Saturday, April 30, 2016

"Blue Angel"



 ( I wrote this a long time ago it's one of my fav's.  So here I inflict it on you again.)

 I love Nijinsky. As a youth I read everything I could find on him. I longed over the historic photos that survived. It isn’t that I wanted to be a dancer it’s just that his story, his strange, wonderful, painful life spoke to me.

Touched the very center of my Soul.

Perhaps It’s good that we’re separated by half a world, and now more than a century of apocalyptic history. Otherwise I would have followed him about.

If I were 15 0r 16 had access to a time machine, and could speak French, Russian, and German I’d be his stalker.

Plot for a short story there.

A Queer colored teenager from the 21st century pursues the object of his confused needs. All this amid the intrigues of 1911 Moscow.

I can see it now, Romola, Nijinsky’s long suffering wife sits me down in my hearts desires study. She pours me mint tea.
“…young man”

“You must understand my husband is very busy.”

Steam curls above my cup.

“His work is very important, and he can’t be disturbed”

“I just want to see him for a moment” I say.

“Please, I just want to look into his eyes”

“To see his soul”

“I must understand him”

“I wish the same, said Romola,…so do we all that love him.”

That's as far as I take this dream. How to explain to Romola my time machine becoming a lad again or Youtube.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

"Tea for Two"


I'm sleeping too much albeit in small installments. Times of stress are like that. In the old daze when I was a part time drug addict,...well okay maybe not addict.

When I got to know 'real' addictive comrades I found out what a total amateur I was.

These heroic pharmaceutical maniacs sucked down quantities of chemicals during a weekend binge that would have taken me two years to score, and do!

One pal described a gleeful cocaine angel dust speed whiskey cocktail that would have killed a dozen Cossacks, and the draft horses they rode in on.  ...and then went back for seconds.

Where was I?

Right dreaming of dust buster parties past. I recall back in the fading 1980's doing what we called "Biggles". Named after someone in a Monty Python skit.

A Biggle is basically a quarter gram or more cocaine line. Eh back in the day the recording, film video, and general broadcast industry ran on speed, and coke. Hey it was another era different values gimme a break.

Anyway to prove your insanity one would snort down the whole thing in one quick zap! This to the demented applause of your pals. If you didn't 'die' you were rewarded with a vodka martini..extra dry.

Ah I gleefully recall the summer of '83. What me, and my old pals calls the "Martini Summer". 

One of our TV/radio host comrades whom you've heard of, but for legal reasons goes somewhat nameless here was once a bartender in a Madrid dive. He remembered his skills well!

Anyway this suicidal "Biggles" thing was the custom among the engineers back then. Yeah I had a terrible drug problem,...I was always running out of the stuff, and it was terrible.

Flash forward near 30/40 years, and all the survivors are basically teetotalers. 

So like I sez now instead of snorting up Peru I attempt chemical-free sleep. I even succeed somewhat. 

Nutty dreams too. 

Stay Tuned.

"Mother Nature’s Sons"

I could never understand why the sight of boys kissing puts fright into so many. I remember the first time I saw two teen lads kissing. I was 16, and wandering around Central Park.

There was a gleefully confused Anti-War gathering/Be-In going on. Mind you I wasn't a full fledged Hippie at the time. I couldn't afford the costumes, drugs, communes or upper middle class background that supported all that. 

Class resentments aside.

I drifted onto the Sheep Meadow, and saw several high school boys laying on the grass kissing. I tried to be hip, and pretend this was no big deal. After all this was 1966!

Gimme a break! That sort of thing can 'still' get you bashed or worse. Still the sight of it made my heart flutter. There they were peacefully embracing in Manhattan's green oasis. 

In the shadow of urban mayhem Mother Nature's embarrassing step children were at play in the fields of the Lord.

My passionate desire was to be able to do the same with my high school heart throb,..."X".  

Nice that, "X", sort of what a sweet 19th century Vermont lady would call a lover in the novel she was secretly writing.

Btw I once wrote an "R" rated story about that fumbling, and intermittent affair. One day before I kick the bucket I mean to make a little video about it.  I plan to use dolls, and puppets. 

Anyhow seeing happy perverts going at it is where so much of the murderous rage of the bashers, and haters comes from. 

The sight or even the thought that this is going on fills them with killing rage, and for some secret desire. Life love desire hate rage quite a stew.

I think this is at the core of what makes bullies drive Queer youngsters to their deaths This is the engine that drives the wicked, and cruel to do their evil work.

Just the thought of such a simple tender scene drives these wounded angry souls to madness.

Fear is the true root of all evils.

More later.

"Fag City"

Wow the Emerald City is crawling with QUEERS! You can't throw a lemon lime cream pie without hitting one in the butt. Everywhere I look there's buff guys, and hot Dames!

I was on the local coming into the studios today when this kid comes on wearing Angel wings, and almost nothing else. What do you say to a naked Angel?

Beside that interesting vision there's gleeful Queers of every variety walking, and fluttering up, and down the streets, and avenues. I was thinking how sweet it is to be amongst one's own sort.

So often I have the feeling of as scripture puts it of being, " the presence of mine enemies."

Queers are bashed, and killed all the time. That, and who knows how many more Queer kids, and teens will die at their own hand or the hands of their tormentors.

A Queer 12 year old just took his life. The note he left said, "...I can't live in a world that accepts me only one day a year."

 " the presence.."

However on that "one day" we can at least see who we are. The masks are off. Yes "our sort" are always around in the same numbers, but on this special weekend the disguises are left at home. 

Interesting what would the streets be like if 'everyone' of all orientations, and interests secular sacred or profane dressed as they really were?

Imagine that for a moment.

I mean beside the huge "Star Trek" uniform contingents things would look interesting indeed.

I'd mostly wear cowboy/Civil War uniform drag. That's when I wasn't done up as a Nun or Geisha. Just think of it folks feeling free to explore all their pent up visions. Yeah it would make the commute much more interesting.

Bless that Angel boy,...who somewhat looked like a lad I had a crush on back millions of centuries ago in high school. Bless all the Fags, Dykes Queers Straight-gays, and assorted weirdos as they take to the streets to celebrate 45 years of fighting back!

Also bless that Tribe that loves Boys.

There's swell Sufi scripture that celebrates that.

Stay Tuned,


Some of this story is true, some is not. Not yet, but it's all sincerely shared.

I woke up this morning with "Wings!" Not little fledgling feathers, but with radiant Raphael renaissance wings. Think the Angel Gabriel in all them Annunciation paintings.

I was in bed between being awake, and dreaming when I felt an itch where I'd never felt one before. Something was going on around my shoulder blades. I experienced that strange sensation amputees have, but in reverse. There was now 'more' instead of less.

I touched my back. There was something there. I rolled out of bed, and nearly fell over, center of gravity had changed! I picked my way through the semi-light of early dawn to my dresser mirror.

Well there I was. Looking as I usually did when I wake up. At least now in my grumpy middle years. I'll spare you the grim details, but there was a light over my shoulders. I half turned. Wings.

I had wings.

(It wasn't exactly like this, but I thought it was a cute picture so what da hell)


A few days ago,...before the wings. I was standing on a corner waiting for the light to change. There were some school kids horse'n around near the edge. One of the kids spilled out into the street oblivious to the danger.

A Hugh! "SUV" big as a tank was speeding straight at 'em! The bastard wasn't even thinking about slowing down. As they say in these sorts of stories, time slowed down. The world, and all in it seemed to drift like feathers in a light breeze.

Well I was standing right there so just reached out, and pulled the kid in. Time resumed it's natural flow. The car/tank flashed by, and the kids didn't miss a beat. They continued laff'n, and playing.

All of them apparently unknowing of the tragedy averted. The light finally changed, and the kids frolicked away. Life went on.

Once more I 'happened' to be there to pull someone in. "Right place", "Right time",...again. A few months ago there was that little boy I pulled back from slipping over a railing, and falling into the East River. Then there was that teen-aged girl I yanked back from stepping into the path of a bus.

There's more,...the old lady in the subway, the man at that construction site I 'happened' to be passing, the little girl, and that car backing out of the driveway.

Wait it gets better.

A couple of summers ago there were these two teenagers that were gonna knife each other on the train. I stood between them. Don't ask me why I did it 'cause I don't know.

One moment I'm sitting with everybody else hoping that someone would 'do' something. Next thing I know that someone was me! How the hell did that happen?! Hey, I'm a New Yorker, but I ain't 'that' crazy!

Now this sort'a thing has been going on for most of my life. Since I was a kid. I never questioned it. It was just 'something' that happened sometimes. There's people that can shoot milk through their nose's, me I save complete strangers from certain death.

(This here is one busy painting in a creepy sort of way, but ya get my point, yes? Btw if ya clicks on it this pix' get's big, and scary!)

'And no, I can't predict horse races or lotto numbers. My rotten luck, figures. Unfortunately this ain't a "gift" I can make a living off of. Don't expect to see me on "Oprah" anytime soon. Unless of course I "happened" to pull her from the path of a speeding "Health Quack", and their publicists!

Anyway through it all the folks involved in these "incidents" don't got a clue. They all seem totally oblivious to the danger averted. I guess it all happens too fast for them to notice that the very "Jaws of Death" had just snapped at them!
'And because I was there,...missed.


I was considering this curious personal history as I looked over my shoulder at my wings. Interesting, they seem to react to light like a prism. My every movement was creating rainbows around my bedroom.

Truly this is a gift though I don't think I ever prayed for it. I suppose this is my "Stigmata", my unasked for token from Heaven.

I should say for those not raised by deranged Nuns. The stigmata is a sign from G-d to the particularly faithful or insane. Take ya pick. Since I consider organized religion the worse disaster in human history. Well, maybe second to the last ice age or that comet or whatever that blew away all the dinosaurs. I guess that narrows ya choices.

(Oh yeah that looks like fun. Where do I sign up?!

About the stigmata though. You're basically awarded, "awarded" mind you with the inconvenient, and extremely painful wounds suffered by Jesus during his passion.

One look at that blood-fest Jesus flick that Mel Gibson splattered across the complex's of the world should give you a good idea what this swell "gift" is all about. Yuck!, nailed hands, and feet. Crown'a thorns, stabbed side, the works as only "gawd da father can provide!"

Kind'a makes ya wonder what the 'other side' is offering. Humm, just sign here in my own blood, and I get's my way with the world for the rest of my greedy life. Yum!

(Eh, now that I think about maybe this signing my soul away deal ain't so sweet after all. Nothing' personal there Mr. Satan, but I'll keep the wings. Floating in molten lead for eternity might give me a headache)

I've seen that episode of the "Twilight Zone", ya know the one with Sebastian Cabot as the devil. Forget it.
Them wings though, I seemed to have been let off easy on the the stigmata scale. They don't bleed, and they weigh almost nothing. I wonder if I can fly? Wait a minute, that would put me on "Oprah!" Things might be looking up for me after all.

I'm assuming that this is a gift from the "Good Guys." My wings are amazing. They seem to have weightless weight, and edge-less edges, presence without presence. Running my hands over them is like passing ones fingers through a thick warm mist. They're just this side of solid.


The Dreams. I have too often seen things that will happen. 9/11, the south Asian tsunamis. I had dreamed these, and other things over the years, and told you about them on the air. On my radio program, "Carrier Wave". I described these terrible events in detail long before they happened. Others did so as well, and you laughed, and forgot.

The dreams are the worst because no one believes them, and when they come true they don't remember I told them. If I bring it up they look at me like I belong on the front page of a supermarket tabloid. Yeah me shake'n hands with a space alien or a yeti or something'.

All I can do is see these things. I can't stop them. I once begged G-d to take this "gift" away. I remember telling this to my dear friend, and colleague Bob Fass. He said it was "better to 'see', and tell" because a few "might hear it", and believe. Some "might benefit from your gift which is why you have it!"

Then there's the Spirits. They visit me, always have since I was little. They touch my hands, my face. They enter my dreams, the speak to me, and show me wonders, and horrors.

Angels, Spirits, Demons, remembering the future, pulling souls from the jaws of eternity,...and now Wings! Have I been given this unambiguous miracle so that those I pull from "Well of Forever" will know from where their rescue really comes?

Paradise has bestowed on me an undeniable token. Bright Wings! A Miracle for which I did not ask, and don't know what to do with.


I was, and am still a "Mouseketeer." I remember that sign-off goodbye song the "Mouseketeer's" used to sing to us. "...and now it's time to say goodbye, all our family." "M-i-c,...see ya real soon,..k-e-y." "Why?" "Because we like you." "M-o-u-s-e!"

My Grandma made us, my sisters, and brother mouse ears. "Mickey Mouse" Mouseketeer ears. She used black felt, for the beanie'n ears, and white linen for the "M." She also made a "Zorro" cape special for me, but that'z another story.

I was think'n about all of this while I was out, and about tonight. This shooting star night. All this in the context of the sum of a life. All the wonderful gems, the memories that put together we call our lives. Too often I concentrate on the traumatic, and disappointing. Just read my blogs. it's peppered with the stuff.

Yeah I know there were no colored kids in the cast of the program. Amazeingly for the times Walt Disney did consider an integrated show,..briefly. This story from his brother.

 A light skinned colored girl was give'n a screen test separate from the other kids. It was a big studio secret. Remember this was the mid 1950's. It would have been a social bombshell, and killed any chance of major sponsors. All this despite the "Disney" brand.

Believe it or not, we have actually come a bit of a way. Not a long way, but a bit. Just a bit away from all that. But back then it was thought, that is simple justice was not practical. The youngster didn't get the part.

Sometimes I wonder, if this anecdote is so, I've wondered how things would be different now if important people with influence had decided not to be so practical. I was 6 or 7 years old, and blissfully unaware of this sad history. I just wanted to be a Mouseketeer just like I wanted to be a boy scout. I have a scout story near the bottom of the page that dovetails with Mr. Disney's practicality.

Mouse ears, I want mouse ears. I went looking for some. Turns out they're a rarity. Disney puts some out, but they're very small. Only toddler sizes it seems. Somebody should tell them that there are some former 8 year olds, even colored ones, that would like to don the ears,..just one more time.

When Cubby, Annette'n the gang sang that sweet goodbye song I really thought they were singing to me personally. Oh! the wonderful innocence of children. In those days the children's market wasn't as glossy, and slick as today. There was still at least the "appearance" of sincerity. Enough so to convince many a boomer that they weren't alone after all.

You know I was thinking of what sort of costume I'd design for the Coney Island annual "Mermaids Parade." Nurse Pickles has offered assistance on that. Scroll down for the reference. Anyway maybe some "Mouseketeer" sort of thing might work.

I'll have to look around for the material, but I think we can cook something up. Just need the mouse ears, a t-shirt or something with "Mickey" on it. That, and some various other weird assorted stuff thrown on, and we've got it!


My gawd did I wanna be a Cowboy! Still do! More than I wanted be a Nun! Regards this dream I have no shame what's so ever folks. I want to ride the range in my cool cowboy suit, and bark at the moon!

Yeah I knows all about the Native genocide, the lynching of Chinese workers, the routine rapes, the lack of toilet paper, and bad breath. Still I refuse to give this one up. Especially since I always KNEW! that there was Colored Cow Boys!!

Yahooo!!! relation to that certain computer company.

Yippie!, Yippie!, Kai!, Yai!, Yay!! Get'a long! Git!, Git!, along! You Doggies!!

 Right my pals reading this are say'n,"..he's finally lost it." Nah I'm okay.

 It's just that this fantasy is as vivid as when I was 7 or 8.

 It really hasn't changed that much. There's just something about that American myth of the West that makes most human males go nuts.

Regardless of race creed or color we all, or at least a heck of a lot of us wanted to be cowboys that's all there is to it. Period, and Amen. Okay there's exceptions, politically correct language bullies, race nuts, and Native Americans.

The Native American are the only ones with morality, and history on their side of the argument.

The rest of them is just assholes.

Out of respect to my Native pals ya might want to skip this one, and scroll down. Or maybe not. See to be able to keep my dream of the West I had to make certain ,, historical "adjustments" here, and there. Hey, I'm politically incorrect, but I ain't a damned Nazi!

See in my alternate history parallel  reality "American West" there was 'no' genocide, slavery, wanton murder, or mayhem.  In this 'other' history the meetings of peoples on this continent was friendly, and peaceful. Native, and settlers were pals. Slavery was forbidden, and everybody got on swell.

It is in this happier West that I play out my Cowboy Dreams.

So there! My west is a cool, fun, happy one. We play shoot'em up, and have fun, but nobody gets hurt. We have a big bar-b-q after playing Cowboy all day,...a veggie table too.

I got a lot of paleface, and Native boyfriends. We have square dances at the fort every Saturday.

I remember explaining all this to George Stonefish, some will remember him as the producer of the Native program "Drumbeats."

He said he'd like to visit my "West". This because then he'd have his Country back, and could go home.

More later partners. I has to take a snooze.



I was thinking,...what would it be like if you fell into the sky. You're just living your life, going to this place, and that. But all the while there's the "Sea of Eternity" above you. Have you ever thought of that, eternity right above us.

Sometimes I look up, and there it is,...forever, and forever. Tomorrow, and tomorrow. There above the tree limbs, beyond the clouds. The sky,, orange or red, and then the night. The deep black night.

Forever, and forever.

Falling, I think of falling into the sky.

Falling into eternity.

One foot in front of the other.

One step then another.


Falling into Heaven.

"Uncle Sydney vs the Boy Scouts"

Well it was the early 1960's, and "Morning in America!" Jackie Kennedy was "jazzing up" the White House, and trying to give us a little class for Christ's sakes. Dr. King, and others was out there risking their lives for the soul of the nation. Because of that white folks was finally starting to feel a little ashamed of all them lynchings 'n stuff they let pass.

We was putting up the first satellites, and planning to go to the Moon! For those of you who wasn't there I got'a tell ya this country was serious shit in them daze!

Dig it,.. our folks had good jobs, gas was cheap, we had TV's, and was watching 'em till the cows came home! The schools worked, the trash was collected, Santa came every Christmas, and any working Joe could buy a house.

Shit! We had the H-frigg'n Bomb, and zillions of shiny new B-52's to deliver them! So nobody dared give us crap. Not only that, but polio was licked, and comic books was 10 cents.

Hey! Was that a "Golden Age" or what?!!

Well, in the middle of all that bright, and happy noise I decided I wanted to be a Boy Scout! 'Made sense given the times. I wanted to serve my country,..over easy with fries. It was "Camelot" big time back then, and I wanted to do my bit for "King'n Country!"

Also in my horny young mind I figured the scouts was just the place for a Queer kid, with Anarchist tendencies. I figured getting in would be no problem. After all I was real smart, sweet, and polite as hell!

I also had the "Blessed Virgin Mary", da frigg'n "Pope", my Mommy, and Robert Kennedy's Justice Department on my side.

How could I lose?

See I had gleeful visions of wearing one of them "Smokey the Bear" hats that scouts gets to have. Boy those things is neat! Better than cowboy hats any day. I was dreaming of that, and all them badges, ribbons, medals, and assorted bright, and cheerful doodads they heaps on ya in the scouts for being a good kid.

'Course then there was the official "Boy Scouts of America!" hatchet, canteen, compass, handbook, and surplus national guard folding mini-shovel dancing like sugar plums over my innocent, and curly head!

Eh, say nothing about them cute scout short pants, and knee sox. Well okay that was a later "fetish",..but still ya gets the idea.

Let me tell you of my innocent boyish scouting visions,...

I saw me, and my new scout pal's out in the wilds of New Jersey,..tracking down mountain lions, digging up "Spanish Gold!", building tree house's, and sighting UFO's.

We'd also be hot on the trail of "Atomic Spies", rescuing cats, exploring mysterious caves, and making friends with da Indians.

We'd be tying all sorts of knots, and painting ourselves up like "Sioux Warriors". We would eat wild berries, shit in the woods, wipe our butts with leaves. The lot of us would go running on all fours, and howl at the moon like wolves!

To relax we'd go skinny dipping, have kissing contests, circle jerks, blow things up, and build model airplanes!

At night under the stars we'd sing do-wop songs, cook foot long kosher hot dogs over a roaring camp fire, and tell scary stories about deranged communist robots from Venus invading Nebraska.

At bed time we'd set up surplus air force parachutes, and use them as our communal tents. We'd all recite our prayers, kiss each other good night, cuddle up like puppies, and slip into the gentle arms of Elysium. Perhaps some few might stay awake to chase fireflies or sing songs to each other.

Oh, such a sweet, and innocent vision.

Unfortunately 'none' of this swell shit went down. What did happen was...

My Mom: "What did you say?!"

Scoutmaster: "Eh,..I'm sorry Mrs. Smith, but it's just policy". "There's nothing I can do about it"

"This troop doesn't admit Coloreds".

My Mom: "But my son goes to this school which is integrated". "Your troop is part of this school"

Scoutmaster: "Technically yes, but the board has the final say in these matters".
"As I said I'm sorry we can't admit your son into our program."

My Mom was gonna slug this jerk, but didn't. He seemed, (at least to her, she said). This American apartheid apparatchik seemed ashamed of having to do this foul shit.

I'd have slugged him anyway, and maybe burned the school down too. Anyhow the "I'm just following orders" drone went on to tell my Mom of another troop that was willing to take a 'few' negro boys.


That bunch was a long bus ride away from where we lived so "thanks", but "no thanks!" Adolf. So with my scouting life receding in the rear view mirror I made do.

From then on I was looked after by the crazy old ladies at the Brooklyn Community Center. They were a bunch of very nice old Jewish ladies, and they taught me all sorts of stuff.

Mrs. Gold who's husband had fought in Spain against the Fascists showed me how to make cupcakes. She also taught me that white people weren't all full of shit.

Thank you Mrs. Gold.

If it wasn't for you I'd probably be a *fearful closet case in the Nation of Islam or one of them other race nut groups.

*('s rumored the "Nation" kills any gays they find in their ranks.)

Getting back to what my Mom went though. I have to say I didn't know about any of this. Instead my Mommy told me this whole concocted story about their being no room in local scout troop that season.

'Made sense too. You have to remember it was the early 60's. The height of the "Baby Boom" era.

There were zillions of us kids all over the place. Hell, we was "climbing in through da gawd damned windows!", quote Holden Caufield.

So yeah I bought it.

Next year I asked again, same story. The year after that I didn't ask. I had other problems. 'Like slamming face first into my "wonderful" teen years.

Well the seasons passed,..imagine the pages flying off a calender or hour glass's going nuts like in them old black, and white movies. Well with one thing, and another I found myself a young man.

Eh, perhaps I should put that another way. Never mind, look it was 1976 the Bi-Centennial year.

We'd just lost the Viet-Nam War, there were mile long lines for petrol, the economy was in the toilet. Ford Pinto's were spontaneously com-busting on our highways. The latter because it was cheaper to pay off the families than fix the problem.

...rot in hell Henry Ford.

We'd stopped going to the moon, or anywhere else for that matter. People thought "platform shoes" were cool, and the first rumblings of the Drug War, and AIDS were being heard. Oh yeah, and lime green was 'in'.

...the 1970's.

America was 200 years old,...for the first time!

Well "lime green" or not you only get one "Bi-Centennial" to a country. So we celebrated.

  It was our 200th national birthday, and I had gone home to visit my folks.

'Back then I was living way out west.

'Stuff happened. I saw interesting, terrible, and wonderful things out there. The west is truly another country. New York is like Idaho like Moscow is like Lisbon.

...and about the same distance too.

I never told anyone about them strange, scary, wonderful days. Not my family, not my pals, not my radio audience, not you. day maybe.

But back to this particular story.

I was home sitting in the parlor watching the parades, and mayhem with my Mom on her color tv. Her first. Aw gee. I remember when I first saw color tv. Heck even the commercial looked good. Anyway as we watched there were these guys dressed in civil war uniforms re-enacting some battle.

After that six-gun toting cowboys showed up, and shot at each other for a while. Then some white guys came on dressed as Indians, and did some sort of phony native dance. There was a float with some actors pretending to be astronauts on the moon we no longer went to.

Next some old farts in funny hats driving "Model T's" chugged along. This was followed by a mess of high school "ROTC" drill teams goose stepping down 5th avenue like the Hitler Youth. They was flipping their M-1 carbines all over the place, and not one was dropped!

Next a bunch of folks rolled by dressed like pilgrims. They was drinking Cokes on a flatbed pulled by oxen. Some "Rough Riders' on horseback shot at some Cubans, and all this followed by poor slobs in hot dog suits shoveling up after them.

Yep! That's "America" okay. '..recognize her anywhere.

Well, after a while on comes the Boy Scouts,..hundreds of 'em! They was wearing their "Smokey the Bear" hats too! Wow them boys was having a great time marching, and horse'n around with each other.

I mention to my Mother it was too bad about all that "over crowding" when I was a kid. I told her how I 'really, really' wanted to be a scout.

My Mommy gets quiet, she looks at me, and tells me the whole story..., all of it.

Like I said, parents, the good ones protects their kids. Protects their Innocence as long as they can.

Many many seasons later. Long after my Mommy had gone to Heaven. I got a call from my sister. She said her son, my youngest nephew had been called "nigger" at school that day. He was still crying, was my sister. " begins I thought".

"Let your children enjoy their Innocence for as long as possible". But when the demons finally do breech your walls of love, and protection. Make them ready. Make them strong. Teach them to face the fire,..and Survive.

'But teach them to Love, and Forgive as well.



I still want one of them "Smokey the Bear" Scout hats,...I really do.

(I wrote this some years ago, and try to post it at least once a year. It's important to me.)

"A Dream"

This is what I dreamed last night. I wrote it down as soon as I awoke. Okay I tweaked it a tad so it would scan, but this is basically it.

I was on a journey with my sisters Sylvia, and Kim. The girls were children again. About 12, and eight. I was a young man perhaps 20. We were riding in a fine horse drawn carriage. A lovely affair of the sort that the gentry of the Federalist era used.

We were riding through Brooklyn, our Borough of Churches. However this was a city not built by blind capital, but one wrought by idealists from the Sun King's realm.

So beautiful, such color. A thoughtful, practical lovely city.

In the dream I remember leaning out slightly from the carriage window to see as much of this dream Brooklyn as I could. Everything I saw combined function, and art. Much as the Ancient Chinese did.

My sisters, as I took in the sights, did as I always remembered them doing on long trips.

They giggled, and played mysterious hand games.

Given what grandma was teaching them I assumed they were casting spells. Knowing them they probably were.


My dear sisters, and I were on our way to see a play. A fevered collage of the "Red Shoes", "A Mid-Summer Nights Dream", and something I can't identify. I could make something up, but it wouldn't be true to the dream.

The Tickets.

A whole anxious subplot to this mayhem was my trying to find the tickets. As my sisters sat in their white with hints of silver Jane Austin gowns I quietly poked about my pockets for the damned tickets.

Btw, I'm not a dress designer. So how did I come up with such gorgeous gowns for my sisters. Also, no architect I, so how did I cook up the Sun Kings Brooklyn?

That, and all the endless cute details of this dream,...which if I could I'd post here as a video.

Anyway where the hell does all this come from, and don't start with that collective unconscious stuff. I think something grander than even that may be involved.

Anyway the footman, yeah that guy was there too. The footman opened the door, and my beautiful little sisters climbed down. So off we went ticketless to the dream theatre.

'But oh what a theatre!

It was as wonderful as the Pentagon is grim. Imagine a palace for the arts as designed by Turner, and Walt Whitman. Yeah I could live with that.

We passed under a free floating rotunda whose ceiling was spangled with stars, and misty nebulae,...Turner.

Wait gets better.

My Brother John. My deceased big brother John. John the war hero. John the politician. John the husband, father, and brother. My brother Johnny was standing the entrance of this dream pavilion.

As I said I'm writing this down as soon as I woke up. I need to remember this more than I need to share it with you.

He said nothing. The dead never do in my dreams. But he handed me an envelope. It was my "lost" tickets.

I'll end it here.

The copy goes on as the dream did. The play, my sisters the strange sky. More'n more dream stuff.

Better to end it here.

Stay Tuned.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

"An Editor's Job is Never Done"

'Скрипка'~'Die Geige'~"The Violin"

Give'em Hell Mickey!  Reminds me of when I was forced to take piano lessons as a kid. I hated that crap. I loved the music, but I rather listen that be banging away at the board.

Now the violin that's different. My Dad played violin. However as I say I was stuck with the piano. Each of us in the family had to learn a different instrument. So as I say I was fucked.

(Btw I 'should have old Mickey play a fiddle, but what the heck.)

Anyway years later I had many dreams about the violin. So many that I felt that it was my Father trying to tell me from Paradise I should just go, and play for crap's sake!

I did. I went over to a shop here in Manhattan just off Times Square. Music Row it's called. Anyway I went in there, and told the guy about my dreams my family, and all that stuff.

He listened thoughtfully then called his assistant over, and told him to go down in to the basement, and get a certain violin for me. My god it was beautiful! Sounded like heaven too.

He told me this wasn't a beginners instrument. It was special. He had found it at an estate auction. He re-made it. Worked hard on it. It was in a way a favorite of his.

He played several pieces on it for me. As I say it was heavenly.

He said I was meant to have it. I said I couldn't possibly afford such an instrument...he insisted it was mine. He gave me a very affordable price, and home it went with me.

A very good man, and wonderful violin.


"In Your Ear"

I've spent near a third of a century in peoples ears,...yuck! Eh what I mean is I've been yakking at folks while they're alone in their undies scratching their butts, and picking their noses.

Normally you'd be arrested doing that, but I did it on the radio so no charges. I tried to find images of myself all young, and happy..or at least young, but can't find them. They're probably in some box somewhere in the family.

So that's that. Now to retire, and sleep.

Monday, April 25, 2016

"History of Fruit"

Every inch of the Emerald City has history. Indeed every inch of the planet does, but I'm just talking about a few particular square feet here. Namely my favorite Deli, and Fruit stand on Fulton Street in lower Manhattan.

The shop has a long history or at least the land it sits on does. This spot was once on the shore of the Manahatta Forest. The local tribe the Canarsie's likely sailed their bark canoes from there.

Later the space was a muddy lane by the New Amsterdam wharf's. After some landfills it was the site of a log building where rum was stored. Local lore sez that during the rebellion against the Crown Red Coats were billeted there.

Seems someone burned it down,...wonder why?

Later in the Federal Era the area around our plot becomes home to Freedmen. New York having freed it's slaves around 1800.  The lower Manhattan water front became the Harlem of it day.

About 1820 a two story clapboard building is raised. 

It was at first an administrative building for the port. Later it became a school for Colored children. Years on during the Civil War it was attacked during the infamous anti-Negro Draft Riots, and burnt to the ground.

After this tragedy the land lay vacant for some years.

In 1898 the current brick, and stone four story building went up.

Originally it was a rooming house for sailors, and a ground floor shop. After this housing for immigrants. Apparently unwelcome immigrants. This since they were burned out just after WW1 in yet another hateful fire.

I'm not sure who or what moved into the space immediately after that. However in the late 1920's an illegal liquor distillery was put together in it's basement. In the 30's during the Great Depression the building was home to gambling, and drinking clubs.

In the 1940's during WW2, and after it was a restaurant, but with continued gambling on it's upper floors. This later expanded to drug dealing in the 1950's, and 60's.

In New York's nightmare of the 1970's it was burned out by yet another "mysterious" fire. It then sat boarded up, and vacant like so many other local properties. 

So it stayed for decades.

However when at last the City began to come back it was bought for relative pennies by speculators in the late 1990's. These rascals turned it upscale. Like they did most of Manhattan. Upscale apartments, and retail.

So it goes.

I wonder when some one will burn it down again?

Stay Tuned.

"Speaking of Dreams"

You ever wonder about the people in your dreams. No not your dog or people you know I mean the 'Others'. You dream, and there are people in it, People that you know, but only in your dreams.

Who are they?

You have complex relationships with a whole cast of characters. Whom on awaking vanish. You forget them or at best have only a vague notion of them.

What happens I wonder. To all those people I mean. Do they go on living their lives in the dream you've awakened from. Not knowing where the world they live I came from.

...or do the cease.

Dreams we now know are brief. Mere seconds or at most a few minutes long. However within this small interval our dream companions have a whole existence.  Do they know that their world or worlds are born, and perish by our sleeping, and waking.

In their last subjective thoughts do the realize the truth.

We are the sum of so many forgotten realms. I wonder if our Dream Children as their reality starts to de-pixelize as their world fades. I wonder if their last thought before oblivion is...

"Oh!...I was a Dream.

Then gone.

Till next time.

"Less We Forget"

In 1957 while hordes of unthinking American capitalist stooges were wasting their time watching the reactionary antics of the plutocratic puppet Lucy Ricardo.  

That and having backyard cookouts or piling into their Desoto land cruiser station wagons, and driving to Las Vegas, and Disneyland on brand new wide clean safe interstates.  Stopping only to replenish their supplies of Luckies cheeseburgers, and Fresca.

While these "Running Dogs of the Cabal of the Wall Street Atomic Plunderers" were on their one way trip into the dust bin of history. The Heroic Dogs of the "Great Red Banner Motherland" were fearlessly making "The Triumph of Socialist Science, and History an uncontested reality!

The peoples canines dared to challenge the very heavens!

"Laika", (Order of Lenin, Terrier first class), was volunteered to be the first mammal to travel beyond the atmosphere, and gravity of the Earth. 

The Glory did not stop there!

Our beloved Laika was not the last quadruped into space. Shortly after the non-return, and un-survival of the world's first space dog,...the former Laika. Two more Heroic Hounds from the kennels of the Motherland were volunteered. 

"Strelka, and Belka", (heroic likeness at top), were sent by the Central Committee to further explore the cold, and pointless monotony of oblivion.
Unlike their unfortunate predecessor these two furry heroes came back to the warm welcoming arms of the Workers Paradise. 

In gratitude for their valor the "Ministry of Interesting Surprises" had our hero's Strelka, and Belka poisoned dissected poked about then sewn back up, and stuffed.

This so future generations could admire first hand the Peoples K-9 Space Heroes. There was some discussion of bestowing a similar honor on the soon to be chosen Cosmonauts. However this was dropped as it was felt such might have a negative effect on their morale.

Forward Comrades! 

Stay Tuned.

"A WBAI Story"

"A WBAI Story or Uncle Sydney Remembers"

Since I'm in retirement now I thought I should write down my memories of some of the demented hijinks I witnessed or was instigator of.

Years ago when the station, Wbai was near Times Square. I guess this was in the 1980's somewhere. Anyway we had this New Years party put on by the station's Dead Heads. 

That's fans of the old rock group the "Grateful Dead" if anyone born after the 20th century is looking in.

As to that Dead Head party it was deranged chaos on skates. Drunken stoned hippies their girl friends, and drug dealers were all over the place. I was the engineer on duty, and my job, besides keeping us on the air, was to keep order.

Well things got edgy, and nuts after a bit, and I had to strong arm some trouble makers out to the street. Booze crowds, and loud music does this. I warned the rest of the crowd to chill or I'd call the heat, and shut down the damned show.

I planned to put a transcribed 1956 "Liberace" program on in their place so was half hoping they'd give me cause. Anyhow things calmed down, and the guys went back to playing bootleg Dead concerts, and I went back to fixing crap.

 An engineer's work is never done.

The point of this whole saga was what I found in the famed Wbai men's room. No not two guys butt fucking each other whom I walked in on the previous summer. 

No not the junkie friend of one of our insane hosts nodding out on the floor. 

No not even that screeching freaked out cat in a travel bag left by a forgetful guest. 

No this time it was a set of heroin works.

Oh my gawd it was amazing stunning unbelievable a vision from drug fiend heaven. There it was perched atop a crap stained toilet like an Angel slumming in Hell.

There in a finely carved cedar box lined with purple velvet was a expertly hand made chrome etched crystal glass, and silver gilded hypo with an assortment of different sized custom made needles.

One could see that passion went into the fashioning of this spike.

My heart went aflutter.  A sinful thought passed through me of absconding  with this blessed instrument of dreams, and nightmares. 'But how could I deny a fellow searcher of this wonder.

I carefully cradled these wondrous works in my arms, and went to the main studio where the deranged drunken drooling Dead Heads were. I opened the sound lock, and holding the works over my head said,...

"...Did one of you bleeping degenerates lose something?!"

A tentative hand went up, and a smiling hairy drug addict came forward, and claims his wayward property.

It was all in a night's work. 

Stay Tuned

"G-D Prayer"

I originally began this rant years ago. I add or subtract from it as the spirit moves me. I usually read it around Easter on my radio program tho' truthfully have done that in a few years.

I'll pick it again in'14. 2014 the Centennial of the "Great War". The beginning of the Second Hundred Years War. I'll post more about that soon. For now here's my G-d prayer as it is now.

G-d is....

in prison,

is on welfare,

is unemployable,

was Queer bashed,

was lynched,

was ethnically cleansed,

has cancer,

has AIDS,

has dementia,

has stopped taking the medication,

was raped,

is a battered wife,

was aborted,

is a runaway teen,

has no insurance,

was downsized,

is AWOL,

is homeless,

was profiled at the airport,

is stuck in traffic,

is too old,

is too young,

is too smart for his own good,

is too goddamned dumb,

can't get laid,

got VD,

has poor self image,

is afraid,

is lonely,

hears voices,

has lost his faith,

is fat,

has acne,

can't get a green card,

can't vote,

dreams don't come true,

committed suicide,

family hates him,

is on death row,

is guilty,

was framed,

got 20 to life,

is a drunk,

is a junkie,

is in a bad relationship,

flunked out,

can't get credit,

can't get a job,

can't get published,

can't get tenure,

However G-d is not Angry.

There is no possibility of anger.

None at all. 


"The Trotsky Account"

Well okay I had a nap, and some chicken noodle soup, and feel a bit stronger so here's something that's been on my mind. 

The Trotsky Hit!

I think Trotsky was done in by an Ice Pick.

Granted I wasn't there...honest. However I think the People's Hero was killed with an ice pick. Okay maybe an ice pick, 'and' an axe. Ya know now that I'm thinking about it there may have been a .38 involved maybe some poison too.

After all we're talking about the work of a Stalinist assassin. If he blew the job the Boss might get seriously pissed at him. Stalin giving you the hairy eyeball usually meant that you your family your dog your neighbors everybody you ever met would be fucked, and not in a nice way.

So yeah our assassin pal would have reason to get the job done right. If it were me if I were given the Trotsky account I'd go the Rasputin route.

To do 'him' in some of the Czar's pals first poisoned Rasputin with enough arsenic to  drop twenty Cossack's, and their horses. They beat the living crap out of him with chairs tables, and assorted logs. Then they shot him ten or twelve time.

They also castrated him. This one was personal ya has to understand.  I mean they 'really' didn't like this guy. Anyway after all that noise they took him out to the frozen Moscow River hacked an opening, and stuffed him in.

Then they went back to the palace to drink as much vodka as possible.

Well ya can imagine their surprise when a few hours later there's a knock at the door. Yep it was the big guy yeah ol' Rasputin his self big as life, and no worse for wear.

He wanted to know if he'd left his hat there.

That above is a true story btw. All except the bit about the hat...I made that up. Still like I sez if I was a Stalinist hit guy, and by some massive misfortune was handed the "Trotsky Account" That's pretty much what I'd do. Although i'd make sure he was 'really' dead the first time. 

Like they say in the gangster biz, " can't shoot a client too many times."

Words to live by. 

Stay Tuned.

"I Always wanted to be an Alcoholic"

Like I say up there I always wanted to be a boozer. Heck the stuff is cheap legal, and all over the place. Beats that drug fiend crap I was up to by a skid row mile.

This delirium would make life so bleeping simple. However I've seen too much grim wreckage in that room to enter. I'm allergic to it as well. So I have a built in prohibition amendment in my bleeping guts.

Swell,...thank you gawd.

Speaking of multiple personalities, and who of us ain't got a few of them running around loose. I don't actually know how many Sydney's there are. Oh that's okay since all, but one of them is gleeful, and harmless. 

Well, mostly harmless.

See when I'm at home I'm not 'exactly' the fun loving though sometimes demented, and gruff Uncle Sydney some of you folks hears on the radio. Different still from the Uncle that writes all this crap you're read'n now. 

Different yet again from the Sydney that wanders the streets weeping or  staring blankly. Certainly different from the Queer Revolutionary Maniac that publishes raging broadsides about how Sissy boys should form self defense automatic rifle brigades or insane gleeful Boy Porn blogs that keep getting nuked!

You get's my drift here.

We're many people depending on circumstance the phases of the moon if we're near ley lines or found a fucking bug in our food.

So ya see when I'm at home I'm just ol' Syd regular guy from across the street, and up the block. Not unlike Mickey Mouse. When "Mickey" or actually Lester W. Estrella. When Les is at home in Queens he's just like the rest of the sweaty mob of us.

He just sit'n there on his couch with his feet up on the coffee table wearing the old slippers J.Edgar Hoover gave him at that Queer Christmas pool party at the White House in 1947.

Yeah our pal "Mickey" aka Les is home burp'n fart'n while reading the Sunday Times Book Review section. The ball game's on in the background, and he's got a slice of Sara Lee cheese cake stuffed in his mouth. 

Yep we're all pretty much the same within a bell curve of personality disorders. Take Otto for instance. "Otto" is my Demon self. He my evil twin. He's the only separate personality of mine that out of necessity I gave a name to.

If I ever end up in the shower stalls of Folsom or Attica making new, and sudden friends it'll be Otto's fault. Otto's the guy that threw that fridge at that butt hole 30 years ago. 

Well okay it was one'a them little office ice box thing's, but still. 

He's also the guy who thought doing up eight grams of blow in one night was a good idea,...thanks a lot. I made new friends in the emergency room behind that. 

Back in the day when I was working at that radio station when my friends would see me nasty slobbering reeking, and not in a nice way. They would exclaim...and they really did..."Otto you fiend what have you done with our sweet lovable Uncle Sydney!!" 

"Return him at once!"

Yeah I know that you can't tell where the fantasies, and stories end, and the real life stuff comes in, but trust me. Ask any of my pals about Otto. They'll tell you.

Anyway as long as I take my meds Otto hasn't been around,...knock on liver.

Stay Tuned.

"Nippon Barbie"

In my new life of boredom known to most as retirement I experimented in dress making. Well dress swapping. I took the dress off a an old damaged Japanese doll, and cut it down to fit the petite Barbie figure.

It came out mostly okay. Being a former Sissy Mama's lad I can sew, and have basic fashion sense. Praise be to the G-ddess! These skills stood me well in this project.

I plan to make dresses from scratch eventually. Should be fun.

Stay tuned.

"Family Reunion"

I was told by my Mom shortly before she passed away that I had another sister, and brother. My mother had two abortions. This was in the 1950's when it was illegal even shameful to do this. So my mother didn't tell me  of this till she was on her death bed.

I have an older brother, and a younger sister. Both unborn.

I believe in the reality the truth of the immortal soul. So I imagine in circumstances unimaginable to this world I will one day meet these long lost members of my family.

I also have a child. This soul was lost to a miscarriage

She or he I sometimes see in dreams. I suppose this is why I love babies, and children so much. So I have family I will meet in another reality. Amazing to ponder that, and I do. Often.

I don't know what the souls of the unborn are called. The aborted miscarried or those who died with their mothers in accidents or by violence.

There should be a sweet, and gentle name for them.

If there isn't then we should think about making one up 

Stay Tuned.