Scared Of Sharks

Helicopters have flown over Florida beaches to discover hundreds of sharks close to the shore.

Usually drawn by shoals of fish.

Sharks have no friends, although lampreys hitchhike on the killing machine.

Recently a story from a porno actress' 2006 sexual encounter with Donald Trump has revealed the billionaire's abject fear of sharks.

In a 2011 interview Stormy Daniels related a conversation during a visit to A Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow."

“The strangest thing about that night — this was the best thing ever. You could see the television from the little dining room table and he was watching Shark Week and he was watching a special about the U.S.S. something and it sank and it was like the worst shark attack in history. He is obsessed with sharks. Terrified of sharks. He was like, ‘I donate to all these charities and I would never donate to any charity that helps sharks. I hope all the sharks die.’ He was like riveted. He was like obsessed. It’s so strange, I know.”

She also said that sex was generic.

"It was one position."

I'm guessing it was cowgirl reverse.

As for his fear of sharks, I agree.

The 1975 film JAWS scared me out of the ocean, although these days I'm more frightened of sharts as should be Trump.

It's an old age thing.

Best Punch At CBGBs

Back in the 1970s CBGBs was a rough bar. The Hell's Angels frequented the Bowery bar and no one challenged their claim to the punk rock venue, since the Angels scared off other asshole bikers, although not every night.

In 1978 a packed house of garage rock fans greeted the Cramps' debut and the Akron band performed, as if the world was diving into the sun with the coming of tomorrow.

I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Sunglasses After Dark, Strychnine, and a cover of the Trashmens' Surfer Bird highlighted the show. My hillbilly girlfriend danced to every tune like her veins flowed with moonshine. Alice wasn't white trash, but her West Virginia home wasn't far from the coal-mining hollows of Appalachia.

During the encore the scrawny saxist James Chance of the Contortions climbed onto the stage to fondle two Jersey biker chicks. Their boyfriends stood in the front row. Chance had a reputation for trouble and stuck out his tongue.

The girls thought he was funny.

The biker boys didn't see the humor and jumped onto the stage.

Chance was skin and bones and the biker had mechanic muscle.

It was more a beating than a fight.

A solid right caught Chance on the nose and blood poured onto his dirty white shirt.

Eric Mitchell, b-movie actor extraordinaire, scrambled on stage to rescue his skinny friend. The part-Cherokee warned the biker to stop.

The band kept playing Surfing Bird.

Alice grabbed my arm to stop my joining them. I stayed with her. This wasn't my fight.

The biker looped a slow overhead right and his fist loudly impacted on Eric's nose. More blood splattered everywhere.

Merv the bouncer threw out the bikers.

They went without a struggle.

The 6-3 doorman looked like an Addams family member.

Even the Angels respected Merv. The former discus thrower was a tall man.

The next night Eric entered the bar with a black eye.

Both of Chance's eyes sported the same badge of dishonor.

That night the two were everyone's darlings, because at CBGB's there was never any shame about losing.

March 2017

March began with another Snow Day. People were excused from work and kids stayed home from school.

The trains were running underground, so I traveled from Fort Greene to East Broadway.

The site of the 169 Bar.

The bar was crammed with Snow Day celebrants.

Everyone was happy to be off for the day.

I drank beers with my fellow New Englander, Matt Ford.

We had a good laugh.

He liked my hat.

I went outside.

It was cold and wet under foot.

My sheepskin jacket and heavy boots protected me from the weather.

The jacket had once belonged to Arthur Weinstein, famed nightlife prince.

There was little traffic on East Broadway.

I felt warm enough to make a slush angel.

A young couple thought I was funny.

At least I didn't have to sleep in the subway like so many unfortunate men and women.

I trained north to Catskill.

Charlotta needed help with the house and I could use the work.

Thomas Cole's house was a treasure.

The view was always the same.

Mount Kaaterskill seemed closer than twenty miles.

I wanted to go there.

Charlotta wanted me to work.

She was the boss and I had to be content with tramping into town through the snow.

The snow was only ankle deep.

My boots were thigh high.

After ten years I returned to the city.

Fenway had money.

Mam too.

One day I helped Dave Henderson move a Vortex sculpture.

It didn't weigh much.

I loved his other pieces.

They had no names.

The snow melted quick.

Teddy bears hung from the wires.

They cut a nice silhouette in the blue sky.

I didn't have any work and went to the Gowanus Canal on the F train.

No one was on the platform.

The structure had been built in the early 1930s.

Ten years ago the city spent over $200 million to repair the station.

From the ground I saw nothing of Manhattan.

It was no oner my bourough.

I was now in Brooklyn.

But not for long.

This weekend I was marrying friends in Virginia.

Richmond to be exact.

Go Bus was the way to go.

Paige and Ten Rings were waiting in Petersburg.

Paige was a swimmer. She worked for NGOs. To help the world.

English Tutor - Peter Nolan Smith

Coleman's Mustard Shutdown

I love mustard.

Not Grey Poupon or Gulden's, for while all mustard consist of the same menu.

The whole, ground, cracked, or bruised mustard seeds mixed with water, salt, lemon juice, or other liquids.

That simple.

And you can leave mustard out forever without it going bad.

French moutarde is the best.

The British for over 200 years have prided themselves in the fiery mustard from Colman's of Norwich.

No more.

The mega-corp Unilever has announced to the City of Norwich that the factory will be closed this year.

The production of mustard will be exported to Germany.

A good place for mustard.

Better than Italy or Greece or China.

But I doubt the Brits will like any of their version.

Where's the Beef?

The best hamburger in the world came from Simpson's Grove outside Portland. The buns were toasted, the sauce was a mild relish/ketchup combo, cheddar cheese melting over the edges, and an all-beef patties sizzling with grilled fat.

Yummy.

No trace of this heavenly hamburger stand exists on the internet.

The best steak came from a trip to Upper Michigan.

Late-August 1987.

Paul Fullerton drove Greg Hunt and me to a Finnish friend's farm. The air was pure off the lake. We swam in its pristine waters. Summer had another month to run, but the leaves were turning silver and Thorvo wanted to kill the winter beef.

"I got one all picked out, yea-ut."

Thorvo got out him 30/30 rifle and walked into the pasture.

The other cows shunned the condemned steer.

>One bullet put down the cow.

Two hours later steaks charred on the fire under a million stars in the skies. The beef was tender enough to cut with a plastic knife. Yummy.

I don't eat many burgers these days.

Cows aren't really cows anymore. Not in the USA where a California meatpacker recalled 65 million kilograms of ground beef, 24% of which was destined for the children in the US School System. 65 million kilograms weighs as much as a million 65 kilo humans. Three times the size of Baltimore. The beef was recalled after a video showing meatpackers loading stricken beef into trucks for the slaughterhouse with forklifts and the aid of electro-shock sticks, despite the FDA ban on accepting 'downer' cows.

>"Not much concern for mad cow disease, since it's very rare," assured an FDA official and Steve Mendell, president of Hallmark/Westland, sputtered afterward that he was "shocked and horrified" by the videos and voluntarily suspended operations pending the outcome of the inquiry. Two Mexican laborers are currently being sought for animal cruelty charges.

No one will say by whom, so "hold the Pickles, hold the lettuce and hold the beef, while you're at it."

Burger King is the non beef burger.

We are what we eat.

Jan. 2, 2007 Going Home

It was still dark yesterday morning, when my wife terminated her holiday stay in Pattaya. She packed the car with my daughter, my adopted niece, her sister, my dog, and about three weeks of food which would be consumed during the five our journey to Ban Nok outside of Chai-nat.

Nu was no longer angry. The photo evidence of my having a mia noi was inconclusive. I didn't go out at night and let her spend New Year's Eve with her friends possibly an ex-husband, while I took care of our daughter.

Not that I am a saint.

Just that New Year's Eve is a night for fools and not sinners.

I was sad to see them go, especailly my daughter.

She is the light of my life however life in the country is better for a kid than the last Babylon and even I have to admit that seeing birds in the monring is better for a kid than watching drunken farangs wrestle dok thongs into the nearest hotel.

"I don't want her to see all this." My wife loves the country.

We have 20 rai growing weeds. Ten are destined for teakwood trees. It'll be a forest by the time I'm 70 and I'll earn enough money from the carbon trading programs to buy a bottle of whiskey once a month.

I wish I could go up country now and let my hair grow long like a Carabao hippie, but I have some work to do before I can retire to Ban Nok. Something like a 15 year sentence of hard labor at Pattaya Minimum Security Penal Colony.

It could be worse and probably will be if my mia noi has anything to do with it.

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