Monday, March 31, 2025

Maundy Thursday

Maundy Thursday or Holy Thursday commemorates the last day of freedom for Jesus Christ. The Man from Nazareth spent his final hours of freedom with his thirteen apostles and at this Last Supper the Messiah predicts his betrayal. The date for Holy Thursday has been argued by scholars for centuries, but is generally conceded to have occurred between 30-36 AD in the Jewish month of Nisan, which would make it in April. According to Wikipedia Annie Jaubert argued that the Last Supper took place on the evening of Wednesday 1 April 33.

There was no April Fool's Day back then.

Looking Seaward

The next day The end of March No sun A misty cold wind ripped over the bluffs The Atlantic roughing the shore___ To the Eastern horizon Of ocean The rise of Block Island From the depths Of the Sea Bottom__ All land All 360 degrees The remnants Of The Great Glacier Melting 15000 years ago___ Now Barriers to the sea To spare the mainland Earth's fury___ Montauk point The end of America The waves Washing away the stray footprint Dropping Jetsam at the high tide mark Dragging back Flotsam on the shore break And the wind cold wet and from the Northeast With a sole New Englander Buffeting by breezes Standing Like a captain by the helm on a continent Out on the North Atlantic 110 miles from Manhattan Eyes seaward Dreaming Of lands around the world No longer land bound Free Found Free

Friday, March 28, 2025

The End of ALMOST A DEAD MAN

o ALMOST Yesterday I typed THE END to ALMOST A DEAMMAN 348 pages. Then spell check. Only seven typos I first wrote it in Ireland in 1997. I showed the novel to Shannon Greer who read it in a single night. I sent the manuscript to a few publishers and then left the USA for Thailand where I wrote three more novels sending them overseas to the US. Nothing, but I kept writing. I rewrote ALMOST A DEAD MAN in 2016, but was too broke to send it anywhere. When my diamond job ended in Christmas in 2024 I decided to clean up THE 2016 version. Two and a half months rewrite. 348 pages. Last two words. THE END. Now the hard part Finding and agent or publisher. Next a synopsis and outline and talk about it all the time. Along with everything else. I'm hoping to fly to Bangkok and Hong Kong next month. I start selling jewelry in Montauk this weekend. It was a long wintah. Mary Heaton Vorse reportedly said, "The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. Today Recovering from post partem OF THE END. I woke this morning, thinking, "Are you mad?" A novel about pimps and whores with XXX sex scenes, BDSM, and violence and love and redemption and a woman's revenge against man, and fairy tales. Off the food stamps to see if I can get more. I had told them months ago that I was homeless, because I feel homeless. Insecure. Adrift. Apart. Like always do I'm comfortable that way. Wish me luck. Opening paragraphs of ALMOST A DEAD MAN Hamburg 192 The scurry of claws across the filthy floor startled the woman on the battered chair and she lifted her black stiletto heels in horror. Rats were the least of her problems. Over the phone her lover had suggested a nocturnal rendezvous on Kaiserkai. No one came to Hamburg’s harbor at night. The woman had driven down to the warehouse district alone for rough sex with her Willi. Instead two men had been waiting on the unlit dock and dragged her into an abandoned warehouse. Now in a damp basement she pleaded, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?” "Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He swatted the dusty 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.  “Are you a saint?” “No, I am far from a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap. "Saints are only saints, because they are dead. You on the other hand are alive, because you are a sinner." Cali is still with us.

Tuesday, March 25, 2025

Senator Charles Schumer - Traitor

Last week Senator Charles Schumer from New York joined several Democrats in voting for the Trump regime's spending plan to dismantle LBJ's Great Society programs as well as allow the President non-Elect Musk to ax thousands of jobs without any oversight, except for his cadre of Ketamine flunkies following their leader's theory that if we break it, we don't own it.

Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer's decision hit like a shockwave among House Democrats.

"I think there is a deep sense of outrage and betrayal and this is not just progressive Democrats — this is across the board, the entire party," According to NPR New York Rep. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez told reporters Thursday night at a party retreat in Leesburg, Va. "I think it is a huge slap in the face."

This morning I wrote a note to the NY senator expressing my disappointment in his vote. Even one GOP senator had the balls to stand up to MAGA, but then his personal wealth is $81 million and I understand he has to protect the rich. He is one of them.

TRAITOR.

All of you.

We are watching.

Monday, March 24, 2025

TIPS FOR THE OCCUPIED

In July 1940 according to Ronald Rosbottom's WHEN PARIS WENT DARK about the Nazi Occupation of Paris in June 1940 a mimeographed flyer hit the streets.

TIPS FOR THE OCCUPIED.

The City of Light had been stunned by the collapse of the French army. 80% of the population fled Paris fearing the worst much like many of us under the Trump regime. The tips were non-violent, but acknowledged that the Resistance was coming some day. This is an abridged version.

Don't be fooled by German with camera. They are in uniform and they are not tourists.
They are conquerors. Do not be friendly. They will not reciprocate. Take your time giving them directions.
If they address you in German or MAGA, act as if you don't understand them and ask if they could repeat themselves more slowly.
If they ask you for directions, you are not obliged to tell them the right way.
If they attempt to draw you into a conversation, tell them you are not interested in anything they have to say
If they ask for a light, offer them your cigarette. No one refuses eeven the enemy a light.
If a store posts Nazi or MAGA signs, don't shop there.
She that you are indifferent to them. There will be a time to show more.
This list will not be on TV.
Share it with those you love.

Everyone in Paris was stunned by the Nazis marching down the Champs Elysess, as we are from the busybodies dismantling the government. Anther suggestion is to always address MAGA as non-binary. L'Hermaphordite Des Borghese shall lead the way to revolution.

Times Square 1978

Times Square 1978

No tourists

Clover is the only slightly vertical image in this foto. Of course eyes are drawn to a seventeen yo Texas runaway. I'm a no one in an English suit. Times Square at the height of the Sexual revolution. I like the stride of the man behind her right shoulder. He has a destination and it's not the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

Foto by Anthony Scibelli

THE LAST GO-GO BOY by Peter Nolan Smith

Americans tend to judge the nation’s fiscal well-being by the rise and fall of the Dow Jones Index, even though Wall Street’s accumulation of wealth has destroyed the spending power of the middle-class. Next month’s bonuses for the hedge fund managers will not save a single consumer buried under debt, after which the corporations will trim benefits and wages to the bone to maximize profit.

Few employees protested the low pay in fear of losing their jobs with good reason.

In 2013 the nation's economy was in recession and I asked myself what jobs are available for a sixty year-old man in Newe York City.

Very few was the answer.

Years before I had been lucky that Manny had reserved a place for me on West 47th Street after my yearly global circumnavigations, but this year has been the exception. Times were that tough in the Diamond District.

Early in December I flogged a gay writer's family heirlooms to a gold dealer at another exchange.

Later that evening at his East Village apartment I paid Bruce $4000 minus my commission.

"Now I can pay my health insurance." The heavyweight writer sighed with gratitude and invited me an Asian fusion restaurant on Avenue B. Every seat was crammed with young people enjoying the approach of the holidays. They were immune from the desperate times, unaware that their future had been hocked to the banks by college debts.

“I never see anyone my age on the subway.” These go-getters were my competition for a subway seat in the morning. Thankfully none of them were as ruthless as an old Irishman.

“Most men our age are retired.” Bruce's finger darted over the menu. His thinning hair was bleached blonde, so he resembled an aging beach bum. The fey waiter paid attention to his every word. Bruce was generous with young men.

"Or dead."

“You're not dying anytime soon."

"I'm too healthy for that." My health care plan involved the practice of never get sick.

"Do you have a retirement plan?” Bruce was a world-known novelist. Critics had recognized his genius. Sales for his last book totaled a little over two thousand, but he owned his apartment and next year he will be old enough to receive Social Security.

“When I hit seventy, I'm flying to Norway." I ordered oysters with seaweed noodles, plus a glass of wine. The thin waiter had to be thirty-five years younger than me. He deemed sixty year-old man as neo-senior.

"Norway?"

"Yes, I'm going to rob a bank with a gun, then they'll sentence me to twenty to life for armed robbery. I've seen photos of Norway's prison for violent offenders. The rooms have computers and are furnished by IKEA."

“Ten years from now the Norwegian prison officials will have instituted euthanasia for the elderly, so robbing a bank in Oslo is not really an option."

"You have any other suggestions?" Supporting my family in Thailand had wiped out my savings.

"Ever think about taking steel pole lessons from your stripper friends?"

"What for?"

"If you lost ten pounds, you could work as a go-go boy at a queer retirement home.” Bruce’s biting wit was best suited to attack rather than self-deprecation.

“Honey, those old wrinklies aren’t so particular about the weight. They like the young flesh.”

“A scary thought.” Just yesterday my Thai wife reminded me over the phone that I wasn’t seventeen anymore. Mam was twenty-eight and our son was four years-old. I couldn’t quit working until I was seventy-eight if I unlucky enough to live that long.

"Those old fags want someone young.” Bruce had written a book on the rough trade in Times Square. His tricks had called him Papi. None of them had been under twenty and he never sunk under two-hundred-fifty pounds.

“Those old queens in the nursing homes haven't seen anyone young as you in decades. You could charge the homes $100 a visit, which has to be more beneficial for the old geezers than any other medicine. And you could do lap dances.”

“Thanks for the idea, but I'd rather rob a cradle than a grave."

"Times change and people like you and me have to change with them, plus graves are richer pickings than a cradles. Hell, you could franchise the go-go scheme in Florida. How many retirement homes you think are in the Sunshine State? Thousands? There has to be a demand for middle-aged men from the elderly queers.”

“Supply and demand.” Middle-aged ended at sixty-five.

“And who knows? You might be able to sex them up for a little more money on the side.” Bruce caressed the waiter’s behind. He was a regular here and the waiter smiled with the anticipation of good tip. Bruce liked to pay for sex even if it was merely a grope.

“No way. I barely wanted to have sex with myself let alone with someone else.”

“Why, because you think you're too good to have sex with someone older than you like me.” He frowned at this unintended insult. “What about the woman you had sex with in Palm Beach?"

"Helen?" The Palm Beach heiress had been unnaturally blonde and fashionably thin. We had been introduced by my longtime mistress at the Breakers five summers ago.

"That's the one. You said she was over seventy.”

“Closing on seventy-five.” Helen published several magazines extolling the good life on the Gold Coast. She had invited me to her house on Lake Worth. The fragrance of her garden had overwhelmed by the reefer she smoked in a diamond encrusted hand.

We had spoken about sex. Helen knew the world; past, present, and future.

"Seventy is officially old."

"She didn't seem old." The elegant septuagenarian spent two months a year at a Swiss clinic rejuvenating her aged body in Botox like she was fondue cheese.

"She had your number." Bruce was fascinated by my sordid encounter.

“How?"

"As I remember it, she said that she hadn’t had cock in her mouth in ten years. She had begged for it and you gave it to her like you were remaking SUNSET BOULEVARD.”

“It was a mercy mission.” I slightly resembled that move's star William Holden in the shadows of her bedroom. A failed writer selling his soul.

With the lights off, the curtains billowing with the evening breeze, and Helen wearing sheer lingerie and satin high heels, I imagined that she was Paris Hilton in the year 2040. On her knees the mirage had performed fellatio like she was entering the Porno Hall of Fame. Thankfully she had never said, “Ready for my scene, Mr. DeMille.”

Maybe the first time, but what about the second time?” Bruce sat back, as the waiter delivered our appetizers; fried calamari for him and raw bluepoints for me. “Gore Vidal said about orgies that once is experimentation, but twice is perversity.”

“The second time was because I was drunk.” Two bottles of wine and a joint had loosened by inhibitions and she had had her way with me. “There was no third time.”

"Only because you saw her with another man at the Chesterfield.”

“She was in the Leopard Lounge.” The other man had been in his late 60s. He had once been an Elvis impersonator. I felt cheap.

“And you heard her use that ‘haven’t tasted cock' line on him, so don’t tell me you can’t go-go boy anymore. We all have a price.”

“I’d rather rob a bank in Norway.” I sucked down an oyster tasting of the Atlantic.

“And end up a stick boy in a Viking prison.” Bruce was enjoying himself. "You don't look like you'd like being a bottom."

"Never." I never would be a bottom, except with my wife Mam. She got off better that way.

“You do what you have to do to survive. Believe me. I know.” He had taught creative writing at a Wyoming dude ranch college two years ago. He was lucky to have escaped the high plains without being charged for with any morality crimes of that cowboy state.

“I know you do.” Bruce was forever broke same as everyone in America, but maybe Bruce was right and the only one way of finding out was by a repeat performance in Palm Beach.

We clinked glasses.

“To go-go boys.”

“And Florida.” I felt lucky as would anyone with high season on the Gold Coast only a month away from December.

Sunday, March 23, 2025

April 27, 1981 - NYC - Key West - NYC - Journal

April 27, 1981 - NYC - Key West - NYC - Journal

Leave the Mudd Club
Bag in hand
A cab ride
To the Holland Tunnel
A warming from a Transit Cop
I ignore him
A ride into Jersey
To the Vince Lombardi rest stop on I-95
Another ride from a trucker
To another truck stop___
Snow___
A ride to a shitty exit.
A ride to a shittier exit The snow turns to rain___
I shelter beneath an overpass
Cold and wet
Jets overhead
I am close to the Philly airport.
I hail a taxi
The driver takes me to the terminal
I
Cold and wet
Buy a one-way ticket
Air Florida
Plan on hitchhike back to New York___
A two-hour plane ride to Miami
Outside
Sunny
I still wet
Not cold___
A bus to the edge of Miami.
A bus to Florida City.
A ride to Key Largo
Another to Marathon
The last to Key West___
Not wet
Only a little damp
A walk to Hilton Haven road
Friends waiting
One week in Key West
Pina Coladas
Weed
Drinking on Duvall Street
Swimming in shallow water
Watching the sunsets
A subchaser descending from the sky
Warm so warm___
Seven days later
Hitchhike to Miami.
Catch a stand-by flight to JFK.
A limo bus to 59th and 3rd
A taxi to the Mudd Club.
A walk home
I crash into my bed

Drunk and tanned
Dreaming on Key West
I will always___
Oh so warm
In my East Village bed___

I think this was during the Mariel Boat Lift and the nearest navy base was visibly packed with ships and boasts piled on top of each other. Sitting at the beach at the eastern end of Duvall a derelict boat hoved into sight and rammed into the beach. A hundred-plus refugee jumped ship and ran into the scenery. The only sign of them after a minute the boat.

Friday, March 21, 2025

Rain, Sleet, and Snow - North Fork Virginia 2012

Back in 2012 St. Padraic's Day was blessed with spring weather. The next day Sunday was even warmer, as I traveled south to the Northern Neck of the Potomac to meet with Ms. Carolina. She was not faring well and wanted to see me one last time. Her husband Charles thought it was a good idea.

I flew to Ronald Reagan airport and rented a car. Once free of the Beltway I-95 the traffic eased on the interstate. It was smooth sailing to the Fredericksburg, where the 20th Maine had been massacred by the Rebels attacking St. Marye's Height. I turned east onto Route 3 headed to Ms. Virginia's beach house. This was the South under the reign of Barack Obama. Confederate flags hang from the poles in the town squares. That was to be expected in Dixie, but it was peaceful.

Charles and Ms. Carolina's summer house was on the Neck's northern shore. Ragged Point Beach lay on the Potomac. Maryland began at the high water jetsam on the sand. I pulled before their house. The two were waiting at the end of a dock. No boat in the water. A super-sized moon rose over the eastern horizon of the Chesapeake Bay and the equinox sun set to the west below a screen of yellow pines. The lilting breeze promised an early spring. Ms. Virginia did not look well and she moved with pain. The blonde huntress confided that she might not make the autumn.

The cancer had torched her body and she showed me how bad.

"Guess winter is over." I stared into the Potomac. The temperature was in the 70s. The water had to be much colder. The spring equinox was two days away. There was no backing out. This was for Ms. Carolina.

"Hush your mouth," Ms. Carolina's dog, Spot, barked at her side. Her husband and she had lived in Virginia over thirty-five years. Her childhood was spent in the Adirondacks, where winter holds onto the cold and snow for a month longer than anyplace else in the North, except Fort Kent, Maine.

"I have a good feeling for new season." I flexed my knuckles. They had been weapons in the hundreds of fights waged over the decades. No cracking meant dry weather. Snap, crackle, pop was a good indication of wet.

"You goin' in now, Yankee?"

"Naw, but tomorrow for sure."

"You hungry?"

"Very."

Mrs. Virginia was a great cook. She went to bed early. Charles and I drank whiskey. We didn't say much. Men like us were good at that.

My knuckles were right about the moisture, however the temperature had dropped through the night. Frozen dawn dew glazed the lawn. My better judgment argued against the plunge, but after a suburb breakfast of sausages, eggs, and grits, Ms. Virginia, Charles, her dog and I walked to end of the dock. Maryland was across the Potomac. I lifted the thermometer from the river.

39 degrees Fahrenheit.

Cold

I stripped to my bathing suit. Ms. Virginia held a towel for after my swim. Charles a glass and a bottle of Dewars.

"Are you going to do this, Yankee."

"Hell, yeah." The Maine side of my family had fought in the Civil War. Where I didn't know.

He filled the glass and I down the whiskey. It burned down my throat. I returned the glass to Charles.

"I want another once I'm out of the water."

"It will be waiting." Charles was a friend. We never talked about Ms. Virginia and me. He was a gentleman that way and I was happy to see he wasn't carrying his .38. leapt off the dock.

The water was more than cold. My fingers went numb.

My arms scratched frantically at the water. I scrambled up the dock. I had been in the water

Ms. Virginia laughed, Spot barked, and Charles , who had timed my immersion, said, "Crazy Yankee, you lasted seventeen second." I scrambled up the ladder and Barbara handed me the towel. Charles was quick to offer the whiskey. It went down even quicker.

"You one crazy Yankee," repeated Charles.

"Anything for a laugh."

"How long you think you could have survived in that water?" Charles had been an officer in the Navy during WWII. His friends had cruised the North Atlantic in warships. Not all of them returned home to Newport News.

As a child I had lived on Portland Harbor. Fishing boats docked at the and of my street. Every winter the fleet lost a boat. I had heard tell of some people lasting up to forty minutes.

My grandfather had a friend on the Titanic. He drowned in the Atlantic. My grandfather traveled to St. John’s to identify the body. It had been battered by the sea.

"I think I might be able to last five minutes, but not today." I shook off the chill from my core, but the extremities were still cold.

"Once was more than enough."

It had been worth seeing Barbara laugh and she said, "Be my eyes on your travels."

"That I will." It wasn't a promise. Only the truth. The following day I drove back to DC on Ms. Virginia's suggestion up US 301 across the Potomac. Maryland wasn't Virginia, but it was still the South. She was a good traveling companion during out affair in the 1990s. Wyoming, Montana, the Blue Ridge Mountains, Death Valley, Guatemala and Peru.

Back in Fort Greene, Brooklyn the sweep of the season reversed from spring to winter. Snow fell on Tuesday night and Wednesday evening was a melange of hail, snow, and rain. I wore heavy tweeds impervious to the cold and wet. Even my knuckles were safe from the chilly damp in cashmere-lined gloves. Ice pellets bounced over my Donegal cap. I was ready for more winter, but not another two months of it and the next weekend the forecast was for more snow.

Barbara lasted till the autumn. I asked if I should come down. She said no. That as the last word I heard from her. Charles lasted longer. I visited him in 2015. We went to her grave. We said nothing and that night drank Dewars.

"You crazy Yankee."

"That I am."

We spoke on the phone every week. About football. His Redskins and my Patriots. He passed in 2017. I miss them both

But not that damn cold.

To see my plunge

Tuesday, March 18, 2025

A Hotel Room Off The Highway 1985

A little after midnight
I pull the Pontiac LeMans
Off the interstate
Before Flagstaff
Onto Route 66___
Kyla sleeps against the door
Not knowing we are stopping for the night
At a motel
The Flamingo Motel Hotel
Red sign bright neon
I pull up to the office
Get us a room
Kyla wake
"Where are we?"
"Flagstaff, Arizona. A motel."
Park the Le Mans before room 109
Same number as the address
of my family home
On the South Shore of Boston
Thousands of miles away___
Tonight
No more driving
I want to sleep with Kyla
In a double bed
On clean sheets
After a shower___
Kyla goes first
I go second
A long shower
Wash off three days of the road
New York to here___
I come out dry and clean
Kyla already asleep
The only light from the motel sign
Trucks diesel on Route 66
I step outside
Barefoot
Towel around my waist___
Truck fumes on the high desert night
The Le Mans the only car in the parking lot
Ours the only occupied room
Ours the only bed
We're not making love tonight___
But maybe in the morning
Another day's drive to LA
Unless we see the Grand Canyon tomorrow
It's worth the detour
Especially after a stop at the Flamingo Motel Hotel
And greeting the Arizona dawn
Naked
Together___

Opening paragraphs of ALMOST A DEAD MAN

Hamburg 1982

The scurry of claws across the filthy floor startled the woman on the battered chair and she lifted her black stiletto heels in horror. Rats were the least of her problems. Over the phone her lover had suggested a nocturnal rendezvous on Kaiserkai. No one came to Hamburg’s harbor at night. The woman had driven down to the warehouse district alone for rough sex with her Willi. Instead two men had been waiting on the unlit dock and dragged her into an abandoned warehouse. Now in a damp basement she pleaded, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”

"Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He swatted the dusty 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.

“Are you a saint?”

“No, I am far from a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap.

"Saints are only saints, because they are dead. You on the other hand are alive, because you are a sinner."

Hamburg
>Howaldtswerke Deutsche Werft (HDW) Hamburg,
1972

I wrote this novel in the autumn of 1997 while living several months in Ballyconeeley under the Connemara Mountains or the Seven Pins. I returned to New York and only showed the finished work to Shannon Greer. He read it in one night. I never showed it to anyone else, although in 2016 I revised it another time.

Last Christmas Winick Diamonds, the jewelry sore in Montauk, closed for the season. With no job I went on the hustle for money and filled my spare time writing a new version of ALMOST A DEAD MAN. I'm nearly finished. First destination. Shannon Greer. He's a great photographer and has a better than good eye.

ps Calle Schwensen survived the Gross Freiheit of the Reeperbahn.

If you find him there, give him my regards.

Hamburg 1982

The scurry of claws across the filthy floor startled the woman on the battered chair and she lifted her black stiletto heels in horror. Rats were the least of her problems. Over the phone her lover had suggested a nocturnal rendezvous on Kaiserkai. No one came to Hamburg’s harbor at night. The woman had driven down to the warehouse district alone for rough sex with her Willi. Instead two men had been waiting on the unlit dock and dragged her into an abandoned warehouse. Now in a damp basement she pleaded, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”

"Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He swatted the dusty 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.

“Are you a saint?”

“No, I am far from a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap.

"Saints are only saints, because they are dead. You on the other hand are alive, because you are a sinner."

Hamburg
>Howaldtswerke Deutsche Werft (HDW) Hamburg,
1972

I wrote this novel in the autumn of 1997 while living several months in Ballyconeeley under the Connemara Mountains or the Seven Pins. I returned to New York and only showed the finished work to Shannon Greer. He read it in one night. I never showed it to anyone else, although in 2016 I revised it another time.

Last Christmas Winick Diamonds, the jewelry sore in Montauk, closed for the season. With no job I went on the hustle for money and filled my spare time writing a new version of ALMOST A DEAD MAN. I'm nearly finished. First destination. Shannon Greer. He's a great photographer and has a better than good eye.

ps Calle Schwensen survived the Gross Freiheit of the Reeperbahn.

If you find him there, give him my regards.

As for Kurt he never left Paris.

Body Parts 2 Reading - 3/19 Peter Nolan Smith

I'll be reading yesterday. I still am.

I have a new life
After death
Not my first time dead__
Last month Alex was sweet___
She lied About my odor___
Not only I do smell old
I smell of Lazarus
Risen From the grave__
I need a new smell
An old bottle of perfume
For Lazarus II
A new smell
Even Alex knows the truth

Makers Ensemble
13 Grattan St #408
March 19th, 8pm (doors 7:30)
$9 venmo or cash, all profit split to artists

VENMO for a ticket

@emstrictly

Sunday, March 16, 2025

Best Guinness in Pattaya 2008

Only a few more hours remain for St. Padraic's Day in Pattaya. I'm only starting the day here in Pattaya with a Guinness.

But if I were in Pattaya, I'd be where I celebrated last March 17.

In honor of beer, because my apostasy to the Christian faith is well-known. My adherence to the Beerastian religion answers many mysteries of life in a mug of beer. While home-sudsing is acceptable for these spiritual explorations, I can plumb the depths of my emptiness best at temples of public libation and one of my preferred pilgrimage sites is Maggie May’s on Soi Chaiyapoon.

“Drink Guinness it’s good for you.”

The perfect greeting for a man of my devotion.

The Guinness at 150 baht is the cheapest and best in Pattaya and Tony the patron prides himself in keeping the pipes clean.

Last year when his supplier provided a batch of spunky Guinness, Tony returned the kegs rather than sell the suspect beer to the punters. No philistine in that man.

Asahi is only 85 Baht at happy hour. The AC was kicking in like a corpse just out of the freezer was breathing down your neck. The crowd noshes on curry pasties and stale peanuts. The TVs can cover all betting interests on sports. Conversations revolve around the arcane aspects of sports and rehashing adventures with your idiot friends. The only girls are the affable barmaids and the occasional girlfriend. Some guys like to have a witness to their drinking. The CD player accepts all form of music and no one really cares if the girls are the DJs. Britney Spears OPPS I DID IT AGAIN.

Hey, living this long in Pattaya we have all come to love boy bands. Maggie May’s Soi Chayaphun off Soi Buakhao.

I haven’t a clue what time it opens or closes, but Happy Hour is 5-6pm.

Another bonus is the wooden jockey at the entrance and even better MAGGIE MAY is a great Rod Stewart song.

Thursday, March 13, 2025

South From Tibet 1995

In early November 1995 I had hitched a ride from Shitgatze, Tibet south on my way to the Nepali border after spending a month in Lhasa. After a few hours on the Friendship Highway I was dropped at the t-intersection of two dirt roads; National Highways 318 and 219. The van disappeared west and I stood in a sere valley without any vegetation in sight. 

I couldn't have been happier in such desolation whereas I freak out in airports. Safe and sound from the elements.

A Tibetan driver in a empty van picked me up. He was heading to Zhangu, the last Chinese town on the highway. I paid him $20 and the road climbed over the Lalung La 5,050 meter. The Himalayas spread across the southern horizon with Everest's snowy peak towering due south. 

We stopped at a tea shop just past the Thong La and we all ate a bowl of noodles. It was the only meal on the menu.

Millions of flies covered the walls and windows. I said, "This place dirty."

The driver replied, "Before dirty. Now clean.”

I slurped down my noodles with my eyes on northern face of Chomolungma.

The next day in Kathmandu I damn near died.

Giardiasis. An parasitic intestinal invasion.

After two weeks was well enough to a motorcycle across Nepal to Jomsom.

The trailhead to well-traveled Annapurna circuit.

I was too weak to attempt the sixteen-day journey, but sat at a tea house watching the comings and going of yaks, Sherpas, trekkers, snot-nosed children and lamas.

Ne’er-changing life in the approaching shadow of the winter.

Wednesday, March 12, 2025

Cruising Boston Harbor

On a Sunday morning in January 2024 on the Chinatown bus to South Station. I visit my younger sister Pam twice. Eat fried clams at the Oyster House.

On Monday afternoon I catch the Rowe's Wharf ferry to the Pemberton Gut at the top of the Hull Peninsula. I wander around the beach in the late winter sun. To the East Boston Light and the Atlantic. The beach packed with glacial rubble from

Mount Washington or Agiocochook to the native Abenakis the home of the Concealed One. This is all so familiar to me like the Coast of Maine. Nantasket Beach. The ocean. The green blue. So close to our blood. My youngest years on Falmouth Foresides. The smell of beans wafting across the harbor from the B&M factory. Mixed with molasses.

From Portland's Eastern Promenade Mount Washington. Summer 2019 Quinton and I drove up to the peak. Over 6000 feet high

And I got naked in the summer sun atop of New England.

Now back from Hull on the trolley to Park Street. Sit on the platform waiting for the Harvard Square train. The bell old as the 19th Century. My namesake grandfather from the Aran Isles a trolley conductor out of Forest Hills. All of it. All of us. Now always. Park Street.

Same day I realize I forgot my phone. I called my number. Emily, a young Chinese Med student answered. She brought it to me in Harvard Square. I

In the autumn 1970 I saw the Modern Lovers on the Cambridge

Common. A bright windy afternoon the park filled by hippies I'm still a hippie. A true New Englander too. This is my world always. Oh New England__

Monday, March 10, 2025

America: The Grim Truth / Late Breaking News 2010 - Now More Than Ever

Posted in Truth http://en.wordpress.com/tag/truth by lancefreeman76 on April 5, 2010

Americans, I have some bad news for you:

You have the worst quality of life in the developed world – by a wide margin.

If you had any idea of how people really lived in Western Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Canada and many parts of Asia, you’d be rioting in the streets calling for a better life. In fact, the average Australian or Singaporean taxi driver has a much better standard of living than the typical American white-collar worker.

I know this because I am an American, and I escaped from the prison you call home.

I have lived all around the world, in wealthy countries and poor ones, and there is only one country I would never consider living in again: The United States of America. The mere thought of it fills me with dread.

Consider this: you are the only people in the developed world without a single-payer health system. Everyone in Western Europe, Japan, Canada, Australia, Singapore and New Zealand has a single-payer system. If they get sick, they can devote all their energies to getting well. If you get sick, you have to battle two things at once: your illness and the fear of financial ruin. Millions of Americans go bankrupt every year due to medical bills, and tens of thousands die each year because they have no insurance or insufficient insurance. And don’t believe for a second that rot about America having the world’s best medical care or the shortest waiting lists: I’ve been to hospitals in Australia, New Zealand, Europe, Singapore, and Thailand, and every one was better than the “good” hospital I used to go to back home. The waits were shorter, the facilities more comfortable, and the doctors just as good.

This is ironic, because you need a good health system more than anyone else in the world. Why? Because your lifestyle is almost designed to make you sick.

Let’s start with your diet: Much of the beef you eat has been exposed to fecal matter in processing. Your chicken is contaminated with salmonella. Your stock animals and poultry are pumped full of growth hormones and antibiotics. In most other countries, the government would act to protect consumers from this sort of thing; in the United States, the government is bought off by industry to prevent any effective regulations or inspections. In a few years, the majority of all the produce for sale in the United States will be from genetically modified crops, thanks to the cozy relationship between Monsanto Corporation and the United States government. Worse still, due to the vast quantities of high-fructose corn syrup Americans consume, fully one-third of children born in the United States today will be diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes at some point in their lives.

Of course, it’s not just the food that’s killing you, it’s the drugs. If you show any sign of life when you’re young, they’ll put you on Ritalin. Then, when you get old enough to take a good look around, you’ll get depressed, so they’ll give you Prozac. If you’re a man, this will render you chemically impotent, so you’ll need Viagra to get it up. Meanwhile, your steady diet of trans-fat-laden food is guaranteed to give you high cholesterol, so you’ll get a prescription for Lipitor. Finally, at the end of the day, you’ll lay awake at night worrying about losing your health plan, so you’ll need Lunesta to go to sleep.

With a diet guaranteed to make you sick and a health system designed to make sure you stay that way, what you really need is a long vacation somewhere. Unfortunately, you probably can’t take one. I’ll let you in on little secret: if you go to the beaches of Thailand, the mountains of Nepal, or the coral reefs of Australia, you’ll probably be the only American in sight. And you’ll be surrounded crowds of happy Germans, French, Italians, Israelis, Scandinavians and wealthy Asians. Why? Because they’re paid well enough to afford to visit these places AND they can take vacations long enough to do so. Even if you could scrape together enough money to go to one of these incredible places, by the time you recovered from your jetlag, it would time to get on a plane and rush back to your job.

If you think I’m making this up, check the stats on average annual vacation days by country:

Finland: 44

Italy: 42

France: 39

Germany: 35

UK: 25

Japan: 18

USA: 12

The fact is, they work you like dogs in the United States. This should come as no surprise: the United States never got away from the plantation/sweat shop labor model and any real labor movement was brutally suppressed. Unless you happen to be a member of the ownership class, your options are pretty much limited to barely surviving on service-sector wages or playing musical chairs for a spot in a cubicle (a spot that will be outsourced to India next week anyway). The very best you can hope for is to get a professional degree and then milk the system for a slice of the middle-class pie. And even those who claw their way into the middle class are but one illness or job loss away from poverty. Your jobs aren’t secure. Your company has no loyalty to you. They’ll play you off against your coworkers for as long as it suits them, then they’ll get rid of you.

Of course, you don’t have any choice in the matter: the system is designed this way. In most countries in the developed world, higher education is either free or heavily subsidized; in the United States, a university degree can set you back over US$100,000. Thus, you enter the working world with a crushing debt. Forget about taking a year off to travel the world and find yourself – you’ve got to start working or watch your credit rating plummet.

If you’re “lucky,” you might even land a job good enough to qualify you for a home loan. And then you’ll spend half your working life just paying the interest on the loan – welcome to the world of American debt slavery. America has the illusion of great wealth because there’s a lot of “stuff” around, but who really owns it? In real terms, the average American is poorer than the poorest ghetto dweller in Manila, because at least they have no debts. If they want to pack up and leave, they can; if you want to leave, you can’t, because you’ve got debts to pay.

All this begs the question: Why would anyone put up with this? Ask any American and you’ll get the same answer: because America is the freest country on earth. If you believe this, I’ve got some more bad news for you: America is actually among the least free countries on earth. Your piss is tested, your emails and phone calls are monitored, your medical records are gathered, and you are never more than one stray comment away from writhing on the ground with two Taser prongs in your ass.

And that’s just physical freedom. Mentally, you are truly imprisoned. You don’t even know the degree to which you are tormented by fears of medical bankruptcy, job loss, homelessness and violent crime because you’ve never lived in a country where there is no need to worry about such things.

But it goes much deeper than mere surveillance and anxiety. The fact is, you are not free because your country has been taken over and occupied by another government. Fully 70% of your tax dollars go to the Pentagon, and the Pentagon is the real government of the United States. You are required under pain of death to pay taxes to this occupying government. If you’re from the less fortunate classes, you are also required to serve and die in their endless wars, or send your sons and daughters to do so. You have no choice in the matter: there is a socio-economic draft system in the United States that provides a steady stream of cannon fodder for the military.

If you call a life of surveillance, anxiety and ceaseless toil in the service of a government you didn’t elect “freedom,” then you and I have a very different idea of what that word means.

If there was some chance that the country could be changed, there might be reason for hope. But can you honestly look around and conclude that anything is going to change? Where would the change come from? The people? Take a good look at your compatriots: the working class in the United States has been brutally propagandized by jackals like Rush Limbaugh, Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity. Members of the working class have been taught to lick the boots of their masters and then bend over for another kick in the ass. They’ve got these people so well trained that they’ll take up arms against the other half of the working class as soon as their masters give the word.

If the people cannot make a change, how about the media? Not a chance. From Fox News to the New York Times, the mass media in the United States is nothing but the public relations wing of the corporatocracy, primarily the military industrial complex. At least the citizens of the former Soviet Union knew that their news was bullshit. In America, you grow up thinking you’ve got a free media, which makes the propaganda doubly effective. If you don’t think American media is mere corporate propaganda, ask yourself the following question: have you ever heard a major American news outlet suggest that the country could fund a single-payer health system by cutting military spending?

If change can’t come from the people or the media, the only other potential source of change would be the politicians. Unfortunately, the American political process is among the most corrupt in the world. In every country on earth, one expects politicians to take bribes from the rich. But this generally happens in secret, behind the closed doors of their elite clubs. In the United States, this sort of political corruption is done in broad daylight, as part of legal, accepted, standard operating procedure. In the United States, they merely call these bribes campaign donations, political action committees and lobbyists. One can no more expect the politicians to change this system than one can expect a man to take an axe and chop his own legs out from underneath him.

No, the United States of America is not going to change for the better. The only change will be for the worse. And when I say worse, I mean much worse. As we speak, the economic system that sustained the country during the post-war years is collapsing. The United States maxed out its “credit card” sometime in 2008 and now its lenders, starting with China, are in the process of laying the foundations for a new monetary system to replace the Anglo-American “petro-dollar” system. As soon as there is a viable alternative to the US dollar, the greenback will sink like a stone.

While the United States was running up crushing levels of debt, it was also busy shipping its manufacturing jobs and white-collar jobs overseas, and letting its infrastructure fall to pieces. Meanwhile, Asian and European countries were investing in education, infrastructure and raw materials. Even if the United States tried to rebuild a real economy (as opposed to a service/financial economy) do think American workers would ever be able to compete with the workers of China or Europe? Have you ever seen a Japanese or German factory? Have you ever met a Singaporean or Chinese worker?

There are only two possible futures facing the United States, and neither one is pretty. The best case is a slow but orderly decline – essentially a continuation of what’s been happening for the last two decades. Wages will drop, unemployment will rise, Medicare and Social Security benefits will be slashed, the currency will decline in value, and the disparity of wealth will spiral out of control until the United States starts to resemble Mexico or the Philippines – tiny islands of wealth surrounded by great poverty (the country is already halfway there).

Equally likely is a sudden collapse, perhaps brought about by a rapid flight from the US dollar by creditor nations like China, Japan, Korea and the OPEC nations. A related possibility would be a default by the United States government on its vast debt. One look at the financial balance sheet of the US government should convince you how likely this is: governmental spending is skyrocketing and tax receipts are plummeting – something has to give. If either of these scenarios plays out, the resulting depression will make the present recession look like a walk in the park.

Whether the collapse is gradual or gut-wrenchingly sudden, the results will be chaos, civil strife and fascism. Let’s face it: the United States is like the former Yugoslavia – a collection of mutually antagonistic cultures united in name only. You’ve got your own version of the Taliban: right-wing Christian fundamentalists who actively loathe the idea of secular Constitutional government. You’ve got a vast intellectual underclass that has spent the last few decades soaking up Fox News and talk radio propaganda, eager to blame the collapse on Democrats, gays and immigrants. You’ve got a ruthless ownership class that will use all the means at its disposal to protect its wealth from the starving masses.

On top of all that you’ve got vast factory farms, sprawling suburbs and a truck-based shipping system, all of it entirely dependent on oil that is about to become completely unaffordable. And you’ve got guns. Lots of guns. In short: the United States is about to become a very unwholesome place to be.

Right now, the government is building fences and walls along its northern and southern borders. Right now, the government is working on a national ID system (soon to be fitted with biometric features). Right now, the government is building a surveillance state so extensive that they will be able to follow your every move, online, in the street and across borders. If you think this is just to protect you from “terrorists,” then you’re sadly mistaken. Once the shit really hits the fan, do you really think you’ll just be able to jump into the old station wagon, drive across the Canadian border and spend the rest of your days fishing and drinking Molson? No, the government is going to lock the place down. They don’t want their tax base escaping. They don’t want their “recruits” escaping. They don’t want YOU escaping.

I am not writing this to scare you. I write this to you as a friend. If you are able to read and understand what I’ve written here, then you are a member of a small minority in the United States. You are a minority in a country that has no place for you.

So what should you do?

You should leave the United States of America.

If you’re young, you’ve got plenty of choices: you can teach English in the Middle East, Asia or Europe. Or you can go to university or graduate school abroad and start building skills that will qualify you for a work visa. If you’ve already got some real work skills, you can apply to emigrate to any number of countries as a skilled immigrant. If you are older and you’ve got some savings, you can retire to a place like Costa Rica or the Philippines. If you can’t qualify for a work, student or retirement visa, don’t let that stop you – travel on a tourist visa to a country that appeals to you and talk to the expats you meet there. Whatever you do, go speak to an immigration lawyer as soon as you can. Find out exactly how to get on a path that will lead to permanent residence and eventually citizenship in the country of your choice.

You will not be alone. There are millions of Americans just like me living outside the United States. Living lives much more fulfilling, peaceful, free and abundant than we ever could have attained back home. Some of us happened upon these lives by accident – we tried a year abroad and found that we liked it – others made a conscious decision to pack up and leave for good. You’ll find us in Canada, all over Europe, in many parts of Asia, in Australia and New Zealand, and in most other countries of the globe. Do we miss our friends and family? Yes. Do we occasionally miss aspects of our former country? Yes. Do we plan on ever living again in the United States? Never. And those of us with permanent residence or citizenship can sponsor family members from back home for long-term visas in our adopted countries.

In closing, I want to remind you of something: unless you are an American Indian or a descendant of slaves, at some point your ancestors chose to leave their homeland in search of a better life. They weren’t traitors and they weren’t bad people, they just wanted a better life for themselves and their families. Isn’t it time that you continue their journey?

Now more than ever in 2025.

Shame America.

Sunday, March 9, 2025

A Bus To Boston

March 9
Daylights Saving ends
Normall rise at 6
Today 7
The Flex Bus departure at 8
Pack my bag go taxi__
7:41
The Bowery and Canal
The old Fung Wah stop
Departure on time
Cross the East River
I know this route well
Chinatown to Chinatown
1962 to now in the 21st Century
Along the Connecticut coast
North at New Haven
Now New England
Home of my youth
Cross the Connecticut River
At Hartford
I-84
Into the Sturbridge Hills
Birch trees, hemlocks, ice pond, and patches of snow
Three Mass Staties conducting a traffic stop
A slow Sunday morning
The Pike ahead
I see the future
I-90
West to Seattle
East to 128
The Charles River
South Station
The 1:45 train to 128
To see my young sister Pam
Known as Auntie Beautiful
To her nieces and nephews
And her daughter Sara
and loving husband Steve
Family___
I have lived many places
Falmouth Foresides
The Blue Hills
East Village
Paris
Thailand
Brooklyn
And places in between
But as Jonathan Richman sang
"I've been to Paris and I've been to Rome,
but I'm there's nowhere else I call my home. Oh England."
And I'm on the train to 128
On a winter Sunday morn
To hold my sister's hand
Oh New England___

Saturday, March 8, 2025

Nude Model # 5

Saturday morning Sunny Windy on West 8th Street ETA New York Studio School 8:55 am On time Greet the moderator Say nothing to the sculptors I Just Skin muscles and bones Strip naked Short poses Five minutes Suggested poses Not Rodin Henry Moore Abstract I more obtruse Five minutes Change position Mind Blank Artists work lumps of clay Myopic I can't see their fingers Only their hands Molding the clay Into a form Not me But me as they see me Naked Three more poses Five minute break Clay taking shape Not me yet My mind a blank Not silent Back in 2011 I laid my hands on a Henry Moore In a London Park Bronze An unyielding metal Yet the work of his hands remained on the statute. Decades later From the 1950s But bronze doesn't give way to hands Nor marble Nor stone Nor plaster Only clay and flesh response to touch My mind not blank A lover clavicle Gabrielle A shoulder blade shorn of an angel wing Candida The pelvis of Sharon The hand of Mem My wife On the other side of the world Straight lines shadows scribbled curves No Venus de Milo In my mind I open my eyes The artists mold the clay To their visions Of me A woman slices through my abdomen Adds more clay Lookong less than a pond toad Every clay sculpture different A different me One I never see Then it's 1pm Done for the day No more naked till next week Ready for Nude Model # 6

Friday, March 7, 2025

Caspar David Frederick exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum

Forty-four years ago I viewed his works at the Hamburg Kunsthalle. His ice floes painting stunned me. He had never gone farther north than Copenhagen. His inspiration came from conversations with polar whalers.According to Wikipedia Contemporaries such as the French sculptor David d'Angers spoke of him as having discovered "the tragedy of landscape" Caspar David Frederick exhibition at the Metropolitan Forty-four years ago I viewed his works at the Hamburg Kunsthalle. His ice floes painting stunned me. He had never gone farther north than Copenhagen. His inspiration came from conversations with polar whalers. According to Wikipedia Contemporaries such as the French sculptor David d'Angers spoke of him as having discovered "the tragedy of landscape" A very intense gaze. A very intense gaze.

Thursday, March 6, 2025

Midnight Special Flight - LAX - SFO 1973

August 1973 Doctor Nepola and I are hitchhiking from from Seal Beach on the Orange County line north to San Francisco, hoping to get to see Big Sur. It took forever to get through LA and sunset found us on the PCH outside LAX. We had heard on a midnight special flight to San Francisco. $25. I looked at a map and estimated another two days to get up the coast. We took the plane following the old adage. "If I had a known, I wudda flown."

We arrived at SFO at 2am and took a cab to his cousin's apartment.At least that's how remembered it, but speaking with Doctor Nepola he said we stayed with three hippie girls from Boston College. They gad comeout there to work the summer. We crashed a day or two, then I recall saying goodbye of a long avenue. It was cold for August.

Neil remembered nothing about the midnight flight.

Wednesday, March 5, 2025

Naked Modeling 3/5/25

Once more
I
A naked man
An artist's studio
Eight Artists
Drawing
Me
A naked man
A naked 72 years-old man__
Their eyes see me
Not as I see me
See my body
My naked body
That of a 72 year old man
Naked
Nothing to hide
Moobs
Not firm
36 Bs
A long horizontal surgical scar
Across my belly
A state of decay
Yet I scratch my balls
Free
Naked
Smile
Free Naked
Dreaming of swimming naked
Nauset Beach
1972
Only twenty
Almost fifty years before today
I feel that young body in me
That body
Not seen by the artists' eyes
But only in my mind's eye
A naked young man
With a young woman
Naked too
On Nauset Beach

Sunday, March 2, 2025

Kristallnacht 2025

My older friends have surrendered to the MAGA wave either by supporting Trump or are so stunned that this coup d'etat had happened to America that have surrendered to the enemy much as the French had in 1940. The ineffective DNC had been rejected by millions of young for their support of the genocide in Gaza and countless black and white males, because Kamala Harris was a woman, who prosecuted millions of young black males as a Californian DA. The DNC leadership remains silent. Bernie Sanders speaks out, however the major media are curtailing any news for fear of MAGA reprisals.

In 2024 millions of Jews voted for Trump, because of his vocal support of Israel. So where do we go from here?

Rehashing our past failures will not solve the present dilemma.

Recently I was speaking with the Jewish director Amos Poe, who had been born in Palestine. His mother and father came from Germany. In 1936 she left Berlin for Madrid as an anarchist supporting the CNT against Franco. She hated her father. A German Jew and banker he financially supported the Nazis, thinking that the Hitlerians stood for order and prosperity to Deutschland. Alles was gut, except his daughter said that he was financing the death of the Jews.

Then came Kristallnacht.

The following morning the dignified banker went to his place of business. The Nazis threw him out of the office and building into the sidewalk.

"But I have powerful friends in the Nazi Party."

The SA officer said, "The Jews have no friends in Germany now. Heraus Jude."

Amos' grandfather returned home and shot himself, knowing that his daughter had been right about the Nazis, but that acknowledgement came too late for millions.

Her mother begged for her to return. She left for Palestine and thankfully never returned to Deutschland. The only surviving member of her family.

30% of the USA Jews openly support Trump. They also back Putin. More prosperity and order. None of them remember the 1905 Cossack pograms and I tell them they are on a list.

It doesn't matter. They are blind to the future. The drive BMWs and Benzs.

'"The Germans make good cars." A Jewish beauty told me. "And Trump lovs Israel."

Yes, they proudly supported him, because he defends Zion and can't envison that Crystal Night is coming.

The only way to fight these people is always.

I remain committed to the struggle.

ps no one has crystal anymore. But I do.

Kristallnacht
was the word I heard
my parents whisper behind
closed doors. And I pictured
the world under a sudden
enchantment of ice, each tree limb
braceleted in crystal, each lamppost, each windshield glazed
and electrically gleaming,
the very air wincing with light.
And the only sound would be
a myriad tinkling,
as of a thousand thousand
miniature wind chimes.
The treacherous beauty of words.
Crystal night: the stars themselves
blazing and frozen in place.

2020 Linda Pastan

Resist___