OCTOBER 24, 1978 - JOURNAL ENTRY - EAST VILLAGE

The phone rang this morning and Alice answered, then groaned, "It's Mark."

It was 10.

She handed the phone and I asked gruffly, "What do you want?"

"Can you come into work?"

"Why? You need someone to blame when you lose money?" Mark was always plundering the petty cash for ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE.

"Edward came in and asked where you were. He wasn't happy to hear you had quit."

"Did you tell him why?" I was sure he had made up something that blame me.

"I said I thought you were stealing."

"And he said you were wrong."

"Yes."

I put my hand over the mouthpiece and asked Alice, "Would I be an asshole to go back to work for Mark?"

"Ask for a raise." She rolled over to sleep. The hillbilly directress had come back around dawn. She smelled of another woman's perfume at least not belonging to her witch partner, Susan. Revlon Charlie.

I had been getting paid $150 a week and said, "Pay me 180 a week."

Mark said 'yes'.

"I'll be in there shortly."

Shortly meant getting out of bed and feeling the window overlooking the alley. The pane of glass was cold and the cypress tree was shedding the final leaves. I pulled over autumn clothing for the first time this year; a sweater, heavy boots, a thick leather jacket, and new gloves from Bloomingdales. On the walk over to Veselka I shivered in the wind. The sun was weakly shining through the clouds. I loved the cold, because it drove most of the junkies inside. There was no sign of Hakkim, the scourge of the neighborhood. After breakfast at Veselka I walked up to Mark's apartment building. Mark answered the door. I glared at him and he wisely said, "Let's forget the past and look forward to the future. Edward really likes your work."

"I'm sure."

We made phone calls to various theaters across the USA. The Albee retrospective was immensely popular featuring; THE AMERICAN DREAM, THE ZOO STORY, COUNTING THE WAYS, FAM AND YAM, Counting the Ways" and assorted other plays and my favorite QUOTATIONS FROM CHAIRMAN MAO, which I had seen in rehearsal. The day passed without incident, but this calm was all a facade. Mark was an asshole screamer, when things went bad and some people never change.

GRANT STITT general counselor NRP

The New Zealander emigrated to the USA to study modern dancer. He is 28, homosexual, a good gossip, and a vegetarian. He has nom lover just dalliance without count. His dancing is modern which suits his lanky body. Grant is a devote NRP member in charge of the Surrender Army, which will be the military gay arm of the Party dedicated to giving up before a shot is fired on the front line to corrupt the Soviet troops. Hopefully he won't become the Eric Roehm of the NRP, the homosexual Nazi leader of the SA troops, which was crushed by Hitler in the Night of the Long Knives.

Keith Richards had his day in Canadian court for heroin possession. His sentence of a year's probation and a gig before blind children surprised the Silent Majority press calling for his blood. The Stones haven't thrilled me since their hit BROWN SUGAR and that was because a fan named Paul O'Malley had shouted out the title 'BROWN SUGAR' during the recording of a live LP. Every at my graduation from Boston College seniors yelled BROWN SUGAR throughout the ceremony upsetting the Jesuits.

In the punk world Sid Vicious of THE SEX PISTOLS' bass player attempted suicide with a lightbulb.

He should have used a razor blade. They are very effective slicing lengthwise. I would never killed myself that way or jumping or with a gun or hanging or pills or a unlit stove like the poet Sylvia Plath. How I don't know, but if necessary I'll fix it out. Still it's funny to see how sturdy is the human body.

Back when I was driving taxi for Boston Cab I ran a stop sign before the Roxbury projects at Lamartine and Heath Streets and t-boned a Mustang at full speed. Time collapsed to a blur, then resumed normal speed. The force of the collision threw me across the Checker Cab with a snapped-off steering wheel in my hands. The other driver Mitch Lipcomb was unhurt as well and the soul singer confessed outside court that he had fallen sleep at the wheel. We laughed and then realized no one had shown up for the hearing.

"Let's get a drink."

Sid Vicious was probably avoiding a court date for the murder of his girlfriend Nancy Spungen at the Chelsea Hotel. Rumors had it that Sid had taken thirty Tuinals and had been in a drug coma during the killing on Columbus Day. His shows exposed his total lack of musical talent, but punks crowded CBGBs and Max's to see the disaster sing Frank Sinatra's hit MY WAY. Record producers ignored his heroin addiction and bizarre behavior in favor of filthy loot, but Sid's performances echoed the coming untalented assault of New Wave led by the Lounge Lizards and Teenage Jesus. each dreaming of gold-plated sneakers, suit jackets from near-extinct seals from Italian designers and China White #4.

White heroin was nuch better than Mexican Brown.

Woof woof woof dogs at the door. Don't you go outside Rabid hounds snare for revenge Fangs snap at the glass. The mongrels wish they were Poodles Or Pekinese. Dogs are scared of water Dogs are scaring me I drop my trousers and piss on them all. Arf Arf arf

Alice and I met over a year ago through the designer, Timothy Dunleavey. They were friends from North Carolina. I was going to a birthday party for Jancy Stephenson from Texas. After a few drinks I asked Alice and her friend to go someplace more private. They were staying at a West Side townhouse with a pool in the cellar. The water was unheated, yet the two of us stripped naked. Her friend puked after a few minutes of sex. Alice came from Coal County. The good side of the tracks had her kind tough and she called for God, as I finished in her. I was not God, but her orgasm was divine.

Tonight I lie in bed and she sits at the kitchen table speaking to her consort, Susan. Her voice was low. I could only pick out a few words. The conversation could have been between two lovers. I fear the worst. I came into the kitchen with a towel around my waist. She turns away from me. I open a bottle of Chateau Bourdieux from France liberated from Mark's wine chest. It's better than the usual crap I drink. I ask Alice if she wants some. She made a face. She only drinks with the cast of NEW WAVE VAUDEVILLE.

"You want to make love?"

She shook her head and returned to speaking on the phone. Women try to seduce me at CBGBs. I refuse them and wonder in Alice's celibacy is contagious. I hope not. I like fucking, but I also want tobe monogamous. I wander the streets alone. A libertine in love instead of in lust.

It was late in Butte, Montana When I arrived at the cowboy bar. I order a whiskey and beer And search the place for my wife. Rumor had it she was living here now. Not with anyone Playing the tramp Mona wasn't here I drowned my drinks and ordered another round Last call in Butte Montana. I can't forget Mona Her face fills empty mirrors Two weeks ago she left the state line Tired of living in a tent. She started breakfast While I was in the shower I came back to burning eggs. She took my money and caught a ride With a trucker heading east. She knew how to leave fast Any other woman from Reno could do the same I ate the burned eggs. She always burnt them I dressed for work building shitters For the new highway rest stop West of Missoula I earned enough working overtime in the snow I borrowed my boss' truck I bought a pistol in Drummond. Planning to shot here dead Last call in Butte Montana The gun is in the truck I ain't gonna kill no one Only myself and soft I order two more. The bar is empty The bartender wants me gone I tell him about Mona. "Her. She was here a couple of Days ago. Said she was heading to Laramie with a rodeo bum But a girl like that don't ever have a destination Only someplace she had done." I thanked him for the info He gave me the drinks to go in a paper cup It's only Friday night And she gotta be out there I'll drink my way across the west till Sunday Then come on back to work Still hurting from work and Mona and sleazy bars Always last call in Montana.

October 10, 1978 - Journal Entry - East Village

One NRP member incurred the wrath of the Party by suggesting that we kill the rich. I agreed with Guadalcanal in theory, but everyone else rejected violence.

"If we use violence, we will be just like them," Anthony Scibelli said parroting the old movie line foisted on the film's audience to prevent the poor from ravaging the Upper East Side or Greenwich. It isn't like Anthony is square, but I don't trust him, especially since he hit on Alice at CBGBs.

Later at our apartment Alice said that she wanted the NRP to handle security for New Wave Vaudeville.

"We can't pay anything."

People put their lives on the life, they get paid," I countered, although all of the male members are tough as one twenty-five year-old from the South Shore.

"None of them are asking for money. Why are you backing them? I'll pay you. Just don't tell anyone."

"I only want John Kemp to get paid." The British shoemaker was a good friend.

"Just John."

"And not Anthony."

"Certainly not Anthony.

On some things Alice and I agreed completely.

"I don't think we will be able to pull off the show. Everyone is fighting for the limelight, except Klaus." She was mostly talking about Susan Hannaford, who thinks she is a genius. I can't stand her, but have never told Alice that. The Hillbilly ingenue was on the verge of tears. I held her in my arms and told her everything was going to be alright. I hoped it wasn't a lie.

Mark Mandrell is in Thailand. He quarantined two weeks in a Phuket hotel. I want to go so badly, but my finances are desperate, since I can't really work in my condition. Heavy labor seems to be the only things that comes my way. Old Yellah can't seem to get it in her head that I am sick. Not so sick that I can't walk or lift things, but I need my rest.

Nothing like sleep and even more than sleep with my family in Sri Racha and Ban Nok.

October 18, 1978 - Journal Entry - East Village

Alice's trip to West Virginia was five days long. She returned Tuesday morning fifteen minutes before I went to work as a waiter in the Ventron Executive Dining Room off Wall Street. Somehow she looked different and acted the same. It took a full day until Alice became the love of my life again, although she spent most of that time with the unlikeable witch Susan Hanneford.

NRP MEMBERS : Peter Smith ------- ( founder ) Alice ------- ( Culture ) Kim Davis ------- ( Secretary ) Kyle Davis ------- ( Loyalist ) BG Mitchell ------- ( Loyalist ) Anthony Scibelli -- ( Possible snitch or rat ) Clover Nolan ------ ( Spy ) Michael Selbach --- ( Architect ) Andy Reese ------- ( Loyalist ) Grant Stitt ------- ( Gay Coordinator ) Lowell Murphy ----- ( Loyalist ) Besides these members there are interested parties beset by lapse in life purpose.

What started as an in-joke is now viewed observed curiosity, ridicule, or interest today. Alice told me, "A reported from the New York Post wants to interview you about the NRP."

Interest in the Party forced me to confront my lack of desire to be in the public eye. I want o bail, because some people are taking this serious. No one can see the humor. Aren't I funny?

LATER

The Damned Yankees have won the World Series after dropping the first two by blowing out the Dodgers in four games. Bucky Dent, aka Fucking Bucky Dent was awarded the Series MVP for his hitting and fielding. He saved him with a home run against the Red Sox in 1978 and now he's a hero again.. I hope he doesn't get a candy bar named after him. The victory parade drew two million fans to Lower Manhattan. I ran into many of them after work. They were happy, drunk, and victorious. The red Sox haven't won anything since they traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees.

"Wait till next year."

The battle cry of Fenway.

"And you'll wait too."

August 18, 2021 - Brooklyn

Last night the Bosox crushed the Astros gaining a 2-1 lead in the American League finals. I was surprised to read in my journal than Bucky 'Fuckin' Dent was the MVP. Supposedly Don Zimmer, Red Sox manager, once rented a house from the Yankee shortstop and everyone room in the house had a large photo of his third home run on 1978 in Fenway.

Very funny."

"When I hit the ball I knew that I had hit it high enough to hit the wall. But there were shadows on the net behind the wall and I didn't see the ball land there. I didn't know I had hit a homer until I saw the umpire at first signaling home run with his hand. I couldn't believe it."

Bucky 'Fucking' Dent.

As for the NRP, Scibelli did turn out to be a rat at Hurrah.

Portrait by Parker Delany

December 9, 1978 - East Village - Journal

I haven't seen Alice all day. My honey has been deluged by problems. The previous show's Emcee, David McDermott, bailed on presiding over METRO NOVELTIES. A day before the opening. His resignation might have occurred, because Klaus Nomi garnered all the praise, ignoring his hilarious haute fey frontman performance. Alice said nothing about the whys, then again we haven't been speaking or anything since her the news of her possible pregnancy.

I joked about McDermott's desertion, paraphrasing Admiral Farragut's famous quote at the Civil War Battle of Mobile Bay, "Damn, the faggots, full speed ahead."

No laugh.

It wasn't funny. Nothing has been these days.

Tom Scully, Susan, and Alice might have folded tents on the show. The rest of the participants have been down. Alice's visible mood has been one of perseverance and that afternoon I went to see a final rehearsal at Irving Plaza .

I stood with Klaus, as she addressed the cast with a pre-show, "Listen, we will succeed, because all I'm interested in is having fun. We're not in this for the money or the fame. Fun, and we're going to have fun.

I beleived her, but Klaus turned to me and said, "She may be in it for fun. I am too, but I like the idea of fame and fortune."

"You are a star."

"I was born to be a star and everyone sees that now."

It hadn't been easy for Klaus as a fatherless son in Essen.

Different and no one anywhere likes different, but we are all different in the East Village and if you can make it here, you can make it here.

Later

LOST AT SEA
As was will be
360 degrees of darkness
The Pacific Ocean
The ship
The sea
The sky
Blackness
Where is the captain?

The sea slows,
The ship speeds at 18 knots
Stars blink on and off, on and off
Never true blackness
Only the dark.
Where is the first mate?

Engines slow to half-speed
Our heading - Singapore
Due west
Two thousand plus miles
Five days away at a faster pace Where are the crew?

A glow to the east
Not the sun
Far from land
Asea
Maybe another ship
After a half-hour
The light drowns beneath the horizon
Leaving
Only me on the late night Pacific Watch
Where am I?

That evening the air was warm. December hasn't yet been seasonably cold. Grant and I walked over to the show. A shoulder-to-shoulder crowd filed into the ancient music hall. David's absence hadn't affected the draw. People had come for the show and it was the only show in down tonight. We entered through the Polish bar on 15th Street, had a drink with Alex and the old drunks. Then another. The three of us climbed the back stairs and arrived for the opening. David is back as the emcee. A lot to do about nothing.

During the show about the over-due rent. I have no money. Alice hsa none either and has asked, "Can you pay December's rent?"

I could have, if her whore girlfriend hadn't kicked me off security after the fight with Blondie, but I have no one to blame, but me for being a pauper. I feel like going beserker. My madness has gotten me this far. An arrest and jail time for assault and battery was a solution for everything. FTW.

I stood with Kim Davis, watching the show. It has been as good as always. My pseudo-sister, Pip,held my hand and said, "I hope you and Alice can get over this."

"Over what?" I played stupid.

"Her you know what. I talked to her about getting an abortion. I said that you had taken me to Planned Parenthood. You were so good then."

"Except everyone there thought I was the father."

"You would have been a good father, if only you didn't like John Wayne so much."

"Not so much."

At the last meeting of The NRP I had mentioned that to most Americans John Waybe epitomized a true American.

"You said that we believe we are always right, even when we're wrong."

"Like most people."

"You're not always right."

"I'd be lucky to be right ten percent of the time, but people can't stand the truth."

"True, but I love you." Kim has been a good friend, ever since we met at CBGBs. I don't have many, but one is better thn none.

December 5, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry

Early this morning I woke to an empty bed. Alice had opted to stay at her girlfriend's Chinatown loft to work on the Vaudeville Show. Its importance outweighed mine and I suspect our romance has come to an end. Sean Hausman called to work for clearing an East 11th Street lot. The pay $40 with the promise of three more days work for his father's film. I have no idea of the name. It's raining hard, but hard work in a hard rain never stopped me from working and I need the money.

Later.

Work was easy, but cold and wet. The early wake-up call after a late night exhausted my body and I returned to 256 and ran a hot bath. I shut off the hot water and then turned on the TV, then laid on the kitchen floor wrapped in two towels. Good thing I hadn't gotten into the bath, otherwise I might have drowned, since I woke with a shudder and hour later. AS I reheated the bath, I thought about if my death might have made the NY Post.

PUNK DROWNS IN EAST VILLAGE APARTMENT.

The Patriots lose to Dallas after leading 10-3. Their record guarantees them a place in the playoffs, but their kicking sucks

Dec 2, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry

I had been serious sick from food poisoning this week. Puking and shitting non-stop.Two days of retching in the WC toilet. I slept in the living room to keep it close. Pus getting out of the loft bed was dangerous in my condition. I felt like Doc Holiday in Tombstone. Always ready to die.

Alice was a great nurse.

I do love her.

What's an evening without a fight?

After the Klaus Nomi closed the show for the Vaudeville Show, I had a few drinks and then cleared the crowd from Irving Plaza. A table of rockers ignored my several polite requests. They looked familiar and I let them slide. Finally I said, "It's time to go. Please finish your drinks. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

I had heard Merv from CBGB's say that many times without any trouble, then again he was 6-4.

A musician with glasses stood up.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Not a clue. I just want to go home."

"I'm not stopping you. Fuck off."

I turned my head. Debbie Harry from Blondie glared at me and I recognized the big mouth as their guitarist.

"I'm just doing my job."

"Then why don't you fuck off."

He bumped into my chest. I did not move.

"You're no one to me." I shoved him away hard and he fell into the table. This band rose to their feet as a gang. Five on one. I looked for help. Anthony and Anthony were drinking at the bar. Completely useless as they had been all night. I was on my own. The band flanked me and one of them Japped me. Not a hard punch, but then hands grabbed my arms. I snatched the pianist by the hair. The rest of the band pigpiled atop me and we went to the ground together with the pianist was under me and got a stomping. Boots struck my ribs. One practically hard, knocking out my breath. Staying under the assault was a death wish. Somehow I rose to my feet. Pianist in hand. I punch him hard and was stunned to see his hair in my hand. The beating continued unabated. I saw an opening and clocked the guitarist, breaking his glasses, but there wasn't much fight in me. Them neither. We stood apart. Anthony and Andy came to my sides.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Debbie spat with venom.

As I regained my breath. Not easy. At least two of my ribs were broken. It hurt to breathe. I got a drink at the bar. Alex. the manager of Irving Plaza, served me a double whiskey.

"On the house."

Polish drinkers from the downstairs bar came up to the concert hall.

"I heard the band say you started it." Chris the publicist said, as if believed them over me. "And they said they beat the shit out of you."

There was no blood, but my body had been thrashed and I looked at my friend Anthony. "It was five on one. Pussies. I had no help."

"At least you can tell your grandchildren what wimps Blondie were. You're lucky it wasn't the Ramones."

"Yeah." It was small solace.

I had been in plenty of fights this year. This was my first loss. I blame drink and the odds. I wasn't looking for revenge. Not five against one. Alice was busy counting the take with her skinny stick pussy. She obviously hadn't heard about the fight and I went back to 256 East 10th Street adn watched TV until the National Anthem.

Alice came into the apartment. The TV was a snow storm.

"Where are the stamps."

"I forgot to get them."

"I need those stamps."

"At four in the morning."

We hadn't had sex in weeks. We did tonight. She felt so good. Being with her was good.

Later

Politically I have tested the ranks of the NRP. Some believe. Some don't, but there are loyalists even after last night. The enemy grow in strength. Alice always has my back. But I am a coward to be hiding behind a women's skirts. We are us.

OCTOBER 23, 1978 - JOURNAL ENTRY - EAST VILLAGE

QUITING MARK AMITIN

Tore up your phone number Written on a scrap of paper I never memorized it And I'm glad I hadn't I'm so happy to walk away from your shit The screaming The tantrum The lechery I tell you, "Fuck you." "You'll be back." "Fuck you in case I do." I walk out the door I don't turn around No second thoughts Glad to be gone I'd say it had been fun None of it was.

Today I quit ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE. Edward is a good man, But Martin Amitin questioned my accounting. I did it once again and came up with the same numbers.

"I guess you're good at cooking numbers," said the acne-scarred producer.

"I was a math major in university. If I wanted to cheat, you'd never know and the only reason you're busting my chops is that you want me to have sex with you. I might, but you're dick is too small."

"What?"

"Small. It isn't ever two plus two." I burned him in effigy and wished he caught an incurable tropical disease, as he yelled at me.

"I quit."

If you quit, I'm not paying you."

"Then I'll pay myself." I took my wages from the petty cash. "$120. Can you count it?" I had not been brought up by my Yankee father to quit jobs Some how I would find another.

"That's theft."

"Call the cops." I left the office, as Edward entered with a press release.

"Going someplace?"

"Yeah, I quit. Good luck. It's been an honor working for you."

Outside I felt free, but then Mark screamed in a high whining voice from the 17th floor.

"Stop that man. He's a thief."

Not a single pedestrian paid attention.

I love a city where people know enough not to get involved in other people's bullshit.

I called Alice from 27th Street.

I quit."

About time. That old queen hated me."

"He hates all women."

"You want to meet me for breakfast at the Kiev."

"Sure, you feel bad?"

"No, I have enough for rent."

November's rent?"

"Sadly only October's rent, but don't worry, Mrs Golding love me."

"Everyone loves you." She was a little jealous of how I got into clubs and venues and ate for free.

"And I love you." I hadn't been seeing Alice at all as she devotes all her time to NEW WAVE VAUDEVILLE. I have gone to sleep alone veery night for the last month

"It's strange, but I feel married. and I don't know how to react to that. I've never lived with a man before." She was 22.

"I've never lived with a woman before." I was 26.

Are you crazy about me?"

Yes, you are my love, but lately you've been distant, because of the show, so I understand. You feel your freedom, so you can be creative. I haven't been seeing anyone.

"Yoy, the sexual adventurer?"

"Yes, the libertine has retired." I'm not concerned with my cheating. Alice??? I pray that she isn't sleeping with that horrible shrew, her co-conspirator in the show. Susan Hanneford. At least I'm happy to see that the witch hates me more than I hate her.

After Alice went to rehearsal at Irving Plaza I spoke with Michael Selbach. We drank Rhein wine and the sculptor bemoaned his wife's desertion. "She's gone and I don't know where. At least you know where Alice is.

With that stupid bitch.

We finished two bottles in record time.

And then decided to hit CBGB's for beers.

It was still daylight, but nothing said fuck your boss better than hitting a Bowery Bar early.

Seconds tick to seocnds A ragged man's death rattle on the Bowery. Not death, but something far from life. The bum had been hit by a car. Drunks live hard and die harder. Blood flows from his head. Seoncds tick to death A siren approaches fast. The man opens his eyes. Laughs Cries An asks "I never thought I would die here." He groaned and breathed again. "Maybe I ain't dead, but I can't call this living." Seconds tick back to his heart. The ambulance workers load him inside Life goes on.

OCTOBER 22, 1978 - JOURNAL ENTRY - EAST VILLAGE

Last night at CBGBs there were plenty of fights. Several women tried to lure me into bathroom sex. Stupidly I only wanted Alice, who was at Irving Plaze with her long-nosed girlfriend, Susan. I almost walked over the Polish meeting hall to confirm my fears, but drank beer instead and did a few lines with Guadalcanal, who is leaving fora tour with Johnny Thunders. I have never spoken to Alice about my suspicions of their pussy-bumping, but Kim Davis has intoned that she thought Alice and Susan were a thing. I don't think so, but I'm a man in love and we always believe the best.

OCTOBER 20, 1978 - JOURNAL ENTRY - EAST VILLAGE

NEW WAVE VAUDEVILLE has Alice and the other participants in a panic. I've seen a few rehearsals. Klaus is fantastic, David McDermott is the quintessential fey emcee. Stanley the Polish manager of Irving Place, tells everyone that the show will be a big success. Alice is giving it her all. We haven't been together in weeks. I wish I possessed her drive. I'm only capable of writing in this journal and scribbling bad poetry on blank paper. I throw most of it away without reciting the verses to friends or strangers or reading it myself.

Failure.

A twenty-six year-old failure at school, work, and love.

"I think I'm getting too fat," Alice said this morning before the mirror above the kitchen bathtub. "I can't make love to you until I'm skinny."

"You don't look fat to me. You look as beautiful as the first day I met you."

"That's because you're blind to anything other than your own narcissism."

"What?" I was prone to regarding my reflection in mirrors and windows, so there was truth to what the West Viriginan had said, but her to me revealed a cold side of her. Cold to me.

"You're always glancing at your reflection in mirrors and shop windows."

"True." I sat at the table, as she pulled on her jacket. "I also look in people's eyes, because people really see you for who you are."

"You're not Adonis." She slammed the door shut and I was alone.

No sex.

I've been celibate before.

When Alice directed OUT TO BRUNCH, the hillbilly beauty rejected my advances to the point where I slept on the living room couch. Some nights she would steal under the covers and huddle close, saying, "I'm cold."

The sex during the no-sex period was all for her. She came and went right back to the bedroom without a good-night kiss. After that I went on strike.

I'm working for Mark Amitin. I need the money more than I don't need the grief. His cat, Camus, sits on this journal. Mark wants to fuck me. He wants to fuck everyone. I leave after lunch, saying, "I have to go to the doctor for a clap test."

I walked south down Second Avenue. Women stare at me. Most I wouldn't touch. They exude no sexuality, which I prefer to beauty. Last year this time I was whoring my way through Brooklyn with Betty, a married bimbo with augmented breasts, Roz, a lesbian, who liked my cock sometimes more than licking pussy, Fran, a skinny Jewish pinball player, who begs me to cum on her baby-powdered breasts, and young Ellen, a scrawny teen runaway, who gets off one my fucking her ass in between subway cars the night Elvis died. Last year I told her about Alice and that we couldn't fuck anymore.

"What about blow-jobs on the D-Train?"

"Fellatio isn't really sex."

I said good-bye to her last Spring when Alice Graduated from her Midwestern liberal arts college. I can never remember its name. I arrive to East 10th Street without seeing a single women exuding sex.

I'm cursed with desire for one woman, who fears me, but not my cock.

OCTOBER 20, 2021 - BROOKLYN

I can do nothing right for Old Yellah.

Today I hadn't replaced the heater to the bathroom. I should have. She heats up the bathroom for yoga. Hot sauna's one of her great pleasures. Sh tells me that my apologies are fake. I don't respond to the valid accusation, since she is so absorbed in her efforts to save outdoor dining and a million other projects that my cancer hasn't registered with her.

I haven't mentioned the fatality rate of liver cancer to her or anyone else. 2-5 years. No one at NYU hospital have discussed my future other than to say that I'm a perfect candidate for a liver transplant. I thought about telling Alice about my ailment, but opted to spare everyone, since they are wrapped up in their cellphone existences

This afternoon the NYU team checked my heart condition. Everything was normal. It looks as if I'll live to the end of the year.

ps I am the world's # 1 failurologist.

October 11, 1978 Journal Entry - East Village

I woke early for a change. The clock said the time was 7:19. Alice is asleep after a long night at CBGBs. I nuzzled her neck. She mumbled, "Not now."

"I'm going out to eat." My usual breakfast was a coffee and bagel at Veselka, but I dress thinking maybe someone from the scene was at the Kiev. I almost brought my journal to write poetry, but I hate writing in public. It is not a spectator sport.

I had played pinball for money at CBGBs. $1 per ten thousand points. The money roll in my jeans held about $190 and I shouted to Alice, "You want something?"

"Sleep."

I left the apartment and walked down the block. Hakeem was on the opposite side of the street from the gang controlling the sinse trade. The junkie was harassing passers-by for drugs. He sneered at me and looked up to my floor. I read his mind and warned, "I'm only going to the bodega and if you ever lay a hand on my girl, you're a dead man.

"We got you, gringo," said Franklin, the # 1 dealer. I had never bought anything from the young Puerto Rican, but he always tried and I respected him for his drive.

I didn't trust him for any good and got a coffee, a bagel, and the New York Times from the corner store. When I exited, I glared at Hakeem, who shambled away, muttering, "You white boy think you own this block, but no one own this block. Not you. Not me. Not the cops and not the mayor. The Lower East Side belong to all of us. Remember that, white boy."

I sat on the stoep and read the sports. The Pirates were playing the Orioles later. After finishing my breakfast, I went up stairs. Alice hadn't moved in my absence. "I've got to go out. I'll be lack this afternoon."

"I'll be working on the show late." She reached up and pulled me to the futon. "No telling when I'll be home."

"No problem," I said, but sensed the New Wave Vauville Show was stealing her away from me. I kissed her with tenderness, wising she had more energy. Not a change. She was already asleep again.

I traveled by bus to the Path Train on Sixth Avenue. I jumped the turnstile. The next subway was packed with New Jerseyites from across the Hudson. They looked scared of New York, but happy to live in New Jersey. I got off at Penn Station and went to my landlord's office on West 35th Street. I paid Mr. Golding $182 for October and he said, "You're ten days late. I hope this isn't a trend." "

"Leave the boychek alone. He's a poet. I'll always find the rent."

Yes, but never on the first."

Jerome and his wife were good people and I thanked the old Jewish couple for understanding my situation.

"How's that girl of yours? I hear she's putting on a vaudeville show. Give her my besst wishes."

it was only 10 am and I wasn't ready to return to the East Village. I walked up to Times Square, counting women in my age group. Only one caught my eye. A blonde model with a portfolio. She was so different from Alice. I trailed her north and she spun on her hell at the door of a high-rise.

"Are you following me?"

"Yes, but I'm no threat. Just a poet on the way to play pinball. Two fellow models exited from the building and laughed at me., as the blonde entered the building. They were used to being followed by strangers and we all looked alike.

A weirdo.

I spent two hours at the Amusement Center on Broadway, beating all comers. Nobody wanted to gamble against me and I departed from the pinball emporium to catch the R Train.

Alice was gone. I laid on the futon and picked up Melville's TYPEE. The sheets smelled of her sweat. Before I could turn a page, the telephone rang. It was Mark Amitin, who asked, "I've been calling since noon. Where were you?"

"Uptown."

"You want to meet later?"

"I'm not feeling so well." I lied rather than tell the truth, that I had blown off Mark, because he hadn't paid me for my assistant tour manager gig for ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE. "I'll call you in a few days."

Not likely, I was tired of doing unpaid favors from friends, who abuse you for not working extra hours.

Day went to night and night got late.

Alice hadn't showed up at 1am and I wandered over to CBGbs, where she was leaning into the bar with Susan Hanneford, who didn't even bother to say hello. Her boyfriend, Tom, was high on smack. Walter Stedding was on stage droning on his violin. Normally his screeching was intolerable, but I suddenly understood his magic. Alice looked cute in a green two-piece dress and black tights, although her hair could have been cut more to accentuate her eyes. The Hillbilly actress could see that I didn't want to be there and asked, "You don't mind if I stay out a little more?"

"Not at all." I hated her friend. Tom would have been okay, except he was in love with the skinny bitch.

I took a taxi home, said hello to Franklin, bought an apple juice, and played solitaire, at which I cheated more than once, wondering where is Alice. Something told me Susan's Chinatown loft. I put away the cards and got under the covers. They no longer smelled of Alice.

"Baby, where are you?"

BEATEN BY BLONDIE by Peter Nolan Smith

Two boys bullied me the last year of grammar school on the South Shore. The daily beating were witnessed by friends and classmates. Joe Tully and Mark Scanlon were not in good shape. Exhausted after a few minutes they stopped and everyone wandered home to watch WHERE THE ACTION IS.

No one ever tried to stop them.

I carried those scars into my teenage years and beyond.

I fought countless times in Boston.

Nothing stopped me.

Not victories.

Not defeats.

I had a chip on my shoulder, but for the most part I protected the weak.

Fags, women, blacks, jews.

I was no superhero.

Just that if I fought that much, it looked better, if it was for a good cause.

This behavior scared women.

None more than my precious Alice from West Virginia.

In 1978 we lived together in the East Village.

Punks, artists, artists.

Alice's eyes were two colors.

Actually more than two, counting the sparks of gold, agate, and emerald.

Her skin was as smooth as Marvin "Popcorn" Sutton's moonshine.

I was more than in love, but my violent streak was an obstacle to peace in the valley of East 10th Street.

Never against her.

But she saw me at my worst.

Her gay friends considered me rough trade.

Her girlfriends thought of me as a Neanderthal.

They weren't 100% wrong.

I liked a fight for a good cause.

I liked them for bad ones too.

Against all odds.

In the end it was against a fight against my hometown bullies, Joe Tully and Mark Scallon.

In the winter of 1978 Alice and her friends organized THE NEW WAVE VAUDEVILLE SHOW at Irving Plaza.

Klaus Nomi was the headliner along with a horde of starry-eyed rockers and artists.

I was asked to be the securit with my friends.

None of us were paid, but we were guaranteed free drinks.

The night of the show started slow, but by midnight the auditorium on Irving Place was packed with new wave affectionados. Klaus killed the crowd. He was a star.

At the end of the stage lights came up, signaling time to go home.

I went from table to table telling the guests that they didn't have to go home, but they couldn't stay here.

The rest of the security was guzzling liquor at the back bar.

Alice and her friends were flush with achieving glory for an evening and tomorrow promised more with the B-52s headlining the show.

Only one table remained and I approached the four rockers, telling the same thing as I had to the lingerers.

They didn't like what they heard and a thin-haired guy in glasses asked, "Do you know who I am?"

I had seen him someplace, but had to say, "No."

"We're Blondie and we're not going anywhere."

"Blondie? I had seen them several times at CBGBs. I liked them and said, "It's been a long night. Just do me a favor and finish your drinks."

I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my shoulder. I shucked off his grip and slapped the beer out of his hand.

"Just leave, you cunts. You guys suck."

I was no music critic and they attacked me as if one of them had said, "One two three four."

I seized the forelock of the rocker in the glasses and whacked him in the face.

He backed away and I found myself with a hank of hair in my hand.

After that I was buried underneath them and their roadies.

Not a fair fight.

I was used to those.

Alice wasn't there when I got to my feet.

I had trouble breathing.

Two of my ribs were broken.

I returned to our apartment on East 10th Street and lay on the futon wheezing.

I coughed a little blood.

Nothing serious.

Alice show up at dawn.

She sat in the kitchen.

"A good night."

"Yes, but you had to ruin it all. Blondie wants to play, but both them and the B-52s won't perform if you're there."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Well, the show must go on."

That morning we slept in separate beds.

Alice left for the show before sunset without saying a word. I wandered north to Irving Plaza and drank in the Polish Bar beneath Irving Plaza.

The Poles toasted me.

I toasted them back.

"Na Zdrowie!" I coughed with pain

I spit up blood for the next two days.

HEART OF GLASS rode the charts to # 1.

I should have sued the band for a hundred-thousand.

Sadly I wasn't that type of guy.

Fighters never are.

We win.

We lose.

We never cry.

Never.