Central Park Boat Pond 2024

October 7th 19 Autumn settles on the boat pond Central Park trees Green to Orange to Yellow On the pond To radio control sloops race through fallen leafs__ An imitation America cup Both sailing douth Driven on a crisp northwesterly___ Central Park Not the East Village Rosy red cheek children Race around the pond At Arm's Reach From four nannies Three young mothers I remember my youth Change of seasons Summer to autumn I remember the Wind Through the trees Of the Blue Hills Like then All the colors So special The blue of the sky The white of the clouds Silver and gray too And the trees___ Working the color spectrum From Green yellow to red Under The strong sunlight Hearing the children's laughter Remember mine And my mother's laughter So long ago in our backyard In the Blue Hills. Laughter Same as Central Park Forever young___

Friday The 13th

From 2012

The USA has been fighting a decades-old war against Al-Quada.

At one time its founder, Osama Bin Ladin had been our ally in the insurgency against the Soviets in Afghanistan. His family had ties to power brokers in Washington. Bin Laden's schism with the West began in 1990 with the stationing of foreign troops on the holy soil of Saudi Arabia after Gulf War I. At odds with the royal family OBL sought refuge in Sudan and allied himself with several Arab militant groups aiming to overthrown the no-secular dictatorships of the Middle East as well as any kingdoms backed by the West.

With the collapse of the Soviet Empire, the USA re-assessed the threats to its power and identified Al-Quada as a lynchpin of the widening cabal. The Luxor massacre in 1997, his soldiers aid to the Taliban, and the 1998 U.S. Embassy bombings proved the seriousness of his fatwa against the West and the FBI placed the Yemeni-born terrorist on the Top Ten Most Wanted list along with Whitey Bulger, the infamous Southie gangster.

The CIA reported throughout the summer of 2001 that OBL was funding a scheme to launch hijacked airliners at targets in the United States. George W Bush ignored the danger and his staff didn't even bother to read an August 6, 2001 report entailing the plot. America paid heavily for that blase attitude on 9/11.

The FBI upgraded his status to Most Wanted # 1.

The Bush regime never came close to capturing or killing the fugitive. His ghost haunted America. He was reputedly living under the aegis of the ISI, Pakistan's secret service operation. The full weight of US power could neither bring him to justice dead nor alive.

On May 2, 2012 several teams of Navy SEALS infiltrated Pakistan to attack a guarded compound several kilometers from that country's military academy. In the ensuing firefight Osama Bin Laden was executed by a double tap. He was unarmed at the time. His corpse was evacuated to a US aircraft carrier and after a swift religious rite his body was dumped into the sea. President Obama watched the entire operation via satellite after a night of entertaining reporters with a satirical riposte against the GOP at the White House Correspondents dinner.

"The order was to kill him."

The USA and its allies rejoiced at the news of his death. The Taliban and many in the Arab world doubt the USA could bring down the superstar of terror. Revenge has been promised against the West. The GOP has yet to congratulate the president on this successful mission and 16% of fat white men still believe that Barrack was born outside the USA.

Can't a brother get a break?

Food Superstitions in Thailand

From 2008

Thais have more superstitions than the Irish and some of them are devoted to food, since it's their third greatest love behind having fun and sleep.

Here's a short list of don't.

Eating a double banana will give a woman twins, which must be tough for those showgirls doing the banana tricks at go-gos.

Eating before your elders will reincarnate you as a dog. This rule is waved for disasters and fast food restaurants.

Eating food without rice will give you rickets.

Eating salt under a tree will kill the tree.

Eating other people's food without permission will swell your throat, so schnorrers beware. Schnorrer is a Yiddish term for people who eat of another person's plate without permission. I'm sure there's lots of Yiddish superstitions too.

Eating a kids' left-overs will make them naughty.

Eating before monk during the day will turn you into a ghost.

Eating corn with the flu will raise your temperature.

Never eat all the rice on your evening plate. Leave a little for the ghosts.

Eating chicken feet will give you bad handwriting. My wife loves chicken feet. Yech.

Eating chili sauce from a mortar bowl will give your kid big lips.

Eating turtles will make you walk slow. Eating chicken feet make me sick.

The last is about eating dog. I've feasted on dog in Indonesia. It doesn't taste like chicken. feet. It's actually delicious, but Thais think if you eat it, then you will be possess by the dog's spirit. Arf Arf.
<>Is that such a bad thing?

For a related article click on this URL

http://www.mangozeen.com/friday-the-13th-7-13-2007.htm

Friday the 13th Umphang

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The date had nothing to do with ladyboys.

Although with Ozzie you can never be sure.

Other well-known numerical phobias

Never sit at seat #10 at a poker table.

Always wear red underwear when gambling.

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

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

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

Always enter and leave a casino through the same door.

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

Don’t count your money during a poker session.

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

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

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

Never touch someone’s shoulder while he is gambling.

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

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

Nothing really bad happened this Friday the 13th.

At least not yet.

48D Long Freedom

From 2022

I loved the old Times Square.

Now it's a tourist trap waiting the rebirth of a generation of vicious Fagins, the criminal kingpin of Charles Dickens' OLIVER TWIST.

I have more respect more respect for the ruthless thieves of the 70s than the XXXXL tourists stuffing their faces with fast food on the ruins of Forty-Deuce.

Now the Times Square Association complains about the near-nude buskers such as Ms. 48D Long as eyesores.

I love her.

And I hate squares.

And so does the past.

BET ON CRAZY / Naked Women

Published 2007

Rough diamonds are predominantly mined from volcanic vents in Africa, Australia, Russia, and Canada. After that process separated into parcels for the London sight-holders, who have the stones cut in Antwerp, Israel, or India. The finished products are divvied out to various diamond brokers and then brought over to various diamond markets across the world. Over 80% of the diamonds sold in the USA pass through Manhattan's West 47th Street, making the block between Fifth and Sixth Avenues a crossroads of the world for jewelry. kmv c Sapphires and rubies from the Orient are transported here from Hong Kong and Thailand, while Israelis brave the dangers of Columbia for precious emeralds. Having handled jewelry for over ten years, I sometimes act as if I were dealing with chopped liver at a deli counter. We are, however, occasionally blessed with something to get excited about, an opportunity to deal with truly valuable gems.

Several years back my boss and good friend, Richie Boy, was introduced to a big player from the West Coast. A CEO of several companies, this man had expressed interest in purchasing a Christmas gift for his mistress, a blonde from Palm Beach who was married to another millionaire. Botox preserved her beauty, although her eyes told her age.

The call was for a very rare ruby. It had to be over five carats, a natural from Burma, internal perfect, and the color of the blood seeping from a pigeon's nose. The vein, not the artery. In his own way he was a bit of a poet.

Richie Boy phoned several dealers and within a day came up with a stone. It wasn't cheap. The dealer flatly told us, "875,000 dollars and I don't want to hear any bitching about the price."

The dealer bought the stone down. It was not big, but the color was a sublime blood red hue, and clean. Not a single flaw. Richie Boy asked me, "What do you think?"

"It doesn't look like a house in Montauk with a beach view, but what do I know?"

Richie Boy agreed and decided to get two diamond necklaces for back-up. He then called the client, who said he was interested, but wanted us to meet him at his tenth floor suite at the St. Regis Hotel.

Richie Boy's father was from Brownsville, very old school, and he immediately announced that we were being set up. Neither of us disagreed, since we would be carrying over a million dollars in jewelry into a hotel room to meet people we didn't really know.

His father wanted to kabosh the entire deal. Richie Boy, however, loaded his 9mm. I told him to put it away. Richie hadn't shot the weapon in years.

"You pull a gun and you have to use it. You don't, then the robbers will." "You carry it." Richie offered me the 9mm.

"No weapons." I put the gun back in the safe.

"The goy is right. The merchandise is insured. If we get robbed it counts as a sale." Manny was right, then again he was 100% right about 7% of the time

I rolled a newspaper.

"You're bringing reading material." Manny shook his head.

"No, it's a weapon."

"Yes." Richie had seen me break someone's nose at the Underground disco with a magazine. "He knows how to use it."

"My heroes. Try and sell something."

Richie stuck the jewelry inside his suit coat. "How do I look?"

"Like one boobs is bigger than the other."

His father swore we were crazy. He was right, but said, "Sie gesund."

With his blessing we set off for the St. Regis Hotel. We arrived at the hotel without incident. Two guests tried to get on the elevator with us, but both Richie Boy and I glared a warning for them to take the next car up. He pressed the button for the seventeenth floor.

There Richie and I walked down the corridor like we were being set up. All senses on 10. reaching the customer's room, Richie rang the bell. A woman laughed inside and several seconds later the door opened. Both of us stared, because the blonde wasn't wearing any clothes. Her boyfriend was on the couch, in a bathrobe.

"Lady, could you move away from the door," I asked in a low voice, gesturing with the NY Times.

The tanned middle-aged man frowned, "Who are you?"

People like him weren't used to taking orders.

"No offense." Richie took the two diamond necklaces from his jacket. "He's the protection for these."

He draped the diamonds on the woman's bare neck and she went over to the man's side. Even though they weren't dressed I still didn't trust them, but by the end of an hour Richie had sold one of the necklaces. We took a cashier's check for more money than either of us could earn in several years, but Richie wasn't happy, because he hadn't sold the ruby.

"There was no way you were going to sell that stone," I said.

"And why not?"

"Because no man, and I don't care how rich he is, will buy a million-dollar gift for another man's wife," I said.

"Don't be so negative," he said. "You never know."

And that is the truth.  

Justifiable Homicide

Last weekend early in the morning a lone gunman in a hoodie walked up to Brian Johnson, the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, America's largest health proxy, outside a Manhattan Marriott hotel and shot the chief executive three times with a pistol. All chest shots. The assailant jumped on an Ebike and fled into Central Park. Mr. Johnson was declared DOA at Mount Sinai Hospital. Elon Musk was outraged by this attack on a corporate leader and according to Wikipeida public officials, which included Minnesota governor and former Democratic vice president nominee Tim Walz and Senator Amy Klobuchar, expressed dismay and offered condolences to Thompson's family.

In contrast, many social media users shared their contempt for Thompson, UnitedHealthcare, and the American health insurance system. The Washington Post said that many people mocked Thompson's death and others felt satisfaction Luigi Mangione came from a well-connected family and graduated from U Penn in 2020. A member of the upper class unlike his victim, however according to the BBC he spent time in a co-living surfing community in Hawaii called Surfbreak. Sarah Nehemiah, who knew him then, told CBS he left due to his back injury which had worsened from surfing and hiking pointing to a possible denial of treatment by his health insurer.

Denials by the 'health care' companies resulted in 68,000 deaths last year. Not murder, but a culling of the working class. Of course Universal Health Care threatens the USA with godless socialism as opposed to the capitalist brutalism of UnitedHealthcare. Thankfully I have Medicare and Medicaid thanks to LBJ, who we will never forgive for buying into the Brightest and Best's Domino Theory that convinced him that we needed to fight the Commies in Vietnam, so the CIA and Mafia could control the heroin trade.

Brina Thompson was not a member of the upper-class.

Luigi Mangione shot a capitalist lackey rather than a member of the generational wealth class. His father was a grain elevator worker. His family lives in an upper class town in Minnesota. NOt the Hamptons or Palm Beach. Brian Thompson was strictly following orders for his overlords, pushing up denials from 9% in 2019 to almost 22% in 2023 leading to a good portion of the deaths of 68,000 Americans denied health care by the insurance companies. Yekaterinburg is the only course of redressing inequality. Of course everyone succumbs to the lure of 'Who wants to be a billionaire?'

Many of my liberal freinds are critical of this young man striking at the hear t of the health care. The same people who istened to the Beatles sing in revolution # 9, "If you are talking about destruction, then leave me out."

And these same people wonder why the working class has deserted the Democratic Party.

William Hazlitt "Hypocrisy is not a way of getting back to the moral high ground."

Personally I see Yekaterinburg 1917 as the only solution to the Ultra Rich, unless they opt to redress their sins by spending all their wealth.

This shooting is not the revolution, just a long gunman striking their target.

ps Luigi Mangione is not related to the trumpeter Chuck Mangione.

The Beauty of Doing Nothing

Today from a European time zone a friend Serge Kruger, famed Paris bon vivant, mused on Facebook, "Luckily I like to do nothing."

Je suis avec lui 100%.

According to Wikipedia the English borrowed ennui from French in the 1660s. Ennui came from an Old French word meaning “displeasure.” Ennui was also related to the word annoy, but it really is just a wistful listlessness. Ennui was adopted as the esprit total of the ancien regime whose lives as oppressors over the people of France had become meaningless after Louis XIV

Moi, j'adore de faire rien. Une vrai plaisir

Walter Richard Sicker - Ennui c.1914

To be silent the whole day long, see no newspaper, hear no radio, listen to no gossip, be thoroughly and completely lazy, thoroughly and completely indifferent to the fate of the world is the finest medicine a man can give himself. - Henry Miller

Of course we are all a bundle of contradictions and Miller wrote in Tropic of Canceer, "“In Europe one gets used to doing nothing. You sit on your ass and whine all day. You get contaminated. You rot.”

Definitions of ennui - pathetic, careless, dull, inattentive, indifferent, lackadaisical, lethargic, passive, sleepy, tired, and weary.

I would addd Slothful, except I consider Sloth a blessing and no longer one of the Seven Deadly Sin.

LOVELY SLEEP by Peter Nolan Smith

Published 2013

The Thai people pride themselves in the purity of their language. Few English words have infiltrated the common lexicon. Dtam-ruaat is the word for police. The diphonic annunciation can confuse most farangs. I thought for years that Dtam-ruaat meant 'make blood', however make blood is spelled Dtam-leuuat with a falling accent on the last syllable.

Thai culture remains strong, however beer is beer in Thai as is pizza pizza, so foreigners don't starve to death in the hinterlands. 1150 is telephone number for Pizza. Pay the gas and the motorcycle delivery boy will drive to the most distant reaches of ban-nok ie the sticks.

Other commonly shared words are whiskey, taxi, sex, and WC for 'water closet', which along with pizza cover most human needs.

Two years ago I returned to New York from Bangkok via Narita Airport.

Twenty-seven hours from Soi 12 in Jomtien to Fort Greene in Brooklyn.

Most people would have taken several days to recover from such a trip. I needed money and showed up at work 10 hours after passing through customs at JFK.

I was exhausted from the trip, yet couldn't sleep and tried to explain to my son's mother why I couldn't sleep. My Thai was rudimentary and Mam was getting increasingly frustrated by my ignorance of her native language.

"You stay here many years. Why you not speak Thai good?"

"Because I'm a farang."

"I know that." She sounded like she was saying 'farang kee-nok'. I know we aren't as good as them, because I have lived in France and the Thais are the French of the Orient.

Their chauvinistic love for their country's traditions, food, and culture border on fanaticism and after residing in Thailand I have to admit that they aren't half-wrong. The only problem was that I had to move back to America.

New York to be exact.

It was where my job was.

The other side of the world and this week my body clock was off by twelve hours.

Day is night and night is day.

"I can't sleep," I explained to Mam over Skype.

"Go sleep."

"Khan Lak Ter. Last night I had a dream about staying in a house with no walls. It was in the middle of a rice paddy. Very beautiful. Made out of wood. You slept in bed and I held Fenway."

Fenway was our son. He was two years old. Every night his body spun on the bed like a clock. I slept like a stone with him.

"Good dream?" Mam was a firm believer in beauty sleep, however children steal sleep from their parents like a CIA rendition torturer. The theft gave them control. Fenway was no different from the rest of the young in their preparation to usurp the strength of their mothers and fathers.

"Not a good dream. I see men in the dark. They attack us. I wake up screaming." I live alone in the top floor apartment of a Fort Greene brownstone. The walls were thick. No one heard my terror. "A nightmare."

"Fan raai." A nightmare was scary in every language.

"Yes."

"Are you thuuk-phee-am?" Mam was horrified at the possibility that I had been possessed by an evil spirit or 'phee'.

"Not at all." I never scoffed the Thai belief in ghosts. I had been to the house of a 'maih moht'. Magic existed in the heart and soul of her country, however my dream was the harvest of several sleepless nights. My next attempt to clarify the reason for my insomnia pierce the language barrier.

"You mean 'jet lag'?"

"Yes, jet lag." The word was the same for Mam as it was for me.

"Can not sleep?"

"No."

"I understand now." She had never traveled outside of Thailand, so the effects of jet lag were a mystery.

"I can't sleep. Four nights now." The CIA used sleep deprivation to persuade secret prisoners to tell the truth. I had slept maybe ten hours since Tuesday.

"'Oht nawn' not good for old man." Mam was twenty-six. I was more than twice her age. Youth had a mission to take over the world. No one lived forever or not sleep forever.

"I'll fall asleep soon." I couldn't say when, but Mam cared about my health.

"Nom dee." She wanted me to reach a hundred years old. Thais hated being alone.

And at the tender age of close to sixty, so do I.

We have a couple of words for loneliness in English.

"Never want to say good-bye." Barry White sang those words.

And I feel the same way too.

Like a man without a soul.

TORA TORA TORA 2011

published 2011 Like JFK's assassination everyone of a certain age remembered where they were during the announcement of the Japanese attack on the US Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbor. Many had to ask, "Where's Pearl Harbor?"

This morning to commemorate their ignorance I posed the same question to younger people on the streets of Manhattan. Few of them had a clue other than two Japanese punks who said it was a group from the 1970s.

"As we get old, we forget. As we get older, we are forgotten."

TORA TORA TORA

ps Pearl Harbor and The Explosions released 'Drivin' in November of 1979. I saw them perform their debut single somewhere. I think it was at CBGBs.

Collect Call to the After-Life

Published 2016

This summer my brother visited me in a dream. My deceased mother and I were sitting in a ramshackle cottage on Cape Cod. My brother said he was going to meet friends. He looked happy, as he ran out the door. It was a little too short, but I was happy to see him and so was my mother.

I hope he's having a good time.

ps In the photo from Dennisport Beach 1964 Michael Charles Smith is the smallest and I am the tallest of the boys.

Hawaii's Missile Threat

Published 2009

North Korea launched a Taepodong-2 rocket in the general direction on Hawaii. No sirens sounded in Pearl Harbor. The missile failed to achieve orbit, although the hardline worker state crowed about their propaganda "victory" on state TV and the state organ newspaper declared the test as a "historic event that sounded the cannon's roar of victory in building a great, prosperous, powerful nation."

President Obama was quick to threaten North Korea with a scathing rebuke from the UN Security Council, except African guest member Burkina Faso balked at criticizing the hermit state at the behest of its patrons, China and Russia.

GW Bush at the opening day of the Texas Rangers baseball game wasn't available for comment, for after his eight years as leader American school children no longer have hide under their desks in the event of a missile attack.

At 56 I can recall the nuns of St. Mary of the Foothill telling us to pray for our eternal souls during nuclear bomb attack tests.

"God will welcome you."

The Sisters of St. Joseph never indicated whether that welcome was to heaven or hell.

12/07/1960

Eighty-three years ago Japanese aircraft attacked the US Pacific Fleet. Nearly every capital ship in Pearl Harbor was sunk or severely damaged by bombs or torpedoes and the Pacific Ocean became a Japanese lake until the BattleMidway.

The next day President Roosevelt declared before Congress, "December 7th shall live forever as a day of infamy."

This morning I asked a score of NY teenagers what was special about December 7th.

"Today?"

"Yes."

"It's a Monday."

"No." I shook my head.

"It's the start of winter."

"No, that's December 21st."

I decided to give them a hint.

"It has something to do with Pearl Harbor."

"Where's that?"

"Hawaii, so you don't know that December 7th is Pearl Harbor Day or what happened that day?"

The group of high school students shrugged with disinterest.

"It's the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor."

"Are the Japanese Muslim terrorists?"

"No, the Japanese come from Japan?" I gave up on my attempt to comfirm that FDR's Day Of Infamy has receded into the mists of history, proving that America's blissful ignorance is a long-cherished national asset, but I know what December 7th means most to me. It was the birth date of my youngest brother, Michael. A day I remember better than most, because fifty-four years ago I was standing in the parking lot of Our Lady of the Foothills. It was recess time. The weather was cold for December. My classmates were kicking a big red ball for fun and warmth. Our family station wagon pulled up before the school’s front door. My father stepped out of the car. He waved for my older brother and I to join him. My younger sisters too. We were all in uniform.

"You have a baby brother," he proudly told us. The nuns appeared annoyed by his unapproved appearance, being fiercely protective of their authority. My father was a late convert to Catholicism. His faith was newborn and he ignored their glare.

"We have a brother?" Our mother had exhibited no sign of pregnancy over the past months and I was mystified by this potential immaculate conception.

"Yes. Michael. Your mother named him after your uncle." My father hugged my two sisters close. They were a little more than a year apart.

"The priest?" Uncle Michael was a monsignor for Cardinal Cushing. He had met my grandmother Nana at the Boston docks after her passage from Ireland at the tender age of 14.

Six years older than me in 1960.

"Yes, and he's going to baptized your brother at the church. Go get your things. Your mother wants you to see Michael."

The nuns protested his request to take us out of school, but my father's greatest love was for his children and we piled into the station wagon. The drive to Boston Lying-In Hospital took less than fifteen minutes. My father liked to drive fast.

Our small tribe entered our mother's hospital room. She was holding Michael in her arms. Nana was holding Padraic, the fifth of our brood. He was all of two. Our family was now six. A family of eight counting my mother and father.

"There goes my pony." My older brother whispered in my ear.

Year in and year out Frunk had requested a pony from Santa Claus. I never thought that he had a chance of getting one since my mother hated animals.

I stepped closer to the bed. The red-faced baby in my mother's arms looked more like a furless monkey than a human.

I touched his small hand. It was warm.

"Say hello to your brother." My mother beamed with a Madonna's love.

"Hi, Michael."

He was my baby brother that day and has been every day since.

Sadly Michael passed from this world in summer of 1995. I think of him often and my father's telling me that I had a baby brother. I still do have one, because December 7th is a day that will live forever in my memory as Baby Brother Day.

Michael Charles Smith RIP.

My baby brother is sorely missed by family and friends.

He would have been 54 today.

Forever young.

I'll raise a glass for Michael later.

He was my Pearl Harbor Boy and I'll never say to him or his ghost, "Sayonara."

Only.

Up the rebels, boyo.

THE MEANING OF PURE by Peter Nolan Smith

This is a video of my story THE MEANING OF PURE.

In 1995 I crosse the Himalayas and traveled to Benares.

Swimming in the Ganges washed away your sins.

My bath in the Mother of India was dedicated to my baby brother who had passed from AIDS earlier in the summer.

Michael Charles Smith comes to me in dreams.

He seems happy in the Here-After.

Eric Marciano made this video and I thank the Springfield native for his insight.

To see THE MEANING OF PURITY, please go to the following URL

https://vimeo.com/83326329

Torah Torah Torah

TORA TORA TORA was one of my mother's favorite films. She loved history and the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor burned bright in her memory. Her friends from Jamaica Plain enlisted in the Marines, Army, and Navy by the scores. Many of the them failed to return to Boston. Their bodies rest on islands across the Pacific. The 1970 film flopped at the box office. Hippies didn't want to see a war movie, but I went with my mother and father. She cried at the sinking of the Arizona. My father had joined the Army Air Force that next January in 1942 much like many young Americans volunteered for the armed forces after the 9/11 attacks.

"The title TORA TORA TORA was manipulated into TORAH TORAH TORAH for episodes of NYPD BLUE and MAGNUM P.I. This last week the power of the Torah was exalted by a very religious friend from Eastern Parkway. Rondell said proudly, "The Torah is one of the most important school books in Korea. Its truth is taught to many of the young."

"The Torah?" The five books of Moses form the backbone of Hassidic tradition. Christian accept the Pentateuch into their Old Testament and the Muslims regarded the ancient text to be the words of Allah. Korea was on the other side of the world. "What's the Torah have to do with Korea?"

"The Korean ambassador told Israeli TV that Talmud study is a mandatory part of the country’s school curriculum and almost every home in South Korea boasts a Korean version of the Talmud, and mothers commonly teach it to their children, who call it the "Light of Knowledge." He appreciates the value of Jewish knowledge. Koreans love education.

"I know many Koreans are Christian. I had several baptized in my youth." Three to be exact. I had paid the nuns at Our Lady of the Foothills $45 to name the three orphans under missionary care. "They are also prone to Evangelism."

"Evengelism?" Rondell was unfamiliar with Christian subsects.

"Born-Again Christians."

At the mention of these words my co-worker turned her head. Ava is from Brazil. She believes in the God of the Only Faith. Ava prays for my soul, for I am a devout non-believer.

"Yes, they are the ones who back Israel 100%, for without Israel there can be no Apocalypse, which will bring back the Messiah to battle the forces of Satan. Ava, do you have a Torah in your house?"

"Yes, it's called the Book of Light." Ava is a good mother. We are friends. She went back to work on her baby's photos. She has a church event coming this Easter weekend.

"Thanks." I respect her faith. In this country the Constitution guarantees the freedom of religion and from religion. "The Talmud gets around and so does the Koran."

"Not according to the Korean Ambassador. He says no Koreans read it, because it's a book of Islam."

"That may be true." I have traveled through Korea's main airport on my many trips to Thailand. I have seen few Muslims in Inchoen Airport. No Jews either, but then you don't have to like pastrami to be Jewish. Rondell was ecstatic to have stumped me on this issue and I told him, "I'll have to get back to you."

"You do that."

"In the meanwhile have a good sedar."

We hugged as men equal in love of the world and I shouted TORAH TORAH TORAH after him. He pumped his fist in the air. I love Passover. It's a Jewish holiday and I don'tahve to go to work at the diamond exchange tomorrow.

Sometimes even a cruel god gets to be kind.

Nearly ten years ago, the Korea Times reported: “Interestingly, there are at least two different books currently sitting on Korean best-seller shelves that purport to explain the Jewish Talmud. The popularity of these books initially came as a surprise. But Koreans aren’t converting to Judaism. They read those books because Jews have gained a reputation for hard work and success, two things Koreans relate to well.”

Reports of Korean schoolchildren reading the Talmud – or at least stories thereof – have also been known for several years. One American teacher in South Korea related that in 2005, his elementary school students told him that as children, they had all read the Talmud, which they called the "Light of Knowledge."

When asked if they had also read the Koran, they burst into laughter, saying, "Of course not, that’s the Muslim book.”

TORAH TORAH TORAH, but I prefer a good pastrami sandwich from Katz’ Deli.

Throw in a cream soda and I’m in heaven on earth.

Day Of Infamy A La Thailand

"December 7th will live forever as a day of infamy." President Roosevelt predicted before Congress in his declaration of war on Japan.

Infamy in Thai is cheu sia and several years ago year I asked several Thais about Pearl Harbor. My question stumped them all and I repeated the question to several British friends, "What does December 7th mean to you?"

"Is it your birthday?"

Roosevelt's Day of Infamy has been losing its power to the more modern 9/11.

Even 9/11 meant little to Thais.

"9/11 New 7/11?" The corporation had announced a price increase on over 500 products.

"No. Not new 9/11." I didn't bother to explain about kreung-bins crashing into the World

Trade Towers or Japanese planes sinking the US Fleet. It was all so long ago and so much has happened in the meanwhile like the Red Shirt rebellion and Britney Spears getting divorced from K-Fed.

Pearl Harbor Day was not my birthday, but it was for my younger brother Michael and it always felt funny celebrating December 7th with a cake and candles.

My baby brother Michael didn't care.

"Makes it easy for people to remember my birthday."

12/7 will always be Michael Charlie Day for me.

Tora-Tora-Tora.

My mother loved that movie too.

ps few young Americans know its meaning either.

The Weight Of Books

Supposedly Karl Lagefeld's library at 7Rue de Lille in Paris contains 33,000 books. Regarding this photo many of them must be art books. The only publication heavier than an art books are fashion magazines due to heavier paper weights, such as 120–170 gsm (80–110 lb text) at least 2 pounds, but can range up to ten pounds. The March 2006 issue with Kate Moss on the cover weighed 1.140 kg, but then the heaviest object is the body of someone you have ceased to love.

Back in 1980 I had left a lovely female publisher from Maryland for a young nightclub waitress from the Upper West side. An acquaintance started dating my ex- and I was happy the two were happy together. One night at Underground on Union Square Doom apologized for stealing my girlfriend.

"It wasn't that way. I was glad you are with Elizaeth. She's too nice for me. Thank you for being with her." And I meant it. Elizabeth and I had met each other's parents. "You're an asshole."

"Maybe you are right, but congratulations anyway." I was in a good mood. The evening was for GQ. Drinks were free and I had received a weighty double-issue as a complimentary gift.

"Like you mean it, you asshole."

Doom was more an acquaintance than a friend, but I warned him, "Do yourself a favor, don't call me an asshole again."

I rolled the magazine in my hand. It was heavy.

"Why not?" Doom was high on blow. He had already tried to kill himself this year by burning himself. I had no interest in helping over the edge and began to walk away. He grabbed my left arm.

"You ass___"

I spun on my heels and swung the rolled magazine connecting with his nose. I hadn't been aiming my blow. I heard a crack and Doom collapssed to his knees, blood streaming from his nostrils. A bouncer helped him up and said, "I saw the whole thing. Go. I know Doom. He might call the police."

"I'm not a rat." Doom was still pissed at me. "You asshole."

I left the club and threw the GQ in the trash. Everyone who heard the story said I had overreacted knowing how fucked up Doom was on blow. They were right. I should have walked away, but I wasn't that kind of guy then.

Doom later successfuly hung himself. Elisabeth blamed my breaking his nose for his suicide. Maybe it was. People still talk about that confrontation, as do I. I don't read GQ anymore. My wardrobe is determined by hand-me-downs from the deceased. I have outlived all the dead.

"Cellphones will never replace a newspaper. You can’t swat a fly with a newspaper. – Pascha Ray – Traveler

ps I still go to anger management courses. or three elephants. I don't have a library anymore, but i do have an elephant's foot. Stumpy, lefto me by Andy Reese, a male hustler, who once accused me of theft to cover his guilt.

pps Lagerfeld's library has to weigh about 50,000 pounds.

Flock of Haircuts - The Orange Messiah

Almost a month has passsed since Donald Trump ousted the Democrats from the White House. His coalition of despicables, disguntled blue collar workers, devout evangelicals, Dixiecrats, neo-nazis, Hispanic fundamentalists, fat and bald men and their wives also won control of the House and Senate. His MAGA followers adored the seventy-eight year old, but while 99% of men globally comb their hair from right to left. I don't comb my hair at all. I occasionally rake my fingers through my mop. Not the President to be. Throughout the day Donald Trump sculps his sweep-over to cover thin spots post scalp reduction. Normally under control windy days are dangerous for his coif.

During the campaign Trump's hair seemed shorter. For all the devotion to the MAGA cause, no one mimicks his hair style.

Recently I listened to the Flock of Seagulls I RAN on Youtube. Seeeing Mike Score, the lead singer, I suddenly underssood the orignins of Trump's hair. I was surprised I hadn't realized it earlier, but this photo of Flock Of Seagulls at their peak says it all.

BY the way Friedrich Engels co-writer of DAS KAPITAL wrote, "Money is the only cure for baldness to a beautiful woman."

Here's an excerpt from LOSING RELIGION about my feelings on baldness.

The diocesan shrink had an office on the second floor. A chubby man in a black robe met me at the door.

“I’m Brother Bob. Please sit down.” He pointed to a pair of leather chairs and shut the door.

I sat and said nothing.

His head was covered by a thick mat of hair, whose color didn’t match his sideburns.

“We both know why you’re here.” Bob sat next to me. “I’ve read your file. I see this problem all the time, but it concerns the Cardinal when a gifted boy loses his faith. You were an altar boy and attended a few retreats for boys with a calling.”

I looked at the huge crucifix hanging on the wall and then out the window. The room was warm and the chair was too comfortable for a meeting about a young man’s soul.

“Do you believe the Bible?”

I remained silent. Any words could be used against me.

“Are you going to tell me why you don’t believe in God?” He leaned forward and his swollen hands rested on my knees.

“I have nothing to say.” I pushed his hands off my lap.

“The truth will set you.” His right hand righted his toupee on his head.

“Why should I tell the truth to a man who lies to himself about being bald.”

“Bald?” he gasped.

“Yes, and you’re wearing a rug.” I stood up and ripped the toupee off his skull.

“You’re damned.”

“You only believe in Jesus and pray that He will cure your baldness.” I threw the wig in his face and exited from the office.

I walked back to the Olds defiant in my lack of belief, until spotting my mother in the car. She was praying for my soul and my father stared into the snow distance, but I rejected the Holy Trinity, heaven, purgatory, hell, The Holy Eucharist, the infallibility of the Pope, the Blessed Virgin, and all the teaching of the Holy Roman Church.

At leasat Trump doesn't wear a rug, but it is a wonder.

Baby Powder Naked - Buster de Milo

5:15 am
June 23
Awake
After a dream of Buster Keaton
As Venus de Milo
In my bed
I look out the window
At the June sky
Cloudy
With patches of blue
Forecast of thunderstorms
I don’t want my feet to touch the floor
I don’t want to be awake
I Listen
The windows shut
Against the city
Yet
I hear the hum of millions of people.
I lie in bed
5:23am
Alone
To go back
To sleep
To dream
To be
Buster Keaton
As Buster de Milo
Knowing
Unlike life
We can’t repeat dreams
Except for nightmares.
For like life
We have no control over dreams.

According to Wikipedia The Venus de Milo is believed to depict Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, whose Roman counterpart was Venus. A fragment of an arm, a hand holding an apple, and two herms were also found alongside the original statue as well as other sculptural fragments found around the same time include a third herm, two further arms, and a foot with sandal.

Foto – Buster de Milo. Buster Keaton posing as the Venus de Milo in a promotional portrait, c. 1932.

Never MIA My Friends

Barney Johnson, David Russell, Philippe Brook et moi.

1990s.

The years were rough on this band. Barney I knew from Hurrah nightclub in the 1970s and and Philippe from Paris in the 1980s gone. Two years ago I came close to joining them and leaving David Russell, the youngest of us all, the only one of this quartet, but I died and came back to this both ways of this life. Everytime I walk down Canal Street to the 169 I look up at Barney's old apartment. He is always there. Whenever someone mentions Australia I visit Philippe. We are all such good friends and friends we remain until the end of eternity. And David. He is always still out there.

ps We are not the Flock of Seagulls or Flock of Haircuts although lead singer Mike Score was the only one with a Donald Trump coif.

ps he's now bald.

People slagged off the band. I saw them at the Ritz in NYC. They were great and I RAN still rocks even with that insipid drummer.

Blackout - Montauk # 37

Two hours past sunset
Ditch Plains
Montauk
Black out
Power down
Lights out
All lights out
No man light at all___
The above stars
Light the path through the Shagmoor
Cold 30 degrees cold
No wind
Through the trees
To the south
Below the bluff
Waves crashing on the beach___
No lights on the bluffs
Overhead
The Orion Nebula
1344 light years distance
From Earth___
Tonight
Boots crunch on the dark path
Eyes adjust to starlight
Deers sneak through the undergrowth
Silent
Orion rising over the eastern horizon
Once I knew the names of the stars
I've been lost in too many cities
Too many bright lights
Too many years of bright lights
I have lost my way
Through the stars I am not a spaceman
But I once came close___
Summer 1962
A suburb
South of Boston
I a ten year-old boy
Leave our split-level ranchhouse
Past midnight
My family deep asleep
Every house dark
Dead quiet
Out onto the back lawn
I lay on cut grass
Eyes straight up
Into the deep night sky
Beyond the bats
I
Hunting not for Soviet satellites
But a UFO
Waiting for the Aliens
To abduct me
I was ready
Willing
Able
To go to the stars
With strangers from Space
Leave behind this shitty suburb
Forever
To wander the galaxy
With Aliens
As an Alien to all of them__
They never came for me
And I cursed the stars
And the suburbs
And ET
Why didnt you take me?
I wanted to leave home____
To go to Orion
With Betelguese and Rigel
The Brightest stars
Amongst
Thousands of other stars
Ah, the Cosmos___
Tonight in Montauk like then
I am alone
No UFOs
Only jets bound to JFK
West of Montauk
No extraterrestrials in the sky
Only millions of stars in a blackout
My boots crunch on the dirt
Waves crash on the beach
And___
Orion rules the stars
Partnered with Gemini and Taurus
In the winter sky
I'm happy to be here
Ditch Plains
On a path lit by starlight
My fingers getting cold
Me stuck on Earth
The blue bright orb
In the quiet of Space
And south of me
The waves crashing on the beach___

Thai Cat Scratch Fever

Several villages in Thailand's Ang Thong province have reported a plague striking household cats dead. The cats basically starved to death and locals are now scared that this 'cat fever' or 'kai-wat me-ow' could spread to the human population. Medical authorities have found no threat, but cannot explain the fatal phenomena affecting over three hundred cats.

Birds, snakes, and rodents are enjoying a respite from the feline hunters, although dogs are despondent over the loss of their favorite animal to chase other than bicyclists.

In 1989 Barcelona cats suffered a similar decimation of their ranks.

The cause was not a disease, but a radio report erroneously stating that cats caused AIDS. The next morning thousands of cats or gatos were floating in the Catalan capitol's harbor. The Spanish government reassured the city that no one was in danger and within a week dead cats were no longer flotsam on the Costa de Brava, although another radio station responded to the hysteria by playing Ted Nugent's 1977 hit CAT SCRATCH FEVER every hour.

Ted Nugent, ex-Amboy Dukes guitarist and friend to Donald Trump, has never seen an animal he didn't think was worth shooting, except for the human kind, since he avoided the Draft during the Viet-Nam War.

"I got 30 days' notice of the physical. I ceased cleansing my body. Two weeks before the test I stopped eating food with nutritional value. A week before, I stopped going to the bathroom. I did it in my pants. My pants got crusted up."

Not throwing any stones at the Madman of Motor City, since I dodged the Draft by going to university. Soiling myself would have been cheaper.

By the way I've never heard of anyone eating cats on purpose, but the chicken in Chinatown is not chicken. I did find an article about cat-eating.

http://www.messybeast.com/eat-cats.htm

Cantonese Chinese and Koreans eat felines. So did Europeans during the 19th Century. Meow-meow says yummy.

Foto - Paulette from Barcelona 1988

Remember Our Gone

December 1 is AIDS Awareness Day.

We remember those gone and more importantly recommit our souls to the continued fight against the deadly disease which thinned our ranks since 1978. Gone are our family and friends like my younger brother Michael Charles Smith and my cousin Sandy Smith. The world is a much smaller planet without them and my friends.

Philip Brook, Tasmanian reporter and filmmaker.

Haoui Montauk, poet/doorman/impressario

Marc Stevens Mr. 10 1/2/porn star. Photo by Robert Mapplethorpe

Steve Brown filmmaker

William Lively ballet dancer/theater designer

Klaus Nomi castradi singer

Rock Hudson movie star

And so many others.

36 million so far.

Last year over a million people died from the lethal virus.

The first person who I knew to die of it was James Spicer.

The winter of 1978.

Almost forty years ago.

Corinne in Paris 1984.

Bad blood transfusion.

And how can I forget Andy Reese dancer/actor.

He left me his elephant foot.

Or Philippe Krootchey Paris singer

We were all such good friends.

And still are.

The fight is not over.

THE PRESENCE OF THE GONE by Peter Nolan Smith

Boston is a four-hour bus ride from New York. My brothers and sisters lived in the southern suburbs of my old hometown. After my return from overseas in September 2011 from my European posting I called several times to arrange visits, but my father’s death in 2010 had disconnected our present paths from the routes of the past.

We are still family and that December my younger sister asked, “Are you coming home for Christmas Eve.”

“I’m working late on the 24th.” I also had to open the safe at the diamond exchange the morning of the 26th and I apologized for my holiday no-show.

“I understand.” Pam was heading to her in-laws in New Haven for the 25th.

We wished each other ‘Merry Christmas’ with love, thinking that we might see each other until some distant date in 2013.

Happily Pam phoned from New Haven on the 26th to announce that her loving daughter and she were arriving at Grand Central Terminal that morning.

“We’re having a ladies day in the city with the various members of my husband’s family, but I could meet you for a drink at the Michael Jordan’s steakhouse after our shopping.” My sister had promised to take her daughter down to Chinatown to purchase cheap knock-off fashion bags and glasses. Sawah was an easy teenager to please.

“That sounds good to me.” My boss Manny wasn’t at work, so we could close early. “I’ll see you then.”

My co-workers were more than amenable to my suggestion of cutting out at 4:30 and we packed away the jewelry in record time. After Hlove and I double-checked the safe and security alarms, we were good to go.

Twenty minutes later I entered the Grand Central Terminal from Vanderbilt Avenue. The elegant train station was bustling with comings and goings of commuters and holiday shoppers. There was few open spaces like it in the world and I glowed in the power and beauty of New York before noticing my sister waving from a table shared with three other women and my niece, who greeted me with a kiss.

I shook hands with the older woman with a pleasant smile
“I’m Ryan’s mom.” She was married to my sister’s husband’s brother. Her son was serving his fourth tour in Afghanistan.

“I’m Ryan’s fiancee.” A pretty girl with long brown hair offered from across the table. “We met in Afghanistan.”

“She worked for intelligence,” Pam said to prevent my asking any questions. Her hair stylist had worked a miracle on her color, then again she was known as Auntie Stunning to her nieces and nephews. I was simply Uncle Bubba. “If she told you what she really did she would have to kill you.”

“I’m not a spook,” Marie protested with a laugh.

“My brother says the same thing.” My sister has joked that I have been in the CIA since graduation from college. “His last job was writer in residence to a British Embassy in Europe.”

“Unofficial position.” Madame l’Ambassador was a long-time friend.

“Definitely a spook.” Another young lady commented from the banquette. “I’m Marines too. Just back from Afghanistan.”

“Happy you could make it.” My sister hugged me with tenderness.

Whatever difficulties separated us during our youth have been buried under the hubris of time. The defense lawyer was my good friend and saved me with a timely loan after Hurricane Sandy. She knew me well and asked, “Care for a glass of wine?”

“A Mer-LOT.” I mimicked my father’s pronunciation of the wine and my sister laughed, “Glad to see that someone is keeping up the tradition.”

“Not only that, but I teach people about the milkman’s and lumberman’s handshakes.”

“Oh, no.” My sister and niece groaned in familial harmony.

My father loved to show children these handshakes on his travels with the Elder Hostel. The tour operators warmed him that parents might think that he was strange. We did the same. He ignored everyone and I demonstrated both to Ryan’s mother.

“Another Smith tradition.”

Their train was leaving in twenty minutes, so we rapidly conversed about our connections and histories. I told them about my petitioning to the Pentagon to get a pension for my anti-war protests in the 60s and my sister mentioned our entering Studio 54 with the legendary wrestler Andre the Giant.

“The greatest athlete of all time.” I liked saying that because it’s true and most people don’t realize how true it was.

“You must have lived a great life?” Marie asked with envy. She was young. Life in the 70s was nothing like today. “I read about those times. They seem like a dream. Everyone and everything was so free, especially the drag queens.”

“Really?” Her comment took me off guard. Maybe she was a spook.

“Yes, there nothing like that now.”

“There was back then.” I told her about Boston’s The Other Side, the trannies of the Meat Market and a transvestite trapeze show on 45th Street. “I think the place was called GG Barnums. I had a friend Dove. She was always trying to get me to go home with her. I refused her each time, even though she looked like a vogue model.”

“Some of them were so beautiful.” Marie cooed, while her future mother-in-law frowned with moderate disapproval. America was changing albeit step by little step.

“Dove was gorgeous and she saved my life once.” I recounted how Dove had stopped a beating at the hands of a New Jersey biker pissed that I had interfered with his roughing up a gay ballet dancer.

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. So many of them are gone like so many of my gay friends.” I think about them often.

“I know what you mean.” Her future sister-in-law was talking about fallen Marines.

“My brother died of AIDS. He comes to me in dreams along with my mother. They visited me at a Cape Cod cottage, then he runs out to a beach filled with all the gone like that movie LONGTIME COMPANION.” The final scene filled the empty beach with the dead and I started crying about the loss of my friends and family. I could feel the gone in the air. They were everywhere.

Pam put her arm around me as did the Marine, who said, “I know, I know.”

I stifled the tears with my palm.

The mother nodded with sympathy. Her son was halfway around the world.

“Thanks.”

“We all have these stories.” Marie grasped my hand. She shared the trauma. “Everything will be better one day.”

“I like to think that.” I wanted the troops back home and a cure for AIDS and to see my kids in Thailand soon, each a simple request complicated by hard times.

My sister signaled for the bill. She paid fast. The train departure was in four minutes. We rushed down the stairs to the platform. They caught the 7.05 to New Haven with a minute to spare. Pam hugged me with my niece joining her embrace.

It was good to be with family and I waved goodbye walking back into the terminal.

No one is really gone as long as we remember that they were here.

Not my brother, my friends, or the fallen Marines and soldiers or the Afghanis lost to decades of war.

We are all here.

Then, now, and later.

The Fears

Last night I read Poe's MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, despite having promised not to delve further into the literature of death. The opening paragraph portrayed a world lost to the plague.

"The red death had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal -- the madness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease, were incidents of half an hour."

Prince Prospero sealed his castle against the incursion of the poor. His wealthy and royal guests were entertained by nocturnal soirees of decadency. They felt safe within his walls, but the Red Death suffered no barriers and one evening a spectral creature appeared before the host. The nobleman waved for the musicians to cease their playing and confronted the unwanted intruder.

""Who dares" -- he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him -- "who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him -- that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!"

Prince Prospero's attack on the masked figure failed with his flailing death throes.

His guests perished without exception.

"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

Death took them all, but not so Covid 19.

The virus' mortality rate is about 4%.

The 1918 Spanish Flu killed between 10%-25%.

My grandmother Edith might have been infected by the pandemic in Etaples, France, where her sister, Marion, and she were RCME nurses tending to the wounded soldiers of the Western Front.

AIDS killed scores of my friends as well as my baby brother, Michael Charles Smith.

Who will C19 take?

Not me.

I already had it.

I think, but nothing is certain in this world.

Stay safe and I promise not to read anymore plague books.

To Forgive and Forget by Peter Nolan Smith

After my youngest brother died of AIDS in 1995, I traveled to the holiest shrines in Asia. The ancient temples salved little of my grief and I switched to worshipping the high heels of the go-go girls. Vee danced at the Baby A Go-Go in Pattaya. She had one eye. We had an affair. The word 'love' was traded between us many times. My money ran out before Christmas and a 747 flew me back to the States. My vow to return was a lie. Friends phoned to say she was seeing an Englishman. It seemed better that way.

A year later I took a plane to Thailand. The taxi ride from Bangkok lasted two hours. I stayed at the same hotel. A knock sounded on the door. It wasn't room service. Vee hadn't changed much physically, but told me she had AIDS. I said I would help her. We went up country to see her baby. She said it could have been mine. To Forgive and Forget by Peter Nolan Smith. The math didn't work out, but I was glad that the child was healthy. The farm had prospered. Vee and I slept in the same bed. She wanted me to hold her. We did nothing else. The next morning I looked for water. No medicine filled the refrigerator. Vee put the child on my lap. She had told her lovers the same story. It had been a test.

I was the only one who passed this exam. The memory of my brother stopped my strangling her. The baby cried as I packed my bags. Vee asked if I was angry. My answer was a weak no and I caught the next bus out of toto wn. Forgetting her lie was much easier in Pattaya as was everything else, because life is too short to not forgive and forget.

World AIDS Awareness Day

In the Fall of 1978 I was hired as security at an uptown punk disco uptown. The job paid $100 a night and free drinks from the gay bartenders. I came home from Hurrah smelling of cigarettes, beer, and perfume. Alice slept on the bed. I crashed on the couch.

Late one night a doctor from NYU Hospital called our apartment and reported that James Spicer was dying from pneumonia. Alice had never met Jim and she was angry that I was leaving her alone. I couldn’t blame her, mostly because I had been seeing a blonde model from Buffalo. My promise to come back soon sounded phony even to my ears.

Arriving at NYU, I discovered an empty hospital ward and that the nurses were reluctant to enter Jim’s room. An Italian doctor explained in the corridor, “Gay men have been dying of pneumonia. We can’t say why. The nurses call it ‘gay men’s disease’.”

"It's the first I've heard of it."

"You want to wear a mask?"

"No, I want him to see my face." I sat by James' bed without any fear, as he coughed like he was giving birth to a lung.

He opened his eyes at midnight and said, “You?”

“Who were you expecting? Cecil Taylor?”

"No, he’'s scared of what I have and I don't even know what it is.” ” His skin was drawn tight to his bones.

“Well, I’m here.”

“Yes, you’re here. Old what’s his name?” He drifted back to sleep and I whistled jazz lullabies during

the long night. As the eastern horizon offered a dark silhouette of Brooklyn, Jim asked with a startled horror, “Where am I?”

“In the hospital.”

"Am I dying?" His eyes asked for the truth.

“Not right now.” It was as much the lie as it was the truth. “I’m just here to keep you company.”

“You weren’t much of a writer, but you were a good story teller. Tell me one now. Something with a happy ending.”

I recounted breaking up with Kyla, trying to make it funny. Jim laughed at the right and wrong places, his lungs hacking out bloody phlegm.

“What about the happy ending?” he asked with a rasping breath.

“Pal and Kyla had kids. They’re still married.”

“And you have me.”

“We have each other.” I patted his hand and upped his morphine drip.

At dawn his mother and father arrived from Florida. His parents were good people with a loving son unable to live in a small town. Jim nodded for me to leave them alone. He had things to tell them.

I descended to the basement cafeteria for chocolate milk and a bagel. Nothing had ever tasted so good and when I got back to the ward, Jim’s parents sat crying on plastic chairs. I was sure that he had passed at my moment of delight from my breakfast. I touched his cold skin and left the hospital.

It was good to be alive.

“Where have you been,” Alice asked, as I entered the apartment. She had been up for a long time.

“I told you at the hospital.” The smell of dying was on my flesh.

“James.”

"Yes."

Three days later I attended Jim’s funeral memorial on Washington Square. Merce Cunningham eulogized him. Cecil Taylor played a dirge. Hundreds of people showed up. No one knew the real cause of his death.

It was 1979.

The next night I stayed over with Lisa. I didn’t call Alice. She was gone by the time I returned to our apartment.

James Spicer was my first AIDS death. Many others followed through the years. Funerals were regular reunions for the living and we wondered who was next to fall.

The disease took my baby brother in 1995.

Michael Charles Smith lives in my head and sometimes in my dreams as do my friends.