NEW YEAR'S EVE ALL RIGHT

In the Spring of 1969 my teenage sweetheart's mother was dating a Chilean pianist. One Friday evening the two adults left the brunette cheerleader in charge of the house and after she put her younger brother to bed, I came over for a study session. An hour at the books was our passport to a heavy petting session, while listening to WBCN, Boston's hip FM station playing the Ultimate Spinach, Grateful Dead, Ike and Tina Turner, and anything considered unplayable by the AM channels.

Janet and I were into the Jefferson Airplane, although she was more SURREALISTIC PILLOW, while I loved the uncommercialism of AFTER BATHING AT BAXTER'S.

She turned off the lights. The couch was draped with darkness and we explored the mysteries of the human body to Jack Cassady's bass on SPARE CHAYNGE. Janet fought off my hands's missions below her waist, but we surrendered our bodies to the ancient tradition of dry humping. While we might not have had sex in its purest form, on several occasions we had come close enough to have achieved the Second Immaculate Conception.

Lying on her couch in the afterglow of our ardor, we lay tight in a loving embrace. Janet was planning on a career in nursing. My father was pushing for me to be a doctor like his father, but I had my doubts. I told them to nobody. In truth I just wanted to lay with Janet and listen to rock and roll.

JJ Johnson was spinning records on the pre-midnight shift.

Teenagers around Boston depended on the black DJ's taste to determine our cool and JJ Johnson cued up Velvet Underground's ROCK AND ROLL with an intro monologue, "Here's BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT by Andy Warhol's darlings, the Velvet Underground, and nothing says New York City like them."

The song opened with a strumming guitar riff and Lou Reed singing the title twice. I stiffened with delight, because the Velvet's lead singer was addressing my questions on life.

"Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Some people work very hard,
But still they never get it right.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Well I'm beginning to see the light.
Now I'm beginning to see the light."

I had no idea what the light was.

"What's wrong?" Janet nuzzled my neck

"Nothing." It was a lie.

Just like saying I was going to be a doctor. I wanted more and that more was to live in New York. and a year later I broke up with Janet right before her senior prom. That song echoed in my ears every day.

"Beginning to see the light."

My move to New York took six years.

I spent my first years at CBGBs, Max's, Hurrah, Studio 54, the Mudd Club, and the Jefferson.

Lou Reed was in hiding as were the other members of the Velvet Underground, for they had abandoned fame for anonymity and I gave up on ever meeting them, then New Year's Eve 1987 I was drinking industrial strength cough syrup and snorting cocaine with a bunch of friends on West 10th Street.

David Russell, Vickie, Barney and I were having a lovely time, but we weren't inviting any other guests, since only the innocent can handle the light of day and this was the deepest of night, which was blacker than a teenage girl's living room an hour.

The TV was tuned to Dick Clark in Times Square.

1987 had ten minutes left on the clock.

We weren't expecting anyone else, but the door opened for a familiar face and John Cale from the Velvet Underground entered the apartment fucked up as only a demi-rock god can be fucked up.

The legendary musician said nothing, as he walked across the room to pick up the codeine bottle. In one go he chugged half the cough syrup and then puked into a trash can.

"And it was alright." The line came from SWEET JANE. I liked it even better than BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT. I missed Janet. She was married with two kids. Her husband was a town cop. They made a nice couple.

The pianist wiped his mouth and gave us each a monster line of cocaine.

Real cocaine.

"Merry New Year." John Cale walked to the fireplace and pissed on the ashes of a Christmas fire before leaving without saying goodbye.

Once the blow burned out, the cough syrup took over us.

We nodded out to the aroma of Cale's pee.

It smelled like rock and roll, which was why first I had come to New York.

"And it was all right."

And I hope it was all right with Janet too.

To listen to ROCK AND ROLL please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2duFNff_ArY

JUST ANOTHER NIGHT 2014

Last night was New Year's Eve.

A redheaded poetess phoned to invite me to a 20-something party in Bushwick.

"You'll be the oldest man there." Irene was going solo.

"Almost three times older." We were just friends.

"I think of you as 16." She had seen me being silly on more than one occasion.

"I like to think of myself as 15." I was really immature when it came to watching sports in a New York City.

I hated Jets fans and Ranger fans were no bargain.

"You're much older than that, plus most of the 'boys' at this party act like ten year-olds." Irene liked older men. She was 26, but still more than two times younger than me in actual years.

"I know." Even thirty year-old men were more like teenagers. Nothing had ever happened in their lives. It wasn't their fault, however the lack of life experience angered them upon hearing my monologues of 'back then'. "I'll think about coming."

"It's just another night and you've had plenty of those." Irene was wiser than her years. She was only foolish in love.

Same as me.

I hung up and returned to watching ZATOICHI THE BLIND SWORDSMAN. I was episode 23 of the TV series. The blind masseur gambled with cheats. He scammed them one by one. They paid with their honor. The sun was setting over Brooklyn. Two bottles of wine were in my fridge. I could take one to the party. It didn't start until 9.

After the end of episode 26 TRAVELING ALONE I decided to go out. I hadn't left the house on South Oxford for over a day. The night wasn't as cold and I walked down to Mullanes. Will was behind the bar. The bearded bartender had gone out on a date with Irene. They had had a good time.

"What will you drink?" asked the Islander fan.

"A Six Point Lager." It was made in Red Hook. "And put on the Bruins-Fishmen hockey game."

"Sure thing."

Will left at 7. The face-off was at 7:05. The Bruins had a 1-0 lead by the end of the 1st period. I know no one in the bar. Most everyone was stuffing their faces. The two young men beside me spoke with Valley Girl accents. They drank Chablis. I texted Irene that I was staying home.

"Love."

She liked an economy of words.

I went home and cooked a pasta of bacon, mushrooms, and gruyere with a butter-garlic-olive oil sauce.

At 8 I called Thailand.

My daughter was having her 10th birthday. Her mother sounded happy. Angie never speaks with me on the phone.

"Tell her I love her."

"She knows that."

Next I phoned Fenway's mom. Our kids were having a good time with fireworks in Ban Nok. None of them wanted to speak with Pa-Pa. I was on the other side of the world.

"Love you," I told Mam.

"I love you too." We haven't seen each in a year.

2013 was a tough one.

I hung up and poured myself a glass of wine.

ZATOICHI drank sake. He killed yakuza by the hundreds. 9-8-3 made up the word 'yakuza'. It added up to a losing hand in hana-fuda. 2013 was 6. Six or Liù meant wealth in Chinese. Its Cantonese annunciation 'lok' signifies a drop.

2013 was certainly a drop in wealth in my life.

I had another glass of wine, then Wikipedia solicited a donation.

I use that website everyday. It saves me a trip to the Main Library on 5th Avenue. I wasn't hitting the bars tonight. Frank's Lounge was asking $20. I gave Wikipedia a little more.

At midnight I heard the fireworks from the river.

I ate a chocolate and finished my wine.

It was the end of my second glass.

ZATOICHI killed some more yakuza. They were bad men.

I felt good about giving money.

2014 added up to 7.

7 was good luck in every language.

ZATOICHI knows that.

To see Zatoichi, Flashing Sword Cut, please got to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0m09S48JSK4

Nothing 2015

Someone once told me, "How you spend New Year's Day is how you will spend the rest of the year."

After a pleasant dinner west of Times Square I walked down 42nd Street to catch the N train at 7th Avenue. The sidewalks were crowded with revelers and the police were struggling to load a drunken overweight female onto a NYPD golf cart. Alcohol had turned her bones to Jello and she slipped from their grasp like a greased pig. I was glad that I was neither the cops or the drunk woman. Neither were starting the New Year in Paradise.

Instead of heading back to Brooklyn I rode the train to 5th Avenue and 60th Street. My boss Jeri was on holiday in Florida. Her two pugs needed company until her return. Jeri lived on Madison Avenue. The dogs and I were good friends. The doorman greeted me with a smile.

"Happy New Year."

"To you too." I had drunk wine and champagne throughout the evening. It was barely 2am. I intended on being in bed within minutes.

I entered the luxurious 12th floor apartment. The dogs, Samson and Delilah leapt from from puppy pad and howled 'Hallo' or at least it sounded like 'Hallo' to me. I cut them up an apple for treats and stripped off my suit. The dogs wanted to sleep with me.

"You got it, puppy dogs."

I lifted them into bed and joined them under the covers. I called my daughter in Thailand. It was her 11th birthday. I wished her 'Sawadee wan hurt'. Angie asked when was I coming to see her. It had been over two years.

Two tough years.

One of them working in a metal shop.

One of them hardly working at all.

"I'm coming soon," I told her in Thai. "Lak khun, luk."

I hung up the phone and laid back on the pillows.

They were softer than mine in Brooklyn.

The dogs were snoring a soft song of sleep.

I joined them within seconds.

Sleeping with dogs wasn't a bad choice to spend New Year's Day, but my real goal was to do nothing.

Nothing at all.

It was almost as easy as sleeping with dogs.

January 1, 1979 - East Village - Journal

Alice, Anthony, and I saw in the New Year on 3rd Avenue. A gang member of Puerto Ricans from the Lower East Side muttered at Alice, "What are you looking at, ugly?"

Ship horns from the harbor signaled the end of 1978 and the gang member wished us, "Feliz año nuevo."

We returned the wish.

The Puerto Ricans turned eastward into the barrio. A good year. I hoped none of them got shot or ODed and got jobs and got out of the Lower East Side, although none of us knew where else to go. Except tonight we head to Paul's Lounge. Dull drinking. I was not enthused about getting faced for 1979, but I never needed an excuse to drink, certainly not on New Year's Eve.

We retired early to 256. Straight to bed. Naked and tired from her flight, Alice fell asleep fast. Sometimes I think she fakes sleep to avoid sex, the same way I fake orgasms to caught short sex.

Things between us have been strange. since her arrival. I met her at La Guardia. Different waves of arrivals and departees preceded her appearance. Their faces self-satisfied at traveling by air. Gloating, "It's the only way to go." A walk in the East Village will wipe away that smug attitude.

I spot Alice. White plastic leather coat, a black and white striped dress, a purple sweater. She was the prettiest girl in the airport, although several stewardesses were a close second and third.

She resisted kissing me, as if I might have a cold. People walk around us. Staring. Me in black like a defrocked priest and thrift store Alice.

"I heard about you?

"Heard about what? There were no secrets at CBGBs.

"I didn't t have anything to drink in West Virginia. I didnt feel like it."

"And I'm a bad influence." I couldn't remember the last time I had stopped drinking. I take her bag and refrain from saying how much I missed her. Our time apart was spent with her skiing and visiting family. I drank at CBGBs and worried about how I was going to get money. I lost control with drugs and one sexual trysts. I am sure Alice knows. Everyone around me is incapable of of keeping a secret.

"Fuck everything,"A co-worker at Ebasco, clutching his arm. "There is grief everywhere, but I'm not going to shoot myself. There is always more of the same in the future."

MAN OF THE YEAR

President Carter is out due to his close relationship with Rockefeller and Kissinger. Chairman Teng of Red China was selected by Time Magazine. Non white selection. Anita Bryant's anti-gay platform challenged our freedom and was banned from the lucrative OJ commercials. Running out of contestants I pick the ousted Shah of Iran. A evil man trying to keep control after years of trying to haul Persia from the control of the mullahs and religious majority resisting any modernization. Prosperity and new rights are forced on the resistant people. The mullahs also hated him for seizing their lands. Greed and the violence from SAVAK are b]negatives, so I'll vote for no one.

DISASTER OF THE YEAR.

Despite the wars, and floods, and earthquakes were trumped by the Jonestown Massacre. Mass suicide to achieve salvation. Bloated bodies in the jungle. Children too.

CHOKE OF THE YEAR

The Red Sox playoff game against the Yankees. Bucky Dent hitting his third HR of the season. Yaz popping up up in the ninth with two men on base. We will never win a World Series. The Yankees went on to win the World Series with Bucky Fuckin' Dent as the MVP.

New Year's Day - the East Village - 2024

St. Mark's Church
New Year's Day
Late afternoon
Outside
The sky a darkening gray.

Poetry inside
Hundreds in attendance
Scores of poets
Words twisting into more words
Tangling syllables
Words wrought by the breath of life
Skipping o'er the tongues
Of Poets amongst poets
Within the church.

Outside
Afternoon surrendering to evening
Walk down Second Avenue
This East Village once my home
1977-2005
256 East 10th Street
On the 3rd floor
Three rooms, a bath in the kitchen, a water closet off the bedroom
Next door the Russian Baths
Steaming still
Across the street
Sapphoro East
Sushi still
So many other things gone.

Not the Church
Not Velselkas
Not the library
But the Gem Spa is gone.
As am I
From a place more than thirty years my home.

I don't feel a stranger
Nor estranged
I see those from before
Fighting to be faces
From memories
So many memories
Constructing faces and places
Klaus Haoui Sharon Willem Alice dear Alice
The hundreds the thousands
Dog man
Johnny Thunders
The known and the unknown
Just like today
As the evening swings into night
Not a star in the sky
Only Venus the evening star
O'er the East Village.

Back at th Church
Poems intertwined like snakes
Poets chanti their verses
A magic older than time

I'm outside
Wind, buses, young people laughing
On Second Avenue
Feeling home
In this East Village of mine
Ours and everyone.

Journal Entry - January 1, 1978

Death to 1977

Onto a year of 78 RPM.

It's snowing and I'm watching the Broncos beat the Raiders. 20-17.

Last night at 27th Street was weird. I hit on Alta. We made up and dry-humped in a dark corner. THe stripper begged off fucking. I accepted her no, got drunk, puked outside, and sobered up enough to last the rest of the night. Death to disco.

I've always said, "All I need is food and shelter."

Here in New York I eat foreign foods, mostly pizza and falafel sandwiches and live at a SRO hotel on West 11th Street off 5th Avenue. My 10' by 10' by 8' room has linoleum floors, a small bed, a sink, and white walls. $40/week. An imperfect cube located in a good neighborhood. What else can I do, except work as a busboy and rock out at CBGBs, where youth is eternal, the nights run long, and "Do anything you want to do."

My job at Serendipity sucks, but I love my fellow queer waiters and busboys. It also provide constant cash for a punk lifestyle in a blown-out city. The 60s were a time of no limits, while the 70s have borders on people like us, who fled the rest of America, and I foresee the 80s as a time of increasing corporate fascism with fear stealing people of their identity as humans. Most Americans think, "Who cares as long as I can eat potato chips?"

"But there are two more years left in the 70s. Romantically I deal with illusions and hope for fantasies to become real, but Ro left to Paris the day I came here in May, although I recently overheard Andy Reese say to Frank Holiday, "Ro is in Greensboro. I really like her."

"Are she and Kirk going to get married," Frank asked, while I shivered silently with shock.

"They are pretty heavy." Andy answered, looking for my reaction. He is such a nasty queen.

I showed none, but earlier I called Andy Kornfeld, who had read my unmailed letters to her and laughed, "You can throw away those letters. She probably has thousands from other failed lovers. You just have to understand she hates men, because of an ex-lover, who wasn't you. She was like that when I met her long ago."

Our affair meant nothing to her and left me with scar tissue on my heart. I was nothing to her other than a body in a bed, and my hopes were an exaggeration of my desires.

On other fronts Fran Malin remains in Brooklyn. I haven't been avoiding her, but she lives across the East River and she is a little insane. She might have feelings for me, but can't leave her boyfriend for good. Once when we were having sex, he knocked on the door.

"Fran, I know you're in there."

"Say nothing and don't stop fucking me," she whispered locking her legs around my knees.

I stayed hard as she moaned breathlessly, humping in synch with her boyfriend's knocking.

Libby has disappeared into New York. I wonder where she is.

Two days ago Tim Dunleavy told me, "Alice gave me a present for you. and it looks like a good one."

What could it be?

Will Alice come to New York again?

We met at a birthday party for Janet Stephenson, who I was seeing at the time. I left with Alice and her friend and had sex with both of them in a Upper East Side townhouse's unheated pool. I think of her more as a companion than a consort and when she left to go back to college, "I always feel physically responsibly to anyone who spends money on me."

I had only paid the taxi.

Was that the sole reason for fucking me?

A LITTLE LATER

Today I went to Jimmy Day's, Blimpie's, Solo's on 52nd Street, Cowwboy's on 53rd, The Plaza Cafe, Dazzel on the West Side, back to Jimmy Days, to a closed Max's Kansas City, over to Broadway Charlies, CBGBs, and One-Fifth and finally to crash at my SRO room

A wasted evening.

No women or friends.

I called Alice long distance from a phone booth.

No answer.

Ann's gift was a sarcastic note and William Goldman's MAGIC, which has too much dialogue to be a novel, but not a movie script.

1977 is over for good.

It's 1978 minus one.