Beer Bottle Fortune

‎

The morning of St. Padraig's Day my landlord and I noticed these stacked beer cases across the street. The sweet old lady had collected them from the trash. "I figure it's about $150. I'm going to cash in the bottles and go play slots." The old lady looked to be Hindu, but her son was Puerto Rican. Fort Greene had been a melting pot of races for the 20th Century. "Atlantic City?" AP asked from the steps, taking my photo. "No, I never go to AC. The casinos are too cheap. They cheat everyone." She shook her head with a tested vehemence. "Jersey casino are never straight. No, I'm going to try the new slots casino at Aqueduct. I heasrd they give honest pay-outs. Are you Irish?" "Yes." I was wearing a green cap. "Then touch those bottles and give me some of the luck of the Irish." "With pleasure." I put my hand on the empties. It came away from the bottles smelling of beer. For me that aroma was good luck. I like my beer.

The Last Line of CANDY

“GOOD GRIEF—IT’S DADDY!”

You Bet I Would # 23

A little Mary Ann for the modern age.

Sexy Gilligan's Island Sexy

“You cannot blame porn. When I was young, I used to masturbate to Gilligan's Island.” ― Ron Jeremy I hope that Ron was more into Mary Ann or Ginger than Gilligan, then again what the hell it's a free world.

Defense Of The First Amendment

"Pornography exists for the lonesome, the ugly, the fearful...It's made for the losers." The writer Rita Mae Brown found an unexpected ally in the fight against pornography this week, when GOP presidential hopeful Rick Santorum declared war on Internet Pornography. “America is suffering a pandemic of harm from pornography.” This declaration of future hostility against purveyors of porn echoed the Bush Administration's attempt to prosecute extreme obscenity. Conservatives were saddened by the Justice Department's lack of vigor in pursuing this agenda and now hope Santorum will deliver on his promise to shut down porno on the Internet, on cable/satellite TV, and on hotel/motel TV as well as treat XXX viewers with puritan harshness in sentencing. This task would require a mammoth effort, since over 41% of American males watch internet porno. Millions of men would be prosecuted by his proposed edict and hundreds of thousands jailed for what is now not a crime. With two million in prison at present, the convict population would explode with obscenity offenders, who for the most part inhabit GOP red states, but Santorum is willing to face that challenge based on the historical data on how the country has become sexually conservative during times of economic contraction. Less money equals less erections. Santorum will find the going tough, for pornography has long been seen as a bulwark of free speech. Supreme Court Judge Arthur Kennedy defended it in John D. Ashcroft, Attorney General, et al. v. Free Speech Coalition by writing the following; "First Amendment freedoms are most in danger when the government seeks to control thought or to justify its laws for that impermissible end. The right to think is the beginning of freedom, and speech must be protected from the government because speech is the beginning of thought." 1996 the court was more progressive than today, so if elected Santorum might win his day in court. As for me, I watch pornography strictly for research, but to misquote Charlton Heston, "The government can have my pornography, when it pulls it from my sweaty palms." I'm certain that 95% of the 41% of the males watching porno feel the same way.

Dime Toll – Portsmouth Bridge

My Uncle Russ grew in Portland, Maine. That Maine city's only excitement in 1940 was watching sailors fight East Yard workers in the harbor dives and this show grew old fast after a Portugee fisherman picked a brawl with Russ' friends. The old salt wanted blood. The teenagers ran for their lives and caught the trolley to the quiet safety of their homes. Adventure in Portland was deemed off-bounds. It was too close to home, but one weekend Russ' friends planned an excursion to Boston’s Sculley Square. The Old Howard Theater offered a closest taste of the wicked unavailable to anyone living north of the Charles River. “Always Somethin’ Doing’ was its motto. Russ’ friend borrowed his father’s Studebaker Champion on the pretext of an excursion to Sebago Lake. “I'll be back by 9.” Keys in hand the friend pointed the car south and drove the 100 miles to Boston. The teenagers spent the afternoon touring Scollay Square's various attractions. One boy hocked a gold ring at Simpson’s Loan to finance their adventures; haircuts at Tony Ruggiere’s Barber Shop, lunch at Waldorf’s Cafeteria, pinball at the Amusement Center, hot dogs at Joe and Nemos, and then they attempted to enter the Old Howard. They were 16. The manager considered anyone with money enough to pay for their tickets. The usher sat them in the darkness of the back row. Only bald men sat in the front row. Uncle Russ had never spoken about the show, however the afternoon had become evening and they ran to the car. Portland was a four-hour ride. The boys jumped into the car and the friend stomped on the accelerator. Traffic over the Old Charles Bridge was light. This Studebaker passed every car on Route 1. This was a race against the clock. 80 mph through the hilly straight-aways of Topsfield. No stopping until they hit the Portsmouth rotary. It was 8PM. Curfew was one hour away. Portland was even farther. $2 filled the tank and the Studebaker picked up speed along Congress Street approaching the bridge spanning the Piscataqua River. “We have to stop to pay the toll.” Russ shouted over the roar of the engine and the whip of the wind. “Gimme one.” The driver took a dime from Russ and flung the coin at the toll booth. The booth collector ducked the toss. The dime plunked into the wood like a knife. Russ swore the sliver of silver was buried in a pine timber. The boys arrived in Portland around 9:30. "Thirty minutes is almost on time." Russ offered getting out of the car. "Not to my father." The friend shrugged and stepped on the gas. None of them had gotten into trouble and none of them ever drove down to Boston again. World War II saw to that. Last weekend I was visiting Russ in Marblehead. I love this story and asked during lunch at the Barnacle, “How fast were you going through the toll booth?” “I don’t recall.” It was over 70 years ago. “80?” “No.” His memory was keen. “60.” “No, more like 70. Studebaker built a good car.” “I know. I drove a Studebaker Hawk across country in 1996.” Meg Grossendt was hot to be with her beau. I understood her need for speed. They're now married with two kids. “That was their last good car.” Russ knew his cars. “We blew a carburetor in Colorado. A mechanic had the part.” “Probably the last one in America.” “We made them extinct.” It was a good trip. Same as Russ’ ride from Scollay Square. Fast with a destination, which is the only way to travel.

ONLY A FEW REGRETS by Peter Nolan Smith

“Regrets I have a few, but not too few to mention.” Frank Sinatra sang in MY WAY. I only regret about the things that I have not done for I can live with those I have done; the good, the bad, and the in-between, however other people are not so self-forgiving. In August of 2010 I ran into female friend from the 80s at a restaurant in the Meat Packing District. "Where have you been all these years?" Cece waved for me to join her table and told her young friends. "This man was the doorman at all the great clubs in Paris." They repressed a yawn. The young hate hearing about the good times of the past. For them the present was my future and I had no part in it. "I've been living in Thailand the last ten years." It might have been more, but ten was a nice round number. 'Thailand," Cece cooed with benign interest. "How cool." Back in our Paris she had graced the front of French fashion magazine. The blonde's face and body had adorned bus kiosks throughout Europe. Men fought for her attention with fists and money. Few won the prize. Breaking into that scrum was hard work and I resigned our relationship to mere friendship. It had been very frustrating, because Cece was beauty incarnate. One evening at the Bains-Douches our paths met and joined thanks to two bottles of champagne from an unknown admirer. She curled her body around mine like a snake seeking warmth from a sunny rock. I buried my face in her neck. She was wearing Chanel # 5. This affection had all been a show for the man buying champagne. He came to the table and introduced himself. I recognized him as a famous film producer. Cece jumped out of my arms and left the club without a parting glance. She hadn't changed much in the years. "I have a family there." I recited the trajectory of my life since France in less than a hundred words. "I've been traveling too." Cece was still in fashion. She made clothes for children. Her factories were in India and Africa. She was still beautiful in the way that beautiful women are when they refuse to surrender beauty to age. We had a few wines and then a drink. I was feeling a little more of the wine than the drink. Her friends continued to a nightclub. “You want a night cap at my hotel?” Her hand touched my arm. “I have to go to work tomorrow.” I was surprised by the offer. "Work can wait, can't it?" Her voice was soft as a summer breeze to my ears. It was almost midnight and the trains to Brooklyn were shit after the witching hour. “You could always sleep over.” Her touch became a caress. I had wanted this woman so badly twenty years ago, that I would have set myself on fire to get her attention. Now I could only say, “Not really.” “Not really.” Her face adopted hard lines. No one had told her no in a long time. “You know I was talking about you and several of my friends. We asked why none of us slept with you.” “And what the answer?” I could see Cece at a table in Paris. With her friends from modeling. All these great beauties reviewing their love affairs. I had been with none of them “We always thought you were with one of us.” “Oh.” It was too late to relive the past and I pulled away my arm. “Guess it is getting late.” “I guess so.” I escorted her to the hotel. Cece was gracious enough to not repeat her request and I kissed her on the cheek, smelling the same Chanel # 5 that I had breathed 20 years before. Its effect was wasted on me and she kissed my cheeks. "I'll see you some day." "You never know where." I walked over to the C train on 14th street. There was no looking back and I will always have regrets, but only for the past and not the present and I’ll avoid those to prevent getting run down by those naked fantasies. They are too many to count on any man’s fingers.