I wish for a time machine to take me back to London.
1968.
Francoise Hardy on a motorbike.
I would have had a lot of competition and even though I would have only been 16, a good time would have been had by all.
Je l'adore.
In 1968 through eternity fast than speed itself.
To hear Francoise Hardy's version of the Kinks' WHO'LL BE THE NEXT IN LINE, please go to this URL;
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S31Fe6BrFy8
One night back in 1971 my friend and I were returning from a Sha-Na-Na concert in Boston. Mark drove along the Jamaica Way and after rounding the circle at the entrance to Arnold's Arboretum he sped up toward Forest Hills. His Nova had a lot of pull for a V-6. Both of us were digging Jimi Hendrix's HOUSE BURNING DOWN on the 8-track, then Mark exclaimed, "Man, look at that."
A house was ablaze atop a hill.
There were no fire trucks in sight.
"Let's check this out." Mark exited from the Arborway and headed toward the conflagration.
We got out of the car and shouted out, "Is anyone in there?"
The house looked abandoned, but Mark wanted to make sure.
"Where you going?" I asked, because the flames were spreading down from the top floor.
"Making sure no one is in there." Mark stepped onto the porch, lifting his arm to shield himself from the heat. He backed away and I smelled that the fire had singed his jacket.
"No one's in there."
We heard the sirens of fire trucks.
"Let's go." Mark trotted back to his car. "If the cops come, they'll think we set it."
"They like neat stories."
We left the scene of our non-crime in the direction of Forest Hills Station. Concannon And Sennet was a bar beneath the elevated tracks. Beers cost twenty-fire cents and nothing quenched the taste of fire like a beer for a teenager.
To watch Hendrix's HOUSE BURNING DOWN, please go to the following URL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnYWfVPT5aI
Jimi Hendrix Shotgun Live 1965 Night Train Backing Buddy & Stacey. Oldest Known Film Footage of Jimi Hendrix Playing Guitar On Nashville's Channel 5
To see this VDO please go to the following URL
http://www.zappinternet.com/video/tavTfoFhuR/El-primer-video-de-Jimi-Hendrix/
To see our eternal hero go to this URL
After the US Army discharged Jimi Hendrix in 1965, the Seattle native moved with drummer Billy Cox to Nashville. That city might have been home for the Country-Western scene, but for Hendrix and Cox it was someplace to call home while they were gigging on the Chittlin' Circuit. The two performed with Chuck Jackson, Slim Harpo, Tommy Tucker, Sam Cooke, and Jackie Wilson, but Hendrix hated playing a supporting role for these stars and moved to New York in hopes of becoming a headliner.
While winning #1 at the Apollo Theater, Hendrix had to support himself by touring with soul recording artists such as Wilson Pickett and I might have seen him in 1966 at BC High before his trip to London. No one in the audience other than a few black-cock struck Catholic school girls had eyes for the future immortal guitarist. Wilson Pickett was the center of attention with his hits MUSTANG SALLY and FUNKY BROADWAY. Within a year Jimi Hendrix would burn his guitar on the stage of the Monterrey Pop Festival.
The world would never be the same.
To see Jimi with the Wicked Wilson Pickett please go to the following URL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9yIoVuUM-M
The riches of the world have flooded the coffers of banks and the elites. The middle class still dream about joining the upper classes, however their actual wealth is tied up in real estate mortgaged to the hilt. They own nothing and the situation is worse for the poor. The only way to regain equality is through theft. The same as how the wealthy accumulated their riches.
But better that everyone is equal.
Reject wealth.
Burn all possessions.
They are only theft.
Burn burn burn.
Of the people.
Rock on.
At holiday dinners on the South Shore my older brother liked to tell a story about my protesting against the Viet-Nam War. His wife is a big GOP supporter. America can do no wrong for the both of them. Several Thanksgivings ago he finished cutting the turkey with his electric knife and said, "One afternoon in my sophomore year at BC, I was entering the commons and a group of anti-war demonstrators were lying on the ground pretending to be dead Vietnamese. I looked down and there’s my long-haired hippie brother. I said ‘hi’ and I stepped over him.”
"It was 1970." I had not stopped my opposition to America's wars.
"And the war kept going until 1975." He believed in victory at any price.
"And I cheered Ho Chi Minh the day Sai-gon fell." I lifted my raised fist.
My sister intervened before the confrontation devolved into a food fight. He later apologized for winding me up and I accepted his sorry matched by one of my own. We were best friends, but I’ve been psychologically scarred each time my older brother told this tale.
Partially since I can’t recall the incident and somewhat hurt that he would not join me.
My pain was nothing in comparison to the suffering of Agent Orange victims denied health care by the Pentagon or the parents of Vietnamese infants deformed by the Dow Chemical product, but the pain endured, especially as my efforts were not rewarded with true peace.
Instead Le Doc Tho and Henry Kissinger negotiated a faux peace and the war continued to its inevitable end ie the fall of the corrupt Saigon government.
Undeterred by my defeat I have protested against every US incursion and war since my conversion to anti-violence in 1968. This pacific attitude was strictly relegated against the military-industrial complex, for I’ve always liked a good fight. even into my ^0s.
Still my stance against the wars of this country has led to my campaign aimed at establishing a pension for long-time anti-war activist.
My letters to the White House were ignored during the Bush years. Father and son. Clinton’s staff never returned an answer too. My petition was as popular with the Obama administration as a parole request from Leonard Peltier, the AIM activist sentenced to life for the cold-blooded murder of 2 FBI agents.
I’m not asking for much.
Just enough to allow my living in Thailand.
A mere $2000/month pension.
Peace Now.
Saying it a million times has to be worth something.
They set me to CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'.
Or THE MOD SQUAD
Famous groupie models.
Dancers.
An iconic dancing girls at Woodstock.
It was enough to make a young man grow his hair long and hit the road.
The Catskills are less than two hours from Dutchess County, so when my host in Millbrook suggested a road trip to visit friends across the Hudson on a splendid September morning, I was all green lights. Andrew's wife opted out of the journey. Her kids were a handful on long rides. We set off after a heart breakfast and headed west to the mountains.
We crossed the Hudson and soon passed through Hunter. The ski slope was bare and the resort's parking lot was empty. Our friends lived slightly farther west on the desolate dissected plateau with long valley vistas and the summer air poured into Andrew's Tundra.
The Lexington NY turn-off swung south for New York 23A onto Route 42. Philippe, once the 'prettiest woman in northern Maine, was vacationing with his family of four in his modernized hunting cabin opposite WestKill Mountain. We arrived a little after noon. There was no offer of lunch.
Only lovely tea from freshly picked mint.
The reminiscing conversation was entertaining, but the rumble from Andrew's stomach grew louder. My gastric echoes were a little more demure, since I had stolen cookies from the kitchen. The schnorred Oreos tasted great, but Phillipe's kids eyed me with Gestapo suspicion. Children was very possessive about food.
After an hour we said our goodbyes and sat in Andrew's truck. He wanted to return along New York State 23.
"I've never been on any of these roads." The route over from Woodstock had been a avenue of arcadian scenery and I studied the map on my lap. "42 goes south to 28. We go west for a few miles and then head south on 47 to New Paltz."
"New Paltz is about a 100 miles away. Is there anywhere to eat on the way?" Andrew was dying for food.
"Has to be someplace on the way." Few towns dotted the backside of the Catskills; Shandakan, Big Indian, Neversink. This was the weekend. Stores made a fortune selling hot dogs to hungry day-trippers like us, but I replied honestly, "I'm not so sure.
"I got lost on the road from Tannersville to Woodstock. One hour in the dark." Andrew was British. He had seen DELIVERANCE. For him the land of the rednecks began once over the Hudson.
"That was night." I argued for 47. "We'll never come this way again. I'd like to see what there is. Even if it's nothing."
"There better be something to eat."
He wheeled south and followed my directions to 47. The two hotels in Big Indian were closed for the season and their signs wore years of weather.
"That's not a good omen."
The two-lane road slunk through bland valleys.
No stores.
No food.
We drove deeper into the terra incognita. Andrew voiced his discontent. We were hungry, except Philippe no longer bore the blame for our lack of food. The secluded settlements of Olivera and Wistock Mountain were devoid of commerce. Frost Valley's services were reserved for YMCA campers.
"What do people eat here?" Andrew was frantic. It was well past lunch.
"Bark probably, but the only business I've seen for the past hour has been 'yard sales'." We slowed by each house hoping for food, but they offered nothing to eat and crap for sale.
"They look too fat to live only on bark. They must be snacking on moss in their spare time."
Our fragile state caused us to make a wrong turning.
Left to Clarityville in hope of sustenance.
Once more a meal of disappointment.
Andrew turned on his GPS and typed in 'diner'. The GPS did not respond. Andrew was for straight on. I was too. The land of nowhere had to end somewhere.
40 miles later we rolled into New Platz. I bought Andrew whatever he wanted. The foodless journey had been my idea.
"One day we'll laugh about this."
"But not today."
And I don't ever have to see the back of those mountains again.
Once was more than enough.
Especially on an empty stomach.
A young Thomas Cole traveled to the Catskill Mountain House in the 1820s. He painted many scenic views of the mountains. The view from his house from 1827 was captured in View Near the Village of Catskill. I have stood on the porch. Time remains the same now and it was then.
Shared events are recorded differently in individual memories. No one in my family recalls my mother sending her two sons, ages 7 and 6, solo on a train from Portland, Maine to Boston. Collective amnesia has erased the recollection of our family watching brown bears dine on garbage at the town dump. I am our final retainer of lost episodes in time and the rest of the clan shake their head disapproving of my version of history. They may be right, but I can clearly recall the Biddeford, Maine gas war of 1958.
Two gas stations were located at the foot of the Biddeford-Saco bridge on Route 1.
During the summer months the road was heavily trafficked by vacationers to the Pine Tree State and the two station owners offered prices below the cost of the gas, hoping to bankrupt his rival. My father and many other drivers were aware of this competition and no one leaving Portland bought gas until crossing the Saco River.
Both stations were manned by slick hot-rodders. Window were wiped by cheerleaders. A free glass accompanied each fill-up.
The price dropped from 25 cents per gallon to 21 to 18 and finally 17 cents per gallon. My father detoured south from a day at Old Orchard Beach to top off the tank. The greasy-haired attendants were haggard from the onslaught of 'fill it up'. The cheerleaders' outfits were torn to rags by the sharp edges of cars. Once the tank was filled, our Ford station wagon left the pump headed north to Falmouth Foresides.
The two stations' gas war of annihilation threatened the entire gasoline structure of New England. Their respective suppliers ordered the rival station owners to agree to a truce. A price was agreed upon by all concerned parties and I've never seen 17 per gallon again in my life.
I've told this story several times at BBQs on Watchic Pond. My brother-in-law wanted to believe me, but 17 cents was beyond his comprehension. My uncle, a long-time Maine native, guffawed at the idea of 17 cents gas in 1958, but retracted his comment, saying, "When I was issued my license in 1939, gas was 10 cents a gallon."
"I was only $1.11 in 1994." My brother-in-law had a good head for numbers. He had been an accountant for the manufacturers of Topsiders before becoming a corporate head-hunter.
"And it's only 6 cents in Venezuela." The leader of that country was keeping it low for the people.
"6 cents a gallon." My brother-in-law shook his head. "Now that's cheap."
And all thanks to the triumph of socialism over capitalism.
The the victors go the spoils.
ps Gas under Trump has dropped to $2.33 on the national average, but I've seen it $2.79 on the highway to Greenwich and $2.79 isn't $2.33 or 17 cents.
Not by a long shot..
Middle-Age farang males vacation in Thailand for the beaches and the temples. A friend sometimes suggests a visit to the Last Babylon. In Pattaya the man meets a girl. Past and present are unimportant. She is something out of a dream and they spent an idyllic vacation on Koh Samet.
The disgust of fat western women rivals the envy barely hidden on these obese cows’ husbands. The two make love five times a day, mostly to make up for years of abstinence. Upon their return to Pattaya, she doesn’t seem to mind accompanying the farang to go-gos. Love so blinds the western male that he can’t see that she doesn’t trust him out of her sight.
This has to be paradise and two weeks into the honeymoon his beloved says, “I want see my family. You come with me?”
It seems like an innocent proposition and he agrees to this journey to Ban Nok.
Hearing your plans his bar friends exchange a knowingly glance.
“What’s wrong?” You really want to know.
“Nothing.” They smile like the farang had brought a blind donkey “Have a great time.”
“Thanks.”
He rents a car for several days and leaves Pattaya for this great adventure. Ban Mai-mee-tee-nai is not on the map. He asks his sweetheart for directions. She is about a minute from a semi-coma and points north. “Isaan.”
Isaan.
The mythic plateau of Northeast Thailand has figured into his friends jokes about the sick buffalo, blind aunt, feeding a host of hundreds and drinking lao whiskey with toothless rice farmers till dawn.
Leaving Pattaya the farang realizes that he don’t know what he has gotten himself into and his tilat isn’t explaining either, because she scrunched against the door in a state of exhaustion.
Oblivion comes easy are two weeks of making love to a Viagra-crazed farang.
The highway turns into a two lane road. At one point his darling opens an eye and indicates a dirt road. By the time the car hits the first pothole, she has lapsed into another coma.
The electric lines disappear and dry fields stretch to a hazy horizon. Buffalo laze in a torpor.
No cars. No people.
Crossing a bridge over a muddy creek and his girlfriend opens her eyes. “We here.”
“Ban Mai-mee-tee-nai?”
“My home.” She beeps the horn, as the car pull into a forested complex.
A horde of Thais surge from several wooden houses. He haven’t seen any place this ramshackle outside of a National Geographic magazine, but everyone is all smiles. He smiles back. Kids pull on his leg. An old geezer man greets him with a bow. The farang gracelessly effects a wai back as directed by his girlfriend. Everyone chortles at his clumsy gesture. Food appears out of nowhere. Everyone sits down and eats on the ground. The westerner thinks this isn’t too bad, until his legs cramp up and everyone laughs at his uncomfortability.
His girlfriend’s ‘brother’ gets him a chair dating back three centuries. The heat is stultifying.Sweat pours from his skin. He is offered beer with ice. The farang disdained drinking it before. Now it’s perfect. More food is eaten. Some of it he doesn’t recognize. He tastes a little. Your mouth is on fire. He drinks more beer. Soon it’s gone.
“Need more beer.” His girlfriend holds out her hand.
The farang reaches into your pocket. Hss girlfriend grabs 2000 baht and jumps on a dilapidated motorcycle. “Be back soon.”
The remaining crones clear the food and he is left to drink lao whiskey with the male family members. They insist on his drinking this villainous concoction, even though he passed triple the legal limit for DWI an hour ago. His girlfriend hasn’t shown up and the man peak his ears for the sound of the motorcycle, only to hear the buzz of the early evening’s mozzies.
Several hours later the man wakes on the floor of a house with three men downing a plastic bag of lao whiskey. His GPS is off line. His wallet is still in his pants. Thais are very honest. Female voices babble under the floor. Nothing they say makes any sense. The man climbs over the pile of drinking men and descends a vertiginous set of stairs to the ground.
Over head stars blaze in their billions. A fire burns in the yard. Some of it is plastic. His girlfriend sits with a gaggle of women. She smiles at him. He smiles back, wishing a doctor could shoot him with an injection to get rid of his growing hangover.
Footsteps sound behind him. The men carry down the plastic bags of lao whiskey. The farang protests against being offered a glass. His girlfriend frowns. The lao goes right to his stomach and he rushes into the bushes to heave like a Girl Scout drunk from sherry. Everyone laughs and that’s the last sound he remembers before waking to roosters crowing in the dawn.
His girlfriend is asleep and so is everyone else.
He tries to go back to sleep, but his feet have been gnawed raw by mozzies hungry for a new taste of blood. Soon dogs are barking and the sky is getting light. A loudspeaker crackles to life. For the next hour a man rants in Thai. No one stirs from their slumber and the westerner wishes that he could click his heels like Dorothy in THE WIZARD OF OZ to transport himself back in his hotel.
Air-con. Cable TV. Swimming pool. Mobile phone service. Western food. Chairs. Beds. Beaches. bikinis. Go-go bars.
Of course his girlfriend doesn’t respond to any hint about a return to Pattaya other than to say that tonight is a big party, which ends up a repeat of the first night only with more family members. Everyone is having a good time, since no one has put a hand into their pocket since his arrival and the farang mentally calculates that he could have flown to Bali for the price of the last two days ie bar fine, car rental, and expenses.
And his girlfriend hasn’t as much as kissed you, as she has reverted to a village girl.
Food, friends, family, everyone having a good time. And she knows how to play a man, farang or Thai, because at the night’s end, she comes up to him and says, “Everyone like you. Me, I love you, because you not make face.”
“Make face?”
“Yes, make face same dog, because you spend too much money.” She sneaks a kiss and everyone laughs. The farang too and he decides to stick it another day.
On the fourth day the farang wakes up and packs the car. Everyone waves good-bye, except for the three family members joining him for the voyage south.
Back in Pattaya the farang drops off the relatives. They get out of the car without a word of thanks. He delivers the car three hours late for a half-day penalty. At the hotel the westerner is glad to be back in civilization, although his girlfriend cries, “I miss my family.”
They make love for the first time in four days and she cries throughout the labor. The farang feels like he's having sex with a war widow and almost stops, except those years of abstinence have created a monster and he completes his mission, after which the farang leave the girlfriend in the hotel room watching TV to meet his friends. She is on the phone to a family member. She barely notices his departure.
Later night the gang at his favorite bar ask, “How was it?”
“It was great.”
And they nodded in unison because they’ve said the same thing too.
And it's all true, because they've never experienced anything in years.
Bannok loves farangs.
The recent heat wave in the USA has not stopped the global warming denialists' campaign of refuting science.
I suspect many had failed the subject in high school.
I responded to their fervent rejection of reason with the following logic.
"Global warming is caused by Man's not reading the bible. More sinners go to hell and so many of them are obese that their fat bodies burn hotter than normal people. More sinners = a hotter hell = a hotter earth core = global warming. Less sinners = colder temperature in hell = ice on the Great lakes. Try denying that math."
I don't need my fingers to add 1 + 1 = 2.
Denialists don't need fingers either, because they believe in divine math.
1 + 1 = Adam and Eve.
Led to hell by their leader.
Fatso Trump.
He cheats at golf.
The Huffington Post was founded by Arianna Huffington on May 9, 2005. Ms. Huffington was a respected conservative journalist and under her tutelage she transformed the website into the leading liberal source of information.
I regularly visited the site.
Arianna Huffington was succeeded by Lydia Polgreen, formerly of The New York Times, in 2015.
The website has become a rag with paid ads posing as news.
Here are today's banners.
This Map Shows What People Hate The Most In Each State
Christie Brinkley Poses Nude, Save For A Big Leaf, At 63
Trophy Hunter Kills Cecil The Lion’s Son Outside National Park
6 Wild Claims Trump Made In His Utterly Unhinged New York Times Interview
7 Things Flight Attendants Notice About You When You Board A Plane
Illusion? Trump Jr. Is Too Similar To This ‘Arrested Development’ Character.
America’s Bacon Lovers Won’t Be Happy To Hear This.
Forget fake news.
The HuffPost specializes in non-news.
All the non-news fit to print.
Officially dead.
Metal and leaves, concrete and plastic, trees and trains, scrap heaps and decaying drive-ins, parking lots and telephone wires, luminescent polluted water and cranes, bridges, overgrown tennis courts, and public housing in the distance, Everything is something as the most ordinary objects and prospects are saturated with detail and nuance. Things, places, views. Taken between 2009 and the present, the photographs on which these paintings are based are from travels around North America. They are not ends in themselves but tools for engaging in a wholly different, time-consuming, satisfying endeavor – that of painting. The photographs are jumping-off places for diving deeper through concentrated physical and mental effort to arrive at a personally consequential artifact owing all and strangely not much to the source material. Copying to rebel and revel in the freedom to reject verisimilitude in search of sensual meditation, wrestling with the medium because without that resistance there is no meaningful fulfillment. - Jocko Weyland
KERRY SCHUSS 34 Orchard Street New York, NY 10002 212-219-9918 info@kerryschuss.com www.kerryschuss.com
summer hours: Tuesday - Friday, 12 - 6pm
Back in 1974 my good friend AK and I traveled cross-country to Encinitas, a small beach town slightly north of San Diego. We crashed at his friend's bungalow and spent our days sunning and bodysurfing at Moonlight Beach and our nights smoking pot and drinking wine. We made friends with a hippie guitar guru wandering the coast with a long-haired blonde. Rockford and Carol were free as the wind.
"We only want a place to sleep, eat, and place our music," Rockford explained atop the bluff, as the sun set in the Pacific. They were staying with a clinical psychiatrist from UCSD studying the effects of LSD on humans. They were two of his guinea pigs and the acid left them daily dazed. One afternoon Rockford defended his participation by saying, "I don't believe in money. I have everything I need in one bag."
"What about your guitar?"
"That's my extra, but other than that one bag is all anyone needs in this life. Some clothes, sandals, a good book, plus a little weed."
Rockford offered me a place in his band. Carol played tambourine. I was to solo on kazoo. He looked at my canvas travel bag.
"Way too much shit."
"It's almost nothing." I had more clothing than the two of them.
"Nothing is nothing other than nothing." Carol dismissed my excessive possessiveness with a wry smile. I wasn’t getting the message and the next morning they left without me for San Francisco.
AK and I hitchhiked back across America. We re-united with Rockford in Woodstock. The three of us remained friends and I never asked the old hippie about abandoning me to a life of meaningless acquisition.
This morning I read an article in Huffington Post echoing Rockford's one bag theory.
A 69 year-old German woman abandoned money twenty-two years ago. The divorcee has perfected a barter economy called “Gib und Nimm” or Give and Take. Her attempts to convert Dortmund to a moneyless society was met with derision by the workless and retirees addicted to cash or credit, but her year-long experiment has made her a happier and healthier person.
According to the HP all of her belongings fit into a single-back suitcase and a rucksack, she has emergency savings of €200 and any other money she comes across, she gives away. Heidemarie doesn’t even have health insurance as she didn’t want to be accused of stealing from the state, and says she relies on the power of self-healing whenever she gets a little sick.
Rockford understood that money is the root of all evil, but somehow I don't think this theory works in a go-go bar.
At least not at my age.
On April 4, 2013 the National UFO ALERT Rating System along with California, Florida, New York and Texas updated the UFO status alert to Code 3 with the Mutual UFO Network (MUFON) according to Huffington Post.
California had 59 sightings in March.
New York experienced 30.
I have looked for space ships since my youth.
At night I lay on the back lawn. Our house shielded me from curious eyes and I watched the skies for any signs of extraterrestrial traffic. I prayed an alien might take me to Space. It had to be more interesting than my suburban hometown south of Boston.
One night my father came out of the house.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking at the sky."
"There are a lot of stars up there. No one knows how many?"
"No one?" I thought Klattu and his robot Gort from THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL might have a good idea.
"No one." My father believed in infinite space.
"Not even God." I was only saying that to camouflage my puerile atheism
"Maybe Him." My father reached down and lifted me to my feet. He knew me well and said, "Go to bed. If the Martians come, we'll hear their death rays."
"Okay." I walked inside the house up to my bedroom. My brother was asleep. I laid in bed and joined him, only my dreams were of the stars.
One day with the help of aliens they would be mine.
If ever there was someone easier to paint than Suzanne Mallouk or Ann Magnuson, it was Peter Nolan Smith. I think Peter is the Jack London of our scene. If you have never read any of his short stories, you are missing out of a time gone by on the innocent dark side. My favorite is "The Rule of Mr. Klaus", which isn't really a story but a collection of little vignettes of the vanished NYC of the late 1970's.
I moved to the city in 1979 and I immediately connected with his images and words in this piece. I saw Peter at one of the various club 'reunions' and we spent a long time at the bar, of course, trading stories of the nightclub shenanigans and the mischief that we did out of boredom or cash; he told me of growing up in rough Boston, 'procuring' cars and other various high-jinks and we ended up talking about our childhoods.
I told him how one day when I was 13 my mother came to me and told me a story about how after all this time that my 'real' father, not the father that I lived with, wanted to meet me and then she put me on a plane to Dallas and my 'real' father and some French lady picked me up in baggage holding one of those placards the limo drivers hold with my name and his last name, (I guess my real name), on it. Straight from the airport we went to Dealey Plaza,then I learned how to hit a golf ball and I fired a pistol. All on the first day.
Then a dinner in total silence, because I didn't know what to say and neither did the real dad. Peter looks at me and said, "You win, that is terrifying!"
This nightclub legend and Boston thug had a soft heart.
Till the next reunion Peter!
Paris is eternal.
A city separated by the Seine.
Blessed by beauty.
Home to people of all races.
Welcoming every in the world to visitone of the greatest cities in the world.
Even H?itler.
Even Hitler.
Maybe not.
But definitely me in the 1980s.
Last week Donald Trump made his 2nd visit to Europe.
# 45 was snubbed by the Polish president's wife.
He angered Jews by not stopping at the Warsaw ghetto.
And the jubilant crowds loved getting paid for their cheers.
Next stop the G-20 meeting in Hamburg.
Riots rocked the city.
Angela Merkel rolled her eyes at him.
His daughter Ivanka played Secretary of State.
And no one wanted to sit with Mr. Lonely.
Next Paris.
To celebrate Bastille Day with his handshake nemesis, President Macron.
# 45 and his !st Lady Melania arrived at Charles De Gaulle Aeroport on July 13.
The Slovian teenager had modeled there in the 90s.
Trump was no stranger to Paris or models.
This trip was all business, but he could concentrate on his grip.
His son Donald Jr. has come under tight scrutiny for his onvolvement of cullusion with the Russian government during the 2016 presidential campaign.
Trump was happy to be with the Macrons.
He went out of his way to say to te 1e Madame, "You're in such good shape. She's in such good physical shape. Beautiful."
Le President de France made no such comment to Melania.
After all she was a paid assassin for the Russians.
Wise ecision or the younger man.
After a day of discussing Franco-American issues the couples dined at the jules Verne on the Eiffel Tower.
According to all sources # 45 never proposed a menage a quarte to the Macrons.
The next day was all pomp and splendor on the Camps-Elysees.
Some horse poop too.
The band played Daft Punk.
# 45 was not amused, since he had requested Peggy Lee's Is That All There Is?, his favorite.
And like that Mssr. Long Tie was gone.
On Air Force 1 he complained to Melania, as she slipped in into assassin chic
"Don't worry, 45. I hit them hard."
She was such a good girl.
Except when she was bad,
As for 45.
45 was always 45.
Bon Voyage a tout.
