SPICE MAD DAY by Peter Nolan Smith

Last year I celebrated Columbus Day with my doctor on Staten Island. Nick was Italian and cooked great meatballs. The doctor and I had met during our freshman class of European History 101. We had received Bs from the professor.

His kids had the day off and we enjoying the meal.

"Hey, Nico, I have a question for you."

"Yeah, what?" He was studying film at a state university.

"What year did Columbus sail to America??

"Why you asking?"

"Because it's Columbus Day."

"And?"

"I was wondering if you knew the date. Do any of you?"

"Sure."

"What is it? Any one you."

"It's not a school day," Nico's best friend replied through a mouthful of meatballs.

"So you don't know."

"Nope," they answered in a collective chorus of ignorance.

"Did we know that little when we were that age?" I asked Nick.

"We went to nun school. The sisters forced us to remember Columbus' three ships by name; the Santa Maria, the Nina, and the Pinta."

"C'mon, you gotta know." I looked to the young people around the table.

"1882?" His youngest son was the only one brave enough to offer an answer.

"You got two numbers right." The doctor shook his head in disbelief. "In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue. You never head that?"

"Never." The kids ranged from 8 to 21. Columbus was a blank to them and I explained that Columbus had been seeking the back door to Asia.

"For Chinese take-out?" His older son?s friend Squeak asked with interest. He liked pu-pu platters.

"No, for spices."

"That's why no one knows about him. No one knows about spices." His oldest son's only connection to spice was the Spice Girls and they hadn't scored a hit since the turn of the century.

"Spices were the most important commodity in the world 500 years ago." I had been a history substitute teacher at South Boston High during the bussing riots of 1975. "Spices are pepper, cinnamon, cloves, garlic, chili, nutmeg and many more."

"Chili came from Mexico," Nick's youngest son announced from the table.

"Correct."

"The gardener told me that. He's from Mexico."

"Yes, but many other spices came from Asia." I had spent the 90s and 00s in the Far East. Nick had graduated from a medical school in Manila. We liked the cuisine of the Orient.

"Why they need spices on their good, when they had ketchup?" Squeak was spinning linguine on his fork.

"Ketchup is not a spice and it is not a vegetable." Even if the majority of American teenagers choose Heinz ketchup as their favorite veggie. "I'll tell you a story. Back in 1991 I arrived by boat to Ternate in northern Indonesia. The volcanic island was a backwater then, but in the 15th Century European nations fought to control its treasures of cloves and spices. Hoping to discover a short-cut to the fabled island, Christopher Columbus set sail west across the Atlantic Ocean. His fleet of three ships made landfall on an unknown continent. It was not China, Japan, or Ternate. Undeterred by this disappointment, the Genoan adventurer claimed the new world for the King Of Span and his patroness the Queen Isabella. He was as good a salesman as he was a sailor and called it the West Indies to promote future expeditions."

My friend's teenagers were gazing off with disinterest, although Nick's youngest son and daughter were listening to what I had to say. Their attention span respected an adult, so I continued my tale, "Columbus' first voyage was remarkable, for the fact that he was traveling through unknown waters and only lost one ship, the SANTA MARIA on his first voyage. It sank on Christmas Day, but not one sailor drowned in the shipwreck. There was not enough room for everyone to return to Spain and 39 men elected to stay on 'Hispaniola' to further explore the virgin territory for gold and spices."

"What happened to those guys he left behind?" Nick's younger son was showing promise as a scholar. Julien was a straight B student.

"They were'massacred by Carib warriors who detested the newcomers' enslavement of their women, children, and friends, thus initiating the long conflict between Europe and the New World."

"Massacred as in eaten." Squeak was an ace at shoot-em-up VDO games.

"Yes, eaten."

"Did they use any spices when they ate them or just ketchup?" Squeak's comment earned all-around laughter.

"I quit." I got up from the table and went out on the terrace with a glass of wine in my hand.

Outer New York Harbor spread beneath the highest point in Staten Island. Henry Hudson had sailed this bay. His namesake river ran straight north into the Adirondacks. He had been stranded in the Arctic by his men.

Exploration was tough on failures.

In truth Christopher Columbus carried little gold back to his Spanish sovereigns, but he introduced corn, manioc or cassava, potato, the peanut, tomato, papaya, pineapple, avocado, chili pepper, cotton and cocoa to the Old World. It took about 30 years for the chili to reach Thailand, which adopted the fiery spice as its own.

My wife Mam loved chili on her sum-tam salad. All Thai women loved the fiery mango dish and they have Columbus to thank for their pleasure.

Columbus might be forgotten by the young and no longer considered to be a hero by those who blame the destruction of the Indians on his discovery, but I celebrated his discovery of the Bahamas with rum and coke. Nick joined me and raised his glass.

"To Columbus."

He was Admiral of the Oceans.

Sell-Out At The NY Times

The New York Times was a great newspaper in my youth. Their reporters helped publish the Pentagon Papers for Daniel Ellsburg, Neil Sheehan ripped off the government's cloak of invisibility over the Viet-Nam Invasion, and I loved their motto 'All the news that is fit to print.'

Times have changed since the 70s. The Drug War, AIDs, and the nation's cult of ignorance have forced the publishers to seek new readers from the Right and a week ago their Op-Ed writer Brett Stephens praised the two Democratic Blue Dogs from Arizona and West Virginia for resisting President Biden's $3 trillion stimulus package.

Joe Manchin protests that the Federal Government will spend too much money on the Working Poor and Middle-Class, which might jeopardize the country's will to work. and Kyrsten Sinema, a flack for Big Pharma, claims the USA can not afford Climate Change to protect her financial backers.

Few Democrats and almost no newspapers are reporting that the $3 trillion is to spread out over ten years or that the Endless War has cost the economy over $10 trillion. That sum is a wild guess, but then again the Pentagon gave away $1 trillion at the Bagdhad Aeroport without anyone signing a release form.

Thank you Brett Stephens for your thoughts, I hope I never hear your prayers.

The New York Times sucks.

October 11, 1978 Journal Entry - East Village

I woke early for a change. The clock said the time was 7:19. Alice is asleep after a long night at CBGBs. I nuzzled her neck. She mumbled, "Not now."

"I'm going out to eat." My usual breakfast was a coffee and bagel at Veselka, but I dress thinking maybe someone from the scene was at the Kiev. I almost brought my journal to write poetry, but I hate writing in public. It is not a spectator sport.

I had played pinball for money at CBGBs. $1 per ten thousand points. The money roll in my jeans held about $190 and I shouted to Alice, "You want something?"

"Sleep."

I left the apartment and walked down the block. Hakeem was on the opposite side of the street from the gang controlling the sinse trade. The junkie was harassing passers-by for drugs. He sneered at me and looked up to my floor. I read his mind and warned, "I'm only going to the bodega and if you ever lay a hand on my girl, you're a dead man.

"We got you, gringo," said Franklin, the # 1 dealer. I had never bought anything from the young Puerto Rican, but he always tried and I respected him for his drive.

I didn't trust him for any good and got a coffee, a bagel, and the New York Times from the corner store. When I exited, I glared at Hakeem, who shambled away, muttering, "You white boy think you own this block, but no one own this block. Not you. Not me. Not the cops and not the mayor. The Lower East Side belong to all of us. Remember that, white boy."

I sat on the stoep and read the sports. The Pirates were playing the Orioles later. After finishing my breakfast, I went up stairs. Alice hadn't moved in my absence. "I've got to go out. I'll be lack this afternoon."

"I'll be working on the show late." She reached up and pulled me to the futon. "No telling when I'll be home."

"No problem," I said, but sensed the New Wave Vauville Show was stealing her away from me. I kissed her with tenderness, wising she had more energy. Not a change. She was already asleep again.

I traveled by bus to the Path Train on Sixth Avenue. I jumped the turnstile. The next subway was packed with New Jerseyites from across the Hudson. They looked scared of New York, but happy to live in New Jersey. I got off at Penn Station and went to my landlord's office on West 35th Street. I paid Mr. Golding $182 for October and he said, "You're ten days late. I hope this isn't a trend." "

"Leave the boychek alone. He's a poet. I'll always find the rent."

Yes, but never on the first."

Jerome and his wife were good people and I thanked the old Jewish couple for understanding my situation.

"How's that girl of yours? I hear she's putting on a vaudeville show. Give her my besst wishes."

it was only 10 am and I wasn't ready to return to the East Village. I walked up to Times Square, counting women in my age group. Only one caught my eye. A blonde model with a portfolio. She was so different from Alice. I trailed her north and she spun on her hell at the door of a high-rise.

"Are you following me?"

"Yes, but I'm no threat. Just a poet on the way to play pinball. Two fellow models exited from the building and laughed at me., as the blonde entered the building. They were used to being followed by strangers and we all looked alike.

A weirdo.

I spent two hours at the Amusement Center on Broadway, beating all comers. Nobody wanted to gamble against me and I departed from the pinball emporium to catch the R Train.

Alice was gone. I laid on the futon and picked up Melville's TYPEE. The sheets smelled of her sweat. Before I could turn a page, the telephone rang. It was Mark Amitin, who asked, "I've been calling since noon. Where were you?"

"Uptown."

"You want to meet later?"

"I'm not feeling so well." I lied rather than tell the truth, that I had blown off Mark, because he hadn't paid me for my assistant tour manager gig for ALBEE DIRECTS ALBEE. "I'll call you in a few days."

Not likely, I was tired of doing unpaid favors from friends, who abuse you for not working extra hours.

Day went to night and night got late.

Alice hadn't showed up at 1am and I wandered over to CBGbs, where she was leaning into the bar with Susan Hanneford, who didn't even bother to say hello. Her boyfriend, Tom, was high on smack. Walter Stedding was on stage droning on his violin. Normally his screeching was intolerable, but I suddenly understood his magic. Alice looked cute in a green two-piece dress and black tights, although her hair could have been cut more to accentuate her eyes. The Hillbilly actress could see that I didn't want to be there and asked, "You don't mind if I stay out a little more?"

"Not at all." I hated her friend. Tom would have been okay, except he was in love with the skinny bitch.

I took a taxi home, said hello to Franklin, bought an apple juice, and played solitaire, at which I cheated more than once, wondering where is Alice. Something told me Susan's Chinatown loft. I put away the cards and got under the covers. They no longer smelled of Alice.

"Baby, where are you?"

THE NAME IS FENWAY by Peter Nolan Smith

I was born in Boston in 1952. My childhood, teenage years, and college career were spent within the confines of New England. My heart belonged to the Celtics and Red Sox. These allegiances were never challenged by my decades of living in New York or anywhere else in the world.

When in 2004 the Red Sox came back from a 0-3 deficit to defeat the Yankees, I was sitting in a bar in Thailand. The only fan in the bar. The other drinkers were finishing off the night. I cheered the ending of the Curse of the Bambino by buying everyone at the bar a drink. We toasted the triumph. None of them cared since they were Thai or English wankers.

I was sober and they were drunk.

I got my way and celebrated the victory by buying everyone at the bar a drink. After my explanation of the Curse of the Bambino, we toasted the the Red Sox. Few of them cared about baseball, although the Brits understood the pain, since England hasn't won the World Cup in over a half-century.

Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name.

Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone informed me that the Missouri outlaw had owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager had been 2OO-meter champion Tommie Smith, who had raised his fist in protest of racism at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City, but Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith for my boy.

"What about Fenway?" suggested Shannon Greer on a long distance call to Brooklyn. We were good friends, despite his status as a Yankee fan.

Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name. Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone said that the Missouri outlaw owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager was Tommie Smith. He had raised his fist on the medal podium at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City.

Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith.

"What about Fenway?" suggested Shannon Greer. He's a New York fan. We are good friends.

"Fenway Smith." I liked it and googled Fenway Smith. None showed up on the search for Smith, Jones, Williams, Lee, Sanchez, Miller, or Martin. I explained the origins of the name to Mam.

"Can not name your son Fenway Park Smith."

"Why not?"

"Everyone think he Korean not Thai with name Park."

She was right and we have a loving son Fenway.

His middle name is Superstar.

Back in 2012 I had to leave Thailand. I traveled back and forth every 2-3 months until COVIDS hit the world. Fenway is always in my mind as are the rest of my children; Fluke, Noi, and Angie. My younger sister disapproved of naming my son 'Fenway'.

She's a lawyer. They have strong opinions.

"You'll see why it's stupid."

She's has a funny way of being right, but Fenway has many names; Wey-wey, One-way, and always Superstar.

Presently I live in Brooklyn. It's more Mets territory than Yankee land. My friends at Frank's Lounge appreciate the name and on many occasions I proudly tell people, "My son's name is Fenway."

Last week I bought him a Red Sox suit. I walked back to my brownstone and saw a young man with a small dog. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. We spoke about our faith and I asked him, "What's your dog's name?"

"Fenway."

I didn't tell him about my son, but several days later I ran into another young Red Sox fan with a dog. Once again the mutt's name was Fenway and I understood the reason parents don't name their kids 'Fenway' is because young men name their dogs after the Bosox park.

But I'm not a young man anymore, yet I have memories.

Back in the early 60s my father took me to see the KC As at Fenway. I sat on the steps of the 3rd base line for the 1975 World Series. 2004 I was halfway around the world. A Red Sox fan to the core and my son is Fenway Superstar Smith.

One day I'll take him to the temple and that destiny is written in the stars.

The Death Of Baseball

In 2012 I was invited to a Red Sox-Yankees game at the Rich People Stadium. Our seats were behind home plate and I wanted to show my gratitude to my host and ordered four beers and hot dogs. The bill came to $70. At least the Red Sox won the game, but despite the taxpayer picking up the bill for new stadiums major league baseball has priced itself out of reach of the common man and every evening thousands of seats are empty in the new parks. The game's fall from grace has extended to ballfields across America, as boys have rejected the National Pastime in favor of skateboarding or playing murderous video games.

Baseball is in danger of becoming extinct.

The MLB games start too late for young viewers and last 3-4 hours thanks to TV ads.

And the play on the field is uninspired.

Empty seats.

Players saying what the fuck.

Nothing could get me to go to New York's Rich People Stadium, although I wouldn't mind watching a few games of little league or sitting on the wooden seats of the Cape Cod League.

That is baseball.

And that kind of baseball will never die in the hearts of the eternally young.

Even in the land of the dead.

Washing Of Hands

The regular MLB season ends tonight with a tiebreaker between old rivals; The New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. The night game will be played at Fenway Park, where tradition is eternally tradition and that die-hard honor of men not washing their hands at a baseball park will remain sacrosanct until the last out of eternity.

One survey conducted at the Atlanta Braves stadium revealed that while 95% of female Braves fans washed their hands while only 54% of their male counterpart attempted this ablution.

Someone once told me that at the old Yankee Stadium less than 20% of men put their hands under a faucet after finishing at the urinal. 8000 men out of 40,000 Yankee fans.

After hearing that information I always wash my hands, even if other men think it's effeminate.

Also I never shake anyone's hands at a game and I certainly don't make eye contact.

That is a baseball game no-no.

Unless of course it's someone famous and then you want to see how big they are.

Does that make me gay and do women wash their hands at Fenway?

TIME HAS COME TODAY by the Chambers Brothers

In the late-60s I attended Xaverian Brothers south of Boston ten miles away from my house underneah the Blue Hills. No buses or trains ran between the suburbs on the outskirts of Boston to the all boys Catholic high school and only connection between these bedroom communities was Route 128 orbiting Boston from the Quincy Quarries on the South Shore to the North Shore fishing port of Gloucester.

Boys from my high school had three choices of transportation from my high school. Freshmen and sophomore were stuck on expensive private buses, while upper-class students organized car pools sharing gas and driving. The final option was hitchhiking, which required walking from the school to 128. For some reason townspeople never picked up Catholic schoolboys, but getting a ride from the East Street exit was easy, since sex predators cruised the highway for teenage boys.

"You ever seen a naked man in the shower." They loved that line.

Car pools avoided that sexual confrontation and mine was divided between my VW Beetle, Chuckie Manzi's Plymouth, Frank Monaco's Comet, and Tommy Dangree's Mercury Cougar. Every afternoon we hit 128 to race the other teenagers on the three-lane east-bound highway. My daredevil driving skills in the VW beat out more timorous drivers behind the wheel of muscle cars, except for Tommy's Cougar GT powered by a 390 FE V8.

Tommy's specialty was the speed record between East Street to Rte. 138 beneath Big Blue Hill. The distance was three miles. His best time for the autumn of 1968 had been 2 minutes and 21 seconds, until one spring afternoon WMEX played the Chambers Brothers TIME HAS COME TODAY upon our reaching East Street.

"How long is this song?" Tommy shouted back over the salt-marsh grit of the 50,000 transmission.

His car's sound system had one volume.

Loud.

"The AM single is 2:37," I answered knowing that WMEX's format never allowed the 11-minute-plus version.

"I'm going for the record. Time it." Tommy stamped on the accelerator. His tank was filled with Sunoco's best octane 100 from a musclehead gas station near Wollaston Beach. The tachometer redlined and the speedometer swung right beyond 100.

110.

We had an open road.

120.

The other cars were a blur.

"Time has come today." The four of us sang with the windows shut for aerodynamics.

He hit 126 heading up the incline to 138 and Tommy braked for the exit. The Cougar fishtailed through the cloverleaf followed by the smell of burning tires and us singing the final chorus.

Now the time has come
There are things to realize
Time has come today
Time has come today

"How fast?"

"2:05." According to my Timex.

"I'll break that one day," Tommy boasted with high hopes.

Speed was his drug, however he failed on numerous occasions to better that time. Traffic or weather interfered with his many attempts and twice state troopers stopped him for violating the speed limit.

My efforts in the VW Beetle were pathetic. Its top speed 85 with a tailwind and the 60s ended without any of us bettering Tommy's speed.

The record seemed as safe as Babe Ruth's home run record, then in the Spring of 1973 my favorite cousin dropped off his prom date near my high school. Her name is unimportant. Errol wore a black tux. His shirt had ruffles and his red tie was undone. He might have had a few beers before getting behind the wheel of his father's Sky-Blue Lincoln IV with a white hard-top. A 460 in³ (7.5 L) Ford 385 series V8 engine was under the hood. The twenty-foot long sedan was a monster.

It was 3am.

There was no traffic on Route 128.

Errol tells the story this way.

"I gave the beast the gas and saw the fuel gauge drop a few inches." The Mark IV sucked gas like a black hole. "Zero to 60 in two seconds. I stomped the pedal to the medal and within a few seconds I'm at 100 mph. The speedo went to 160 and I kept both hands on the wheel, as the car hit a small bump on 128. Only at that speed with that car's suspension there are no small bumps. I was launched into the air and the Mark IV hit the highway in acceleration mode. I swear on our grandmother's grave that I made the 93 exit in 35 seconds and 138 in a minute-ten. I must have broken the sound barrier. I was traveling that fast."

Errol loved telling this story and I sort of believed him, since for me all stories are true if interesting and no one is going to break his record.

Not on 128.

Not with all the traffic.

Not in this century for some pleasures have been lost to the 21st Century like driving a Mark IV Lincoln at full speed without worrying about the police. That sensation is lost forever, but not the excitement of hearing TIME HAS COME TODAY and to view the Chambers Brothers classic hit, please go to the following URL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hIqwzQ7g-Cc