HITCHHIKING PROHIBITED by Peter Nolan Smith

During August of 1972 my college friend Ptrov and I hitchhiked from Boston to San Francisco and then up the coast to Seattle before crossing on I-90. We were eastward bound to start our second year of university and we crashed a night with a trio of carpenter gypsies constructing a rest stop on the new interstate through Montana. Bulldozers had churned the dirt highway into a muddy bog for the passing trucks. At night few drivers dared to brave the four-lane quagmire and six of us watched the stars wheel across the heaven without the glare from the headlights of long-distance truckers.

The weather along Continental Divide shifted overnight from summer to fall. Snow fell to dust the ground white. The mud froze to ice.

In the morning Jackson offered us jobs.

"Why don't you stay here?"

The mountains stretched to a big blue sky.

"I'd loved to, but my draft number is 93, so I'm staying in school."

"I was in Vietnam. 1967 to 1969." He had memorized the number of days forever. "Hard times and I thought anyone who didn't go was a commie. The Tet Offensive changed my mind."

"It did that for a lot of people."

The forces of the Viet Cong had been decimated, but the Pentagon had lost the hearts and minds of America. Now Nixon was into the fourth year of his Viet-Nam War and the draft board was inducting nineteen year-olds as deep at 251.

"Better you stay in school for the duration."

"And I'm in love." Ptrov had a girlfriend in Milwaukee. Sue attended the same university studying nursing.

"Both are good excuses." He wished us good-luck and we went out to the highway. Three minutes later a broken-knuckled miner driving his Ford 150 stopped on his way to work.

"I'm going to Butte."

"Evel Knievel came from here."

"That he actually came from Anaconda and he got fired from the copper mine for doing a wheelie with an earthmover. Lots of wild men come Butte too. For a small city is has a lot of good bars."

"I'd like to check them out, but we're heading east."

Out of the pine-lined mountains the day turned bright and sunny in the open valley. The miner left us at the entrance to the Anaconda Copper Mine. A slender chimney rose from the smelter. The brick tower was probably the tallest structure between Seattle's Space Needle and the Sears Tower inChicago.

The next ride took its time in coming. We were between shifts at the mine. An hour later a trucker hauling potatoes drove us to Logan. This section of I-90 was also under construction, so he switched onto the Montana Route 2. Train tracks separated the road from a river. We got out of the and he said, "I'm going a little farther down the road to the prison. Maybe another twenty miles. I'm not allowed to drop off riders on that stretch of the highway, but you should get a long ride from here."

The long-hauler dieseled south.

While the traffic was light, the road had a wide shoulder and cars drove slower this close to town but after a half-hour Ptrov pointed to a road sign.

"You think that sign have anything with our not getting a ride?"

"Might."

A hundred feet from us stood rose a yellow sign stating HITCHHIKER MAY BE ESCAPED INMATES pocked by bullets.

"Maybe people will think that anyone before the sign isn't a convict, since what fugitive hitchhikes back to where he escaped?"

"Probably because he couldn't get a ride. This place sucks."

"Only if you're in a hurry."

A steep bluff rose from the other side of the river. The long trains lurched across the web of tracks and, as the trains departed the marshaling yard, Northern Pacific engineers waved from diesel locomotives moving at a walking pace.

We took turns sticking out our thumbs. Ptrov stood in the same spot, figuring that that tactic of getting a ride was better than my strategy of moving from place to place. There were no numbers involved in either equation, because the end result was zero. No one was stopping for us and the sun was getting low in the West.

"What if we get stuck here forever?"

"We could always hop on a train. They're headed in the right direction." A freight train was hauling empty box cars with their doors open to air out the interiors.

"But where? North Dakota, South Dakota, Wyoming?"

"It's just a thought." Walking was not an option.

Evening came fast and a little past sunset we lucked out with two brothers driving a Ford Falcon all the way to Cape Cod. Neither of us were hitchhiking at the time. The older brother had just gotten out of the Navy and they were going home. They had nothing against hippies.

"Been there long?"

"Long enough."

"Where you headed?"

"Boston.

"We're going to Maine."

Then let's get going."

It was good to get out of Lodge.

We were no convicts and home was on the other side of America.

Only two days away.

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A Boy Of Montana

My second choice for greatest athlete of the 20th Century has always been Evel Knievel. Mohammad Ali might have been the greatest fighter and Bill Russell won more NBA championships than any other basketball player, however the Butte, Montana native rode a motorcycle like a bank robber with the cops on his tail and refused to quit no matter how badly he had broken his body.

The public expected nothing less from a man who was fired the Anaconda Mining Company for popping wheelies with a earth mover. Evel might have gotten away with this stunt, if the monster machine hadn't knocked down Butte's main power line.

Bobby Knievel changed his first name to Evel after spending a night in the Butte jail for a wild motorcycle chase.

According to the night jailer, who came around to check the roll, he noted Robert Knievel in one cell and William Knofel in the other. Knofel was well known as "Awful Knofel" ("awful" rhyming with "Knofel") so Knievel began to be referred to as Evel Knievel ("Evel" rhyming with "Knievel") according to Wikipedia.

He was not a simple man as demonstrated by this quote;

"You come to a point in your life when you really don't care what people think about you, you just care what you think about yourself."

Evel Knievel was a lucky lucky man.

I wish I could have been a little more like him, but couldn't do wheelie with an earth mover, but Evel didn't do everything for the camera.

He did them, because 'I love the feeling of the fresh air on my face and the wind blowing through my hair.'

Same as me on a bike.

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Much more to come.

4Q45&47

A year and a half into a very fat Donald Trump's second residence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC the USA has lost in the World Cup, the Pentagon needs more money to fight Israel's proxy wars throughout the Levant, food has become increasingly very expensive, the dollar has inflated almost 100%, ICE continues to arrest thousands, and the world suffers from everything as Zion rules the politics of America. Trump threatens at the NATO conference to take Greenland. His madness due to his cocaine addiction quells his insanity. The news always serve up a plate of his craziness, yet his crowd revere him as a saint making America great again with the helpof his stacked Supreme Court; mandatory bible studies in Texas, free speech stymied by arrests for reading leftist material, sueing everyone, threatening to ban all trade with Spain and travel overseas, more tax cuts for the wealthy ad nauseum.

When will this end?

When it is too late?

Resist!

It is never too late.

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The Power Of Bertell Ollman

Several months after my liver transplant in December 2022 my friend Raoul asked , if I could elder care his father, Professor Bertell Ollman, a renowned Marxist scholar. The eighty-nine old has just retired from NYU. He was in the early stages of forgetting everything. I agree. I neeed money. His father was a kin man to me. The job entailed eating lunch with him and watching TV unti he fell asleep. Raoul had a four hour break from his 24/7 existence with his father, who wasn't quite sure who he was.

After Raoul departed the apartment on Bleecker Street, we watched nature programs and popular movies. Nothing heavy. We sat surrounded by walls of books. Maybe ten thousands on philosophy and revoution. Two hors on his father retreated to his bedroom. A nap. I returned to the living room and picked out books. I I searched each book for a meaningful paragraph about overthrowing the capitalist state in the upcoming revolution. Later I read to him. Each a word to flourish his still revolutionary soul.

Two years ago I read his 2011 Letter of Resignation from the Jewish people to him. Forty-five minutes of his writing condemning the Zionists abandoning the Jewish culture of the Diaspora to seize Biblical lands from the Palestinians. All of it is pure genius and ends with these words.

"As far as I’m concerned, the comedian, Lenny Bruce, provided the only good answer to this question when he said, "Dig, I'm Jewish. Count Bassie’s Jewish. Ray Charles is Jewish. Eddie Cantor is goyish… Marine Corps – heavy goyish… If you live in New York or any other big city, you’re Jewish. If you live in Butte, Montana, you’re going to be goyish even if you’re Jewish… Kool-Aid is goyish. Evaporated milk is goyish even if Jews invented it… Pumpernickel is Jewish and, as you know, white bread is very goyish.… Negroes are all Jews… Irishmen who have rejected their religion are Jewish… Baton twirling is very goyish.”

To this I would only add, “Noam Chomsky, Mordechai Vanunu and Edward Said are Jewish. Elie Wiesel is goyish. So, too, all ‘Jewish’ neo-cons. Socialism and communism are Jewish. Sharon and Zionism are very goyish”. And, who knows, if this reading of Judaism were to take hold, I may one day apply for readmission to the Jewish people.

When I shut the letter, Professor Ollman said, "I don't agree with all of that."

"You wrote that."

"I did?"

"Yes."

The professor shrugged and smiled kindly. Still the Marxist monster of the Capitalists. No recollection in his cobwebbed mind of the struggle, but I recognize his genius and anytime I speak to him about the impending revolution he smiles and wishes us success. He was a man to be followed. By the CIA and FBI. An enemy of the state. Forever. Every time we were together at his aparment in the NYU professorial dorms, I assured him that I was there to protect him from the Feds. And I was serious.

The only way to forget is not to remember - James Steele - Fugitve

1968 forever never forget, comrades!

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Marx's vision of Communism - Professor Bertell Ollman 1977

T-Mobile Retail Scam

In April 2026 I went to the T-Mobile store at 436 Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn to seek a new phone. I ha dealt with the rep on many occasion oer the last years. NEver a problem. He suggested an upgrade on my old phone with an offer of the new Samsung phone along with an iPad as well as a better stack for the internet. With the creit of $300 it all made sense, until I examined the next bill with was twice what I had paid and also discovered there were hidden costs; an extra phone and iPad line. Double charging for the internet and no insurance coverage. A call to T Mobile sorted out most of the problems, but this T Mobile store was not a corporate store, but an unlicensed mobile store.

According to Google AI T-Mobile "Authorized Retailers" are independently owned franchises. While they look exactly like corporate stores, they are notorious for unauthorized add-ons (cramming), misleading promotions, and forging customer consent. Because they operate on commission, some aggressively push accessories or insurance without your knowledge.

THey also practive ramming: Secretly adding hidden fees, tablet lines, Protection \(\text{\textdollar}360\) (insurance), or unwanted accessories (cases, screen protectors) to your bill while claiming they are "free" or required.Phantom Trade-ins: Promising a specific credit for your old device, but never processing the trade-in systemically, leaving you to pay the full price.

Promising a specific credit for your old device, but never processing the trade-in systemically, leaving you to pay the full price.

How to Protect YourselfAudit Your Bill Daily: Log in to your T-Mobile Account immediately after any transaction.

Check the "Rate Plan" and "Add-ons" tabs to ensure no extra lines or insurance were slipped in.Review the E-Signature: If a sales rep hands you a tablet to sign, read the fine print. Make sure the summary clearly matches what you actually asked for. Never sign a blank document or a screen you haven't reviewed.

Never Accept "Free" Items: If an employee offers you a "free" screen protector, tablet, or charger, ask to see the monthly recurring charge breakdown. Nothing is truly free if it adds a line or an ongoing equipment installment fee.Report the Swindle: If you've been scammed by a retailer, file a formal dispute on the T-Mobile Support page, or report the store’s practices to the T-Mobile Integrity Line.

Switch to Corporate Stores: Use the T-Mobile Store Locator to filter for Corporate locations over Authorized Dealers, which offer better accountability for billing issues.

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Thirty One Years Ago - Michael Charles Smith 1960 - 1995

The ending of GAYBOY, a novella.

Two weeks into Michael's death vigil at the hospice South of Boston, Patrick, my other younger brother called me into the guest room.

“He’s going.”

The two of us hurried back to his room.

Everyone was crying.

I joined them, and then checked the machines attached to Michael. The vital signs were unchanged. Joni Mitchell’s URGE FOR GOING played on the small tape player next to the bed.

“No sad songs.” I tore out the cassette.

After everyone went home, my younger brother brought his guitar into the room and played FREEBIRD.

“Michael hates that song.”

“I know.” Patrick sniffed through misty eyes. “But your hearing is the last thing to go, so I know if he can hear it, he’ll think of me.”

The nurse approached us out of the earshot of the attending doctors.

“Funny, our patients never leave if a family member is in the room. The hospital encourages your being with him, because the longer you’re with him the bigger the bill.”

I related this information to my father and he summoned the rest of the family. They came over within the hour. It was time to say good-bye.

We each briefly spoke to Michael. His face showed no sign of life. My mother hugged him for a long time and my father pulled her into the corridor. The doctors looked at us with suspicion that we knew what they knew. Within the hour Michael passed over to the angels.

Two days later my sisters and brothers eulogized him at the funeral. My grief prevented my saying a word.

“I’ll always be there for you.”

“I know.”

Bruce my friend from the 1270, a gay disco near Fenway Park, came to the funeral home.

“Sometimes I feel like the last whale in the ocean.” He had lost his lover the year before.

“No matter where I am I’ll hear your call.”

“Thanks for lying.” He could still smile after all this, which meant I could too one day.

I informed my parents about my trip to Asia.

“I’m going to the holiest places on earth to aid Michael’s soul passage from this world to eternity.

And I ended up in Tibet to circle the Jokhang Temple with Buddhist pilgrims spinning the prater wheels. Lhasa salved my soul and Michael remains with me always.

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