GUILT VERSUS SHAME - BET ON CRAZY by Peter Nolan Smith

Written Dec 25, 2012

Back in the last century I left work on 47th Street early on December 24. Manny complained that I was deserting my post selling diamonds, but I had been working every day since Thanksgiving.

"I should pay you a half-day." Manny was a grinch of the first-order.

"Do what you want. I'm heading home." Boston was my destination on Amtrak. My mother was cooking a big turkey for our family's Christmas feast.

I caught a train north and arrived at our suburban split-level ranch house on the South Shore in time for drinks and dinner. Our guests left a little before midnight and my mother requested her prodigal son attend church with her. I had been a non-believer since the age of eight, but I respected her faith and said, "Sure.”

I dressed in a dark-gray suit with a black cashmere polo shirt. My mother came into the room and asked, “Where’s your tie?”

“Mom, this shirt is pure cashmere.”

“But what about a tie?” My mother was old school.

“You can’t wear a tie with a polo shirt.” I had worn a tie six years as a grammar school student at Our Lady of the Foothills.

My mother frowned with disappointment.

“I hope at my funeral you’ll wear a tie.” The words were drenched in sadness.

Ridden with guilt I changed my shirt and put on a tie. Saying no to my mother was difficult, especially with tears in her eyes.

Later the next week I related this story to the mother of my diamond employer. Hilda tsked and said, “That’s the difference between Jews and goyim.”

“What?” Her son and I were befuddled by Hilda’s statement.

“Your mother simply shamed you to wear a tie at her funeral, if it had been me I would have guilted my son by saying, “Once you kill me, I want you to wear a tie to the funeral.”

“Aha.” Richie Boy and I replied, for Hilda had explained the true depth of Jewish guilt in a single sentence.

Matricide.

We were all bad boys, except to our mothers.

To them we were saints.

Even if we didn't wear a tie.

LOLITAS ON THE SUBWAY 1977

School breaks open at 2.
Young girls lounge on the subway
Tramping uptown.
Seemingly ready for action.
And it's not all a bluff.
Teenage girls not scared of the Lower East Side slums
Tenement buildings eternally burning
Their youth eternal
Decadent
Daring
Dangerous
Bored to death of the touch of their fathers' friends

Lolitas on the subway
Taunting all men's desires
A finger pulls apart the school uniform
Fourteen and ripe with power
Ingenue eyes asking, "You want to watch?"
And what man can refuse Lolitas' lost lips
Mocking at all men.

Their peals of teenage lust echoing of tiled walls

Going home
Thumpbam
Thump bam
Thump thump bam bam
The lolitas degang on East 86th Street
They rich girls
Inside their doorman apartments they lock the bedroom doors
Thumpbam
Thump bam
Now more a lolitas just a girl in pajamas which she was lolita Thumpbam
Thump bam
A young girl waiting for her master.
Knowing her secret name
Knowing where she wants to be touched
Lolita

Schoolgirls on the A Train to Far Rockaway 1978 - Willy Spiller

Sie Gesund The Mohel

Two days ago Philip L. Sherman, New York City's most prominent mohel, passed away after performing over 27,000 circumcisions over forty-five years. A truly holy man, this mohel had time to play music and ride motorcycles between his busy schedule of B’rit milahs, an average of three daily.

"My record is eleven in one day – two twins and seven others."

Jews are circumcised according the Yahweh's instructions to the tribe in the Torah, which is first mentioned in Genesis 17: 9-12: "And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised." thus creating a covenant with their Lord.

Traditionally a mohel cut off the foreskin and then sucked off the blood in a rite called Metzitzah B’peh, thereafter the foreskin was buried in the earth, a practice perhaps dating back to wandering in the desert after fleeing Egypt to escape their debtors.

Eight days old and such a trauma.

Kantor Sherman acknowledged that the infant boy does feel pain.

How can he not?

Some stranger in cutting off his foreskin.

Circumcision is not a prerequisite to being Jewish. If the mother is Jewish then the boy is Jewish. That simple. As for just goys, the medical profession subscribes to the practice for health reason, however the diseases attributed to having a foreskin are extremely rare and our present acceptance of this archaic butchering of the body dates back to Victorian fears of masturbation damaging a young boy's soul and body, although the Puritans also ascribing the the procedure.

I was cut without thought. 1952. The Richardson House. I doubt my foreskin was buried with millions of others from male babies. It is all barbaric to me, as if female genital mutilation as practiced throughout the Muslim lands and Africa. In Kenya I have stood outside the refuges for young women. Their families call for them. Come and cut your skin. Be one with us. The missionaries say nothing about the trimming off the female foreskin, as in America no one questions the continuation of this barbaric practice.

Jesus' foreskin or the Holy Prepuce adorns many European churches, although the one True Holy Foreskin is located in a Calcata church called Chiesa del SS. The faithful have claimed that rubbing the ancient skin on a blind person's eye can restore their vision. Maybe the Catholic will one day attempt to raise Jesus from the dead from the DNA extraction from the Holy Foreskin, and then The Nailed God came perform the miracle of foreskin regrowth. Until then the Mohel will have his way with the foreskin, one tiny schlong at a time.

Wanted In Thirty-eight States

Coming back from midtown Subway Sunday slow
A Train to Brooklyn
A younger older man
He asks,
"Are you famous?"
Like Ulysees to the cyclops I say,
"I am no one."
He begs to differ.
"You are someone.
My name is Prince.
From East New York.
I done twenty-five.
For five murders.
The po-lice shot me in the head.
My wife pulled out the bullet.
No hospital."
"When?"
"1986."
The crack years.
Young boys in wheelchairs,
The Rock on East 11th Street,
Gunshots in the night.
Day too.
He had a story.
Many.
"I been out fourteen years.
Never going back.
My wife ran the money.
I was a boss.
I was wanted in 38 states.
My name Prince."
We shook hands
His hand was rough.
I ran the numbers.
He had to be 60.
Almost half his life
Behind walls
Still smiling
Thinking I was famous
I decided to be honest.
"I'm not anyone but I'm not nobody too. Do you want to be not nobodies too "
I love Emily Dickinson.
So did Prince,

"Then we can be not nobodies together."

We didn't know each other
But we knew our Emily Dickinson
And me my Rilke.
Poetry time another time.

"387 Myrtle."

Him

"2078 Pitcairn."

We punched knuckles.
At Fulton Street.
Another time
Another smile
We both alive.
And free.
Free as a smile can make us.

His name is Prince. Mine.
Mine is no one.

New York Desolation - Poem November 30 1976

A last kiss through cold steel bars
Accompany your parting glance
Our worlds, met and joined
Drift away in this final act
Your steps echo off tunnel walls
Becoming your last trace
And they too vanish under the roar
Of the subway that gives you escape
In that moment I call out desperate
) You don't turn around and I leave the station
On Lexington Avenue the pre-dawn light takes your place
You go to your empty bed and sleep
Pretty boys on 53rd and 3rd greet me
Yawns say hello too
I ignore both
Dwelling in the past
Remembering long-lost seconds we shared at dawn
Once this pain would have crippled me
Today the agony makes my soul steel
I suppose if I wasn't so tired
I might even have cried
Only my soul has long been bankrupt
And the morning haze blocks out the sun
That cursed sun
It's no friend of mine
Nothing is now
Nothing but pain

92 in New York's Indian Summer 2019

My last few days were spent in Hudson New York, renovating an artist studio. At first the weather ran seasonably cool and I cursed myself for not bringing a hoodie or anything else warm, however by Tuesday the temperatures crawled up into the 70s and today I walked out of the Warren Street building into the warmth of a full blown Indian Summer.

80s at 8am.

My comrades, Shannon and Charlotta, packed the van for our departure to the City and we left at noon. The sun was shining with the force of a star on the cusp of a nova. I asked Shannon to turn up the AC. He snapped up his head. We had been working long hours. He was tired. I was too. Charlotta was texting on the phone.

Traffic in New York was brutal.

Siri directed us onto the RFK Bridge and then recommended backtracking to go down the FDR Drive.

"She isn't always right."

"She knows the way."

I didn't argue with his decision. People can't read maps and don't know where they are most of the time.

Not everyone was a Star Boy Scout like me.

The FDR was bad.

I suggested taking the Manhattan Bridge.

The sun was blinding off the East River.

On the other bank of the river traffic was stalled to a standstill. The BQE was a parking lot. We finally arrived at Shannon's destination. He jumped out and I off-loaded Charlotta to her appointment, while I continued to Clinton Hill. I got out of the car and said, "Damn, it's hot."

October 2.

The high temperature was 92.

I figured it for 85 at 3:30pm

I can't recall an Indian Summer this warm, but then I wasn't around in the time of the Dinosaurs.

Then 90 was a real 90.

With long teeth.

Cops In The Good Old Days

Nightclub raconteur Steve Lewis wrote on Blackbook.com that the NYPD harassment of the nightclub GREENHOUSE appeared to be blatant racism.

http://www.blackbookmag.com/racism-core-greenhouse-harassment/

That certainly seems to be the case.

The police hate nightclubs, because they don't get payoffs like the 'good ole days' unless they put pressure on the joint and then the 'bagman' comes to make an arrangement.

Back at the Jefferson the local mob visited the after-hour club and asked for the management.

I asked if they were there to provide 'protection'.

They said 'yeah'.

I told them we have a problem.

"See those guys over there. If you can make them leave, then will take care of you."

"Who are they?"

"The 9th precinct."

The gangster left without a word.

There was no racism involved in that incident.

Only corruption.

Those were the gold ole days indeed.

Safer Biking In NYC

Two nights ago I was bicycling up to the Williamsburg Bridge. A small crowd of bikers were gathered opposite the old Williamsburg Bank. I slowed down and spotted several city officials handing out night lights for bikes.

Free.

I got into line and a young man came up to me.

"We're from the DOT of New York and we're giving out these lights to prevent accidents." His eyes checked out my bike. "Good, you have a bell. We want pedestrians to hear you as well as see you in the darkening hours of winter."

It was barely 5:30 and the sun was setting behind the towers of Manhattan.

"Have we hit Daylight Savings Time yet?"

"No, so it will be even darker earlier." He attached a white light for the front and a red light for the rear.

"Thank you." I was pleased by this gift from the city, until he added, "We want people to ride bikes safer. To have lights and bells. To not drive the wrong way down a street or through a red light, which is a $200 fine."

"How much for not having a helmet?"

"Nothing yet." He smiled with sincerity, but I saw behind the guise of graciousness.

This was another attempt by Mayor Bloomberg to create revenue by going after scoff-laws and I said, "I probably put up a good $2000 worth of traffic violations in a day. I try not to endanger any good, but myself, however breaking the law makes me feel rich. Thanks for the lights."

"Ride safe then." The young man went to the next biker.

I rode off into the sunset, wondering how much the light batteries cost to replace, then realized that they would be stolen long before they hit E.

New York is that kind of town.

My kind of town.

No matter what Mayor Bloomberg wants.

Revenue Pirates

Two days ago I bicycled over to Chinatown. All the restaurants were closed after the storm, however one store was selling box lunches to the powerless neighborhood. Within minutes health inspectors descended on this violators of the health code and forced customers to give back their food without a refund. Fucking city. It's back to normal.

The Forgotten Borough

Two weeks ago I ferried across the lower harbor to Staten Island. My college friend Nick had invited me to watch the Jets versus the Patriots at his house on Lighthouse Hill. We have a lovely day drinking wine, eating homemade Italian food, and even better the Pats beat the Jets. Nick drove me down to St. George to catch the 9pm ferry. It had been a good day. I just got off the phone with Nick, who's general practitioner of medicine. "We still don't have lights and there's no sign of any help on the way. Worse is that we have no TV or radios, so we don't know what's happening." Nick complained, having spent the greater part of his day giving tetanus vaccines to survivors of the Hurricane Sandy. "I drove down the bungalows on New Dorp and most of them are destroyed along with the million-dollar mansions. There's boats and debris everywhere. And the mayor wants to run the Marathon." I could hear his wife shouting in the background. "Rose is real happy about that." "Fucking Bloomberg." She shouted louder, as if to be heard in City Hall across the harbor. "One guy was guarding the boats with a gun." "Against looters?" "Yeah, they're going through the wrecks for the electronics and the old houses for valuables. There's no cops anywhere." "Except for those getting ready for the Marathon." Rose must have been sitting at his elbow. "If it gets really bad, come stay with me." It was a crazy offer, but these are going to be crazy times. Looking out the window of the Fort Greene Observatory I see the skies getting dark. The weatherpeople are predicting rain for tonight, but tomorrow is supposed to be a sunny day. Don't forget Staten Island and to see the CNN report on that borough, please go to the following URL http://www.cnn.com/2012/11/01/us/sandy-fema/index.html doctor

Last Train From Grand Central

New York City is cut off from the rest of the world. Airports closed. Trains closed. Subway closed. We are where we are.

Storm Warnings For Sandy

The wind is light over the rooftops of Fort Greene, as the city prepares for Hurricane Sandy's landfall late Monday night. Mayor Bloomberg has announced the closure of the MTA's subways and buses at 7PM on Sunday night to prevent people getting stranded by the storm surges into low-lying flood plains such as the Rockaways and Lower Manhattan. Governor Christie closed the casinos in AC and the presidential candidates had cancelled all appearances on the East Coast. Even worse are meteorological predictions of this storm meeting up with an arctic cold front from Canada and a Nor'easter from the Atlantic to trifecta into a duplication of 1991's Perfect Storm. During that Halloween Nor'easter ships sunk at sea and the tides rose to inundate the FDR Drive. My good friend Tim and I went out to Long Beach to surf the next day and we confronted by a savage sea filled with houses. "Acres and acres of unbridled hell," one local surfer call the ocean. None of us attempted to master the chaos. Jsut last week I had been thinking that this year's hurricane season had been easy. Sandy may prove me wrong. I'm going out to buy food for three days; tuna, bread, butter et al. The hurricane is still far to the south. It won't stay there, so be prepared for the worst.