My Friend Steve

A young man named Brian was sailing solo around the world. A typhoon caught him in the open waters of the Pacific. His sloop was battered by giant waves. The boat was sinking. There was no time for an SOS.

Brian abandoned his sinking boat and prayed for his life, as the heavy seas savaged his life raft. Finally he was washed overboard. Water filled his lung. Death seemed certain, only he woke on the soft sands of a deserted island.

Water, coconuts, fish, and fruit provided sustenance.

A week and month passed with the rising and setting of the sun. No jets overhead, no ships on the horizon, no Man Friday and Brian resigned himself to solitude.

A year later an epic typhoon savages the island.

The next morning Brian spotted a life raft on the reef. Shark fins broke the surface. He swam across the lagoon to discover a woman. Not just any woman, but Cindy Crawford the supermodel. Brian dragged the raft through the tumult of the surf and nurses the famous beauty to health. Little by little she regained her strength. After a month she thanked Brian for saving her life.

"If there's anything I can do let me know. Anything."

Brian thought about it for a second and said, "No, I did what any human would do for another human."

A week became a month. Cindy and Brian were young. Sex was in the air. Brian was handsome. Cindy was a dream come true. Finally one night they made love.

Paradise. Eden. Utopia.

In the morning they walked the beach hand in hand.

"You remember saying that you would do anything?" Brian asked Cindy with an almost perverse tone.

"Yes." Cindy had been waiting for this moment for months. All men were alike.

"Did you mean that?"

"Yes." Cindy was expecting the worse, but Brian had saved her life and she said, "Anything."

Brian pulled out a Red Sox baseball cap and says, "Could you wear this and let me call you Steve? He's my best friend."

"Sure." This was nothing and Cindy put the cap on her head. "Happy?"

"I couldn't be happier." Brian shut his eyes and said, "Steve, you will never believe who I'm fucking."

BERENTI MISTAH by Peter Nolan Smith

In 1991 I bought a round-the-world ticket for $1399 from Pan Express. The owner set up a magical itinerary.

"New York - LA - Hawaii - Biak - Bali - overland to Jakarta." John recited the trip from memory, since he sold hundreds of these tickets every year.

"What do you mean 'overland to Jakarta'?" Their advertisement in the NY Times offered a flight between Bali and Jakarta.

"Oh, sir." The Hindi travel agent produced an Indonesia brochure extolling the volcanic beauty of Mount Bromo, ruined temple of Borobuder, and ancient palaces of Yogakarta. "Many people prefer to travel overland to see the sights of Java of which there are many. I will reserve you a flight from Jakarta to Padang."

"Padang?"

"Yes, sir, in Sumatra." Another brochure praised the cultural heritage of the Batak, the awe of Lake Toba, and the jungle paradise of the orangutang reserve. "You fly out of Medan to Penang and Malaysia and overland to Bangkok."

"Let me guess." I was falling into step with the program. "Most people do this overland."

"Yes, sir. What are you going to do on the trip?" Hindi are a curious people and John was no exception.

"I'm writing a novel." NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD was a story about a hustler forced into a contract murder of a porno producer by dirty NYPD cops and who avoids violating the 5th Commandment by escaping into the desert with two lesbians filming a movie about the last man on Earth. John didn't need to know the plot. Hindi men were in some ways very curious about sex.

"Oh, sir, I must warn you that many countries in Asia do not like writers, especially journalists."

"I'm not a journalist." My typing was atrocious and my grammar was even worse.

"Whatever you do, do not tell anyone you are a writer." His head bobbed side to side like a broken bobbing dolls. "The police do not like journalists in Asia."

"I'll keep that in mind."

John was 100% correct about overlanding across Java.

I saw the dawn from the rim of a volcano, met the sultan of Yogakarta, drove up to the vertiginous heights of the Dieng Plateau, endured the scorching equatorial sun riding a motorcycle around Lake Toba and watched male orangutang masturbate without shame. The females shunned the jerk-offs. I arrived at the Medan airport for the flight to Penang. The police spotted my typewriter. I

"Berenti, mistah.

"Saya?" I had learned a little Bahasa in three months.

"Yes, you." A short pineapple-skinned officer nodded and his two uniformed compatriots pulled me from the line. The other passengers smiled with relief, happy to not be me. The police sat me in their very official office and the head officer asked, "Journalis?"

The trio wore grim faces. A single overhead fan wobbled in its socket. The chair was nailed to the floor.

"Tidak journalis. Penulis buca." I claimed the higher status than journalist.

"You write books? About what?" The lead interrogator leaned forward with a metal sap in his hand.

"About the mafia. Porno. Hollywood." I was one smack away from squealing the truth about any crime dating for Adam's eating an apple .

"Hollywood?" The three cops intoned the word with sanctity normally reserved for Allah. Indonesia was 90% Muslim.

"Yes, Hollywood." I followed the lead and told them about how JFK was killed by the CIA. They spoke about the betrayal of Sukarno by the present dictator. A bottle of Johnny Walker Black hit the desk. Red is beneath them. We drank toasts to freedom.

"Beraka," I spoke every language with a Boston accent.

Whiskey in hot weather was a hard slog. It was getting late and I asked the chief officer, "So I missed my flight, how do I get to Penang?"

"You didn't miss your flight. We held the plane. One more drink and kamu boleh pergi."

"To whiskey." Without it the Irish would have ruled the world.

The police drove me to the waiting plane. The other passengers were gobsmacked by re-appearance from the belly of the beast and even more so by the power fist salute of the police.

"Beraka."

It was a small world after all.

Radical Weather 2018

Fires are burning the West of the USA.

Fires also torched Greece, Spain, and France.

Hot weather has torched America, Europe, and Asia.

Rivers are dry across the globe.

Drought has parched fertile farmlands.

Summer has another month to run until autumn.

The weather will be cooler unless it gets hotter and the world is getting warmer, despite the comments of the Global Warming disbelievers.

The end of the world will not be from a asteroid striking the Earth, but self-inflicted suicide.

Today the Daily Express published an article about an apocalyptic computer model foretelling the end of civilization by 2040.

According to the report the prediction came from a programm nicknamed World One, which was developed by a team of MIT researchers and processed by Australia's largest computer.

It was originally devised by computer pioneer Jay Forrester, after he was tasked by the Club of Rome to develop a model of global sustainability, however the shocking result of the computer calculations showed that the level of pollution and population would cause a global collapse by 2040 and end up at levels close to 1900.

My of estimates are 500 million humans in 2050.

I will be 98 and seen the rise and fall of consumerism.

The only way to prevent this catastrophe will be deconsumption on a massive scale.

No more wide-screen TVs, SUVs, megahomes, transglobal holidays, plastic, and fast food.

And even that might not be enough to re-right the scale of annihilation.

500 million and only a few hundred around the holy mountain Khailash.

Bring back the buffalo.

Genocide In Yemen

In 2015 the Houthis were on the verge of defeating the Saudi-backed forces of ousted President Hadi. An airlift provided arms and munitions to the troops and air attacks commenced after a Houthi commander supposedly boasted that his soldiers were poised to invade Saudi Arabia. Since then the Kingdom has waged all-out war on their southern neighbors, killing civilians by the thousands. Yesterday F-15 piloted by mercenaries shot missiles into buses filled with school children. Over fifty were killed and the only country in the world to protest the carnage was Canada. The USA has said nothing since the Saudis are our ally and the Pentagon supplied billions of dollars worth of weapons to Wahabist nation. There is only one word for this policy.

Genocide.

So much for Never Again.

No Freedom Of Speech for Nazis

Last year hundreds of far right extremists gathered in Charlottesville VA to protest the removal of the statue of General Robert E. Lee. The city mayor refused to grant a permit to the various alt-right groups, however the ACLU argued that the ban was an infringement on the 1st Amendment and a judge from the U.S. District Court for the Western District of Virginia gave the go-ahead on grounds that the rally was protected under the 1st Amendment or Freedom of Speech. The Unite the Right claimed the monument to be an historic reminder of the War Between the States, while the counter-protestors argued that the time to eradicate all traces glorifying slavery from the South. The KKK and other White Power radicals held a torch-lit parade reminiscent of the Nazi marches in the 1930s.

The next day turned violent with battles between police and the protestors. The governor declared a state of emergency and the Virginia State Police shut down the streets, but in the afternoon a bigot drove his car into a crowd, killing Heather Heye.

For the most part the police stood and watched the mayhem.

Donald Trump criticized both sides, but infamously said, "There are very fine people on both sides"

A year passed and the far-right has fought in the streets across this nation.

This weekend they issued a call for a rally in front of the White House.

Less than a hundred showed up.

They are not defeated, simply changing their tactics, but the Freedom of Speech was not written into the Constitution to shield hate-mongers.

Resistance is not futile.

No Losing Streak Lasts Forever

My senior year at high school the hockey team underwent a winless season. Attendance for our side was weak, but my three cousins played for the Hawks and I attended most of their games along with several friends. Our rival's supporters ridiculed our team with chants of 'loser'.

"You suck. You suck. You suck." We were few, but vocal as only boys can be at 17.

The cheerleaders from the other squad walked across the arena to ask us to refrain from swearing. This was a Catholic league. Theirs was a mixed school taught by nuns. Ours was all male under the Riverine Brothers. We didn't have much congress with the other sex and Thommie Black insulted the cheerleaders' spindly legs by comparing them to 'lobstah' claws.

"Red and fat."

I thought two of them were cute. They were the first to cry and their football team strode across the wooden stands to confront us. They were about 30 of them. We were 15. My youngest cousin said that the play on the ice was stopped by the refs and he watched us battle the footballers for a good minute before the security guards broke up the donnybrook.

Our team went 0-18 in 1970.

The next year they won the conference championship. and forty years later my cousin still recounts the tale of seeing me punching out football players. I don't remember it that way, but no one ever mentions that losing season either.

Single events can erase the shame of losing.

In 1971 I coached my youngest brother's little league team. My baseball skills were minimal, however the league needed someone to count heads and insure the equipment wasn’t stolen. Gleason's Funeral Home provided the t-shirt, caps, bats, and balls. We lost game after game after game. Angry parents yelled at my batting orders. Kids cried after each loss. While most of the players on Gleason Funeral Home had a fair grasp of the basics, my brother’s fielding and throwing arm exiled him to right field. The players on the other teams made fun of his batting. Halfway through the season, Michael said, “I want to quit.”

“Me too.”

My father said there were no quitters in our family. My youngest brother and I suffered humiliation week after week. The last game of the season was against the league leader. McGlory Ford. They had matching tee-shirts, pants, and sox.

Somehow we led into the last inning. My brother batted first and the opposing coach commented that a girl had a better practice swing. I called time. The coach had twenty years and an extra fifty pounds on me. I picked up a baseball bat.

“Don’t.” My brother took the bat from my hands.

“What about protecting you?”

“I can take care of myself.” He stepped up to the plate and parodied the macho coach by hitching his pants and scratching his ass. Our team giggled with a loser’s disregard for authority. The other team saw the humor in the uncanny mimic and soon everyone on the field laughed at Michael’s antics. The pitcher on the mound caught the spirit and lofted a cream puff at the plate.

My brother squibbed a hit into left field. He was tagged out stealing home.

Our opponents scored two runs in the bottom of the 6th and the season ended with a record of 0-17. I bought pizza for the team and toasted my brother as a victory in the throat of defeat. The other players would have preferred the win.

This season the Red Sox started out 0-6 despite possessing some of the best batters and pitchers in the Major League. My New York friends crowed how the Bosox would go 0-162 for 2011.

"The curse of the Bambino is back."

Yesterday the Red Sox hosted the New York Yankees at Fenway. Carl Yaztremski threw out the first pitch. The home team triumphed 9-6. The losing streak was over for today. It might resume today or maybe tomorrow, but no losing streak lasts forever and that was proven by the Red Sox in 2004 when they came back from a 0-3 deficit to beat the Yankees and then the World Series.

Babe Ruth is dead.

High on the Field / Bernie Carbo

When the Pentagon liberalized their policy on gays in the military under 'Don't Tell, Don't Ask', President Clinton was excoriated by the right for homoficating the ranks, while sexual liberationists accused him of a sell-out. Two decades later President Obama favored scrapping his Democratic predecessor's measure for a service-wide acceptance of gay military members. While I applaud the decision, I still hold onto my right to say 'don't ask, don't tell', for in the early 170s I hung out at the 1270 Club on Boston's Boylston Street. I will admit that I danced with other men, but I never developed as lisp or funny walk and if it wasn't for my queer friend Bruce I would have never attended the 2nd game of the 1975 World Series.

Bruce exited from the disco at closing to discover young men thronging to the closed ticket booths of Fenway Park. He joined a queue and bought tickets. Bruce might have been as gay as a bouquet of daffodils, but he loved the Red Sox. Bernie Carbo was his favorite player. Mine was the right fielder Dwight Evans. He was a good friend and I think of him often, most recently when Bernie Carbo admitted to a newspaper reporter that he had been high of a wide assortment of drugs and drink for his famous at bat in the 2nd Greatest Baseball Game ever according to ESPN.

The 6th World Series game of 1975.

His 8th inning at bat ranks up there with Mookie Wilson's 1986 heroics against the Red Sox. Bernie Carbo pinch-hit for the pitcher with the score 6-3 in favor of the visitors. He looked horrible against the Reds' finisher Rawley Eastwick. His miraculous foul on the 2-2 pitch has been described as having "all the athletic grace of a suburbanite raking leaves." The next pitch he homered to center field. Two men on. 3 RBIs. Tie game.

And I said, "Hey, I’m not going to hit. Juan Beníquez, grab a bat, you’re going to hit. Sparky's going to go to the lefthander because Sparky goes by the book." Darrell said, "Well, go up and stand on the on-deck circle." And they introduced me. So I’m still thinking Sparky will come out and take Rawly Eastwick out and go with Will McEnaney. But the umpire says, "C’mon, you’ve been announced, you’re hitting."

So I go into the batter's box. I ain’t ready to hit. Next thing, strike one, strike two, ball one, ball two. Then he threw me a cut fastball, a little slider and I took it right out of Bench's glove — the ball just dribbled out. I step out and I’m thinking, "Aw man, I almost struck out. I was lucky."

I hit the next pitch to center field. I rounded first base and I saw César Gerónimo going back. Rounding second, I knew it was gone and I’m yelling to Pete Rose, "Don’t you wish you were this strong?" And Pete is yelling back, "Ain’t this fun, Bernie? This is what the World Series is about. This is fun."

Johnny Bench said after the game it looked like a Little Leaguer learning how to hit. Pete Rose said it was the worst swing he ever saw. Don Zimmer said he thought it was over. Rico Petrocelli said it looked like a pitcher who hurt his arm, trying to make a comeback as a hitter.[1] No one remembers his at-bat. Carlton Fisk received all the glory, but I reveled in the memory of Carbo swatting down a killing pitch with a dead-down attack on the ball.

"I probably smoked two joints, drank about three or four beers, got to the ballpark, took some speed, took a pain pill, drank a cup of coffee, chewed some tobacco, had a cigarette, and got up to the plate and hit that home run."

A prescription for victory. Bruce and I were on something very similar for the 2nd game. No chewing tobacco or cigarettes. Speed and reefer and beer and ludes.

Yes.

Bernie Carbo is born-again and rues his behavior during his baseball career, but I love his description of playing high.

"I played the out field sometimes where it looked like the stars were falling from the sky."

And that is poetry.