Showing posts with label new york. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new york. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 29, 2026

MAYBE TOMORROW - A novel by Peter Nolan Smith Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The November sun flashed off a West Village window and the wavering reflection stalked the Christopher Street pier to a lone youth tuning a battered guitar. The bleached blonde twenty year-old broke into a sly smile and the sapphire shimmer transformed the leather boy into a fallen angel regaining his halo. Nearly every mother and father in America would have ordered their children to avoid him as the complete opposite of America's Bicentennial Spirit. His skin pallor rivaled the paleness of the rising moon and no suburban mall stocked his black leather jacket, torn T-shirt, or heavy engineer boots. Most teenagers would have obeyed their parents' command, but not all of them.

The heavenly mirage disappeared with a windmill slash against the steel strings of the Les Paul. Johnny Darling shut his eyes and envisioned a small stage. Overhead lighting enveloped a drummer, bassist, and keyboard player. A teenage Lolita rasped words of love and no tomorrows in imitation of the Velvet Underground's Nico. The imagined feedback of Marshall Amps buzzed in his ears. The audience might have materialized within his eyelids, if a young boy's voice hadn't shattered Johnny's trance.

"Hey, man."

This time of night only gay bashers and leather freaks frequented the derelict Christoper Street piers and the guitarist waited for the last chords to fade beneath the subsonic range before turning to address the intruder. The Puerto Rican teenager in a distressed leather jacket was two inches shorter than Johnny and his slanted eyes hinted at a drop of Han blood in his Taino veins. Times Square johns found Frankie Domingo pretty, despite the scars crisscrossing his seventeen year- old body. Johnny thought the same.

"Thanks for letting me finish?"

"I been waiting thirty minutes." A gust blew a shank of greased hair across

Frankie's olive eyes. "That a new song?"

"Just three chords strung together." Johnny's thumb rubbed his calloused fingertips.

"Doesn't get more basic than that." Frankie rattled off a drum roll with frayed sticks.

"Got these from Jerry Nolan at Max's Kansas City last night."

"How were the Heartbreakers?" Johnny had skipped the last night's show to entertain a customer.

"Straight and the crowd loved them." Frankie hunched his shoulders with a shiver. "They got paid a $100 each. When we gonna get a band together?"

"Now I have my guitar back, we can audition for the other members."

"Great." Frankie stepped from side to side to relieve the damp seeping through his sneakers' paper-thin soles and stammered, "Johnny, you got ten dollars?"

"The pawnshop took my last fifty." Johnny slapped his guitar.

"Damn, I wish we could get out of here." Frankie moaned like a runaway in need of a dime to phone Mom for a bus ticket home. He blew on his fingers. He hated the cold.

"To go where?"

"What about Florida?" Frankie pointed to the cars on the Westside Highway overhead and glanced south, as if the Sunshine State lay beyond the New Jersey docks. "How far away is it? Five hours?"

"More like twenty-four, if you drive straight through the night."

"What about by plane?" The young Puerto Rican's teeth chattered at a 10/10 beat.

"Where we getting the money for two plane tickets?"

"We hijack a plane. Tell them to give us a million dollars like in DOG DAY AFTERNOON?" Frankie had seen that bank robbery movie five times on 42nd Street and pumped his fist in the air. "Attica, Attica."

"Aren't you forgetting how the cops shoot Pacino's friend in the head?" "Movies aren't real." Frankie had seen enough of films on 42nd Street. "DOG DAY AFTERNOON was based on a real bank robbery."

"It was?"

"Yeah, but it ended the same way. With his friend dead." The guitarist grabbed the young boy's thin arm.

"Your parents live in Florida. That sounds like a ‘happy ever' after to me. If you called them, would they wire you money to come home?"

"Yes, and tomorrow night we'll be eating my Mom's homemade apple pie." "I love apple pie." Frankie licked his lips.

"Only one problem." Johnny gestured toward Manhattan.

"Don't say what I think you're going to say."

"I'm not leaving this behind."

"Fuck this city?" Frankie spun on his heels and chucked the battered drumsticks into the river. "All I got here are hustles, an empty stomach and the smell of old man's hands on my skin, and you don't have it much better."

Johnny slipped the guitar into its case and walked toward the elevated highway. "I left Florida for the same reason you want to run away from New York."

"I hope this isn't an intro to the gypsy lady story."

"Why not? The first day I arrived here, this fortune teller in the Village read my palms. LEft for the past. Right for the future. She said my name was destined to be up in lights." Johnny stopped on the curb of West Street and turned to Frankie. "Me and you are going to make it here as rock stars."

"But not tonight." Frankie kicked an empty beer can into the gutter.

"No, not tonight." Johnny couldn't lie to his protege. "Tomorrow Max's will put on a turkey feast for us orphans."

"So tonight?" Frankie could handle anything as long as he was with Johnny.

"Tonight we go to work." The uptown light on West Street changed to green and suburb-bound cars accelerated to catch up with the synchronized signals.

"53rd and 3rd?" Frankie had had his fill of the sissies at those piano bars.

Across the street men prowled the sidewalks in search of nameless sex. There was success for all in the shadows. A few lurked between the trucks parked underneath the elevated highway. How they were celebrating the night before Thanksgiving was no mystery.

"No, tonight we're competing with midnight cowboy crowd."

"Times Square?" Frankie sighed with resignation.

"Times Square is about luck."

"Heads I win, tails you lose and never give a sucker a break."

"Exactly."

"How I look?" Johnny slung the case's strap over his shoulder and pulled up the collar of his torn leather jacket.

"Like a prince." Frankie once more blew on his numb hands. He was cold. "Where anyone from Jerome Avenue meet a prince?"

"My grandmother read fairy tales. They really have princes and princesses?"

"Real as you and me, except they were born in a palace. Not a Barrio in the Bronx or Queens." The chilled air scrapped over Johnny's right lung like a boat striking a reef and he touched his chest. His cough wasn't a cold.

"You meet one?" Frankie was oblivious to his friend's discomfort.

"Not this side of the silver screen." Johnny fought off the shakes, feeling his ‘jones' knocking on the door. "Princes and princesses are like any suckers. We meet one and what we do?"

"We take them for everything." Frankie snapped his fingers.

"And leave them begging for more." The ache faded from Johnny's chest and he draped his arm over the younger boy. "Just one more thing."

"I know what you're going to say." Their conversation tended to be scripted rituals on these occasions.

"You're going to tell me not to trust anyone."

"Trust no one is survival rule # 1 in New York." Times Square killed lots of people who broke that rule. "That means me too."

"I'm a big boy." Frankie accepted the warning, since his childhood had revealed the worst New York had to offer the young.

"Then let's head to Times Square." Johnny dashed onto West Street.

"Watch out, Johnny."

Two taxis swerved to avoid the guitarist.

"For what? I'm going to live forever," Johnny shouted from the other side of the street. Believing in anything other than his immortality was a sacrilege, at least until he reached twenty-one and that birthday was more than a year away and a year was an eternity when you were twenty.

Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18

Much more to come.

Sunday, June 28, 2026

Gay Pride Day - 2014

Today tens of millions of Americans celebrated Gay Pride Day across the country. New York City was the epicenter of the festivities, but the police presence on the streets reminded gays and lesbians and people of color that freedom can be given and freedom can be taken away.

"No amount of disco music, nor number of scantily clad boys can render the juxtaposition of this completely commercialized Pride event within the corralling barricades of a police state "gay." Jorge Socarres posted on Facebook and further excoriated the NYPD by writing, "NYC cops are so stupid - their barricades are creating dangerous bottleneck situations around huge, wide open closed off spaces - for no practical except control. Madrid takes in two million people for Pride, and nowhere do you see a barricade - the city becomes one great, unbroken celebration. Leave it to people who've survived fascism to know how to stay free."

The Gay Pride Parade has always been a spectacular out event, but the holiday commemorates the Stonewall Riots of 1969 during which the gay clientele of a Mafia bar resisted a police raid on a Christopher Street dance club in the early hours of June 28. Four undercover officers shouted, "Police! We're taking the place!"

There were about two-hundred men in the bar. They obeyed the cops for a half-hour before realizing that they had numbers on their side. A handcuffed bull dyke fought four cops singlehandedly, as they forced her into the paddy wagon. All hell broke loose in the next minutes with police cars getting their tires slashed and officers retreating under the hail of hurled bricks and coins. The drag queens fought the hardest. They had old scores to settle with the men in blue. Gays chased the cops for blocks. The streets were theirs.

Gay power came alive those nights and nothing the police, the church, the government, the right, the bible-belters, and all those against gays, lesbians, and drag queens have failed to put the Genie back in the bottle, although that doesn't keep them from trying.

Gay Power.

Now more than ever.

Enjoy, but never forget.

Long live the Sexual Revolution.

Sunday, June 21, 2026

Journal Entry - June 21, 1977 - Park Slope - Brooklyn

Throughout the night David the super of Berkeley Place played Got to Give It Up (Part 1) by Marvin Gaye over and over again very loud. James rolled into the apartment at 3:30 and pounded on Hazel's wall and the ceiling above his room.

"Shut that shit off."

He put on a tape of the World Saxophone Quartet - Point of No Return. I preferred Marvin to Hamiet Bluiett, Julius Hemphill, Oliver Lake and David Murray, but wasn't anything better to fuck with the neighbors, especially David, who turned off his stereo.

Around noon I spoke with Ro to arrange an afternoon rendezvous. She promised chaos. We met at the Riviera Cafe in the West Village. I ordered a vodka-tonic. She had water.

"I'm leaving for Paris to study painting at Beaux Arts."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Then I'll have to get a passport."

"You're coming to Paris?"

"Why not? Flights are cheap. Don't worry I won't bother you there."

She looked at me as if she wasn't so sure about that, but Libby was in Paris. She couldn't be that hard to find."

This evening I had tried to seduce Libby's friend Karen at the Rainbow Room. We danced in a very erotic way. my though between hers. We were both turned on, but she finally shoved me away, saying, "I can't. I have a boyfriend. I'd feel miserable if I did anything with you."

"I understand. I'm very used to being alone."

"It's not that I don't want to, but my roommate is at home, otherwise I couldn't trust myself."

"There's always the bathroom here."

She shut her eyes and said, "Okay, it's not like I'm going to be with my boyfriend forever."

Wednesday, June 17, 2026

Vagabonding In the City - 2017

My disaster stint in Alaska cost my apartment in Fort Greene.

Too many hours.

A horrible boss.

Too little money.

How little?

$100 for a thirteen hour day.

I wasn't cut out for selling silver trinkets to geriatric cruise line passengers and my boss fired me without notice. I was glad to go.

May was not the month to make sales in Juneau.

Six days a week.

I lasted a month and returned to New York with less than $600 in my pocket.

My apartment was sublet and I was $4500 in arrears to my landlord and good friend.

I worked everywhere throughout the summer.

On a house in Catskill, New York.

On a farm in Greenwich, New York.

Where a tree bloodied my skull.

My son Fenway was hurt in a motorcycle crash in Thailand.

Not bad and he remains handsome as ever.

On a house in Greenwich, New York.

My old job of selling diamonds was gone. I hated hard labor, but it was better than not working at all, which is what I've been doing the last week.

A vagabond without a place to live.

I used to fit right into this street.

And one day I will again.

Just not today.

Friday, June 12, 2026

Journal Entry June 11, 1977

I sleep phenomenal lengths of time. 2AM to 1PM. My dreams cascade into more dreams. A sign of definite depression. At first I liked the refuge, but I can't stand wasting so much of the day, taking me further and further from writing and making me a bullshit artist.

James Spicer drinks too much has to stop his nightly excursions into my bedroom, otherwise I'll leave his Park Slope apartment. Fletcher fears for my sexuality and alludes to James' wanting me is the same as my wanting Ro, despite her unrequited love. In either case I hold no guilt or cast any blame on James or Ro. I wish I could speak with her to protect me from my somna addiction.

Work at the executive dining room normalizes some of my days. To be nothing and if I write I will be accomplishing something.

The last two days I have done nothing.

What am I doing in New York?

Damned if I know now. This city owes me nothing and I am alone. A few months ago I wanted that, but solitude is a pathetic route to cut off my past, but I won't return to Boston. I am here and should work on staying here, for as long as I need to be.

Only the acting lessons on Tuesday and Wednesday offer any importance in my life, but if things don't work out here, then I do have an out. Nona has offered me a place in California. I need $500-600. I wish she had contacted me before I came here.

Saturday, January 31, 2026

THE ANNALS OF DRINIKNG / A Few Too Many

First published - Saturday, September 29, 2012

The wife of my landlord in Fort Greene subscribes to the New Yorker. I read it from time to time. Never all of it, but I pick and choose the articles and several years ago I was drawn to Joan Accocela's BOOZY BEGINNINGS / A Few Too Many, which was probably the best-written piece to be published in the esteemed magazine in decades. For once they featured writing more to my pseudo-intellectual tastes, especially with key search words such as hang-over, alcohol, and Kingsley Amis.

The article suggested that hang-overs occur, when the blood/alcohol index returns to zero brought on the dehydrating trips to the bathroom, so holding your urine prevents hangovers rather than succumbing to the urge to relief yourself throughout the night, although an overloaded bladder would produce more anxiety than a hang-over.

The writer dated hang-overs to the Stone Age and offered insight into the source of the word hang-over plus several foreign alternatives.

Danish is the best "Carpenters in my head." although Kngsley Amis once said, "I feel like I have grown antlers.

As for cures the writer heralded Andrew Irving's HOW TO CURE A HANGOVER and also RU-21 a KGB remedy for 'A few too many'.

No drinking man or woman should miss this piece, so please click on the following URL

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2008/06/30/boozy-beginnings-2

Never have so many been help by one person.

The Jack Palance photo is featured, since Attila the Hun famously fell off his horse while drunk, caught pneumonia, and died the next day. The Huns supposedly hid his corpse to avoid desecration, but some historians think his bodyguard were too hung over to find it the next day.

Thursday morning I woke up this morning with a hang-over and couldn't figure out why, until I recalled drinking champagne combined with wine. According to AI some studies suggest that moderate consumption of both Champagne and white wine may be associated with a lower risk of sudden cardiac arrest,

Never a good combination, but I survived the dawn thanks to the frosty Stella Artois' stuck in my refrigerator.

Hang-overitis.

It's never forever.

Tuesday, December 30, 2025

WHEN FAT MEN FLY 1978

On the morning of New Year's Eve Sookie and I ferried across the harbor to Staten Island. She loved the boat ride and passing the Statue of Liberty hung on the starboard railing to fall in love with France's gift to America.

The Statue of Liberty was bigger than I remembered from my last trip to New York. Nick met us at the terminal in his Mini-Cooper. He looked splendid in his hippie dealer clothing; patchwork leather jacket and shiny boots. We had breakfast at his parents' house in New Dorp.

His mother fried eggs in bacon fat. I loved them crackling crisp. She fed Sookie, until her tight belly extended over her hiphuggers. The skinny twenty year-old disappeared into the bathroom for several minutes. When she emerged, her face was red and she said, "I need some air."

After lunch Nick drove to Shooter's Island and we smoked a joint among the shore-wrecked tug boats and half-sunken barges. The three of us wandered across the rotting wharves. The water glistened with oil and the faint clouds in the blue sky hinted at an evening snow.

Only a few hours remained in 1971.

"What are you doing tonight?" Nick jumped from a rotting ferry to a half-sunken tugboat.

"No one's playing at the Fillmore, so we're watching the fireworks in Central Park." Wayne had mentioned this alternative.

"And your friend has some more of this reefer" Selling a pound here will pay my rent in Brighton.

"Yes, sure." My outstretched hand guided Sookie over a gap in the planks.

"Sounds like a plan. I'll drive you into the city." Nick climbed onto a stranded pilot boat. We followed him into the shattered wheelhouse. The walls were covered with moss.

"Can't we stay here?" The twenty year-old was in no hurry to get back to Manhattan.

"Why would you want to stay here?" Nick had lived most of his life on this island.

"She's scared of Wayne's friend." I stood at the helm. The wheel was slimy in my hands. "He's a little fat."

"A little fat" He weighs as much as a walrus." Sookie shivered from the cold. "I have a thing about fat people."

"One in a freak show tried to eat her," I joked, but she wasn't smiling.

"The clowns scare me," said Neil

"Clowns are scary?" I had been on the TV show BOZO THE CLOWN three times. I loved him.

"It's called Coulrophobia. One tried to pull me into the ring. I kicked him in the shin. My mother and father laughed and so did everyone else in the audience. The clown called me a little shit under his breath." A long-buried hatred burned his eyes. "I kicked him again. So I understand about the fears, but are you prejudiced against fat people?"

"You ever hear me call Wayne fat?" Sookie was the complete opposite of Wayne's friend. Eddie was probably five times her weight.

"Wayne's not fat."

"He is not thin," countered Nick.

"I don't see him that way."

“I’ve met Wayne.” Nick was a movie buff. “He’s like Ernest Borgnine in FROM HERE TO ETERNITY. Borgnine’s character kills Sinatra for calling him ‘fatso’. And then Montgomery Cliff calls him ‘fatso’ and kills Borgnine.”

“Ernest Borgnine didn’t kill Frank, because he was fat. He killed him because he was mean. Wayne’s not fat.”

“What about Eddie?” Sookie cocked her head to the side.

“He weighs as much as a walrus and will have to drop 200 pounds before he can fly in a glider.”

“Glider?”

“Eddie wants to fly in a glider," I explained to my friend.

“He’s on a cocaine diet. He’ll never lose that weight," Sookie declared with a thin person's disdain for weight.

“Maybe you could teach him how to be thin.”

“What are you saying" That I'm too skinny."

"Not at all."

"Skin and bones. Maybe you don’t like me this way, but I don’t either. Let’s get out of here. I’m cold.”

She stormed away to the shore.

Nick clapped me on the back.

“You certainly have a way with women”

Sookie sulked in the back seat of the Mini-Cooper on the ride to Manhattan. I half-expected her to drive home, but once she was with Marie at Eddie’s apartment, Sookie reverted to herself again. She was even a little affectionate as she changed into tight jeans and a white turtleneck sweater for our excursion to Central Park. I helped her put on the silver necklace, which hung slack on her flat chest.

“I do like the way you look.” I brushed a wandering strand of hair from her face.

“I’m sorry about this afternoon.” She nestled her head into my chest. Her half-nakedness answered most men’s dreams. “I’m scared of fat people. I fear that one day I will be one of them I know it’s not right, but I can’t help it. Later I’ll be a good girl.”

We went into the living room and smoked reefer from a bong. I opened the two bottles of wine. Jolee Wayne showed up in biker gear. Outlaw life ran in Wayne’s family. She opened a bottle of tequila. Everyone had shots. Eddie cut us lines.

Wayne ignored Jolee’s flirting with his girlfriend, as he played DJ with his new LPS. BITCHES BREW lasted one track. The Stooges FUN HOUSE two. Spirit’s 12 DREAMS OF DR. SARDONICUS was our favorite, but at the end of the B-side Marie asked, “When you playing a record we can dance to?”

“Right now.” Wayne cued up Isaac Hayes HOT BUTTERED SOUL. The girls danced go-go style. Nick and I trotted the standard male two-step. Wayne wiggled his legs, doing the ‘funky Chicken’. The Black Moses infected Eddie and he rose from his lounge chair with a groan.

“Damn, I haven’t been on my feet in days. Thank God for cocaine.”

Eddie jelloed in front of the fish tanks and the floor trampolined under his weight. He lifted his arms as far as his shoulders. His face was flushed with blood and he wheezed with every breath. We couldn’t tell if he was about to have a heart attack, until he broke into a smile and sang along with Isaac Hayes. His soprano voice was hilariously out of touch with his 10X body.

“What? No one ever see the hippos dance in FANTASIA.”

“I love FANTASIA.” Sookie pulled Eddie to the middle of the room.

“You’re killing me.” He broadened his stance to support his shifting weight.

The two danced a polka to the Kink’s LOLA. I laughed at the spectacle of a fat man and a skinny girl swirling around the living room. At the song’s end Eddie’s lungs were scorched by the exertion, but he didn’t sit down.

“No way can I walk like a woman, but I can speak like a man.” Eddie lifted his coat from a nail banged into the wall. “It’s 10:30. If we’re going, then we should go.”

Everyone threw on their jackets and climbed down the stairs. Jolee cut out to a dyke bar. The descent for Eddie was more exercise than his body could handle at one time. I bought four bottle of wine before he reached the street. Nick waited by his Mini-Cooper. The girls and Wayne were squashed into the back seat.

“No way I’m getting into that tin can.” Eddie regarded the small car with a claustrophobic horror.

“You’ll fit.” Nick already had the car in 2nd gear, since shifting would be impossible once Eddie was in the car.

“I might fit, but I’ll never get out.”

We pleaded for him to get in the car. Several passers-by watched our circus act. Eddie was not happy with an audience.

“We’re not leaving without you. Get in back.” Nick opened his door and I squiggled underneath Sookie who said to Eddie, “Hurry up or you’ll miss the fireworks.”

Her smile prodded Eddie into a decision against his better judgment. He shrugged his layers of fat and he heaved himself into the passenger seat. The over-loaded Mini-Cooper tilted under his mass like the car might capsize, then it stabilized slanting to the right. A hippie closed the door. We flashed him the peace sign.

“We’re all in.” Nick revved the engine. “Eddie, one favor. No fast moves.”

Nick drove slowly to Central Park, fearing that a single bump in a pothole might tear the suspension off the chassis, but no one ribbed Eddie. He was longer fat. He was only big.

For Sookie too.

She had Eddie under her thumb.

My position was no longer # 1.

I kissed her on the back of the neck and she trembled on my lap.

New Year’s revelers surged through the 5th Avenue entrance across from the Plaza Hotel. The cops had erected a barricade across the road. Nick showed them this father’s MD pass. They waved us into the park and we drove to the boathouse. It was quarter to 1971.

Eddie got out of the front seat, breathless after this epic effort. We helped him over to a park bench with a clear view of the lake. Strains of rock music faded and rose on the wind. People headed in its direction. One group of hippies ridiculed Eddie.

I glared at them to shut up.

Eddie motioned for me to let it go. He was used to the abuse. The air whooshed in and out of his lungs. It seemed like another ten steps might kill him and he stopped by a bench, saying “You go on without me.”

“No way.” Wayne helped Eddie sit down. Nick pulled some blankets out of Mini-Cooper. I opened the bottles of Boone Farm. Wayne lit up joints. Sookie cuddled closer to me for warmth. Her body was starved for heat. Nick draped us with a quilt.

“All we need is a fire and we could have a picnic.” Nick rubbed his hands together.

“Try some of this to get warm.” Sookie handed him a small bottle of tequila. We each had a nip. The alcohol boiled in our stomachs. Eddie was about to light another joint, when a cop appeared behind him.

He was about our age.

Young.

“That looks like marijuana.” His nightstick tapped the bench.

“It is.” Eddie craned his neck without being able to see the officer.

“The rest of you hippie scum holding?” The thin cop beamed a flashlight in our eyes and seized Eddie's coat.

Other longhairs gathered around us.

“No, just me.” Eddie admitted his guilt. “You can arrest me and I’ll resist the only way I know. By being heavy. But if you shine us on, we’ll wish you a Happy New Year.”

“Let the big man go free!” one longhair shouted and the crowd chanted for Eddie’s release. The cop surveyed the shadows for back up. He was outnumbered 50-1. His hand twitched on his holstered .38, then an older cop pushed through the hippies and assessed the scene with veteran eyes.

“Is that a joint in your hand?” His flashlight shined on the reefer.

“Yes, officer.” Eddie excelled at playing ‘good boy’.

“And my partner wants to arrest you for possession.” He flicked off the light.

“That’s correct, officer.”

“You put away the joint.” He lifted his open hands to show this problem wasn’t a problem. “My partner and I will leave you alone.”

“Thank you, officer.” Eddie put the joint inside his coat and nodded his gratitude. “And Happy New Year.”

“Same to you.” The older cop escorted his fellow officer from the bench and the mob parted for the policemen to leave the area. The hippies cheered Eddie and two seconds later the first rocket for the fireworks arced into the night sky.

It was 1971.

The pyrotechnic display lasted a good half-hour and Eddie cried at the finale.

“What’s wrong?” Wayne stood by his friend.

“I haven’t been out of the apartment in so long I forgot what it’s like to be around people. To be with friends.” Eddie struggled to his feet and dried his eyes. “I don’t want my eyelids to freeze shut.”

“Eddie, you don’t have to stay in the apartment all the time.” Wayne was half Eddie’s size. His problems with weight were manageable.

“I can barely walk to the Mini-Cooper.” His steps were tentative, as if he expected the earth to crumple beneath his feet. “You should have seen me at Woodstock. I reached the rim of the crowd and gave up getting any closer. Wayne stayed with me the entire time.”

“It was nothing.” Wayne had never mentioned this sacrifice. He always spoke about the festival, as if he had been in the front row.

“You had to stick with me instead of seeing all those bands.” Eddie pounded his chest with his fists.

“I heard the music.” Wayne seized Eddie’s wrists. His hands barely reached halfway around the thick joints. “Plus Woodstock was more than the music. It was about peace and love.”

“Horseshit. I’m trapped in this body, but I wasn’t this way always. Chubby, but not fat like this, and when I was 12, I ate a Devil’s Dog. It was so good I would do anything to get them. I started dealing drugs on Jerome Avenue to finance my eating habits. Within two years I weighed 200. By the time I was 18 I was over 300. I have no idea how much I weigh now.”

Eddie was on the verge of crying. Wayne slipped under Eddie’s arm to steady him and I held his other side. He tried to shake us off, except his sense of balance wandered with every step.

“I’m a big fat fuck and I’ll never be able to get into a glider.”

“Shut up, Eddie.” Sookie stood in front of us. “Sure when I first saw you, I thought you were a big fat fuck, but you have a good heart. Fly or not fly, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll still be our friend. Do you really want to fly?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll help you starve. It's my specialty.” Sookie caressed his face. “Starting tomorrow.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was already tomorrow and said, “You have to start someplace.”

“I guess so.”

We drove back to St. Mark’s Place. Nick returned to Staten Island. We stood on the sidewalk. Eddie’s eyes were fixed on the 24-hour diner down the street. He turned to his apartment instead. We had to speak about anything else other than his hunger. Marie helped us push Eddie up the stoop. Wayne was red in the face. He wasn’t in such good shape either.

The climb to the 4th floor exhausted Eddie and he collapsed into the lounge chair like it was a sarcophagus. Wayne headed into the back bedroom and fell asleep without saying a single word. I read Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD. The girls went into the kitchen and it was a good 30 minutes before Eddie noticed Sookie and Marie emptying the cabinets and refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” he asked without any real desire to hear the answer.

“Cleaning out the junk food.” Marie held up ten bags of potato chips.

“You have to eat less and eat good. No more shit.” Sookie dumped the cookies into the trash.

“What will I live on?”

“Vegetables, fruit, no bread.” Sookie held up a shriveled lemon.

“That’s been here since I moved in.”

“It’s mummified.” Sookie dropped the lemon on top of the cookies. “Eddie, you want to be the fat fuck you are today? Maybe even fatter? You want that?”

“No.”

“You said the magic number was 200 pounds.”

“Yes.” Eddie had become her faithful slave.

“In six months.”

“Yes.”

“If you’re really serious, because if you are, then I’ll help you. And you’re asking why. You know I was scared of you at first. Scared because you reminded me of a freak show fat man. I was so scared by that man that I told myself I never wanted to be fat and stopped eating normal. I don’t eat. Same as you always eat. Opposite, but the same too.” Sookie peered into his eyes, as if to touch his heart.

“How can you help me?” Eddie was eying the cookies in the garbage cam. “You live in Boston.”

“What if I lived in New York?”

“Live in New York?” I had seen us in a Commonwealth Avenue apartment.

“I hate my home town. New York is more me,” Sookie said to me, then turned to Eddie. “My parents will understand. I have all my stuff in the back of the car. I have money. I can pay you rent. I’ll get a job too.”

“Helping me lose weight will be enough of a job.” Eddie’s reservation was an act of preservation for his fat.

“It’ll be easy.” Sookie flipped her hair off her shoulder. “I know how to not eat, remember.”

“Just yesterday you were scared of Eddie.” This didn’t make any sense. She had been horrified by Eddie. I almost loved her.

“That was yesterday. Today is a brand new year.”

“What about your car?”

“It’ll stay here with me. It's a good size for Eddie.”

“Great.” My exit should have a slammed door, instead I pushed through the beaded curtains and flopped on the sofa bed.

A second later Sookie followed and shut out the light. I didn’t plan on saying a word. She was a free human being. Her shirt came off first. Her finger and index finger popped open the brass buttons of her pants. Each one made a small noise. She used both hands to slink from the leather. Her skimpy panties were white. Sookie sat on the bed next to me with bony arms across her chest.

“This isn’t about you and me.” The hushed words couldn’t travel farther than the sofa. “This is about me. I want to live in New York. You probably do too, but you have to go to college.”

My draft number was 39. College kept me out of the army and I didn’t want to kill any Vietnamese.

“If you sell that pot fast, then you have all the more reason to visit me.” She undid the buttons of my shirt. Her fingernails grazed my skin. “And now I’ll show you one more.”

I lost my virginity that night.

Wayne wore a big grin in the morning.

“Everything cool"”

“I’m not sure.” I signaled Eddie and I had some talking to do.

“We have a problem?” Eddie was barely awake.

“No problem as long as you don’t give any cocaine to her.”

“I’ll try, but this is a free country.” He glanced at Sookie.

“I’m not into coke.” She sat on the sofa. It swallowed her whole. “It’s cool. Really.”

She was right. Everything was cool.

Two days later Sookie found a job at a used-clothing store. We made love again every morning and night.

On January 3rd Nick picked up Wayne, Marie, and me in his Mini-Cooper. I sold him a pound for $160. The second I sold to the other taxi drivers in Boston and the following week I returned to New York for two more pounds. Eddie was eating vegetables and fruit. Sookie ate bread.

“I could use the weight.” She had gained five pounds in a week.

“Nice.” She was more comfortable in bed with the extra flesh.

“What about me?" Eddie pulled on his loose shirt.

“You’re a shadow of your former self.”

That evening Sookie and I saw Buddy Miles and Big Brother at the Fillmore. We ate steamed vegetables with Eddie. In bed she was different from before. I didn’t ask why she closed her eyes. Some questions are better left unasked by those not wanting the answers and I certainly did not want to know any answers from a naked woman in 1971.

Description:Despite the threat of a mass transit strike that could leave them without transportation home at the stroke of midnight, New Yorkers gathered in droves at Central Park’s Bethesda Fountain on December 31, 1971.

Wednesday, December 24, 2025

Tis the Season BET ON CRAZY 2012


My boss at the diamond exchange hailed from Brownsville, one of the toughest neighborhood in Brooklyn and those streets bred its own language. For years Manny greeted Christmas shoppers to his diamond store with the phrase 'there is no season for giving'. His son Richie Boy tried on many occasions to explain that he was basically saying that at no time should anyone ever give gifts.

"That's not what I said." Manny had a problem with accepting criticism. Most bosses think they are infallible.

Thirty years on the Bowery and twenty years on 47th Street had deafened the eighty year-old's ability to hear his own speech.

"Then what are you saying?" His son was mystified by his old man's vernacular.

"I'm saying that you can give a gift whenever you want."

"We know that's what you're trying to say, but sounds hinky." Richie Boy's command of the queen's language had been polished by his friends in high places.

"Wrong way? You understood what I was trying to say, so what's the problem?" Manny was at the age when being wrong wasn't an option unless you wanted to admit decades of mistakes and admission of one error would lead to an avalanche of realizations. It was better to think yourself forever right.

"Nothing at all." Richie Boy shrugged his defeat and soon 'no season for giving' became our holiday motto.

Of course like a corked wine Manny aged either way and on the day before Christmas my boss was showing a young man a diamond ring.

"I'm not looking for an engagement ring. "The customer was too young to want to get married.

"Not want to give a gift." Manny's hearing was gone so he only hears whatever he wants. Richie Boy motioned for me to TO or take over the sale. I shook my head.

"No, I want earrings." The young man was shaking his head.

"So buy a ring already. This is Christmas, a time for giving, not a time for jerking off."

Richie Boy and I exchanged a disbelieving glance. His father couldn't have said that gem. We laughed aloud we heard and Manny continued to insult the morning's only customer and he wasn't stopping either.

"I don't that the time to waste on someone who would rather jerk off than buy his girlfriend a present."

"All I want is earrings." The young man had never expected holiday abuse from an 80 year-old man.

"I already showed you rings, now stop wasting my time." Manny threw out the young man and went back to his desk. He looked at us and asked, "What?"

"Nothing." Richie Boy and I went back to our desks. We knew better than to ask any questions during the season of 'not jerking off'. It wouldn't be Christmas until we shut the safe and we were counting every minute.

Tuesday, December 23, 2025

11:59PM - Bet On Crazy


The Friday before Christmas was the Winter Solstice. I stopped by the diamond exchange on 47th Street. There were no customers in sight. Only the rich have money and the vast majority of the .00001 had fled south for Palm Beach or St. Bart's. Richie Boy was working with a wealthy friend, asking $260,000 for a magnificent sapphire in an exquisite platinum and diamond mounting.

"Burma no heat. They are the best stones in the world." Richie explained.

"I'll give you $150,000." The banker had settled a recent federal investigations into a multi-trillion dollar scandal and well understood that having money at a time of capital scarcity bestowed a wicked power of leverage, however Richie Boy stood firm at 260K.

The banker stood up and left the store, saying, "If you change your mind, give me a call."

"You'll be calling me before I call you."

The man's wife loved the ring.

I watched the door close.

"Bastard," Richie Boy muttered, putting the ring in the safe. "I'm making 6% on this sale. 6% and he wants to steal it."

"How do you think he got his money? From Santa Claus. No, he stole it like every rich person in America stole money."

"I don't need to hear your bullshit about only three ways to be wealthy."

"Be born into it, marry it, or steal it."

His octogenarian father snoozed in the corner. A smile was on his face. He had to be dreaming of better times.

"Your father worked sixty-five years. Is he rich? No. You've worked almost thirty five and while you have a nice life, you ain't rich."

"What about you?"

"For the past two years I slaved in the metal factory cutting bronze beams for a salary of $800/week and I was glad to have it, but now I'm working with Jeri on 3rd Avenue. Our store was close to Bloomingdales.

"How's business up there?"

"About the same as here. I sold a fancy yellow diamond for $40,000 and the profit was $4000."

"A luxury, although the other day I sold an emerald for 14K and made 7K on it."

"Sounds like the good old days. I'll see you later."

I picked up some diamond eternity bands for a customer. I returned to the Lexington Avenue store. Jeri sat with her pugs, while going over her bills.

"Anything happen?" It was a stupid question.

"The dogs slept for an hour."

"Lucky them." Samson and Delilah were old pets. I liked them, but they weren't buying any jewelry this or any year and neither were the disappearing middle class. Only the rich had money and they were bargaining like Gypsies with a Minnesota roll of $1 bills.

Jeri's client arrived on time and picked out the best ring. The Palm Beach blonde was in her 70s. Her husband wasn't healthy. I wished that Simon passed over the New Year, so I could marry Elaine. It was a dream too good to come true.

At 5pm we shut the store. It was already abysmally dark on 3rd Avenue. Thieves targeted stores daring to stay open in the shortest days of the year and days didn't get any shorter than the Winter Solstice. this was the winter solstice.

Jeri magnetically locked the front door. The pugs woke from their sleep. We gave them thin slices of apples. Their happiness had nothing to do with money.

"You close safely." Jeri put on her coat. It was fur. Warm too, but like Richie Boy and me she wasn't rich. No one who has to work was rich no matter how much money they have. The real rich don't have to work at all. "Remember you have to be here early."

After closing the safe and locking the door I took the Q train back to Fort Greene. I bought a very good bottle of wine for $41. The staff of Green Grape applauded my escape from single-digit priced wine.

After arriving home I drank the bottle with my landlord and his wife. They had given me gave me a bottle of Jamison's for the winter's solstice. I toasted AP and his wife. I babysit their kids. I don't make a mess. My bedroom has a view. My bathroom too.

After we finished the wine, AP and I retreated to my floor to listen to music. I opened the bottle of Irish whiskey. We drank a few glasses and AP descended into domestic 'for better or worse' bliss. I readied for sleep, listening to Jefferson Airplane's SURREALISTIC PILLOW.

COMING BACK TO ME.

11:59PM

It was time for bed, because tomorrow I have to be to work at 10AM.

She had a customer for an emerald.

The store needed money.

Jeri needed money.

I needed money to send my kids in Thailand.

Only a minute remained in the day.

Within sixty seconds the clock would tick into Saturday.

Tomorrow was filled with twenty-hours.

One of them had to be lucky.

Thursday, November 27, 2025

SHAWALLAGAH PA. BET ON CRAZY

First published 2008

Thanksgiving Day plus One started the Holiday season on West 47th Street. Accordingly the majority of the ground floor exchanges extend their operating hours and stay open every ding-dong day until Christmas. Throughout the week regular customers and natives to New York flock here, but on the weekends they are replaced by busloads of tourists from Shawallagah, PA or Dover Delaware. Armed with a box of chicken and a bag of quarters, they gawk at the jewelry and demand incredulously, "Those aren't real diamonds, are they?"

"All of our diamonds are real and set in 14K and 18K gold or platinum jewelry," I answer cordially, for the most part.

We might enjoy poking fun at these out-of-towners, yet their purchases can add to our profit line, so once they're in the store we treat them as we would any valued customer, even if they're only looking for a Big Apple charm or want to tell us about an opal ring their great-grandaunt possessed back in Schwallagah, PA. As Manny, my boss says, "Be nice. It can't hurt."

While my company prided itself in dealing relatively fairly with members of the trade and our customers, there are a few diamond dealers who prey on these unsuspecting tourists like wolves tailing a cripple calves and every year ABC NEWS1 20/20 puts out a report to warn about unscrupulous diamond dealings on 47th Street.

Typically during holiday season the show's producers send out a young man to purchase a diamond engagement ring and inevitably ends up getting nailed by the same dealer on the corner of Sixth Avenue. The entire process of the sale is recorded by a hidden video camera to reveal the dealer's misrepresentation of the diamond's quality.

Weeks later Diane Sawyer, the network news commentator, will confront the dealer with the proof of his lies and close with a warning for the public to beware. One would expect that the dishonest merchant would be punished by such negative publicity, however the dealer points to a photo of Diane Sawyer hanging on his wall and proudly states, "Diane shops here every year. One of my best customers."

To avoid getting fleeced, we suggest anyone looking for a diamond to head up to Tiffany's or Cartier first and get one of their diamond buying guides, which are free and offer a great thumbnail source of information to the novice.

Otherwise caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware and remember if it sounds to good to be true than it is too good to be true.

For any questions on jewelry or the diamond trade stop Manny Winick at 34 West 47th Street.

The first piece of advice is always free.

Everything thereafter cost. How much? Depends on the hour.

First sale of the day always gets the best price.

Sie gesund.

Wednesday, November 19, 2025

TRANNY TRICK OR TREAT


Back in 2010 my friend and fellow farang Richard was on holiday from the Gulf, where he taught school in Saudi Arabia. He says it sucks, but he's coining good money. He asked, if I want to join him.

If all else fails, "Why not?"

Saudi Arabia is closer to Thailand than New York.

He sent an old joke yesterday.

A man is in bed with his Thai girlfriend.

After great sex, she spends the next hour just stroking his dangly bit, something she had lovingly done on many other post-coital occasions.

Rather enjoying it, he turns and asks her: 'Why do you love doing that ?'

She replies: 'Because I really miss mine...'

Erk!

Ladyboy slipped under the radar.

It's so easy to be fooled especially when your lust blinds the shrouds of deception.

Years ago, 1986 to be exact, I worked at a bar in New York. The name was the Milk Bar. The decor was an imitation of the Malchek Milk Bar from Stanley Kubrick's 1971 comedy CLOCKWORK ORANGE. White Lucite and gelled light red white and the softest blue. The crowd cut across the layers of New York. The good, the bad, and the in-between. One of the customers was a narcotic detective. Rob led raids on the coke house in the Red Hook proejects in Brooklyn. Whenever he walked into the bar, people walked out.

"Friends and colleagues." Rob would shrug off their departures. "I'm not here for work. I'm here to have a good time."

He was only 24.

Good times at the Milk Bar meant something else other than Disney rides and one night I see Rob drinking with Dove, a lanky ex-lover in a slinky Azzadine sheath. An hour later they're holding hands and shortly thereafter both of them are kissing with an audience. I knew Dove was trans. That didn't matter tonme. I was a sexual adventurer and Dove resembled Janice Dickenson, one of the most beautiful models at the time.

Dove fooled most of her prey. She liked her men straight. When Dove visited the ladies room to powder her nose, I sidled next to the detective.

"So what you think?" His face shined with an eager redness. Few women exuded lust as much as Dove. "I thought she was Janice Dickerson"

Normally I would have let Rob discover for himself about Dove's gender, but he had become more a friend and my job as a doorman necessitated a little violence from time to time. Having a cop in your pocket was a good card to hold.

"Dove's great, if you like guys."

"Guy?" Rob choked on his beer.

"Dove's been a girl for a couple of years. Beautiful and sexy, but a guy no less." I was worried about Dove's reaction to my snitching her out. She could be very mean.

"A guy?"

"Not anymore."

"Have you?" Rob looked around the bar, as if he were trying to spot a familiar face. The crowd consisted of perps, dealers, politicians, models, musicians, diplomats, actors, and starlets. None of them were saints. He swigged his beer.

"She's a friend."

"I can deal with that."

"You can?" I thought my warning would steer him to clearer water.

"Dove's the best looking woman I've seen in years. Man or woman. And she wants me."

"Then you have my blessing."

The two of them left within the hour. No one noticed their departure. Dove showed up the next day with a smile and Rob's watch.

"He gave it to me."

"Really?" I almost believed her. It was a cheap watch. I said not

"Really." Dove waited that night for Rob to show up. He never did. Dove and I went to my place. In the dark she looked like Janice, but I preferred Dove. He was twice the woman I will ever be. always.

Drag Queens Uprising

The decline of Manhattan's meatpacking district opened the waterfront area to a host of nefarious nocturnal activities in the 1960s. S & M bars catering to a gay clientele flourished throughout the 70s and transvestite hookers worked the NJ car trade from underneath the slaughterhouse's tin roofs. AIDs savaged the denizens of The Anvil, The Manhole, and the Mineshaft in the 80s. By the early 90s only a few bars remained open such as Baktun and Coyote Ugly along with restaurants like Rio Mar and Florins. Best were the donuts from the all-night bakery on the corner of Hudson and 14th Street, where the trannies warm their near-naked bodies on winter nights.

There was always something going on, but the decades of wickedness ended with the trendoidization of the Meat Market. Abandoned butcher shops were transformed into top-name fashion stores and flashy restaurants serving young rich singles seeking drinks and a possible romantic hook-up.

"No one goes there anymore, it's too crowded," Yankee catcher Yogi Berra quipped about a famed hang-out and the same was true for the Meatpacking District. Zombie hordes packed the streets and the night was ever young, forcing out the tradition of street hookers.

My friend Jorge lives on Little Washington and the esteemed writer has reported than the drag queens are back taking over their old territories, probably thanks to police patrols concentrating on the night spots and they are certainly a welcome change from the bar hags chatting like chipmunks and their faceless beaus in designer clothing.

Jorge declared, "The tranny hookers are better dressed than the bar whores."

"And more desirable." Although I'm kidding myself for most of them are a horror show, but not all.

Wednesday, November 12, 2025

Mars Versus Mount Washington

The atmosphere on Mars is a hundred times thinner than that of Earth.

NASA's Mars Curiosity Rover has measured summer temperatures as high as 70 Fahrenheit or 20 Centigrade at the Red Planet's equator, but as soon as the sun sets, the temperature can plummet to -100 F and -175F is not usual in the winter months at the fourth planet's pole.

Bcck in 2017 the daytime high at Mars' Gale Crater as recorded by NASA's curiosity Rover, was 17.6 degrees F or about the reading on the thermometer outside the window in Fort Lee, NJ .

Mount Washington hit -100 with the wind chill and Old Agiocochook came close to beating the lowest natural temperature of −128.6 °F at the Soviet Vostok Station in Antarctica on July 21, 1983.

There is no way to calculate the wind chill on Mars.

Just life-threatening cold.

Same as on Agiocochook, but people live there.

Weather men, because Mount Washington breeds weather.

A lot of it.

One day we will be on Mars.

Dogs too.

Like there are dogs on Mount Washington.

Our City

The 1960s were the highwater mark for American suburbs, as white people abandoned the cities in favor of new housing development creating the suburbs . Ring roads allowed fathers to commute by car to work. Wives bought food and clothing at spacious shopping malls strategically distant from distressed urban communities.

The suburbs were the New Eden for the Adams and Eves of America and their white spawn. Segregation now and forever.

I attended a 100% white Catholic school, wore a uniform, and was instructed by the Sisters of St. Joseph on our purpose on Earth according the the Baltimore Catechism.

"To love, obey, and serve God." I parroted every word to perfection, because the nuns regarded atheists such as myself as Servants of Satan. The newspapers and TV portrayed the cities as hellholes of sin rebelling against God's order. I didn't believe a single word. After my best friend drowned in Sebago Lake I became godless. Since 1960 till now. Never a glance backward to the Old Religion.

And I hated the suburbs. Mowing the lawns, the racism, Towns with no life after dark. Clone houses, whose bedrooms shone with the TVs' blue glow. Every other window black as the night.

By 1965 youth were rising in rebellion. White kids knew the words to James Brown's I'M BLACK AND I'M PROUD. Not all, but enough to make a little difference. We protested against the racism, the Viet-Nam War, the police, the Pentagon, the Draft, and marijuana laws. Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, and RFK were assassinated in 1968 and Richard Nixon's election to the White House showed the truth. Whites were in control on this nation and the world.

America hated disbelievers in the Great White Way. Hippies, fags, black revolutionaries, Puerto Rican rebels, draft dodgers, poets, intellectuals, pacifists et al threatening Pax Americana.

We abandoned our hometowns to repopulate the cities with no ambition to change a thing. We cut almost all contact with the Silent Majority hiding in the suburbs. In 1976 I moved from a split-level ranchhouse on the South Shore of Boston to an SRO hotel on West 11th Street in Manhattan. A dump, but as my Irish Nana said, "Better a bad apartment with a good address than a penthouse in a slum."

After a few months I with my hillbilly girlfriend to the burned-out East Village with all the punks, junkies, poets, strippers, Ukrainains, Puerto Ricans, blacks, et al living as the good, the bad, and the in-between. We knew our place in the scheme of things and our place away ftom that pkace was New York City and Chaos was my God.

Decay was the city's next stage of evolution.

Oblivion was easier to achieve than enlightenment and who cared, if the best minds of our generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the black streets at dawn looking for an angry fix angel-headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night.”

We were less than all that and nothingness gave our souls succor. Or so spoke Allen Ginsburg

Then inthec1980s it all vanished like the exquisite wickedness of the Witch of the East after a little water. We had made the city not safe, but safe enough and more importantly more prosperous for the banks and the rich were coining wealth on the stock market fueled by the cocaine moeny-laundering of the CIA.

Crime was a black thing. The cops were white. Slowly white investors recognized the rising value of the cities. But only if us were replaced by them. Luxury Condos for business school and marketing grads. Hedge fund racketeers earned six-figure salaries to pay off their massive education loans.

This is the new vision of New York for the M'zoongoo.

They wanted a city without a brother or sister, punk or poet left in sight, but we weren't going anywhere. New York is our city, as it had been in the 1970s and this month Zohran Mamdani was elected mayor replacing Trump whote Eric Adams. We eleceted a socialist. Not a Democrat. A socialist.

As for the corporate ethic cleansing to make New York City theirs. I say, "4Q." This will be our city again.