11:11 am Clinton Hill 12/29/2025

11:11 am Clinton Hill

11:11 am Clinton Hill 12/29/2025

11:11 am Clinton Hill

My friend in Palm Beach, Bobby Butz, has a thing for identical consequential times such as 11:11 or 00:00. Not that one specifically, which is regarded by some as an angel number to a celestial portal. I just see it as a yo-eleven in craps paying out for the rare first roll. Neither Bobby nor I take these manifestations seriously . At least I don't, because 00:00 and 11:11 show up four times in the total seconds of a day or 0.00004629629 per twenty-four hours. 12:12, 1:11.2:22 or 3:33 don't count, but I like 7:14 the number for 714 Lemon Quaaludes in the 1970s. I live alone and have time on my hands, since I saw every TV and movie on the internet on TV during my three year battle with a very serious illness. I was spared 12/23/2025. 12232025 has no significance in numerology. According to Astrology.com the number 1223 indicates that you are surrounded by love, support, and encouragement. That is true and I owe Bobby for having saved me from a beating in Paris in 1985.

Paris was a good refuge for me in the 1980s. I worked at the best clubs and the investigation into the corrupt 20th Precinct was still seeking answers for Viktor Malensky's murder outside the Continental Club on West 25th Street. I knew nothing.

In the City of Light I never had my own apartment. I crashed with friends or lived in hotels writing in illegible poetry in journals. I was drifting, but was welcome everywhere, since I stood at the door of popular nightclubs. My favorite haunt was Le Privilege, an elegant nightclub beneath Le Palace disco catering to an international melange of fashion, cinemas, music, and jet set. The tables were covered with white clothI rarely when upstairs. The crowd was a little rougher than the Bon Chic Bonne Belle et Beau invitees to the subterranean refuge from the hoi polloi. It was so so branché. Le Palace had a different door policy than Le Privilege. The club needed number. Still I liked to wander through the massive disco, ever alert to the possible presence of some voyu or thug I had refused entrance, They were always looking for me too.

One night I can't recall when, although if and when I find this event in my journals, I'll have the exact date. Maybe 11/11 Armstice Day or Ruhe Tag. The end of World War I. I doubt it, anyway I was cruising the disco. I recall standing at the lower level bar. A large man and slender woman were arguing a few feet away. I couldn't hear the exchange of words, but my danger alert was on fire. Not danger for me, but the young woman. The man grabbed her arm. She tried to pull away without any success. This was not a lover's quarrel. It was none of my business and most men would have ignored the confrontation. Not me.

I stepped closer and slapped the man's offending hand. Hard. He was shocked by my interference and shouted in guttural French. I figured the lout from Alsace. The bartender knew me and pulled away the glasses from the bar. The woman circled around me. There was nothing else for it and I struck twice. Left jab and then a roundhouse to the face. Hard. I've never had a knockout punch. I kicked his knee without his falling. The sons of farmers grow up hard in Alsace. They once were German. He smiled without any wondering, if I could counter his punches. I never found out. The videurs or bouncers muscled him from the disco. He shouted something over his shoulder.

"Je te trouve."

I had heard 'I'll find you' before many places. Usually the speaker or shouter in this case. The young woman and her friends thanked me for my assistance. I smiled and said, "C'est rien."

It was nothing.

My knuckles didn't hurt and the barman, Jean-Jean, filled my glass. I don't think he knew my name. He knew my drinks. Gin-tonic. The DJ was playing Grace Jones' DANCE TO THE RYTHYM. I was feeling good and descended to the safety of le Privilege. Marie France was dancing. I walked to join the blonde singer. Not so fast.

Not so safe.

Pacquita, the doorwoman, grabbed my arm.

"You have to get out of here. That man you fought belongs to a local gang. Nickie. A Serb. He's outside the entrance of le Palace with ten friends. The bouncers will not call the police. If they do you will have to talk with them and the flics are friendly with his gang."

Not good. I had dealt with Russians at the Continental. Serbs were another story. I downed the gin-tonic and signaled the barman, Nordine, for another.

Pacquita waved to a mutual friend, Bobby Butz, a handsome blonde fashion stylist. He was living with Claude Montana. They were a good couple. Bobby was no fighter, but he had a BMW in the alley of Cite Bergere. Like me Bobby was treated well by Paris. He shrugged and said, "You are such a bad boy, but in good ways. I'll get my friends and we'll get out of here. We're going to le Sept."

"Anywhere, but here." Le Sept was the perfect rabbit hole. So very gay.

I downed the drink. Claude the manager of le Privilege wished me luck.

"A minute later Bobby, two Swedish model, one my good friend, Christine Bergstrum,, and I piled into his BMW. I sat in the front.

"Let get out of here."

Bobby shifted the car into gear, yet set off at a leisurely pace without any urgency. No one was after him. He turned left of Rue Bergere and proceeded to Rue de Montmatre without any urgency.

"Can we go faster?"

"I've been drinking. This is as fast as I can go. ZDon't worry. I 'm not stopping until we get to where we're going."

"WQhere is that?"

"You'll see.

The BMW's wasn't faster enough to get away. These people wanted to hurt me. Maybe kill me. You can't tell with Serbs. The two Peugots attempted to overtake us on the narrow street leading to Montmatre. Bobby sped up a little and blew the red light at Rue La Fayette. A wider street. The two cars were crammed with thugs. They were out for blood. The girls were screaming. Bobby put on the radio. I don't recall the song. I wished it had been Judas Priest HEAD OUT TO THE HIGHWAY. The BMW deked left and right to prevent my pursuers from passing us, as if this was a low speed F1 race. Top speed 20mph. All the way to Palais Royal. Traffic was light. He could have punch the gas. The BMW was a fast car. He ingored my pleas.

"I know what I'm doing," he said, as if he had been many low-speed chases.

Rue de Rivoli. A wide boulevard. 30 mph. Next up Place de Concorde. No way were weren't going to get stop there. I wanted to jump out and foot it.

"No jumping out. I know what I'm doing."

I thought the worse, but Bobby pulled up in front of the American Embassy and braked the car. Gendarmes approached the BMW. The Peugots disappeared into the night. Bobby was right. I was safe. He slapped my leg and said, :"Now let's go have a drink at le Sept."

"Bien sur."

Seven was always a lucky number.

In dice and Paris.

7 come eleven.

Tennyson Walk – the Isle of Wight 1985

December 1985 Alan Vaughan invited Lizzie Mercier-Descloux and me to the Isle of Wight. My holidays were normally spent with my family in Boston. This would be the first one on which I would be absent from the Christmas table. I phoned my parents and said that I would see them after the New Year and on December 23rd the three of us trained to Les Havre to catch the Southhampton ferry.

We drank wine in Alan’s cabins and then visited the gaming hall. The weather was typically rough for the crossing. At one point a wave lifted the ship’s bow so swiftly that all the players around the 21 table were lifted from their seats and then slammed back down. The croupier called the hand over and the captain advised the gamblers to retire to their cabin. Lizzie and I bid Alan tonight. The tousled hair singer was nominally my girlfriend. We had sex and I huffed a line of heroin. The drug cured my mal de mer. The next morning we docked in the English port of Southhampton.

Another ferry took us across the Solvent to the Isle of Wight. Bob Souter was waiting at the dock and drove us to his house in Ventnor, buying lobsters on the way to eat for lunch. I wasn’t too hungry. Heroin is also a good appetite suppressant. Lizzie and I had our own bedroom. Alan and she played “Mais où Sont Passées les Gazelles?’ her African-influenced hit for Bob’s children. He on piano and she a guitar. They were definitely interested in each other and I gave them free rein that evening. High on smack my bones were invulnerable to jealousy.

Christmas morning was festive with gift-giving and drinks.

Never too early on the Isle of Wight. The weather was temperate and the sun stripped away the clouds. Bob proposed the Tennyson Trail, although in reverse, starting at Alum’s Bay and ending at Carlisbrooke. I stayed off the dope. Nodding out on a long walk would be unfair to my hosts, who would have to carry me to the nearest road. We were joined by Anthony, Bob’s teenage son. He had a crush on Lizzie. She was French same as his mother. Lizzie was pretty in a very continental way. She kissed my cheek, as we sat in the car and said, “I like Alan.”

“Like?” The word had many variances.

“Yes, like.” Her intonation narrowed them to one. She lit a cigarette. They were never far from her touch. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” It was the truth. She wanted a lover and I was too wasted to be one. “You two stay here and I’ll go up to London. That work for you?”

“Yes.” Something on her face said that this exchange was gone more smoothly than she had expected, but women are always seeking drama.

It was a beautiful walk under a sormy sky along the chalky cliffs overlooking the plowed field of Atlantic rollers. Alan and Lizzie separated from Bob, Anthony, and I. We laughed at Alan stealing my date. At least Bob and I laughed. Anthony thought it had a chance with the singer.

Never.

It was Alan’s day and on Boxing day they drove me to the ferry. Only one train was running to London. My plane was leaving for JFK that evening. If everything went according to schedule then I would be in Boston tomorrow.

I bought a ticket and Alan carried my bag to the gangway.

“Sorry about this.” His smile was contrite.

“No worries.” I patted my coat. The packet of heroin was still had a few lines left in it. “I’ll find a way to get over it.”

And by the time I arrived in Southhampton the world was cool.

I kicked heroin on the 747. I was no junkie. It was easier than I feared.

The next day my mother was happy to see me and my father was glad to have his second son home. And so was I. Left-over turkey tasted better the next day and no one made apple pie like my mother. It was good to be home.

December 6, 1985 Paris Journal

What a night! Hundreds upon hundreds of BCBG young people thronged to the Royal Lieu on a side street off Boulevard l'Opera. Total chaos, but Jacques Negrit and I filtered in the wanted and told the unwanted to please go somewhere else. Out capacity was 260. We let in close to 500. We made everyone pay. 150 Francs. Almost $15. And drinks were $10. The clientele didn't care. They came from the 16th Arrondisement. The BCBG or Boone Chic Bonne Gens were slobs. They thought themselves better than us. Maybe they were right, but we treated those types to a simple, "Not tonight."

A good night. Good money for all of us. Thanks to Albert de Paname and Serge Duprat. DJs Mondial.

La Ruche Petite Dejeuner 1985

A rainy morning
Impasse de Danzig
La Ruche
The gray morning light
On Candida's bare skin
My hand glides up your divine spine
To rest
Beneath an angel wing shoulder.
Heartbeat steady
My fingers memorize the eternity of your youth.
This touch will last forever.
I think___
The door opens
Her mother
Cafe et croissants.
Candida groans
Wanting more sleep.
I whisper
"Je revendrai avec le petite dejeuner.
Descend from the loft.
Bare feet
A towel around my waist.
Simone smiles
I say
"Elle dors."
Her mother smiles.
Her daughter safe.
I smile back.
Not as young as Candida
But not as old as now.
And Candida ever young on that day
April
Paris
1985

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___

Trans Europe Express 1980s Paris Bruxelles

1985
Paris
The Trans Europe Express
Out of Gare du Nord
Two hours plus
To Bruxelles
Christine et moi
A Bruxelles.
To record a 45
‘Take Me Higher’.
Train leaves the station
Northbound
Paris left behind
Clackety-clack
Picking up speed
Only clack-clack-clack
Through Ile-de-France.
Early morning
Gray sky
Comme toujours
Petite dejeuner
In the dining car.
White table cloth
Silver service
Maybe a glass of wine.
Picardy
Flat fields forever.
Clack clack clack
Back in our seats
Christine asleep
Last night drinks
A Le Privilege
Clack clack clack
Wallonia
Out the window
Gray sky
Rain
Rows of plowed dirt to the horizon
Thinking of Jaques Brel
Le plat pays qui est a mienne.
Clack clack clack.
Christine still asleep
Maybe dreaming
I cover her with a SCNF blanket
Le Trans Europe Express
Le Classe of Old Europe.
Clack clack clack
The main station of Brussels-Midi
Less than an hour away
Clack clack clack
Sixty years ago.
A horrible war was fought here
Millions died on this soil.
The War To End All Wars.
Nothing but farmland today
Clack Clack clack.
Thinking of Jacques Brel
"The flat country that is mine."
Clack clack clack
And Brussels
Chocolate, beer, a deeper gray than Paris
Soon to come.
Tonight
In a studio
Christine at the Mike ‘
Take Me Higher.
Clack Clack Clack
Trans Europe Express.

of course who can't forget TRANS EUROPE EXPRESS by Kraftwerk.

Matterhorn 1985 Gucci Loafers

In late September of 1985 I traveled from Paris to Zermatt via Les Diablerets, my autumn refuge away from the nightlife at Le Balajo. Amazing to see the Matterhorn towering over the scenic village. The higher alpine meadows flowing with edelweiss. The gasthaus were demi-filled with elderly hikers and Swiss reservists on their yearly training exercises. Dinner was trout accompanied by a few Feldschlösschen beers. I bought a map of the mountain at a gift shop and set out on a short walk in the cool evening air perfumed by log fires. The Matterhorn shone in the moonglow. I needed to get closer and upon my return to the hotel and asked the concierge, if the Hornlihutte at 3260 meters was possible in one day.

"Go to sleep. Take the first Schwarzsee Cable Car. For there it's a two hour hike to the Hornlihutte. Not easy, but you look in good shape."

"Danke fur der Beratung." I had learned German in high school from Bruder Karl. The Bavarian chain smoker had failed me twice.

Tne next morning after a hardy Zmorge of buttered black bread with cheese and marmalade along with a strong Kaffi. After stopping to buy food, water, and chocolate for the hike I set out for the 8:30 tramway to Schwarzsee with tourists and hikers all geared out in better boots and backpacks than mine. I spoke with no one. The view of the mountains demanded all my attention. Swiss stone pine, larch, birch and willow filled the valley. These trees had survived countless winter storms. I had been reared in Maine with the White Mountains west of Portland Harbor. Mount Washington at 6,288 feet was visible ninety-four miles away from the Eastern Promenade. The Ice Age glacier had grounded thousands of feet in height from Agiochook.

The Alps had withstood the milleniae to dominate the sky. The Matterhorn dominated the chain with an awesome power over any flatlander or coaster Its sister mountains of Breithorn and Klein Matterhorn swarmed over the Zermatt Valley. The treeline gave way just before the arrival at Schwarzsee. As the tram approached its destination. I wished the ride had been at a slower pace. I deboarded at the station. The tourists snapped shots of the scenery and the hikers hauled on their daypacks and set off on the Hornliweg, distance 2.7 kilometers. I waited for a lull and began my hike. The alpine grass had been gnawed to the nub by goats. The Swiss have been pasturing in the Alps for thousands of years. Lonely Helvitians with the sheep and goat and cows. At this altitude the only sounds are cow beels, the wind, and my panting. After a short flatish stretch the trail reached Kapelle Maria zum Schnee by the Schwartzsee. The lakeside church has been the pilgrimage destination since the 18th century. Several hundred meters on the path climbed a very steep slope. At this altitude I was huffing and huffing, stopping very few minutes to regain my breath. The majestic watershed between Italy and Switzerland represented the uplift of the African tectonic plate.

In 1974 I had driven over the Milner Pass of Continental Divide. Height 12,183 feet.

Higher than the Hornlihutte, but this was the highest I had been since then.

The grass petered out into the gneiss strewn plains. Oxygen had thinned out and I was gasping for breath, until a narrow trail traverse a fall of scree. I struggled for footing, slipping and dangerously tottering, finally stopped upon seeing an older woman tramping down the path in Heidi attire and Gucci loafers. The smiling septuagenarian wished a good way and continued on her way, as if she were on a hunt for edelweiss flowers.

I was completely knackered. My heart was pumping, as if I were a victim extra in ALIEN. I gathered my breath. Not for a final push to the Hornlihutte, but to gaze out of the Alps with respect. I might have berated myself, saying that if that old lady can get to the hut, then I had to tough it out. Thankfully I had learned long ago that success in life sometimes is achieved not so much by failure, but by understanding that giving up is not failure and proving I was better than an old woman in Gucci loafers was no success at all.

I might be lucky on the descent through the meadows and find an edelweiss flower. Always lucky that.

April 11, 1985 Paris - Journal Entry

One Easter morning in Paris I'm playing backgammon for money with a Chilean coke dealer in a basement apartment across from Notre Dame. I have two Moulin Rouge dancers with me. Dressed in their show gear. Snorting coke, drinking whiskey coke and beating Jose every game.

Dawn comes and the cathedral bells are bonging out the call to masses. I call it a night and the two girls in their skimpy attire head into the April morning across the bridge to the courtyard of the grand church. I'm dressed in leather.

A magnificent procession led by a large cross carried by altar boys approached the doors and we cut right in front of the cardinal in his dog outfit. He stops seeing us. I salute him. His lips moved with his eyes seeking to scorch my reprobate soul. His followers; priests, brothers, nuns, and the faithful scowl us. I offer them an atheist's smile and continue to my Ile St. Louis apartment to fuck the bejesus out of Bernadette. She was a good girl and ready to be wicked and I was a bad man in the eyes of the Holy Roman Church. Ah, the life of a sinner.

Dear Grace

Dear Grace Jones played New York last week. We will always be slave to her rhythm. To hear Grace's SLAVE TO THE RHYTHM, please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTm9gDwwMZk&feature=related