Mira Tibblin RIP

Paris is a magical city. Parisians boast about the French capitol as 'La Ville-Lumière' or City of Lights as much for its illumination as its well-deserved reputation for thought. I was lucky enough to have lived in Paris during the 80s. I learned the language, I ate the food, and I slept with the women. Some of my friends have opined that I was following the footsteps of Hemingway's Lost Generation, but the writer of THE MOVEABLE FEAST was not a city boy and I was not the writer of THE MOVEABLE FEAST. I worked at a nightclub as a physionomiste. I was part of the scenery. I knew the names of many women.

Mira Tibblin was a Swedish model. The tall brunette worked for Paris Planning. She had small breasts and a wicked laugh. We were intimate on more than one occasion. Her top-floor apartment in the Latin Quarter was a renovated maid's quarter with a view from the tiny window of other tiny windows.

Mira and I were not boyfriend and girlfriend, but we share a mutual attraction to the good in life, even if some of them were bad. Neither of us asked too many questions. She traveled most of the week and I worked most of the weekends. Her friend, the model from South Africa, said that we made a good couple.

"How can we be good, if both of us are bad?"

"Simple math. Two negatives make a positive." The model from South Africa had more going for her than beauty as did Mira.

One winter night we returned to her apartment late. It was cold and she turned on the electrical heater before we buried our naked bodies underneath a thick duvet. Mira wanted me bad and I wanted her the same. Our foreplay lasted less than a minute and the heat of our passion made me throw off the duvet. I repeated my thrusts with the speed of a 78 rpm record skipping a beat. She cried out for more. I gave it to her, then she started screaming. I tried harder to please her, except she pushed me off her, for the duvet was on fire. I put it out and she held the charred remains in her hands.

"That was an 8000 francs duvet."

"Oh." Something told me that she expected me to pay for it.

I never did, but she said nothing bad about me and today I was saddened to hear that Mira was remaining behind in the Here-Before, as her friends and family forge through the Here-Now into the Here-After.

"Hyvää onnea!"

She was a true princess of beauty.

The photo of Mira, Lagerfeld, and me is by Dustin Pittman

Cleaver Penis Pants

The 1960s revolutionary Eldridge Cleaver had a troubled youth in LA, but a rape spree earned the 18 year-old a long sentence to San Quentin and Folsom prisons. His book SOUL ON ICE was published by Ramparts Magazine. Controversy followed his stating that he initially raped black women in the ghetto “for practice” and then embarked on the rape spree of white women, describing these crimes as politically inspired, motivated by a genuine conviction that the rape of white women was “an insurrectionary act”

Cleaver never expressed any contrition for these crimes and upon his 1968 release from prison he joined the Black Panthers as Minister of Information. A failed ambush of police officers in Oakland forced him to flee the country to Cuba and then Algeria. Cleaver returned the States in 1975 after his conversion to born-again evangelism and many within the radical movement questioned whether Cleaver had been police plant within the Black Panthers.

While in exile in France Cleaver tried his hand at fashion, inventing the penis pants, which had a codpiece for a man’s cock to hang out of his trousers in a sox.

“I want to solve the problem of the fig-leaf mentality. Clothing is an extension of the fig leaf — it put our sex inside our bodies. My pants put sex back where it should be.”

I can’t recall anyone wearing one.

Certainly the police have never mentioned them when looking for rapists, although a few years ago Bas Kosters Studio are selling penis leggings for women costing $151. The print has thousands of penises on them and are a little square in comparison to Clever’s penis pants.

Their website noted that they are “also available for men.”

I'm not into leggings and wish I had a pair of the Cleaver Classics, but none were for sale on Ebay, meaning either that no one bought them or anyone who has them isn’t through with them yet.

Classic.

ON THE SOUTH SHORE: From Neponset to Nantasket - Kindle Edition

I was lucky enough to live through the 1960s as a teenager on the South Shore of Boston.

Home was still home to us.

My friends and I led charmed lives at the Quincy Quarries, Surf Nantasket, and Wollaston Beach

ON THE SOUTH SHORE recounts those lives.

The time was short, but retelling these tales brings back those years, if only for a moment.

They were good ones on the South Shore.

EXCERPT from GAY BOY

That next fall my parents were happy and my mother gained weight like she was storing fat for a harsh winter. As her belly grew beyond belief I wondered if she was ever going to stop eating, since Frank and I usually received any leftover cake.

The leaves changed color in October and in November JFK beat Richard Nixon to become the first Catholic president. The cold weather arrived in December and Pearl Harbor Day 1960 dawned with a hoary frost topping the fields south of the Neponset River.

During lunch my 3rd Grade class stared out the windows at sullen northern clouds. We ate our sandwiches in silence. The nuns believed that Jesus barely spoke during his Agony on the Cross and their students were expected to follow his example in thought and deed.

A shrill bell signaled recess and the classes boiled from the school into the sub-freezing temperature. Standing still on the icy asphalt meant frozen feet, so the girls skipped tattered ropes, while the boys kicked misshapen balls around the rear parking lot.

Right before the end of the play period our station wagon rolled down the school’s driveway and Chuckie joked, “Here comes the jail truck from Billerica Reform School.”

Having endured endless ribbing about the metal bars across the windows of the station wagon from family and friends, neither my brother nor I laughed with our classmates. Funny was for other people, but my father got out of the car with a broad smile.

Mother Superior demanded with a sense of command backed by the Church, “What are you doing here?”

In her mind a man’s place at this hour was at his job, because at this hour we belonged to her.

“I want to speak to my boys.” He waved for us to come closer.

“Impossible” Mother Superior expected obedience from adults as well as children. “No.” My father had been brought up in Maine and he confirmed that his authority superseded the Church by telling us, “You mother had a baby boy.”

“We have a baby brother?” Frunk was confused and so was I.

“You didn’t know your mother was having a baby?”

“I thought Mom was getting fat.” Any woman would have gained weight from her recent feeding frenzy.

“She was fat with your baby brother. We’re going to see him.”

“You can’t disrupt the school day like this.” Steam fumed from Mother Superior’s dragon beak.

“They’ll make it up at Church this Sunday.”

As a convert to the faith he was immune to the nun’s wrath, but my brother asked timidly, “What about our books?”

“No one does homework on Baby Day.” My father waved to my sisters and they ran over to us.

“They’re going to the hospital to see their mother.”

“Is Mom okay?” I asked with concern.

“She’s fine. Let’s go.”

We piled in the car and he drove to Beth Israel Hospital, humming IT’S BEGINNING TO LOOK ALOT LIKE CHRISTMAS.

“This is not a playground,” my father said entering the hospital. The lobby smelled cleaner than our house.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

“Yes, sir.” Our submission to our elders was complete.

We filed one by one into the private room in Richardson House.

My mother lay on a bed with a small baby on her chest. My Nana held our now second youngest brother, Padraic. A white uniformed nurse sat on a chair reading the Record-American. We stood around the bed. Our new brother was very pink.

“He weighs seven pounds.” My father touched the small body and his little fingers squirmed like spring worms rising from the earth. We were a bigger family by one and each of us smiled with a shared happiness.

My parents named their sixth child after my grandmother’s uncle. The young priest had met the fourteen year-old girl off the boat from Ireland and placed Nana in a Salem household staff. My grandmother had danced with our grandfather at a church outing in Marblehead.

In my mother’s mind our next two generations owed their existence to Uncle Mike and she prayed that at least one of us might take up the Cloth to return the favor. I didn’t have the heart to confess my atheism.

Those first months Michael was a miracle and I rushed home from school to feed, bathe, and rock the tiny creature in a cradle from my grandmother’s house in Maine. After having six kids in eight years my mother was grateful for my assistance, however this peaceful period ended with his first bout of infantile teething.

My mother and I sang him GOLDMINE IN THE SKY a thousand times. His bawling destroyed our attempts at harmony. One day Michael fell asleep and we sat on the bed in relief. The support struts creaked under our weight and his unearthly howl filled the bedroom. He seemed shocked for a second, then smiled before drifting into a blessed slumber.

That was as bad as it got.

Michael was very special.

To read more of ON THE SOUTH SHORE, please go to Kindle Direct at this URL

www.amazon.com/dp/B00CA51TA8

A time machine to the past.

Trump To Taiwan

The Communist army under Mao defeated the Nationalists and on 7 December 1949 Chiang Kai-shek ordered the evacuation of his government, the gold reserves, priceless art, and his KMT army to the southern island of Taiwan. The USA and its allies recognized Taiwan as the Republic of China, however Nixon's trips to Peking normalized diplomatic relationship between the two superpowers and The KMT republic became an outlaw state ousted from the UN in 1971.

Since then communications between theTaiwan and the USA have been conducted through back channels such as the Vatican, however this week President-Elect Donald Trump accepted a phone call from the Taiwanese leader and the Republic of China complained about this breach of policy aimed at confronting China as a economic and military enemy of America. Trump poopoo-ed the criticisms despite his hotel interests on the island.

His vice presidential choice Mike Pence exclaimed on MEET THE PRESS, “I think most Americans and frankly most leaders around the world know this for what it was. And it’s all part and parcel. I think you’re going to see in a President Donald Trump a willingness to engage the world but engage the world on America’s terms.”

Of course this phone call could be a card to play in his upcoming negotiations with China.

He wants to show he ain't playing by the same rules of One China as yesterday.

He's the new Maddog on the loose.

And he knows his pu pu platters.

General Tso RIP

As a young child in the 1950s the most exotic food in portland, Maine was Italian food. Every Sunday night my father drove into the city and brought home a pizza and antipasto salad. Otherwise the port city offered a wide range of fish. It wasn't until our family moved to the South Shore of Boston that my brothers and sisters first ate Chinese food.

Not IN Chinatown near South Station, but a restaurant in Randolph, Mass.

The name escapes my memory, but I loved the Oriental decor and the Polynesian poo-poo platter of spare ribs, fried chicken, egg rolls, and pork slices surrounding a decorative volcano with a sterno can providing the flames. My father introduced us to chow mein, fried rice, and other savory dishes. WE ate at the Pu Pu Palace for years, never realizing the cuisine had been tamed for white people.

Over the years I've dined on Chinese food in Boston, New York, LA, Miami, London, Paris, Hamburg, Chengdu, Kumming, Thailand, Indonesia, and Malaysia.

Some good.

Some average.

Always edible.

My favorite dish has been General Tso's chicken named after Zuo Zongtang, a military leader from Hunan Province, although no one from that province has ever heard of the spicy chicken dish, since chef Peng invented General Tso's chicken at his a New York restaurant in 1977.

Delicious.

Sadly chef Peng passed away this weekend in unnan.

Unknown to many, but loved by all who love General Tso's chicken.

He was 99.

Donald Trump's Grreat

Donald Trump touched his followers with his promise of leading America to greatness and his election to the White House shocked his Democratic opponents. The actual vote gave the plurality to the former Secretary of State, despite the suspect results from the electronic voting machines. Hillary Clinton accepted the results and her supporters cried at the defeat. Emboldened by Trump's success the far right wing of the USA has risen from the ashes and the president-elect has been rewarding the loyalty of team players with prospective cabinet positions.

The list is scary.

But I'm not scared, because I have seceded from these next four years to cast my support from the opposition left of the Democrats.

They are no better than Trump.

And with few exceptions never will be.

Down with Trump.

The sooner the better.

And what about his plans for the White House decor.

After all Donald stole his campaign motto from Tony the Tiger.

Making America grrreat.

A Walk On A Bridge

On a grey November afternoon I was not in the best of moods. I hid my sadness with smiles and buried my sorrow with alcohol.

Life was hardly worth living.

I hadn't seen my children for over a year. I missed them more and more with each passing day.

Especially little Fenway.

And Angie.

They were growing up without me.

The hurt wouldn't go away. An inner voice spoke a dangerous language. It only had one word.

I looked out my window. Condos along Fulton Avenue blocked my view to the west. Thailand and my family lay on the other side of the world. I hadn't left my room in three days.

My phone rang.

I answered hoping it was a job lead.

Instead it was Shannon, my old basketball friend. We hadn't played in a long time.

My legs were gone.

"You wan to join me for a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. We can have lunch in Chinatown."

"I don't know."

"My treat."

Shannon knew my weakness for a free meal and agreed to meet at the Masonic Temple in Fort Greene.

"Ten minutes." We lived close to each other. Shannon with his wife. Me all alone.

Seeing a friendly face was a good thing.

"So we were walking across the bridge?" I pointed up. The sky was darker than before.

"You scared of a little rain?"

"No." We were both dressed for the weather, although I was wearing sandals instead of boots.

"Then let's go."

"How's work?"

"I don't have any work." I had been laid off from the Plaza store. "No one's buying jewelry."

"Any idea why?"

Millions of dollars of diamonds and gems sat in the window.

"My old profession is dying in the new century, but enough talk of business, let's walk."

The Brooklyn Bridge was thirty minutes from Fort Greene. Shannon and I spoke of the past.

Basketball games, fights, and long-gone loves, then he broached a forbidden subject.

"When are you going to Thailand?"

"No time soon." I was living on food stamps and all my money went to my family. I was lucky to spend $40 a day. "I don't know when I'll get there."

"One day you will."

He knew how much I loved my kids.

Shannon had suggested the name 'Fenway' for my son. I had checked online for Fenway Smith. Surprisingly I found none.

"You know I was walking down Lafayette the other day and ran into a guy with a dog wearing a Red Sox hat. I asked him his dog's name. He said, "Fenway." Now I realized why people don't call their kids 'Fenway'. They call their dogs 'Fenway'.

"Sorry." Shannon was a Yankee fan, but a good friend and I said, "I still like the name."

We had reached the pedestrian pathway and climbed onto the bridge.

Few tourists braved the damp mist. Shannon was a faster walker. I lingered at the railing. The height of the wooden walkway was 132 over the water. A thick obscured the city's inner harbor. Its thick grey matched the color of my heart. The dangerous language repeated the only word in its vocabulary, as the wind strummed the steel cables and the grated roadway hummed with traffic.

I thought of Hart Crane's poem about the wind and struggled to recall The Bridge.

One line stuck in my head.

"Under thy shadow by the piers I waited Only in darkness is thy shadow clear."

Darkness was my only friend.

Hart Crane had jumped or drunken sailors had thrown the gay poet off the bow of Orizaba. He drowned in the Caribbean, confirming his prediction.

"The bottom of the sea is cruel."

The height of the bridge was ruthless and the tide said the word.

"Jump."

Shannon looked at me. He read my eyes and said, "The fog leans one last moment on the sill. Under the mistletoe of dreams, a star — As though to join us at some distant hill — Turns in the waking west and goes to sleep.

Shannon had read Crane too.

The poetry mirrored my soul, but Shannon was too far away to stop me other to say, "Fenway."

I didn't budge.

He said another name.

"Angie."

My mother was an Angie.

She was in after-life, but my daughter was here now.

Thousands of miles away, but there same as Fenway.

Shannon shrugged.

He was not playing fair.

Not with my life on the line.

We were standing underneath City Hall.

Are you okay?"

"Better."

"Just remember you have something to live for?"

"I know."

"Bringing Fenway to Fenway Park".

"I'm sure he'd like that."

"Tough getting swept by the Indians in the playoffs." Shannon really was a Yankee fan, but they hadn't been to the World Series since 2009.

"I really touched by your concern."

"Shall we have a drink at your bar."

"The 169."

I was friends with the afternoon bartender.

"We deserve a beer after that walk."

"It'll be good to be off the bridge."

Because I still had places to go.

We had more than one beer.

The 169 had pretty lights.

And pretty lights kept away the darkness.

For sleep and dreams of jumping off a low bridge into the Charles River.

The Charles