had told Dice, if he was in Bangkok, then he should stay at the Malaysia Hotel and there was a good chance if the Hawaiian did I might be there in May. Dice was a no show in 1991, but here he was now and upon seeing me he called out, "Pascha."

My Oriental pseudonym.

Dice was just in from Nepal and a long night at the go-go bars. He was breakfast in the hotel's restaurant, which offered a restorative American breakfast.

"Then sleep. I'm sending these girls home. They have probably had enough of me. I'll see you later."

We rendezvoused that afternoon at Kenny's Bar on Soi Si Bamphen. We drank Singhas that day, which was my 40th birthday.

After a few beers at Kenny's we told some girls we would be back after dinner and wandered over to the Chandrphen Restaurant, a top-notched Chinese chicken restaurant across from the Lumpini Muay Thai boxing stadium, where we finished off a bottle of small bottle of Mekong whiskey. The waiters invited us to a comedy club. I was drunk enough to allow myself to be dragged on stage by a troop of improvisers. They mocked me, but I grabbed the mike. I have no idea what I said, but I thought it was funny the Thai audience laughed at the farang fool.

Finally I was thrown off the stage gently. Todd said, "You're natural ham."

We were late for the rendezvous at Kenny's and rode a tuktuk over to Patpong. Despite being my birthday birthday I wasn't in the mood for whoring. Maybe Bangkok's wild fun doesn't glitter as wickedly coming from Indonesia, instead of New York. Maybe it's all part my monastic onanism. I had passed through Bangkok three times this trip without bar-fining a single GoGo girl. The old age truck has hit me so hard.

40 and overweight. I don't know how many more years I've got to go. Decades I hope.

No pension plan. No retirement cabin. All I have two written books, a script, 30 or so journals, an East Village apartment, and a crapped out Yamaha 650 on the sidewalk outside on the East 20th Street sidewalk, unless someone had stolen it in my absence.

Of course I also had my fading good looks and by the time I reach California I'm going to be in tip top shape ready for the conquest of the modern world of the West.

As I packed to check out of the Malaysia Hotel, I listened to Velvet Underground on a cassette player. I won't be coming back here until next year working at the Diamond District from September to January. Any possibility of my earning any cash from writing was probably decades away. My typing sucks and my spelling is worse.

Two days ago I had gone down the victory Square, where hundreds of thousands of young people had been protesting against the military rule for weeks without any violence. The hometown troops would not use violence on their neighbors friends and family. The generals brought in troops from the country. They called the demonstrators communists and gave the order to shoot to kill and the soldiers from Isaan did just that, killing hundreds of their countrymen to prevent democracy. But nightlife in Bangkok stayed the same bastard under the harsh rule of High Society over Low Society.

Today Bangkok remains under martial law.

I'm catching a bus to the South island of Koh Phi Phi. 14 hours overnight.

I wonder when I'll into into Dice again.

Marx's vision of Communism - Professor Bertell Ollman 1977

Herbert Marcuse August in the middle of the 20th century you remains an Impossible Dream to those theorists except of utopia certain socio historical possibilities. Chicken advance and wealth technology and science extends the boundaries not only of the real the ways we found potential can be realized. Today's production goods and knowledge Heather with accompanying skills have transformed the Utopias of an early time and to practical alternatives to our everyday existence. Recognition of these trends the meanings to renewed interest Marx's vision of a communist Society.

No One Is Above The Lone Guman

People are questioning how. Lone gunman could get that close to Trump. It’s easy. In 1991 I went to meet a friend after work in the Diamond District at the Statler Hilton in Manhattan. Thousands of protestors surrounded the building. Hundreds of NYPD blocked the entrances. I didn't know why. Dressed on a pinstriped English suit, I strolled up to the barricade and said, “I’m meeting a hotel guest at the bar for drinks.” The police was me through the security and I passed through the Blue to meet my friend at the bar. Inside the hotel there were more police, FBI, and Secret Service all looking very professional and alert for any opportunity to prove their worth. Philip, a Australian journalist, explained President George Bush was scheduled to speak that evening in the main ballroom. $10,000 a plate. Businessmen and capitalists. Not my crowd and we killed our drinks. No way to leave by the front, so I led Phil to the garage exit. None of the police or Secret Service bother us and we hit the parking lot, as the presidential limo pulls up to the curb. My sister-in-law had worked for the president when he was director of the CIA. Another band of fools. The limo doors open and out pops Bush. I call his name, walk up, and introduce myself as his ex-secretary’s brother- In-law. We shake hands. He goes his way and we goes ours. Anyone can get to anyone. Assassinations have ruled the politics of this and many countries. Lone gunmen have killed Lincoln and Kennedy as well as the latter's younger brother RFK after he won the California presidential primary in 1968. Ronald Reagun was bullet-gutted by a psychotic fan of the actress Jody Foster of TAXI DRIVER fame. Guns run blood on the streets of America and rlsewhere too. In 1983 I worked at les Bains-Douchrd. one evening I had a confrontation with a local Mafia gangster. We fought at the entrance, while the security watched in amusement. I tossed my attacker down the stairs. He leapt to his feet and struggled to whip out a revolver. Before he freed the weapon, we scurried inside the clubnan I slammed shut the heavy glass entrance door. The glass was supposedly bullet-proof. The gangster aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet impacted on the glass at my head level, The next was aimed at my heart. The crowd scattered away from les Bains. The gangster ran away. I thankfully never saw him again. Jacques the owner came down to the entrance and heard the story, then walked over to the door, surveying the bullet impacts "Are we going to replace the glass?" a bouncer asked in French. "Pas de tout. I have been shot and

Swimming in the Seine

Painting Alfred Sisley.

FAGIN - Chapter 3 - Novella

The Q train emerged from the tunnel from Manhattan to cross the Manhattan Bridge. The subway car was crowded with 4 O'Click commuters. Standing room only. A young black poet ranted an indecipherable rap, weaving through the passengers, as his scrowcrow body snapped arms, legs, and shoulders to the 4/4 staccato timbali beat in his head. People gave Jass' moves room. Somee had seen his show before and held out dollars. He snatched the bills and nodded his thanks. Mid-bridge Jass hit the extro, as the train entered the Brooklyn tunnel.

"I'm bad, I'm bad, but I ain't no good."

Thirty seconds from the next stop Jass thanked the other passengers and threaded through the cars waving his left to distract attention from his cobra swift slip into two targeted backpacks belonging to oblivious phone texters.

Getting off the train his eyes met with an older white man in a black suit at the opening doors. His gaze was not that of casual interest. He man had clocked something. The old man's eyes were faster than Jass' hands. This was not good and the young man strofe onto the platform without turning around to check, if the old man was following him. He stripped off his shirt and slipped into a non-descript hoodie, then dropped on a Yankees lid, rendering him anonymous to most whites.

A Manhattan-bound A train was pulling into the station Jass ditched his previous shirt i to the trash. He struck the two ipads into his bag. The Q train's doors opened and his eyes left-righted the platform. No sign of the old man. He sat in the subway car and breathed easy.

(to be continued)

Jellyfish Stings

Summering along the Cite D'Azur Krove was subjected to the lash of jellyfish tenacles. Painful red welts rose on his forearm. A French friend suggested dabbing the affected area with vinegar and a guest from New York said, "The boys at Riis Park used to pee on the welts."

"Well, I'm certainly not one of those boys." Krove resorted to the Gallic advice after consulting the internet.

Later that evening at dinner I reported to the gathering, "Peeing on blisters is derived from an old Russian wives' tale."

"Actually from the Stalin work camps," argued a Czech artist. Kenny's table was people by an international set. "The zeks didn't have any medicine and the formic acid in urine helped against the pain."

"Well, I'm glad I didn't succumb to the temptation of water sports for medicinal purposes."

His wife smirked, as all wives smirked hearing a husband's attempt at humor.

Krove smiled and poured himself a glass of wine, for it too was a better cure than pee.

The Neponsit Homes Eternal

The Neposit Homes overlooked Riis Park Beach. Originally constructed as TB wards and later serving as mental wards and finally converted to a home for local seniors. I recalled sunning naked beneath those windows in 1978 with Sharon Mitchell after a long night into the dawn. The old ladies shouting kind words to us in appreciation of youth. The old men just voyeured with a smile, as we fucked under a sheet.

That day Sharon tanned her Neapolitan Skin

My Hibernian flesh was burned to a crisp.

I survived as had the Neponsit Homes, but last year the city had the four buildings razed to the ground.

To make a parking lot

Better to let them join the dunes of the Rockaways.

My memories can picture the Neponsit Homes better that way.

July 20 1977 - Journal - Riis Park

A hot day in the city. I finished serving lunch at the executive dining room on Wall Street a little past 1pm and caught the A train to the Rockaway Beach after which a bus transported me to Riis Park, the gay nude beach. Hundreds of queers and lesbian sunbathed naked. Spread legs showing cocks and pussy. I laid down my tow and stripped off my jeans and teenshirt. The sun was brutal and I went into the Atlantic. Not so cold for July. I swam out to the waves and bodysurfed for a good fifteen minutes, then rode one growler to the shore and stood in the knee-high shallows.

My skin tingled from the plunge. The sun bronzed my skin and the breeze caressed my flesh.

A classic pervert in a white shirt and black shirts wandered into this water, still wearing black socks and black shoes. He was in his forties and his skin was as white as chalk. Creepy and not in a good way. He waded closer and studied my semi-erect penis, licking his lips. He comes even closer. I smell the AquaVelva and his breath stinks of gin.

"Do you want me to jerk you off?"

"No."

I'm not offended by the offer, but he's not my type either.

He wanders off to haunt some other prey.

An amusing incident.

It was around 4. I towel dry and get dressed jeans and a t-shirt sneakers. I catch the bus to 116th Street catch the A train. At a payphone I drop a dime and call Rose at the Socialist Monthly. We've been seeing more of each other without Robert. Her friend wants me, but he's not my type either. Rose answers the phone.

"I'm the only one here. I want you to come over. I'm working a little late. How long do you think you'll take."

"About an hour."

The train is in the station. The air conditioning is a relief. The subway crosses Broad Channel and soon speeds through Brooklyn. I read the New York Times into the city. I get off at 14th Street over to the Socialist Review and take the elevator upstairs.

Rose is at the reception desk. She is wearing a tube top and tight jeans over her thin body. Her curly caramel hair falls to her shoulders like a Jewish verson of Jane Fonda i. KLUTE

"Anyone here?" The office was the entire floor. It sounded empty.

"No, it's after 5. Everyone went home for the day. It's just you and me." She stood up and locked the front door to the left-wing publishing house. The air is stale and I hold her from behind. She smells like revolution.

"You smell like the Atlantic. Come with me "

She grabs my hand and hauls me back into the book stacks

"There's no one here, but me and you."

"What about the FBI eavesdroppers?" The government hated Socialists. I was more an anarchist.

"Let's give them a show."

"Good."

I undo my belt and tugged down my zipper, then pull down my pants. Rose drops to her knees and sucks my cock. It's already hard.

"Salty."

"I was at Riis Park."

"I can taste it."

She deepthroats my cock, while fondles my balls. I've shaved them smooth. She fists my cock. My hand grabs her hair and pushes her head onto my erection. Deeper. Rose doesn't gag nor pull away. Saliva drips from her lips onto my thighs. Her tongue flutterd beneath my shaft. I start to feel like I want to come and so does she.

Rose stands and gives me a kiss.

"Your cock tastes of the sea. Your balls too. I want you in me "

The twenty year-old pulls down her pants and steps out of them bare ass. Like me she isn't wearing any underwear. I hadn't expected that I finger her pussy. It's dripping wet.

"Fuck me from from behind "

She turns and guides me into her vagina. Taking all of my cock. She's very wet and very warm. I fight the urge to come and thrust harder. Again and again.

I pulled back both her hands behind your back. Her face on communist books of Marxism, she moaning, "Fuck me. Fuck me."

I have no trouble with that and she moans sighing, "Do it now. Do it now "

I spurt a load inside her and she shudders with a groan.

"Ooo, your cum in me "

I withdraw and sperm drips down her thighs.

"Lick the cum from my skin. I want it on my tits. "

I kneel and suck the cum and then tongue her pussy tasting her and more of my cum. I don't swallow. I try to push my fist in her cunt. It's too small, but she shakes in the throes in orgasm. " I stand.

She opens her nouth. We kiss and she takes all the cum in her mouth, then break away to dribble the semen onto her small breasts.

The gobs of cum melt like pearls and her palms wipe it over her breasts.

"That was good."

"Same here " My cock is still hard

"That was really good."

"For me too."

"Do you want to go up to Central Park and watch some Shakespeare?"

"If we fuck in the bushes afterwards I'm Your Man

"I still have some work to do. Go to the Corner Bistro meet you there."

I grab THE OPEN VEINS OF LATIN AMERICA.

We get dressed and kissed at the elevator. Both of us tasting of cum. It was a good plan. The beer is cheap there.

Screech Beach

Back in the 70s this building housed the insane. The wards overlooked the nude beach at Riis Park. I loved lying on the sand and hearing them yell at naked people on Screech Beach.

All gone now.

The mad and the naked on Screech Beach.

Burning A Draft Card Never

After the 1963 assassination of JFK, the United States became more embroiled in the Vietnam civil war.

Support for our involvement was widespread, however according to Wikipedia a twenty-two year-old conscientious objector, Gene Keyes, setting fire to his card on Christmas Day 1964. While the federal government declared the destruction of a draft card a prison able crime. From 1965 to 1973 over 25,000 young men set their draft cards afire.

In 1968 I tried to join the US Marines at 16. My Uncle Jack had served as a combat USMC lieutenant in Korea. The recruiter at Lower Mills, Boston said I was too young to join, but to return the following year when I turned 17. I wasn't interested in fighting the Viet Cong, but getting out of my hometown on the South Shore and away from a Catholic education under the Black Robes.

In May of 1969 I returned as requested. The same recruiter gave me a parental permission slip for a seventeen year-old. My mother, despite being a virulent anti-communist, refused the signature and I was stuck in that town.

In June 1970 I received my draft card and draft lottery number. A very low 96 and the Pentagon had almost a half-million troops in that involvement with no sign of the promised peace. I went to a local college and grew my hair long.

In 1972 then an anti-war hippie I failed Multivariable Calculus in my sophomore year of university. Failing out of college meant loss of my student draft deferment. My Selective Service # was low. 96. An F meant I was Vietnam bound. Professor Remy Marcou took pity. His daughter was my friend and he passed me with a D- on the promise that I drop my math major. Thusly I was spared from the slaughter.

I never burned my draft card, but protested the War as I now protest the current Endless War.I still remember seeing you on the floor outside a BC cafeteria and asking you”What are you doing” Your answer :” I am a dead Vietnamese peasant,sssh” I stepped over you and went to lunch.

I still have it,

ps I left Boston in 1976 never to return, but I named my son Fenway.

1 + 1 = 2 Circa 1972

The simple addition of 1 + 1 is the first math learned by children. Addition is followed by subtraction, division, and multiplication. The nuns at Our Lady of the Foothills believed in the power of rote education and each student was expected to memorize the math tables from 1 to 12. Fingers and toes aided the learning process. They were the only calculator available to students in the early 60s.

Progress was measured by perfection in reciting the math tables. Mistakes were rectified by a sharp rap of the knuckles to the boys. The girls were threatened with harsh words. Kyla Rolla and I competed for top honors from 6th to 8th grades. I won a scholarship to an all-boys high school run by brothers. My score in the diocesan math contest was 2nd best. Kyla was # 1, but she refused her reward.

Eight years of nuns had been more enough for her and she opted to attend the town high school. My request to join Kyla. It was rejected by my mother. She had hopes that I might be a priest. My father didn’t care either way as long as I received a good education. He was an electrical engineer for New England Telephone and agreed with the United Negro College fund commercial that a mind was a terrible thing to waste.

My prowess in math seemed a fluke throughout high school. My grades in Algebra, Geometry, and Calculus were mediocre, but I surprised my teachers and parents with a high math mark in the SATs for college entrance. A Boston Catholic college granted me early acceptance as a math major. My classmates wore thick glasses. None of them played sports. I was cursed as a geek. Kyla Rolla knew better. She was the best cheerleader at the town school. We were going steady. To her I was never a geek.

Four years on top of six grammar school years had exhausted my tolerance for religious education. I had been an atheist since age eight. It was time to quit pretending to believe in God.

I didn’t feel ready for college and asked my mother to sign papers to join the Marines. I was a seventeen year-old senior in April of 1970. She tore up my enlistment papers. Without her consent I was stuck in my hometown, which was even a worse fate than having to study math for the rest of my life.

If I wasn't going to be a priest, she was determined that I would be Isaac Newton. He had discovered gravity under an apple tree and she baked a great apple pie. Everything in the universe was linked by synchronicity.

"You're going to college.” My mother's edict was final. She chose the school. Kyla and I broke up after she heard about my next step into Catholic education. Her last words to me were 'momma’s boy'.

Who was I to defy my mother?

Not having a scholarship I supported myself as a taxi driver. My early Calculus classes started at 9. I finished driving at 2am. There weren't enough hours from the time I fell asleep till the alarm clock rang at 8am for a proper night’s rest. My grades suffered from the exhaustion and pot smoking. I scrapped through freshman year with Cs. I wasn’t so lucky in 1971.

My professor in Multivariable Algebra was a genius. The bald forty-five year-old in a soiled suit calculated missile trajectories in his head. Professor Rene Marcuse had a permanent slouch from drawing formulae on a chalkboard. His shirt cuffs were covered with ink integers.

Air Force officers sat in his class. The young men in uniform were missile acolytes from SAC. They dreamed of nuclear war and Mutual All-Out Destruction. I was a hippie peacenik. We had nothing in common other than a desire for the professor’s daughter. The skinny brunette was cute for an egghead. We smoked pot together. The soldiers had no chance, but neither did I.

Renee was in love with abstract mathematics. Her parents expected her to transfer to MIT. Both colleges were close to home, but here the tuition was free thanks to her father's position at the college.

That autumn I devoted more time to driving taxi and demonstrating against the war than classes. My grades suffered across the board. After mid-terms I attended one math class. It was a recipe for failure and I showed up at the final with no knowledge of Linear Algebra.

"Where have you been, Mr. Smith?" The professor was surprised to see me.

"I’ve been busy.” The other students snickered at my appearance. I had no scholarship and was forced to work nights double behind the wheel of a Checker Cab. My eyes were as red as deviled ham.

"I thought you withdrew from the class.”

“Withdrew?" This was a new concept.

"Yes, when you feel challenged by a course, you withdraw, but it's a little too late for that. Have you even read the book?"

It had a blue cover.

"A few times this week."

The professor motioned for me to to approach him.

"And you still want to take the test?" His voice was low. "I’ve seen your record. You're failing German."

"Ich weiss." My stutter had trouble with German and even more trouble with speaking with my superiors in English. "I was failing. After yesterday's test I have a D+."

"Why do you insist on taking such difficult courses?"

"Ich weiss nichts." I mostly did what people wanted me to do.

"I don’t know isn’t an answer."

"I still want to take the test."

"Why?"

"To find out if my reading the book three times was enough to score a passing grade."

"That would be a miracle, because no one reads the book."

"Why not?" I had read it three times in the taxi. It had a plot about the mist of mathematical mystery. The ending was meant to be clarity. I still saw the fog.

"Because it's unreadable."

"No, it's poetry to decipher by segments Math is poetry. If you don’t hear the poetry, you don't hear the music." Bob Dylan was my first poet. GATES OF EDEN was on the flip side of LIKE A ROLLING STONE. Neither song mentioned math. "Let me take the test. I bet I can score a 50."

"That's still a failing grade and if you also fail German you'll be thrown out of college and drafted into the Army."

"I'll enlist in the Marines."

"The Marines." The professor looked over my shoulder at the Air Force officers. "Why?"

"Not to fight for my country or the flag or democracy, but just to get out of my hometown and see the world, even if bullets were my welcome to Viet-Nam."

"How bad can it be here?"

"You don't wanted to know." Boston was a racist city. I fought my old schoolmates constantly. They considered me a 'race traitor'.

I tell you what, if you get a 50, I'll give you a C+."

"It's a deal." I took a test book from the professor. His daughter smiled at me. The Air Force officers in the class sneered at me, as if they suspected I had a low draft status. They were right. My SSS # 96, which added up to 15 and then again 5, which had to be a lucky # somewhere in the world.

The exam lasted two hours. I answered every question from the shreds of my memory. I fabricated a formula proving the speed of light wasn't an absolute in a universe of infinite possibilities. The bell rang to terminate the test and I handed my paper to the professor. His daughter and I walked into the corridor. Hundreds of students filed from other classrooms.

"How you think you did?" Renee had a sweet voice. We had never kissed other than to shotgun a joint. She smelled of patchouli.

"As good as anyone who never attended class." I hoped my formula would save me from expulsion. Christmas was around the corner and while I didn't believe in God, I always hold a place in my heart for Santa Claus. "What about smoking some weed."

"All my tests are done." Renee shrugged with satisfaction. She was a straight A student.

"Mine too."

We left the college and boarded the trolly at Chestnut Hill. We got off in front of Concannon and Sennett's. The bar had pinball, Mexican food, quarter beers, and a bar painting of a naked woman riding a pink elephant. Most of my friends were celebrating the end of exams. I drank with Renee. She didn't comment about my expression. I felt like I had buried my puppy.

"Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

"Yes, tomorrow is another day." I ordered two more beers.

After seven 'Gansetts there was no more tomorrow, until I woke up in Renee’s bed. The covers were soft. Snow was falling outside the window. A cold draft was seeping through a gap. We were two warm bodies, but neither of us should have been naked.

I remembered her saying something about living with her parents. Teddy bears were lined against the wall. Posters of the Jefferson Airplane were nailed to the wall. This was no dorm. It was the professor's house. I poked Renee's arm.

"What?" She snuggled into me with a feline purr.

"Are we at your parents' house?"

"Yes, but they"re cool with me having friends over." Her breasts were soft as marshmallow.

"Are they downstairs?"

“Yes, and my mother will make you breakfast if you want.”

"That’s very cool, but I'm not that cool." I slipped out of bed and picked up my clothing. “Would you mind if I left by the window."

“It’s the third floor.”

“I was a long-jumper in high school.” 19 feet 3 inches had been my personal best, but that leap was horizontal and not a dead drop from 15 feet, then again I didn't believe in the absolutism of gravity. "I'll call you later. We can meet at Concannon's. This time we go to my place."

"Do what you want?" She was happy either way and I jumped from the window into the branches of a pine. They slowed my descent and I stuck the ground with my feet. I tasted copper in my teeth like someone had bastinadoed my toes.

"Nice landing."

"They are all are if you can walk away from them." I struggled to not limp through the snow. I ducked under the kitchen window. The professor was speaking with his wife. He yelled for Renee. I ran into the woods and caught a taxi to my cold-water apartment in Bug Village. There was no passing that exam or German. I was heading to boot camp at Camp Lejeune.

Results for the exam were posted a week before Christmas. Somehow I had passed German with a C+. The professor like my cosmic take on Kafka's DAS URTEIL and accusation that cockroaches were a secret word for Nazi.

Renee and I approached her father's office. The test results of Linear Algebra were tacked to a corkboard. Professor Rene stood at the door. His daughter squeezed my hand. Her score was at the top of the list. Mine was at the bottom.

15 was a long way from 50.

"Oh, oh."

"I'll speak to my father."

"Don't bother. My fate is my fate. I'll see you at my place."

She kissed me on the cheek. I was getting used to patchouli. The professor said, “Enter.”

I followed him inside and he sat at a desk piled with official papers. Each was marked TOP-SECRET. Renee’s father covered them with a book on Experimental Dimensionalism. I would not be reading it in Vietnam.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to thank you for letting me take that test."

"Why so?"

"It proved that I don't belong in Math or college."

"You're only partially right about the first, but not the second. Your treatise of Einstein not taking into account hod rod speeders was very amusing as well as the premise that the speed of light only pertains to the speed of light."

"Infinity opens up the highway."

"If I gave you a passing grade in this course, would you drop your Math major?"

"Don't bother. My fate is my fate." "I never said anything about us. I'll see you at my place."

She kissed me on the cheek. I was getting used to patchouli. The professor said, “Enter.”

I followed him inside and he sat at a desk piled with official papers. Each was marked TOP-SECRET. Renee’s father covered them with a book on Experimental Dimensionalism. I would not be reading it in Vietnam.

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to thank you for letting me take that test."

"Why so?"

"It proved that I don't belong in Math or college."

"You're only partially right about the first, but not the second. Your treatise of Einstein not taking into account hod rod speeders was very amusing as well as the premise that the speed of light only pertains to the speed of light."

"Infinity opens up the highway."

"By the way that was quite a jump from Renee's window."

"The trees broken my fall."

"So if I gave you a passing grade in this course, would you drop your Math major?"

“In a heartbeat.” I shook his hand with elation pounding through my heart. Vietnam was on the other side of the world. Renee was waiting at my apartment. She was into me for the holidays. Next semester she transferred to MIT. I changed my major to economics and minored in history. My grades improved, but not enough to graduate with honors.

1972 was the end of my math career and I haven't opened a math book since then, although I have learned that western man didn’t come up with the concept of zero until well into the Second Millennium, while the Mayans always had zero or Pohp for their 20-based numeral system.

Still I don't have to use my fingers for long math and neither does man's best friend.

"If you think dogs can't count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them." Phil Pastoret.

Arf Arf Arf equals three, especially when 1 + 1 = 2.

In the end everything is just simple math.

January 15 1987 - Journal

PLATOON has been a bigger hit than Willem Dafoe thought its completion and the film has garnered nominations for Director Oliver Stone and Willem as best supporting actor for his portrayal as the saintly Sergeant Elias. I've never been to war. I've fought on the streets many times. A man once shot at me in Paris, when I was the doorman about the Bains Douches. The thick glass windows stopped both bullets.

The director Oliver Stone had served in Vietnam. I had protested the war starting in 1969. I saw APOCALYPSE NOW Francis Ford Coppola's vision of Joseph Conrad's IN THE HEART OF DARKNESS first show first day got the Ziegfeld theater. The movie was highly anticipated by the hardcore film crowd and as soon as we heard the helicopters overhead in the opening scene. everyone in the audience was dold that this eas as close to real as it got in a theater.

The same for PLATOON.

The 1959 movie PORK CHOP HILL showed the horrors of the Korean War and in 1986 PLATOON achieved the same for our Vietnam involvement to the American public eleven years after the Fall of Saigon. The movie just told it how it was to those who had not been there. As a war protestor I can't say this is so the Willem's three-angle bump off at the end is how it was and I missed out on something that horrifyingly grand.

At 17 I tried to enlist in the Marines not to fight commies, but just to get out of my hometown south of Boston. I hated nbot so much the town as the narrow-minded inhabitants, but I'm glad my mother refused to sign the enlistment papers.

I would not be who I am today, if I had. Maybe better maybe worse maybe just the same.

In March Willem will go out in Hollywood for the Oscars with Liz and his son Jack. Certainly in evening wear. I'm sure we'll talk to him announcement of the nominees for best male supporting actor. I couldn't happen to a bettet friend. One who has become a household name as much as Ivory soap. He'll transform him from a boy from Milwaukee to a global star all around the world but I know his heart won't get juiced up with ego.

Last week I asked him about his new film SAIGON.

"For once I don't die and I get to kiss a nun."

Sounds good to me.