Justifiable Homicide

Last weekend early in the morning a lone gunman in a hoodie walked up to Brian Johnson, the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, America's largest health proxy, outside a Manhattan Marriott hotel and shot the chief executive three times with a pistol. All chest shots. The assailant jumped on an E-bike and fled into Central Park. Mr. Johnson was declared DOA at Mount Sinai Hospital. Elon Musk was outraged by this attack on a corporate leader and according to Wikipedia public officials, which included Minnesota governor and former Democratic vice president nominee Tim Walz and Senator Amy Klobuchar, expressed dismay and offered condolences to Thompson's family.

In contrast, many social media users shared their contempt for Thompson, UnitedHealthcare, and the American health insurance system. The Washington Post said that many people mocked Thompson's death and others felt satisfaction Luigi Mangione came from a well-connected family and graduated from U Penn in 2020. A member of the upper class unlike his victim, however according to the BBC he spent time in a co-living surfing community in Hawaii called Surfbreak. Sarah Nehemiah, who knew him then, told CBS he left due to his back injury which had worsened from surfing and hiking pointing to a possible denial of treatment by his health insurer.

Denials by the 'health care' companies resulted in 68,000 deaths last year. Not murder, but a culling of the working class. Of course Universal Health Care threatens the USA with godless socialism as opposed to the capitalist brutalism of UnitedHealthcare. Thankfully I have Medicare and Medicaid thanks to LBJ, who we will never forgive for buying into the Brightest and Best's Domino Theory that convinced him that we needed to fight the Commies in Vietnam, so the CIA and Mafia could control the heroin trade.

Brian Thompson was not a member of the upper-class.

Luigi Mangione shot a capitalist lackey rather than a member of the generational wealth class. His father was a grain elevator worker. His family lives in an upper class town in Minnesota. Not the Hamptons or Palm Beach. Brian Thompson was strictly following orders for his overlords, pushing up denials from 9% in 2019 to almost 22% in 2023 leading to a good portion of the deaths of 68,000 Americans denied health care by the insurance companies. Yekaterinburg is the only course of redressing inequality. Of course everyone succumbs to the lure of 'Who wants to be a billionaire?'

Many of my liberal freinds are critical of this young man violently striking at the heart of the health care. The same people listened to the Beatles sing in Revolution # 9, "If you are talking about destruction, then leave me out."

And these same people wonder why the working class has deserted the Democratic Party.

William Hazlitt "Hypocrisy is not a way of getting back to the moral high ground."

Personally I see Yekaterinburg 1917 as the only solution to the Ultra Rich, unless they opt to redress their sins by spending all their wealth.

This shooting is not the revolution, just a long gunman striking their target.

ps Luigi Mangione is not related to the trumpeter Chuck Mangione.

LOVELY SLEEP by Peter Nolan Smith

Published 2013

The Thai people pride themselves in the purity of their language. Few English words have infiltrated the common lexicon. Dtam-ruaat is the word for police. The diphonic annunciation can confuse most farangs. I thought for years that Dtam-ruaat meant 'make blood', however make blood is spelled Dtam-leuuat with a falling accent on the last syllable.

Thai culture remains strong, however beer is beer in Thai as is pizza pizza, so foreigners don't starve to death in the hinterlands. 1150 is telephone number for Pizza. Pay the gas and the motorcycle delivery boy will drive to the most distant reaches of ban-nok ie the sticks.

Other commonly shared words are whiskey, taxi, sex, and WC for 'water closet', which along with pizza cover most human needs.

Two years ago I returned to New York from Bangkok via Narita Airport.

Twenty-seven hours from Soi 12 in Jomtien to Fort Greene in Brooklyn.

Most people would have taken several days to recover from such a trip. I needed money and showed up at work 10 hours after passing through customs at JFK.

I was exhausted from the trip, yet couldn't sleep and tried to explain to my son's mother why I couldn't sleep. My Thai was rudimentary and Mam was getting increasingly frustrated by my ignorance of her native language.

"You stay here many years. Why you not speak Thai good?"

"Because I'm a farang."

"I know that." She sounded like she was saying 'farang kee-nok'. I know we aren't as good as them, because I have lived in France and the Thais are the French of the Orient.

Their chauvinistic love for their country's traditions, food, and culture border on fanaticism and after residing in Thailand I have to admit that they aren't half-wrong. The only problem was that I had to move back to America.

New York to be exact.

It was where my job was.

The other side of the world and this week my body clock was off by twelve hours.

Day is night and night is day.

"I can't sleep," I explained to Mam over Skype.

"Go sleep."

"Khan Lak Ter. Last night I had a dream about staying in a house with no walls. It was in the middle of a rice paddy. Very beautiful. Made out of wood. You slept in bed and I held Fenway."

Fenway was our son. He was two years old. Every night his body spun on the bed like a clock. I slept like a stone with him.

"Good dream?" Mam was a firm believer in beauty sleep, however children steal sleep from their parents like a CIA rendition torturer. The theft gave them control. Fenway was no different from the rest of the young in their preparation to usurp the strength of their mothers and fathers.

"Not a good dream. I see men in the dark. They attack us. I wake up screaming." I live alone in the top floor apartment of a Fort Greene brownstone. The walls were thick. No one heard my terror. "A nightmare."

"Fan raai." A nightmare was scary in every language.

"Yes."

"Are you thuuk-phee-am?" Mam was horrified at the possibility that I had been possessed by an evil spirit or 'phee'.

"Not at all." I never scoffed the Thai belief in ghosts. I had been to the house of a 'maih moht'. Magic existed in the heart and soul of her country, however my dream was the harvest of several sleepless nights. My next attempt to clarify the reason for my insomnia pierce the language barrier.

"You mean 'jet lag'?"

"Yes, jet lag." The word was the same for Mam as it was for me.

"Can not sleep?"

"No."

"I understand now." She had never traveled outside of Thailand, so the effects of jet lag were a mystery.

"I can't sleep. Four nights now." The CIA used sleep deprivation to persuade secret prisoners to tell the truth. I had slept maybe ten hours since Tuesday.

"'Oht nawn' not good for old man." Mam was twenty-six. I was more than twice her age. Youth had a mission to take over the world. No one lived forever or not sleep forever.

"I'll fall asleep soon." I couldn't say when, but Mam cared about my health.

"Nom dee." She wanted me to reach a hundred years old. Thais hated being alone.

And at the tender age of close to sixty, so do I.

We have a couple of words for loneliness in English.

"Never want to say good-bye." Barry White sang those words.

And I feel the same way too.

Like a man without a soul.

Collect Call to the After-Life

Published 2016

This summer my brother visited me in a dream. My deceased mother and I were sitting in a ramshackle cottage on Cape Cod. My brother said he was going to meet friends. He looked happy, as he ran out the door. It was a little too short, but I was happy to see him and so was my mother.

I hope he's having a good time.

ps In the photo from Dennisport Beach 1964 Michael Charles Smith is the smallest and I am the tallest of the boys.

Hawaii's Missile Threat

Published 2009

North Korea launched a Taepodong-2 rocket in the general direction on Hawaii. No sirens sounded in Pearl Harbor. The missile failed to achieve orbit, although the hardline worker state crowed about their propaganda "victory" on state TV and the state organ newspaper declared the test as a "historic event that sounded the cannon's roar of victory in building a great, prosperous, powerful nation."

President Obama was quick to threaten North Korea with a scathing rebuke from the UN Security Council, except African guest member Burkina Faso balked at criticizing the hermit state at the behest of its patrons, China and Russia.

GW Bush at the opening day of the Texas Rangers baseball game wasn't available for comment, for after his eight years as leader American school children no longer have hide under their desks in the event of a missile attack.

At 56 I can recall the nuns of St. Mary of the Foothill telling us to pray for our eternal souls during nuclear bomb attack tests.

"God will welcome you."

The Sisters of St. Joseph never indicated whether that welcome was to heaven or hell.

THE MEANING OF PURE by Peter Nolan Smith

This is a video of my story THE MEANING OF PURE.

In 1995 I crosse the Himalayas and traveled to Benares.

Swimming in the Ganges washed away your sins.

My bath in the Mother of India was dedicated to my baby brother who had passed from AIDS earlier in the summer.

Michael Charles Smith comes to me in dreams.

He seems happy in the Here-After.

Eric Marciano made this video and I thank the Springfield native for his insight.

To see THE MEANING OF PURITY, please go to the following URL

https://vimeo.com/83326329

The Weight Of Books

Supposedly Karl Lagefeld's library at 7Rue de Lille in Paris contains 33,000 books. Regarding this photo many of them must be art books. The only publication heavier than an art books are fashion magazines due to heavier paper weights, such as 120–170 gsm (80–110 lb text) at least 2 pounds, but can range up to ten pounds. The March 2006 issue with Kate Moss on the cover weighed 1.140 kg, but then the heaviest object is the body of someone you have ceased to love.

Back in 1980 I had left a lovely female publisher from Maryland for a young nightclub waitress from the Upper West side. An acquaintance started dating my ex- and I was happy the two were happy together. One night at Underground on Union Square Doom apologized for stealing my girlfriend.

"It wasn't that way. I was glad you are with Elizaeth. She's too nice for me. Thank you for being with her." And I meant it. Elizabeth and I had met each other's parents. "You're an asshole."

"Maybe you are right, but congratulations anyway." I was in a good mood. The evening was for GQ. Drinks were free and I had received a weighty double-issue as a complimentary gift.

"Like you mean it, you asshole."

Doom was more an acquaintance than a friend, but I warned him, "Do yourself a favor, don't call me an asshole again."

I rolled the magazine in my hand. It was heavy.

"Why not?" Doom was high on blow. He had already tried to kill himself this year by burning himself. I had no interest in helping over the edge and began to walk away. He grabbed my left arm.

"You ass___"

I spun on my heels and swung the rolled magazine connecting with his nose. I hadn't been aiming my blow. I heard a crack and Doom collapssed to his knees, blood streaming from his nostrils. A bouncer helped him up and said, "I saw the whole thing. Go. I know Doom. He might call the police."

"I'm not a rat." Doom was still pissed at me. "You asshole."

I left the club and threw the GQ in the trash. Everyone who heard the story said I had overreacted knowing how fucked up Doom was on blow. They were right. I should have walked away, but I wasn't that kind of guy then.

Doom later successfuly hung himself. Elisabeth blamed my breaking his nose for his suicide. Maybe it was. People still talk about that confrontation, as do I. I don't read GQ anymore. My wardrobe is determined by hand-me-downs from the deceased. I have outlived all the dead.

"Cellphones will never replace a newspaper. You can’t swat a fly with a cellphone. – Pascha Ray – Traveler

ps I still go to anger management courses. or three elephants. I don't have a library anymore, but i do have an elephant's foot. Stumpy, lefto me by Andy Reese, a male hustler, who once accused me of theft to cover his guilt.

pps Lagerfeld's library has to weigh about 50,000 pounds.

Flock of Haircuts - The Orange Messiah

Almost a month has passsed since Donald Trump ousted the Democrats from the White House. His coalition of despicables, disgruntled blue collar workers, devout evangelicals, Dixiecrats, neo-Nazis, Hispanic fundamentalists, fat and bald men and their wives also won control of the House and Senate. His MAGA followers adored the seventy-eight year old, but while 99% of men globally comb their hair from right to left. I don't comb my hair at all. I occasionally rake my fingers through my mop. Not the President to be. The 47. Throughout the day Donald Trump sculpts his sweep-over to cover thin spots post scalp reduction. Normally under control windy days are dangerous for his coif.

During the campaign Trump's hair seemed shorter. For all the devotion to the MAGA cause, no one mimicks his hair style.

Recently I listened to the Flock of Seagulls I RAN on Youtube. Seeing Mike Score, the lead singer, I suddenly understood the origins of Trump's hair. I was surprised I hadn't realized it earlier, but this photo of Flock Of Seagulls at their peak says it all.

BY the way Friedrich Engels co-writer of DAS KAPITAL wrote, "Money is the only cure for baldness to a beautiful woman."

Here's an excerpt from LOSING RELIGION about my feelings on baldness.

The diocesan shrink had an office on the second floor. A chubby man in a black robe met me at the door.

“I’m Brother Bob. Please sit down.” He pointed to a pair of leather chairs and shut the door.

I sat and said nothing.

His head was covered by a thick mat of hair, whose color didn’t match his sideburns.

“We both know why you’re here.” Bob sat next to me. “I’ve read your file. I see this problem all the time, but it concerns the Cardinal when a gifted boy loses his faith. You were an altar boy and attended a few retreats for boys with a calling.”

I looked at the huge crucifix hanging on the wall and then out the window. The room was warm and the chair was too comfortable for a meeting about a young man’s soul.

“Do you believe the Bible?”

I remained silent. Any words could be used against me.

“Are you going to tell me why you don’t believe in God?” He leaned forward and his swollen hands rested on my knees.

“I have nothing to say.” I pushed his hands off my lap.

“The truth will set you.” His right hand righted his toupee on his head.

“Why should I tell the truth to a man who lies to himself about being bald.”

“Bald?” he gasped.

“Yes, and you’re wearing a rug.” I stood up and ripped the toupee off his skull.

“You’re damned.”

“You only believe in Jesus and pray that He will cure your baldness.” I threw the wig in his face and exited from the office.

I walked back to the Olds defiant in my lack of belief, until spotting my mother in the car. She was praying for my soul and my father stared into the snow distance, but I rejected the Holy Trinity, heaven, purgatory, hell, The Holy Eucharist, the infallibility of the Pope, the Blessed Virgin, and all the teaching of the Holy Roman Church.

At leasat Trump doesn't wear a rug, but it is a wonder.