Five Things I Love About America

I was born in the USA. Bruce Springsteen sings the line in his hit BORN IN THE USA about fifty times. The Thai go-go girls at Tahitian Queen 1 dance to that song every day. None of them join in the chorus, but the ex-pats on the bar stools chant every word of the refrain to their teary compatriots so far from the Land of the Free.

“Born in the USA.”

While there is a lot I like about the USA, this song is not one of them. I mean Bruce keeps going on and on like he has an early case of Alzheimer’s Disease or that people are so stupid that he had to sing that line 400 times so they got what he was saying.

Anyway here are the five things I love about the USA.

1.) Road trips.

Several years back a friend and I were discussing why he liked his Ferrari. He said it was for the freedom. At the time we were sitting in bumper to bumper traffic on the Verrazano Bridge. The open road is for fast cars and just cruising.

Route 100 in Vermont. Route 25 to 113 in Maine.

Route 1 beyond Ellsworth Maine and south of Homestead FLA.

The PCH anyway there isn’t a city.

Las Vegas-Grand Canyon-Monument Valley-Arches-Capitol Reef-Bryce Canyon-Zion Canyon-Vegas.

The Jones Beach Parkway.

Anyplace in Montana, where the speed limit used to be ‘WHATEVER IS REASONABLE AND PROPER’.

I was zooming on Interstate 90 outside of Billings at 110mph. I passed a semi-trailer and spotted a state trooper. I was left with two choices; step on the brakes or else keep up to speed. I chose the latter, because the former was an admission of guilt.

Montana changed that speed limit due to a class action suit by motorists with shitty cars who said the speed limit was prejudiced against them.

Freedom of expression challenged by those too slow to care.

It’s unAmerican, but then what isn’t these days?

Not #2

2.) Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

I was once asked for my philosophy of life.

The question stumped me.

Zen, Nihilism, Materialism?

Not a chance.

Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Especially the latter.

Fun fun fun.

3.) Baseball.

Baseball has been the great American pastime since before the Civil War. The game is played all around the world no matter what the teabags (Brits) think about it. Baseball isn’t half as boring as Cricket although I appreciate the bravery of the infielders’ barehanding the hard-hit ball.

Ouch.

Unfortunately baseball doesn’t get played as much as before. Americans are too fat to round the bases, parents are too scared of weirdos to let their kids out of the house, not that they aren’t a lot of weirdoes in the house too, and lastly people work too much to take off two hours when they could be watching TV.

Not baseball on TV.

Just TV.

I had a baseball glove in Pattaya.

I threw the ball against the garage wall.

I broke every window within 15 feet of the strike zone.

My arm got stronger and I thought about heading to the States and challenging anyone to play.

Batter up and wear your helmet.

4.) Speaking freely.

The First Amendment protects the freedom of speech.

You can say whatever you want in America and this goes against the grain of Fox News who consider the 1st Amendment to mean that you are free to say whatever you want as long as it’s doesn’t mean anything. To do otherwise is treason.

Impeach the president.

“Weakens the troops’ resolve.”

Pull out of Iraq.

“Cut and run.”

Free Sex.

“What about the children?”

The Freedom of Speech deserves to be practiced even if the speaker is talking shit.

So what?

In Germany you can be arrested for flipping the bird.

Not in America.

It’s the national highway salute to bad drivers.

5.) Amnesia.

Americans forget their mistakes faster than any other nation.

Most don’t think we’re in Iraq anymore.

Of course a die-hard group will carry a grudge forever, but most Americans will move on. Life’s too short to worry about bad things.
Let’s have a BBQ.

So enjoy the fireworks and have a real beer.

Not Budweiser.

Dale Earnhardt Jr. abandoned the proud maker of panther piss.

Hopefully it’s be replaced by Stella Artois.

It ain’t American and neither is Heineken, but it don’t matter, because you’re American as long as you’re in America. You might be illegal. You might be foreign born. You might be a 10 generation Yankee like me.

But it’s star and stripes forever no matter what # 45 says.

Even for anarchists like me.

Taylor Blue Winsted RIP

a poem of misunderstanding by dakota pollock

why did it have to be taylor when there are others both cruel and inhumane who bankrupt their own brother after violent arguments regarding inheritances; murderers who smile while on trial in court, the families of the victims grieving and weeping and crying trying to find meaning and closure after the lawyers defend these men with twisted and complicated defenses go home to kiss their daughters and teach them about values and morality. that we have to rely on donations to bury our children and buy their medicine so they can continue to live. different children facing disciplinary action and punishment and expulsion threatened by school administration because they can’t pay their lunch bills and the lunch ladies and the teachers fired and fine for giving the lunch away for free because they won’t and cant allow a child to go hungry.

why did it have to be taylor when young, able bodied men sit on the subway benches while a pregnant woman is ready to faint from the extra weight she carries. the bulge of her belly like stained crescent moons annoying the young man. it’s in his way and he has a long night of drinking and harassing women and bartenders and cabdrivers and servers ahead of him.

seagulls swallowing six pack rings and turtles with plastic straws shoved up their nostrils unable to breathe the pollution in the air while their eggs hatch in the oil spills of the sea.

why did it have to be taylor when the misfortune of the people is monetized and exploited so a half dozen men can get even richer and buy homes with unnecessary features like oversized garages and bathrooms attached to waterslides leading to an indoor pool.

why did it have to be taylor when i’d never known someone so sweet and encouraging and rare and while men practice piano and learn how to paint they will never know the talent of living which is a gift you are born with and taylor had easily and naturally perfected it

Hassidic Magic Past Prime

I believe in magic.

Not many other people do.

Most are squares and who can tell squares what to think about anything other than potato chips?

The other day I ran into a Hassidic mystic from 47th Street.

He looked not so much down on his luck as hurting in health.

I approached the shuffling magician and said, "I remember you from the street. I was the Sahbbat Goy."

"I remember you too. You are old too." I could have spared him $10, however he said, "I need nothing. I have good. Let me see your hand."

He took my hand and regarded at my palm. His fingers traced runes. He coughed without health and said, "You think too much."

Another glance.

"And you love too much."

Neither was a curse and I wanted to say Danke, but he was gone.

Vanished.

To an atom.

I looked at my palm. I saw what he saw. Nothing, but the truth and that is the beauty of magic.

Glatt Port-A-Sans

According the wikipedia the first toilets and sewers were invented in the third millennium BC in Mohenjo-Daro. The Indus Valley Civilization also offered its citizens water-cleaning toilets with drains covered with burnt clay bricks by which the flowing water removed the human waste.

Archaeologists recently discovered ancient toilets in Palestine.

The same principle as in Mohenjo-Daro, where the people spoke Akkadian and might have used the word 'skheid' or separate.

The word in Yiddish is kafin.

I have never spoken Hebrew, since this language was traditonally reserved for schul or the temple until the invention of the apartheid Israeli state.

Still a shitter is a shitter or a klozet in Yiddish.

Last week I was walking along Myrtle Avenue in Clinton Hill and spotted a young Hassidic man driving a flathead truck loaded with portable toilets. His window was open and I approached the truck."

"Shalom. I am the last of the Shabbas Goys."

"Shalom." Most Hassids ignore goyim, but shabbas goys were once a necessary evil for performing physical tasks on the Holy Days.

"I was wondering if those Port-a-Sans were kosher."

"Yes, by all means the water is clean and undyed, which is absolutely forbidden by the Halacha. Also it is only for use by men and we instructed everyone not to flush using their one's elbow or foot and all the toilet paper is one sheet, since it against the law to tear anything on the Shabbat."

"Thank you for that information. Sie gesund."

I waved good-bye and realized the more I know about the Hassidim, the less I know, but that is one of the mysteries of life.

How to shit in peace.

SHADOWS OF THE COMBAT ZONE by Peter Nolan Smith

In the late 60s lower Washington Street was anointed Boston's Combat Zone for sex and sin. Working-class drinking dives became go-go bars named the Naked I and Two O'Clock Lounge. Gay clubs like Jacques and The Other End flourished freely in the alleys. Porno theaters openly screened XXX-rated to enthralled men and the cops ceased to persecute the flesh trade, so hookers plied their trade in front of Goodtime Charlie's on La Grange Street.

Everyone was getting their cut.

The Mafia, the bartenders, the pimps, the musicians, and the taxi drivers scored cash off these strippers and hookers.

They were a gold mine.

From 5pm to 2am the hookers strutted their stuff. Hospital workers, lawyers, firemen, and sailors loved them and the girls loved them back for a price.

A quickie was $20.

An hour ran $50.

Showgirls cost a lot more.

The nearest hotel was the Avery, although most johns opted for the short-time rooms above Goodtime Charlie's.

Sherri was the hottest girl in the Combat Zone. The blonde's long legs stretched out of tight hot pants and her cupcakes breasts popped under a tube top. Platform heels transformed the 18 year-old into an Amazon.

She was better than good.

Sherri was wicked.

But she was far from easy.

Sherri was a freelancer in the Combat Zone. Many pimps tried to recruit the freelancer into their stables, but the blonde teenager was too hot for a single man and the police protected her for the sheer pleasure of her smile.

A few of the go-go dancers offered Sherri competition, but they needed beer, booze, and a three-piece band to create her aura of lust. The trios of sax, organ, and drum played low-down soul and the dancers loved grinding flesh to James Brown covers.

The strippers danced like ballerinas on 'Ludes.

It was a true art form.

Bad people walked on Washington Street

The Combat Zone had dark alleys. Crazy Jack was the King of the Shadows. No one was scarier on those back streets.

Crazy Jack was running ten girls. The pimp treated them bad. He asked Sherri to be his queen. She told him 'no' every day of the week and Crazy Jack wasn't happy hearing those nos.

Sailors from the navy Yard haunted the go-go bars. The girls never fell in love with them. Sailors had sweethearts in every port. One lieutenant said he loved Sherri.

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only you, Sherri. Only you."

It almost sounded true.

Sam had gold braid on his shoulders.

He was an officer and a gentleman.

Normally Sherri ended her nights at the Hillbilly Ranch across from the bus station. The 45s on jukebox were mostly country-western. Hustlers drank at the bar and none of midnight cowboys queers bothered her.

A gin and tonic cost $1 and she liked the music on the jukebox.

Sherri came from the South. She never said where, but she listened a lot to Patsy Cline.

The Hillbilly Ranch was her home away and after work she pulled on a red wig to be someone other than herself.

Boston's bars closed at 2am. Combat Zone was empty by 3. Sherri walked out of the Hillbilly Ranch at 3:10. The owner asked if she needed a cab. She shook her head.
"I'll walk."

Her apartment was short walk across the Commons on Beacon Hill.

She took a shortcut down an alley. Someone followed her into the darkness. Sherri walked faster, then heard a wet smack.

Crazy Jack lay out cold on the sidewalk.

The sailor was walking the other way.

She called out to Sam.

"You want to have a coffee?"

"Sure."

"I'll meet you at the coffee shop in ten minutes." Sam walked away into the shadows.

Where she didn't ask.

Nine minutes later Sherri checked at the clock. Sam was almost late.

A girl like her didn't wait more than fifteen.

She had someplace to be.

And that someplace was bed.

With or without Sam.

FOTOS BY JERRY BRENDT, ROSWELL ANGIER, AND JOHN GOODMAN.

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith CHAPTER 1

Greta showed for an evening rendezvous in Hamburg’s harbor district. She was dressed in slick leather and arrived on time in anticipation of a sordid evening of sex with her lover. The tall blonde got out of her car. Willi was not on the desolate street. She heard footsteps and a black man and a white associate dragged her into a shadowy warehouse and sat the blonde on a battered chair.

Twisted claws scurried across the floor and the well-dressed woman lifted her black stiletto heels in horror, but rats were the least of Greta’s problems and she begged, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”

“Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes and he asked, “Are you a saint?”

“No, I’m not a saint.” The expensive wig flopped off her head. Hans Roth was less a woman without it.

“Are you an artist?” The man swatted the 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter. “These shots are very kunstlich. I can’t see that you are a man and your friend’s skin is as white as ivory.”

“They are only souvenirs.” The thirty-two year old banker shivered in the slick leather dress.

“Expensive souvenirs, nicht war?”

“Yes, they are.” The weekend in a St. Pauli hotel had cost over 2000 Deutschmarks or half his monthly salary.

“And now you are in trouble.” The black man was as tired of his role as any actor performing Hamlet for the ten-thousandth time. Still his audience flinched on cue, when he flopped the lurid snapshots on the man’s lap. “You know who I am, yes?”

“You are Cali Nordstrum. I have read about you in the newspapers.” Hans lowered his head. The man was the city’s most notorious pimp

“And how someone tried to kill me last week?” Cali fingered the 5-Deutschmark coin hanging from his necklace.

“Yes.”

“And I bet that you are thinking you were unlucky that they were unsuccessful, but you are wrong. If I was dead, I could not help you.”

“With what?”

“You have been money stealing from the bank to pay for your romance. Yes, Willi told me everything and this is not a crime you can get away with forever.”

“Es tut mir lied.” The part-time transvestite buried his veiny hands into the fallen wig. “I love Willi.”

The black man handed the transvestite a handkerchief.

“Save your sorries for someone else. You did not steal from me and we are not here to hurt you or blackmail you, but to help you.”

Cali backed away and his scarred face melted into the gloom.

For ten years Hans had protected his name, job, and family from disgrace. Liaisons with street boys lasted one night, but the last months with Willi had incarnated his true persona and he asked hopefully, “How?”

Cali whispered in the man’s ear and mapped out his scheme with the persuasiveness of a CIA officer selling the last helicopter seat out of Saigon, since the desperate always bet on long shots. “This is your chance to earn enough money for you to disappear from Germany. No one would think of searching for you in Thailand. Not as a woman. Were you lying about your commitment to Willi?”

“No.” His Adam’s apple gulped in hope of redemption.

“Your first name is Hans, yes?”

“I prefer Greta.”

“Greta, I am a better friend than enemy. You can contact me at this number. Tell Willi nothing. This is ‘our’ secret.” He gave the banker a business card and a wad of DM notes. “This will come out of your cut later.”

“I'll follow your every command.”

When his hand reached for the money, Cali snatched the man’s ear so hard that the cartilage partially snapped from the skull. A butcher at the city slaughterhouse had taught him the trick. His stepson was Cali’s partner.

“Greta, you understand there’s no backing out?”

“Yes,” Hans said through watery eyes and Cali released him. The banker arranged his wig and smoothed out his dress.

“Thank you.”

“Thank me, when you are really Greta.” Cali nodded and his friend opened the basement door for a black leather angel with platinum hair. Heroin had got the better of Willi’s beauty and the black pimp shook his head. He hated drugs. They cut into his employees’ productivity. His associates became sloppy. These weaknesses cost time, money, and lives in his business.

The banker was blind to Willi’s deterioration and he embraced the hustler as man and woman.

“Let’s leave the lovers alone.” Neither his friend nor he needed to witness the Willi’s performance.

At the entrance Kurt Oster pulled out a cigarette. The flame from a gold lighter illuminated a rugged face.

“Are we really going to cut in the banker?”

“Just because we are criminals doesn’t mean we have to be dishonest. Everyone will get what their fair share, since it’s always luckier to believe you aren’t going to hurt anyone in the beginning.”

Cali stepped into the street to avoid the smoke. Cigarettes killed thousands of people every year.

The police never arrested the manufacturers. Pimps were better headlines. On the warehouse loading dock he surveyed the street. Only three cars were in sight.

“Anything wrong?” Kurt surveyed the street and flicked the cigarette on the cobblestones.

“Someone is out there.”

“No one comes to the harbor at night.” The two walked to a brand-new silver Benz.

“We did.” Premonitions served as Cali’s early radar warning.

“And we haven’t done anything wrong.” Kurt’s hair had been recently cut in Milan. The jean jacket had been purchased on the King's Road and the gold-buckled loafers had been hand-stitched in Italy. Only one shop in Paris carried the 501 jeans. Kurt drove a 1961 Thunderbird. He also had expensive tastes in women.

Too expensive.

“Yet we will and things always have a funny way of going wrong.”

“Which is why I am enlisting as American for the Sonderboch. German police love arresting international criminals and a sucker holding the bag might buy us a few hours or even days to flee from this life.”

“So, this American is stupid?”

“No, even better. Broken-hearted.” Kurt paused and added the missing link, “Petra will act as the lure.”

“Are you mad? She is a danger to us all.”

I'll keep her in check, besides the greater the risk, the greater the gain."

“Just once I would like someone to lie to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“Not once?”

“Not about anything important.”

“What about your debts to the loan sharks.”

“I never lied about them. I just never told you how much. If you don’t want to do this, I understand.”

“I didn't say that. I want to get out of this life.”

“Not many live to tell the tale.”

“I know that all too well. Last week I walked out of the Cuneo restaurant. I bent over to pick up this coin. A second later shots go over my head.” Cali tapped the 5-DM piece on the chain. “This saved my life.”

Cali’s Reeperbahn compatriots such as SS Tommy and Mack ‘Der Alte’ controlled half Hamburg’s prostitutes with sociopathic violence. He suspected them of last week’s shooting, for while Cali spoke German, ate sausages, liked Schlager rock, the steely stares at his black skin verified he was a ‘Schwartzer’ to every German, except one and that person wasn’t his mother.

“I am putting my life in your hands, besides stealing millions isn’t any different from stealing an apple. The trick is not getting caught.”

The black pimp opened the trunk of the Benz. Cali loved the new car smell. He reached into the trunk’s secret compartment and handed over a manila envelope.

“That enough money?”

“More than enough to open an account in Switzerland.”

Kurt tucked the envelope inside his jacket.

“We tell no one about this.”

“Not even the wind.”

Cali checked the street again.

“It’s me and you against the world.”

“Like always.” They shook hands to reseal their childhood pact. Cali drove away and Kurt followed in his electric-blue T-bird.

Only the exhaust fumes from the Thunderbird remained on the street and a bearded man emerged from the shadows.

The thirty year-old had seen enough. He would catch up with Kurt at his nightclub. Like most criminals Kurt Oster was a creature of habits. Some good, some bad, and the bearded man knew which ones were which.

After all he was a policeman.

Mohammad Morsi ارقد في سلام

This morning Egypt's first democratically elected president collapsed after a court appearance to face espionage charges.

The sixty-seven year old man had been tortured and abused and had been refused medical care throughout a six year imprisonment. His family had only been allowed to see him three times. According to AlJazeera the former president's son, Abdullah Mohamed Morsi, told Reuters news agency that the family did not know the location of his body. He added that the authorities had refused to allow Morsi be buried at his family's cemetery.

The military dictator Sisi fears the dead almost as much as the living.

As does the USA and UK.

There was no mention of the former leader's death in CNN or Fox News.

Turkish President called Morsi a martyr.

I agree.

ارقد في سلام arqid fi salam or rest in peace.

The struggle for justice is never over.