Help Spiderman

New York City was awarded the bronze medal as the 4rd Most Polluted City in America. The Gold Medalist was Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. Both cities' pollution ratings were most assuredly determined by their proximity to the rancid state of New Jersey. The vista out my window in Fort Greene is filled by a cloudy overcast harbingering the promised rain for Sunday. No hint of toxicity.

My only ecological footprint is my computer. Maybe $3 of electricity a day. I make an effort to recycle. Subway passengers congratulate my attempts to pick up fast-food trash on the platforms. I don't have a car. No TV too. My main contributions to the End of Times are tri-monthly trans-global flights to Thailand. Enough carbon particles scattered into the highest reaches of the breathable atmosphere to bury a Toyota Prius. in a six-foot grave.

To paraphrase Van Halen from TOO HOT FOR TEACHER, "Funny but New York doesn't feel dirty."

Here's the Top 5 Polluted Cities in America.

No surprises.

No. 5 Baton Rouge, La.
Number of unhealthy air quality days (2009): None
Pounds of on-site toxic releases reported (2009): 33.6 million

No. 4 New York, N.Y.
MSA: New York-Northern New Jersey-Long Island, N.Y./N.J./Pa.
Number of unhealthy air quality days (2009): 5
Pounds of on-site toxic releases reported (2009): 4.1 million
EWG top water concerns: Total haloacetic acids; dieldrin; total trihalomethanes`

No. 3 Fresno, Calif.
Number of unhealthy air quality days (2009): 26
Pounds of on-site toxic releases reported (2009): 338,000
EWG top water concern: Nitrates

No. 2 Bakersfield, Calif.
Number of unhealthy air quality days (2009): 43
Pounds of on-site toxic releases reported (2009): 2.2 million

No. 1 Philadelphia, Pa.
MSA: Philadelphia-Camden-Wilmington, Pa./N.J./Del./Md.
Number of unhealthy air quality days (2009): 2
Pounds of on-site toxic releases reported (2009): 11.3 million
EWG top water concern: Total trihalomethanes

Trihalomethanes, haloacetic acids, and dieldrin sound dangerous, then again we are entering the Age of Dooom.

Drink beer now.

I

LOST FOR GOOD

My 6th Grade nun once told a young girl mourning the disappearance of her Barbie Doll, "Everything you ever lost will be in heaven waiting for you in a special closet."

These words stalled by apostasy a year, for I hoped for the comforting reunion with my wooden toy boat and one-eyed teddy bear in the after-life. Even as an adolescent atheist I prayed to St. Anthony to help find that which was lost, however as I aged year by year and lost more and more I realized that upon my arrival at the Pearly Gates I would be confronted with several hundreds of lost sox, scores of one lost gloves, tens of hats, a handful of wallets, many glasses, countless keys, and even more frighteningly the ghosts of so many girlfriends holding a glass slipper.

The horror of these confrontation reversed my wish and I preferred for everything to remained lost rather than be confronted in heaven by my losses on earth, plus as my Irish Nana said, "If you lose something, it wasn't yours to begin with."

I was quite comfortable with that thought for many years, until this summer on a long weekend in Easthampton my host, Billy Boy, said, "You know you left some boxes with me when you left for Thailand?"

"Errr no."

"Go check it out."

He opened his basement and sure enough there were 12 boxes which I had stored there in 2002.

These boxes contained; 1st edition JD Salinger and William Burroughs, two paintings of jean-Michel Basquiat, thousands of photos, my .38, a bag of weed, some prescription 'ludes from 1974, love letters, moldy clothing, 2 signed Keith Haring postcards, and set of Wedgeware plates and bowls from 1941.

My teddy bear remained MIA and so was my toy boat, but I was grateful to the find.

"There is nothing like the past to make the present feel like it holds some future."

James Steele

LOVE BUZZ BY Shocking Blue

MTV and VH1 dismissed many 60s bands as one-hit wonders without ever really homaging these under-supported groups for having accomplished the nearly impossible task of breaking through the playlist of the radio stations to reach the Top 10 and few DJs would have given the Dutch band Shocking Blue a chance to reach # 1 in the USA with the super hit VENUS in 1967.

Shocking Blue were not one-hit wonders. The quartet out of the Hague sold over 13.5 million records before their break-up in 1973. I saw them at the Surf Nantasket in 1968. My friends and I danced to every song and the other day my underground radio online station played their classic flower-power song LOVE BUZZ and I was transported back to teenagedom.

A miracle and it can happen to you even if you were only an atom in your parents' body.

To groove on LOVE BUZZ, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KlJAtKxY2UQ

One more thing.

Fuck MTV and VH1.

The Big Heart of the Top 1%

"A unionized employee, a Tea Party member & a corporate CEO are sitting at a table. In the middle is a plate with a dozen cookies on it. The CEO reaches out & takes 11 of the cookies, then says to the Tea Party member, 'look out for that union guy, he wants a piece of your cookie.'"

From Shannon Greer, the defeater of Batman

In More Wine More Truth

Last night I was invited to a dinner in the East Village. AP, my landlord/friend was impressed by my energy. It was 8:30. My usual bedtime was a little past 11. This detour from my pillow was at the request of the greatest B-movie actor in the history of punk rock. I bid AP good-night, "I'll see you in the morning."

The subway ride over to the Lower East Side took less than a half-hour. This was my old neighborhood. I had lived on East 10th Street for nearly 30 years. The walk from the 2nd Avenue stop to East 3rd Street was very familiar and I rang the doorbell of the actor's apartment. I was buzzed through the double doors and climbed the stairs to his typically tiny apartment. EM greeted me with a hug and I shook hands with his guest; an aging child actor in his late 40s, the son of a renowned Chilean painter, a young artist from New York, and a art dealer from the Bowery. All of them were good drinkers and I brought two bottles of Cote du Rhone. The more the merrier and we drank several buckets of wine accompanied by a delightful meal of bouef bourgogne. The aging child actor bemoaned the loss of his hair and indulged our ridicule by combing his longish locks over his thinning scalp in a classic Donald Trump sweep-over.

"Only money can grow a bald man hair in the eyes of a beautiful woman," I misquoted Fredrich Engels, the ignored co-writer of the Communist Manifesto.

We badmouthed absent friends, lambasted pretentious artists,and praised our present paramours, girlfriends, and wives. My son's mom was the youngest, while our host was dating a 50 year-old. He was happy with the situation and said, "She smells good for a woman her age."

"All women smell good if you love them." The art dealer from the Bowery was involved only with his dog.

"And nothing is heavier than the body of a woman you have ceased to love."

We raised our glasses and drained the last of my wine. The young artist had brought a bottle of champagne. The Moet was evaporated by our rapacious thirst. It was past midnight. I had to open the safe in the diamond exchange in the morning. The other guests were ready for a homeward bound voyage. I thanked our host and recounted a quick story about his defending James Chance, the lead singer of the Contortions, at CBGBs.

"That boy liked trouble."

"And I like James."

We would have toasted the wild man of the New Wave, but we had drunk our host dry.

I caught a taxi to Brooklyn. Getting out of the cab I searched my pockets for keys. They were anywhere and I recalled putting them on the table back in the East Village apartment. I cursed myself for losing them. I lost everything all the time. Keys, glasses, telephones et al. It was too far to go back and I looked up at the windows of AP's townhouse. The windows were dark. I thought about sleeping under the stairs, but the temperature was dropping toward zero. I texted a message to AP.

"Help."

His response was immediate.

"I'll be right down."

I was saved once more by AP and apologized for disturbing him at this late hour.

"Not at all."

"Really?"

"I'm watching ENTOURAGE. My wife's asleep. The kids are in bed. Life is good."

"Thanks then." I clapped him on the shoulder for being such a good sport and headed to the top floor. My room was warm. I opened a window. The night air felt good. Almost as good as being in bed, but only one thing feels better than that and that's sleeping with your woman. I hugged the pillow in a drunken embrace. It smelled too much like me to transport me to the other side of the world and I dropped off the face of the Earth into slumber. It was a good place to be.

Loud Literati

Last night I attended a soiree peopled by the lingering literati of Lower Manhattan. Not all intellectuals have been exiled by the exorbitant rents. Editors, writers, publishers, agents, actors, painters, and pundits drank wine at a triplex owned by a right-wing sophist. Nobody was famous, although several had come close. The first arrivals congregated in the basement kitchen. The Guatemalan maid poured rose champagne and red wine. Our hostess was dressed in a sleek black dress complimenting her svelte figure. I gave her several sprigs of Spring and a paperback 1st edition of Jacqueline Susann's VALLEY OF THE DOLLS. She thanked me for the gift and swiftly swung her attention to the avalanche of guests descending the winding stairs.

Within thirty minutes the kitchen was filled with smart people sounding smarter with each glass of wine. Conversation was nearly impossible with the rise tide of volume. Years ago I would have glowed at the center of this cosmos. Tonight I simply desired some quiet words. I ran into a friend's ex-wife. She also came from Boston. After a few questions about my family in Thailand, the 34 year-old brunette asked if I wanted to have a baby with her.

"You have several kids. I want a baby before I'm too old." She seemed so fragile in this desire.

"You will, but you deserve better than me or your husband." I was devoted to Fenway's mom. It was impossible to think of lying with another woman and I introduced my friend's ex-wife to a banker. Good-looking and single. Her smile disguised the disbelief of happiness in her time and I ascended from the mosh pit with a bottle of Chablis. The maid was trapped in the kitchen. She'd never make it any higher to serve the other guests.

The first floor was crowded with guests piling their coats on the sofas. I checked for my leather jacket. A Purple Label Ralph Lauren rescued from a Chelsea trash can. The foot-long tear in the front had been repaired by a Chinatown tailor. $20. The rip was invisible to most eyes and looked the money. I buried it underneath two fur coats and climbed to the second-floor.

A Laotian-French girl was sitting with her Lebanese boyfriend. He was praising the wave of rebellion washing across the Middle East. Another banker proposed a toast to Democracy. My glass stayed at my side and I said, "This is less about Democracy than the struggle of the poor against the rich. No jobs, no food, no rights."

"Well, here's to the rich." The Lebanese boyfriend drained his glass. A sneer twisted his lips. His aspiration to wealth was no sin in America. Everyone wanted to be a billionaire.

I spoke to a pregnant literary agent about giving birth. She asked for advice from a father of four. I only know what I know and said, "Don't have a c-section. Let the baby sleep in the bed with you. Feed the baby breast milk as long as you can and quit working your job. Your baby is more important than any book."

She thanked me and asked about my writing. I raccounteured the outline to my short stories about hitching across America in 1974. "Lesbian orgy in Big Sur, LSD on Black's Beach, drinking moonshine with ex-cons on Route 66, ghosts in a haunted mountain house in Vermont, gay marines at a disco in San Diego. A tale of lost times."

"Sounds fantastic."

"Maybe you'll get to read it one day." I have abandoned any hopes of getting my stories in a book. I'm 58. Editors want young blood. Writers who have a knack for tapping out fiction on their Blackberries. That person was not me. It was time to go home.

Barely midnight, but one the way out I was introduced by an English dandy to his friends as a man who had been thrown out of Thailand.

"Excuse me." His comment bordered on slander and as a younger man I might have assaulted him in front of everyone, however he had actually lent me $100 upon my return to the States and that money had come to my family. That favor granted him liberty at my expense.

"Come on, everyone knows how the Thai police escorted you to the airport in chains." The ex-child star lifted his head to laugh at this image. His friends regarded me with delight. I was a true criminal in their midst.

"That's a funny story, but not even close to true." I swiftly explained how the Thai police had treated me with absolute deference. "No chains, no dirty jail cell, they bought me dinner after I paid bail. The head detective said that he would protect me. Three months later I paid a $100 fine for international copyright infringement and the police were waiting outside to take me for drinks again. I'm persona grata in Thailand. By the way I'm paying off everyone who helped me back then. Here's your c-note."

The fop snatched the bill from my hand. He has two kids. I left the room, as he told his friends about the sordidness of sending money via Western Union. he was quite right about that. Western Union offices are drenched with the sadness of desperation and I haven't been to one in ages.

Now I do that business online.

My jacket was buried by a deeper pile on coats. It wasn't cold outside on the street. I walked over to West 4th Street. The A train was making local stops to Far Rockaway. Home in Fort Greene was less than 30 minutes away. I couldn't get there faster.

Stripping for the TSA

My occasions for continental flights within the United States. Most of my travels in America is by ground or sea. The ferry from the Manhattan terminal carries passengers to Staten Island. The Harlem and Hudson trains get me up to Duchess county and the LIRR plodders out to the Hamptons. The Fung Wah bus from Chinatown provides transportation to Boston. The railroad runs to Cape Ann and Maine from North Station. Norwood and Needham are reached by the steel rails. No police check bags. No TSA agents examine your person in fear of discovering an explosive vest.

Every day millions of Americans take to the air. Each year over 800 million travelers travel between the cities and towns of the USA. Since 9/11 nearly 9,000,000,000 airline passengers have been subjected to increasingly strict search procedures by vigilant TSA agents at the security gauntlets of the country's airports.

The routine is the same everywhere. Travelers wait in endless lines before the X-Ray machines and metal detectors. Bottles of water are disposed in the trash. Upon reaching the gleaming steel tables a passenger is expected to load their carry-on bag into a plastic tray. Computers are scanned separately by the X-Ray technician. All metal is emptied from pockets. Keys, watches, cellphones et al. Any deviation earns the attention of the security crew. They are dying to find something, for after the billions of searches not a single terrorist has been caught with any kind of weapons. Only Americans with toenail cutters and guns stuck in their luggage. The NRA has remained mute on

In those ten years only three incidents have threatened the safety of air travel.

In 2002 a gunman attacked the El Al ticket counter at LAX. 2 DOA and 4 wounded.

In 2006 terrorist graffiti was scrawled in an airliner cargo area at the Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City. The message was not released to the public.

Also in 2006 two cars breached the security at JFK and O'Hare on the same day. The first was an elderly man who had lost his way and the second was a tourist taking the wrong turn on his way to drop off his rented car.

Despite the lack of arrests the TSA argues that the security measures act as a deterrent against potential terrorists.

"The goal of aviation security is to prevent harm to aircraft, passengers, and crew, as well as support national security and counter-terrorism policy."

I was relating this information to a young traveling companion on the way back from Palm Beach this week. We had been working a luxury goods show at the convention center. The two of us were standing in a line. Racial profiling is not permitted by the staff, however I shot a quick glance over the faces of my fellow passengers. Most were over 40, white, and out of shape. I assessed the threat level as colorless and said to Elle, a slender blonde from the Baltics, "This is a waste of time."

"Aren't you scared of terrorism?" Her accent was attractive to the men at the show. Elle made the supreme effort with her dresses and several guards had commented on her shoes. They had 4-inch heels.

"I'm more terrified of my wife." Mem was on the other side of the Earth, but her female antennae could probably sense my speaking to another woman. I put my iBook G4 on the table.

"Is she dangerous?" Elle was married to an American running a Brooklyn nightclub. She slept alone and said sometimes ghosts came into her room.

"All women are dangerous if they love you." I had lived in a haunted house in Ireland, so I believed Elle. "When they don't love you, they could care less."

The other travelers were taking off their clothing in a casual manner. Something was wrong about their surrender of rights and I said to Elle, "You know it would be much better if the airports put on some good music to strip before the X-ray machines. Something like this."

I switched on the Lounge Lizards' version of HARLEM NOCTURNE and slipped off my shoes in a sexily provocative manner. The belt slid out of my jeans as slow as a snake losing its skin and I peeled off my jacket like Gypsy Lee Rose flashing her nakedness through a screen of ostrich feathers.

"Sir, are you having a problem?" The TSA was not smiling at my antics. Hundreds of complaints had been received about their draconian behavior to innocent travelers. A strip search of a 4-year old and the patting down of voluptuous women.

"No, just going through the motions." I bumped my hip and ground my pelvis. Elle laughed at the move. I was still agile in my late-50s.

"Sir, I will have to demand that you desist." The TSA Agent was 30. His hair was shaved close to the skull. His laughter was reserved for after work.

"No worries, just want to make my flight." I lifted my hands to show that i wasn't going to provide any more distractions and I passed through the X-ray machine without a buzz. A female TSA agent waved me to the table where my things awaited me.

"Nice move." She nodded to me.

"Thanks." I appreciated her comment and after dressing proceeded to the gate. I was anonymous in the crowd. Just the way I like it, except for when searching for the TSA.