Saturday, December 12, 2015

Firebomb Revenge

On Saturday, November 28, 1942 the powerful Boston College football team played Holy Cross College at Fenway Park. In a great upset of that period, Holy Cross beat Boston College by a score of 55-12. College bowl game scouts had attended the game in order to offer the Eagles a bid to the 1943 Sugar Bowl game. As a result of the rout, a BC celebration party scheduled for that evening at the Cocoanut Grove was canceled according to Wikipedia.

My mother had planned on going to the nightclub that evening, but stayed home instead and in my youth told how she had heard about the Cocoanut Grove Fire on the radio. The cause of the blaze was tied to a busboy re-inserting an onstage lightbulb, which burst into flames and the conflagration spread quickly through the nightclub. Panicking patrons packed the entrance with their bodies and nearly five hundred people died in the tragedy.

"If Boston College had won, you might not have been born," my mother told her children in our youth and I always checked for the exits of nightclubs throughout my career as a nightclub doorman.

I was lucky.

Our clubs in New York, LA, Paris, London, Nice, and Hamburg passed regular fire inspections.

But not every fire is caused by an accident like the Cocoanut Grove Fire.

Like the 1990 Happy Land Fire in the Bronx, where a jealous Cuban busboy locked the exits and doused the stairway to the second-floor with gasoline. Trapped by the fire the young Honduran crowd had nowhere to go and right-seven Garifunas died that evening.

All because of a busboy had been rejected by the coatcheck girl, $1 of gasoline and two matches. The fire exits had been blocked to prevent people from entering without paying the cover charge. In the panic that ensued, a few people escaped by breaking a metal gate over one door.[citation needed] González then returned home, removed his gasoline-soaked clothes and fell asleep. He was arrested the following afternoon after police investigators interviewed Feliciano and learned of the previous night's argument. Once advised of his rights, he admitted to starting the blaze. A psychological examination found him to be not responsible for the crime due to mental illness or defect;[citation needed] but the jury, after deliberation, found him to be criminally responsible.

Most recently a group of angry arsonists torched a Cairo nightclub with fire bombs after been bounced from the basement club. Eleven men and five women died in the attack, and three people were injured according to the Egyptian interior ministry.

The perpetrators are still at large.

I hate fires.

I hate fires.

The flames are unforgiving.

Back in college my friends and I lived outside Brighton Center. Our old wooden house was considered an eyesore by the community paper. I lived on the top floor of the old farmhouse. My bedroom had a single light socket. None of the other room had any.

During the winter I ran a space heater to warm the room. My friend Frank said I was creating a firetrap. He was right and one night I woke to the reddish glow of fire.

Not in my room, but the apartment complex next door.

Frank shouted for me.

A single spark would have ignited the old house.

I ran down the stairs and joined my friends on the street to watch the firemen extinguish the blaze with powerful jets of water, which turned to ice on our roof.

Frank admonished me not to plug in the space heater, however the bedroom was as cold as an ice cave, so I went downstairs and lit some logs in the fireplace, after which I unrolled my sleeping bag on the floor. Frank joined me and then the rest of my roommates. We huddled together before the fire and smoked a joint before crashing into a deep sleep.

Fire was also a friend.

Just one not to be trusted to be left alone.

Monday, December 7, 2015

Liberte A La France

Back in 1984 French students in Paris rebelled against the education edicts of President Mitterand's socialist government. The protestors emptied the Sorbonne and took control of St. Germain. The police called on the CRS, the fascist SWAT squads, to deal with the manifestations blocking the Left Bank's most traveled boulevard.

Students anticipated an afternoon attack, however the sun set without a confrontation with the riot squads dressed in black and leather.

That evening Philip Brook and I were waiting at the Cafe Le Flore for a dealer. The cafe was close to my hotel. We arrived on time, but Chaim was running late as usual and Philip said, "I hope he gets here before all hell breaks loose.."

"Doesn't seem like anything is going to happen."

"It's only a matter of time." The Australian journalist glanced at the two opposing camps. Both were hordes of shadows in the evening's gathering darkness. "They are two puddles of gas in need of a match."

"We're in luck that we won't be here for that fire." I spotted Chaim. The fat Jewish dealer was scurrying along the sidewalk.

"Excuse me if I don't have a cafe. I don't like crowds."

"No offense taken."

Philip and Chaim exchanged money for China White. We signaled for the check and paid the waiter. The rest of the crew were pulling the tables off the terrace. The maitre de yelled at them to speed it up.

The students were shouting slogans. The CRS slammed their batons on plastic shields. Philip and I snorted a bag each. The # 4 was stronger than normal. We became one with nothing.

"Now all we need is the match and here is comes." Philip pointed to a chauffeur-driven black sedan with government plates. The CRS parted for the limo, which crossed the DMZ into the ranks of the students, who recognized the passenger as the government's education minister. They surrounded the Citroen and rocked it on the wheels.

I expected the riot squad to save the minister, but then simply watched the students' attempt to upend the limo. Philip nudged me.

"Let's get out of here."

"Good idea," I replied, but saw the terrified face of the driver and said, "Just a minute."

"Where are you going?"

"To stop someone from getting hurt."

The driver was a worker. One day the students would be functionaires for a government. I strode across the boulevard and pushed away several students from the driver's door.

"Casse-toi." I motioned for the rioters to step away from the car. I worked at a nightclub. I was used to handling crowds.

I waved for the driver to take off. The limo took off into the night and I returned to Philip, who was nodding out against a street pole.

"You really are an asshole."

"Not as much as the CRS." I heard a whistle. The police charged into the crowd. Batons struck skulls. Philip and I fled to my hotel on Rue de le Seine and watched from the window, as the CRS taught the Sorbonne students a lesson in power.

In the morning the city workers washed the blood from the gutters and by 10am business on the Left Bank was back to normal.

That was over thirty years ago, however the CRS have succeeded in passing the tradition of nightsticks and repression to the next generation, judging from their treatment of protestors at the Global Warming summit in Paris just two weeks after Muslim militants attacked nightclubs and a concert hall in the City of Light.

Once more life goes back to normal fast when fascism is the rule.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

# 4 Nude / Kurt Kauper

The most famous photo of Bobby Orr was of his scoring the winning goal in the 1970 Stanley Cup Championship against the St. Louis Blues. The immortal moment has also been immortalized in a statue gracing the entrance to the TD Garden in Boston, however an artist friend had told me about the painter Kurt Kauper, who has displayed portraits of a nude Bobby Orr in almost all his glory.

His paintings are very Ken doll, since they don't show his privates.

Thankfully none of them do.

I like my hockey stars in uniform.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Crushed Car / Miami Art Basel

Every December the at world descends on the Miami Beach Convention Center to kick off the winter season in Florida. Tens of thousands of art enthusiasts throng through the gallery exhibitions during the day and pack the restaurants and bars at night. Prices are 50% above retail, so the entire event is dominated by the need to be seen rather than look at the countless paintings, sculptures, and installations of Art Basel.

I have been invited to attend and always refused, since I consider Art Basel as somewhere to avoid and be seen avoiding the people there, especially since Sophie Marceau would never go there.

Only monsters from New York.

And rat-thin vamps from Miami modeling agencies.

But there are some stars in the purgatory of Art Basel and according to the art media Jimmie Durham scored a hit with Still Life with Xitle and Spirit, which featured a Chrystler Spring crushed by a gigantic volcanic basalt rock.

"I like it, but I don't know where I'd put it,"I told my friend, who had sent a photo of the sculpture The piece had to weigh three or four tons and would take up all the space in my apartment.

"On your lawn in Thailand."

I have no lawn there. Only rice fields stretching into the hills.

Plus bad things happen to cars all the time.

Like this near-miss.

Or this successful strike.

It's all a question of luck or an empty road in the flatlands.

Almost like all the cars in the world died and left everyone in peace.

I'd miss the muscle cars.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Times Square Babylon Then

Rent boys.

Hookers on the Strip.

Flesh peddlers.

Martinis at Hojos.

And let's not forget the pimps.

And now.

No more Babylon.

But it was something.

And we all knew that.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

FREEBIRD INDEED by Peter Nolan Smith

Throughout 1994 the doctors at Boston's Beth Israel spoke about turning the corner on AIDS and in January my youngest brother had made enough of a comeback for me to contemplate taking a West Coast job offer.

"We're opening a Milk Bar in Beverly Hills." The original club in New York had been a success lining my pockets with cash.

"Swimming pools, palm trees, and movie stars." My brother painted a pleasant picture.

"Something like that. Do you want me to stick around?"

"No, I'll be fine." Michael was living with my parents on the South Shore. My father drove him to the radio station twice weekly for his show promoting gay life in Boston. "But if you see James Brolin, I want you to get his autograph."

"You got it."

My baby brother loved swarthy men.

The next week I left for LA and the futuristic club opened that March. Beverly Hills had never seen such a place and tips quadrupled my salary. Everyone wanted to be inside, but by July the nightlife was taking its toll on my body and soul. I wasn't twenty anymore. It was time to quit and I had enough money to travel to Tibet for the rest of the year.

I loved traveling to the farthest reaches of this world, however the morning after the 4th of July the telephone rang in my rented North Hollywood studio.

"Who is it?" Few people called me.

"Me." It was my younger brother, Padraic. "Michael isn't well."

"How unwell?"

Padraic quickly explained that my youngest brother's health suffered a precipitous decline, as the experimental drugs failed to stem the ruthless ravages of his aliment.

"How long?"

"I don't think he'll make August."

"Fuck." His life expectancy had shrunk from years to months to weeks and the next day I was on a plane to Logan. My family was waiting at the hospice on the South Shore. I had seen friends die of AIDS. None of those passings prepared me for the sight of my brother's condition.

His only nourishment was a morphine drip.

I guessed his weight to be 120.

Our family sat by his bedside. My mother patted his hand. My sisters wet his lips. My father faced the tragedy with a noble stoicism. He had done his best. Tears were for another day. My older brother read from the Bible. My youngest brother responded to none of this.

I sat my his bed and didn't leave his side for days, except to eat in the hospice's canteen. They made a nice meatloaf.

One night I entered Michael's room and my younger brother was playing FREEBIRD on his guitar. My youngest brother was more into show tunes and disco than southern rock and I said, "You know Michael hated this song?"

"I know, but in his state I figure that he would hear this song and know it was me."

My youngest brother strummed his guitar and I joined his singing the song. I was more a punk than anything else, but I knew every word. FREEBIRD had been a huge hit for Lynard Skynard in 1972.

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on, now,
'Cause there's too many places I've got to see.
But, if I stayed here with you, girl,
Things just couldn't be the same.
'Cause I'm as free as a bird now,
And this bird you cannot change.
Lord knows, I can't change.

Bye, bye, its been a sweet love.
Though this feeling I can't change.
But please don't take it badly,
'Cause Lord knows I'm to blame.
But, if I stayed here with you girl,
Things just couldn't be the same.
Cause I'm as free as a bird now,
And this bird you'll never change.
And this bird you cannot change.
Lord knows, I can't change.
Lord help me, I can't change.

Padraic put down his guitar and kissed his emaciated brother on the forehead. I kissed his cheek.

His skin was waxen.

Michael had only a little further to go in this life.

"Let's take a photo."

"Now?" Paddy knew how vain Michael was. It was a family trait.

"If not now, then it will be never." Michael had only hours left in his heart.

I positioned my camera on the bureau. The timer ran for thirty seconds. The camera snapped a shot of Padraic and me with my baby brother between us.

Michael died a day later and we buried him in the town cemetery.

Three days later I fled to Asia and mourned my brother at the holiest temples in the Orient.

Upon my return I developed the roll of film from Michael's last days. I didn't show the shot on the bed to anyone, but Padraic.

He shook his head.

"What? You thinking about how thin he was?" I asked, taking the photo back from his hand.

"No, just thinking about how fat we were."

I looked at the picture and laughed at the truth. Michael would have laughed too and probably did someplace in the afterlife. He was out there somewhere in the Here-Before as we all are with the ones we love.

FREEBIRD INDEED.

To hear FREEBIRD please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OiB-MG49spw

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Remember Our Gone

December 1 is AIDS Awareness Day.

We remember those gone and more importantly recommit our souls to the continued fight against the deadly disease which thinned our ranks since 1978. Gone are our family and friends like my younger brother Michael Charles Smith and my cousin Sandy Smith. The world is a much smaller planet without them and my friends.

Philip Brook, Tasmanian reporter and filmmaker.

Haoui Montauk, poet/doorman/impressario

Marc Stevens Mr. 10 1/2/porn star. Photo by Robert Mapplethorpe

Steve Brown filmmaker

William Lively ballet dancer/theater designer

Klaus Nomi castradi singer

Rock Hudson movie star

And so many others.

36 million so far.

Last year over a million people died from the lethal virus.

The first person who I knew to die of it was James Spicer.

The winter of 1978.

Almost forty years ago.

Corinne in Paris 1984.

Bad blood transfusion.

And how can I forget Andy Reese dancer/actor.

He left me his elephant foot.

Or Philippe Krootchey Paris singer

We were all such good friends.

And still are.

The fight is not over.