THE METAPHYSICIAN is an autobiographical work that sketches the flavors of growing up absurd in one of the most
profoundly debilitating, psychopathic, technological periods of human history--the period of 1939 through 2015.  This
time spans the beginning of World War II to the decade preceding terroristic, environmental and technological oblivion.  
The impressionistic, surrealistic rendering of the Metaphysician’s life helps him to corral the crests of successive tidal
waves of ontological disasters.

This is a fast paced, earthy book of a Metaphysician who begins life religiously in the Letter if not the Spirit of the Law
and ends life in the Spirit if not the Letter of the Law.  On a more Metaphysical level, the Metaphysician grapples with
the most profound questions of Absurdist Eschatology and Existence--of human beings and their special ontological
relationship to the Universe at large. Then he spends the next quarter of a century setting to music, sound effects,
narration, narrative singing and narrative chanting the great poetical works of World Poetry from 2000BC to 2015AD.  
This 175 CD one of a kind collection (1984-2014) now resides in the State-of-The-Art, The Axe-Houghton Multimedia
Archive Digitalized Poetry Database at Poets House, New York City. (Where it is naturally lost in plain sight).  But more
importantly some of the material is at William & Mary University under the stewardship of Professor Adam Potkay
Chairman of the English Literature Department, SCIAM Library at William & Mary as well as, very soon, the Vatican in
Rome (
THE DIVINE COMEDY).  It will be distributed to other major Universities and Libraries throughout the world.  
The center piece of this collection is the only unabridged collection of 47 CD’s (music, narration and sound effects) of
THE DIVINE COMEDY.    (See the Index on this Website for a list of the works at Poets House and elsewhere at
Universities, Churches and Libraries around the world).  Along the way and discussed in a later volume of
, The Metaphysician stumbles across (invents/discovers) the Speed of Darkness Equations.  These
Equations 1-9 (actually 16 of the Double Eight-Fold Way Matrix Equations) are discussed and analyzed in a later Volume.

It might be an understatement to say that one will read
THE METAPHYSICIAN with growing interest and perplexity.  
Although some of it may be difficult to grasp, hopefully this confusion is a tribute to the author’s ability to construct a
fascinating, elusive work.  (But I can assure the reader this is no terribly obscure
FINNEGAN'S WAKE--this is the real
deal vis-a-vis the Structure of this Universe or any other Universe).  Yet a reader may be inclined to believe that this is
simply a recollection of childhood, youth and maturity.

One may not be sure to know how to react to the manuscript.  It is a peculiar mix of Henry Miller, Hunter Thompson,
Goethe, Erica Jong and William Kennedy.  At times the text is brilliant, funny, ironic, clearly well informed and
articulate.  The first two chapters are slow but the super-saturated prose eventually takes off in a semi-humorous, semi-
ironic way, poking fun at itself and The Grand Tradition.  The parts that really sail however are the crazy Jewish family,
life on the “Gentile” steps of Albany, in the middle of the Space Race at White Sands, New Mexico and later the Arctic
years and beyond that span towards the Era of Terrorism and Catastrophes post September 11, 2001 and finally to
Grand Unification-DeUnification (2006-2008).

I believe the manuscript will take its place in the best-selling literary marketplace even if the reader is presented with an
autobiography of a poet-philosopher who thought he was another Keats, T.S. Eliot, Monet, Gauguin, Wallace Stevens,
Hart Crane, Einstein and Alfred North Whitehead.  At the same time the author hopes he is not alienating himself from
one possible audience-- those who know what he is talking about and who know all the allusions and think those canons
of Art and Literature pretty terrific.  To summarize: the book will appeal to the person on the sidewalk (as opposed to
the mean person in the street) as well as the person out-of-doors looking inward.

M. Abbott Lewis--The Metaphysician, AKA The Speed of Darkness





                  EQUATION  #1
                FEf = & /= FMf FC

(LOCAL---SyM - Gravity, G, Interaction not completed)


                      F2f→F∞f            F2f→F∞f
qpFEf = & ≠ qpFMf qpFCf  = &  ≠ < ±qpFGf > !

(GENERAL--aSyM - Gravity Interaction completed before Disengagement)






The Metaphysician was born in Albany, New York, April 15th, 1939--on Income Tax Day and the beginning of World War II
and a half.  He has a few vague remembrances of the years before his sixth birthday.  Therefore he will describe the subsequent
years--1945 onward.  My best friend was Jacky “Adorable” Highland.  “Adorable” Jacky Highland lived in a red brick
building next to our adorable two family adobe house.  Both our residences stood on a high steep “Galileoian” incline-plane
hill.  My house remains.  His house remains.

The most miserable and memorable thing that Jacky and I did together, besides the typical child's play, was to continually nag
his mother for cookies.  Then we would venture across the street to a vacant lot filled with tall arbor grass.  Even wild corn
could be found in abundance among the "goitered" trees and slinky weeds.  The grass, to our children's vast eyes, was well
over twelve feet in length and completely ensnared us.  It gave us the dumb, womb-like illusion that we were in some faraway
tropical jungle.  Perhaps it was under these fructifying conditions where my enduring love of the Amazon Brazilian quality of
tropical lush foliage first manifested itself.  The graves of grass gave me the strange feeling of a "twoness" with and above

It was in this vacant lot that I smoked my first artificial cigarettes.  We would make them from the frozen husks of abandoned
corn.  We would roll the sheaves and tie them together with the gossamer threads that adorn freshly born corn.  But the real
excitement of that environment was the fact that we could make little hide-outs and consider them our safe retreat from the
outside world.  Even at this young age, escape was the only comfortable means of incubating a refuge on the rim of Reality's

I spent a great deal of time riding my tricycle or playing "Cops and Robbers", "Cowboys and Wooden Indians", "Hide-And-
Go-Seek" and "King-Of-The-Hill".  But it was indoors, at the age of six, where my first creative impulses sprang into being.  
One of those impulses manifested itself while sitting at the window, or resting in my favorite rocking chair, watching the sun's
playful shadows gradually spread across outdoor as well as indoor objects d'art.  In truth, I don't believe that there was any
rug on the floor at the time.  Although one would have to crawl to my mother's grave to verify this forlorn fact.  I would
monitor the sun's journey across the heavens as perceived by the reflection of a shadow's “undulatory” movement across the
thread bare wooden floor.  

As the afternoon gradually matured, Major Shadows (the brighter aspects of the sun, as opposed to the Minor Shadows--the
darker aspects of the sun's soul) would gradually win territorial rights.  That was when my mind first began to function in the
Metaphysical analytical mode.  It would focus on some macro portion of basic compartmentalized space in a non-religious
sense and then draw universal, bombastic inferences (bombastic for a six-year-old) from the various qualitative and
quantitative aspects of an object's secular reality.  I would then compose (in the same manner that an artist composes)
juxtapose, compare and mix space with various pigments of congruent mass and energy fields interwoven into the fabric of one
another by the consciousness of introspection.  Eventually the shadows would predominate and darkness and night would
descend.  I was enthralled and fascinated by these as well as other colloidal and chaotic “collisional” aspects of undefined or
ragged (Asymmetric) and smooth (Symmetric)  Light-Dark (Darkon-Photon-Wave-Particle) Sheets.

But that was as far I carried this Metaphysical analysis of the Cosmos in 1945.  Fourteen years later I would take the next step
in 1959 and then accomplish the final feat of Unification 47 years later in the year 2006.  This then is in a real sense the story of
the 61 intervening years on the paths towards Unification-“DeUnification”.  Subsequently this pastime would ultimately
progress to where I would be drawn to the window to observe and identify cloud formations.  At these moments I would
partake in my first love affair with nature.  It was an affair with no less than one of nature's keener forms of observation--
Meteorology.  To this day I have not lost or will I lose the intuitive grasp that I once had of the structural composition and
various "underflows" of nature's deeper elements.  These magical surreal basic intuitions were nothing more than paying
homage to the various macro and micro-filtered interactions, "underactions", subsequent reactions and transcendental
relations that existed among all types of modalities.  It was the weather observer's impulse which led me to what I believed
would be my life's work—the vocation of the professional Weather Forecaster.  It was also an ironical twist to be aware of the
fact that two years after I was in Stage II on the path to Unification (in 1961) another Meteorological minded person (Lorentz)
accidentally discovered in a surreal manner (returning from a coffee break) the basic thrust of Chaos Theory which was a great
help to me in Stage III of Unification about eight years Before Unification-“DeUnification” (B.U. & D.U.) in the year 2006.

To view nature at its scariest, at its worst, its best; the thrill would be comparable to the enjoyment that youth experiences on a
roller coaster ride at Coney Island.  I would spend endless hours watching the clouds develop, mature and decay in order to
display their limitless patterns.  I knew them as intimately as I knew myself.  They were so much a part of me.  I was especially
familiar with the jet stream cloud inhabitants where you could see countless variations of formations being ripped asunder,
sent helter-skelter, tither and thither throughout the Jet Stream's gigantic wind tunnels.

My eyes captured them with a balustrade binocular like precision and with that special vision I felt transported up to them.  
Most of my childhood was spent with nature's grandchildren of intricate patterns of interactions, that is to say with the
"interchangeability" of the cloud systems at large.  Quite naturally the shapes that the clouds displayed would be converted by
my imagination into animal figurines.  Every species known to "personkind" can be found among the clouds.

These artistic renderings of cloud species underlay and prefigured the feelings that later translated into my ability to make odd
connections between two or more dissimilar situations.  
This talent bolstered my rather outrageous sense of the absurd concerning events in the everyday world.  My sense of
humor had for its nourishment an asymmetric gathering of unlikely and unexpected combinations.  But that in essence is
what real humor is all about.  The net effect of this oppositional humor would be my satires, parodies and farcical
pandering to a base reality.



I don't think that before the age of nine (when I moved over to Clinton Avenue where my life began in earnest) I thought
about Meteorology as Meteorology per say, that is, as Meteorology in, of and for itself.  For it was at the Clinton Avenue
address that I first began to keep formal weather observations and records.

During the next three years, from age six to nine, I had the typical childhood experiences.  One of the more serious
debacles I had occurred while I was walking to school.  (Yes, there was one other incident that occurred at the age of two
or three.  The only thing that I remember about that incident was catching my filthy finger in a milk truck's sliding
doors.  I managed to nurse four stitches and sixty three years later those same stitches stare at me from my past).
In the former incident, I was hit by a car.  As it turned out it was a minor accident.  An accident not unlike Camus' but
with a different set of results and not necessarily the same subset of mathematical implications for my future.  I was
stepping off the curb when a passing car caught my arm on its rear fender.  I remember falling to the ground.  Like little
ants scurrying to their underground nests, the occupants of the entire school poured out like pancake syrup to witness
this historic proceeding.  There were no serious results from the accident.  I was treated by the school nurse and that was
that.  Perhaps at that age the event was notably impressive because it gave me my first glimpse into the so-called all too
human condition.  I had had a glimpse at the human mortality factor in general and my fragility and my mortality factor
in particular.  It seems that children and young adults are blessed with the stigma of the illusion of immortality well into
their late 30's.

I recall a third incident that concerned bees.  I was out playing in the backyard one day when I discovered a bees' nest
situated on a hill.  I decided to investigate.  I did a foolish thing and came very close to the nest, actually ravishing the
Queen Bee.  In any event, I had aroused the bees' sympathetic anger and they stormed out of the nest like brigades of
drunken drones and drove me down the hill.  Dozens of them swarmed around my arms and I was stung at least a dozen
times.  As it turned out, although painful, it was not serious.  I recalled that incident many years later in a short story

I only mention this precognitive preoccupation with Meteorology to stress the fact that right from the beginning of my
life I knew what my life's work should be.  Few children would spend their time drinking on the table cloths of nature.  I
was thrilled by the onslaught of winter.  I was intrigued with the gradual clouding up of the purple skies, the darkening,
threatening conditions that preceded storms and the lit-from-within effect of leaden tinged snow clouds.

Ironically enough, eons later, when I came face to face with those sought after Blizzards, I realized that I had lost my
love for the tempest unleashed.  Yet today I could sit down at either Pole and be thrilled by participating in the lost art of
meteorological observation.  This fading interest in Meteorology as a profession can be attributed to my army experience
in the Tundra regions of the Arctic where Blizzards were an everyday occurrence and therefore they lost their fascination.

That is basically all there is to the young, happy years.  Memories will come floating back and I will speak
“reflectorphorically” of them if they do, but from birth to the age of nine, those are the basic themes that inundate my
existence.  I will come back to this period in my life often in my poetry in order to repay nature for the many hours of
pleasure she bestowed upon me.

When I at last pierced through the initializing cloud covers, to partake in mature theorizing concerning the nature of the
universe in and for itself, I made the discovery of a new view of Infinity.  Then I crashed through the Infinite threshold of
existence in order to describe the static and interactive multi-dimensional universes beyond our own.  Putting this more
succinctly, meteorological observation paved the way for Metaphysical speculation.  Meteorology is oddly enough the
starting point for a more naturalistic Metaphysics.

By my late teens, I had somehow managed to capture the raw fury and beauty of the continually changing weather
patterns in a group of rather adjectival verbose yet romantic lyrical poems.  In particular, it was the Grecian description
of the life, birth and death of a Hurricane that became the symbol for the life, birth and death of Poetry in the latter part
of the 20th Century.  The results of these musings were
and four lyric poems celebrating the energy of the seasons: L'HIVER, L'PRINTEMPS, AUTUMN
and L'ETE.

The recollections of my parents during the formative years have not changed through the veils of time.  One of the fond
memories was that of my father coming home on weekends burdened with comic books.  He operated a small newsstand
on Clinton Avenue in downtown Albany.  The store literally speaking was confined to the first twenty two and a half
steps of the basement floor of a small office building.  To protect him from the elements it was enclosed with glass and
wooden partitions.

He stayed there up until the time that the taking of bets on "numbers" became illegal in New York State.  The store was
chock full of comic books, candy bars, newspapers and other gadgets, all a delight for the weekend visits that I and my
two sisters made there.

In the winter there was no heat except for the electric heater that only warmed one’s toes.  In the summer it was stifling,
stupid, hot and humid.  The only relief came from a small fan.  The image of my father most remembered was of him
standing behind the counter of his little store wearing his money changer strapped to his waist.  It was the type of
changers that the bus drivers of that day wore before the age of the bus driver muggers.  Once, he gave me a gift of one
of those changers and I treasured it.  It is strange what gifts we really cherish most in our childhood.  Oftentimes it is the
simplest, least expensive and most counter-productive gifts that strike our fancy and allegiance.

As a young boy, I didn't mind being in his store unless I had to stay all day.  Then it became a bit too confined,
uncomfortable and very close in the summer.  It would become unbearably damp and cold in the solid winter months.

I suspect that before the newsstand venture my father dabbled in radio repair and might have had a small business
enterprise in that arcane field.  He was not able to make a living at it and had to give it up.  This business probably
existed during the Hollywood Avenue years.  He had a “black sheep” brother, Uncle George to us, who lived in Chicago.  
From all I could make out Uncle George was a professional gambler and soothsayer.  He made his living following the
horses' assess and traveling to and fro from race track to dog track.  He might have been in the real estate business as a
sideline, a "beastnik" poet or perhaps he even ate Rice Krispies in the morning.  But I'm not certain of those facts
either.  He was married to my Aunt Aina.  We usually saw them once a year when they would gaily flounce through
Albany in their bright, shiny Buick Roadster on their way to some estranged Floridian Track.

My father's sister, Edith, “liveth” in New York City and once a year, once upon a time, we would all hop into the Old
Dodge to visit her by "chug-a-lugging" down the Taconic Parkway via Old Route 9 (the Revolutionary War Driveway) to
181st Street and Saint Nicholas Avenue in the height of Washington Heights.  Naturally, coming from the tree-trunk city
of Albany, the trip to Titty City was always an erotic adventure.  Edith was married to my Uncle Max whose business is
none of your business but encompassed the first forays into color television.  Uncle Max "The Lax" had been an
inventor who was toying around with the concept of a circular color wheel for the improvement of color television.  (In
1949 color television certainly needed a little improvement).  The eventual design that color television was to take came
from RCA and not from his ideas.

My mother's brothers lived in Albany. Uncle Sam "The Gam" Trilling (Trilling being my mother's maidenhead name)
had a large newsstand one block apace from the old Palace Theater.  "Mad" Maddy Trilling was a gambler and made his
living by running card games for the local politicians.  My mother had three lively sisters, Aunt Rose "The Hose", Aunt
"If You Knew Suzy" and just plain ole Aunt Ann.
Before my birth, I don't know what type of delusions of grandeur my father had or what type of business he
professed.  He never told us, no one bothered to ask.  But when pressed for details he made some literary
illusions to his being a Pharmacist's Mate in the Navy.  As a result of this bedrock profession he either had a
hobby or a vocation in Basic Chemistry 101(a) and this was probably self-taught and just as quickly self-

In our cellar, at the Clinton Avenue address, he had a rather profane, elaborate, professional but antiquated
chemistry set.  Quite naturally I was fascinated with his chemical paraphernalia.  I would sneak down to the cellar
and use some unwanted chemicals for my own experiments.  But more on this theme later.

He also had a workshop in the cellar.  He didn't use the chemistry set or the workshop very much for they were
always in bifurcated, incremental chaos, dust-ridden and abandoned.  He either lost interest in it or it represented
some deeper mystery of his Agatha Christie existence that I would never fully fathom.  Occasionally he would
venture down there to obtain some tool that he would need for a simple home repair job.  I can only surmise that
he just didn't have the time, momenta, energy or inclination to continue on with his prognosis or his forlorn
pursuits.  He probably was much too busy putting food on the erstwhile table for his lovely wife and ugly kids.  It
was this workshop's Poe-like atmosphere that was to set the mood and tone for the amazing grace horror
THE WATCHMAN- later transformed into the Magic Surrealistic, Impressionistic tale SHADEED, THE

I don't know much more about my father--the man, or the boy.  Three decades ago, he passed on at the tender
age of 76.  He never left a record of his life's misdeeds, dreams, nightmares and misplaced aspirations the likes of
which I will leave behind for my powerfully grateful children.  Perhaps I am the living embodiment of those
misdeeds, dreams, follies and concealed and congealed aspirations. The Clinton Avenue cellar represented the net
result relics of a thousand and one failed, unclaimed, unlaunched enterprises for he never entered the City of
Troy, N.Y.  



For some strange reason, at the ripe old age of nine, we moved to Clinton Avenue.  I guess someone had passed
away and left the house to my mother and father, Aunt Suzy, Uncle Maddy and Uncle Sam.  Our family
transposed ourselves to the top flat of this two family house.  The back of the house stood on a quiet, narrow,  
lower middle class neighborhood street entitled Elk Street.  The frontispiece, Clinton Avenue, was a bustling main
thoroughfare with ample car and truck traffic.

The rear of the house was surrounded by a pea green picket fence.  The fence enclosed a small Irish Garden.  
Underneath the hallway stairs leading to our flat there was a large, nauseous green wooden chair.  It was in the
backyard that I could be seen daily conversing with Nature.

My love of cats sprang into being there.  Many a stray cat would wander in from neighboring yards and settle in
the ghetto of my lap only to be amply petted and stroked.  I immediately began to be attached to this one flabby
tabby.  But my mother did not like any animals except giraffes.  She refused to even acknowledge or let giraffes
into the house.  It wasn’t until I entered Graduate School in Buffalo, New York that I fathered my first two cats.  
Shelley was a rusty colored “Morris” like cat and Byron was a cat with fat hump, limp ear and pinched rear end.

Indoors a new interest began to awaken within me.  My eyes turned from staring at the winter skies, downward to
the lean and mean busy streets below where I became fascinated by the segmented movement, flow, power and
size of tractor trailer tires.  These spell binding observations of the minutiae started to supplant weather
observations.  At this time I was keeping a weather journal, making regular forecasts, reading weather books
from the local library and subscribing to the Weather Bureau’s Service of daily weather maps.  On my roof I had
installed a weather vane for wind direction and planted a homemade rain gauge in the yard.  I added a
hygrometer and indoor-outdoor thermometers (hanging like misunderstood mizzenmasts) graced the windows.  I
discovered some abandoned mercury in my father’s lab and constructed a crude barometer.  However, the
mercury continually leaked and would never quite calibrate properly to 30.00"-- normal sea level pressure.  I
finally purchased an aneroid barometer.  I would draw my own weather maps for local conditions.

In the off-season, so to speak, I could be seen in my front window counting the number of tires on tractor
trailers.  This occupation led to my keeping a record of the number of tractor trailers that passed my house on a
given day.  I also kept track of the names of the trucking firms plastered across their bows.  The company that
usually won the competition was All State Trucking.  This company is still in existence and is currently owned by
a man who was a good friend of a former mistress.  But more on that episode later because at nine I didn’t yet
have a mistress.  A close second was St. Johnsbury of Tewksbury.  But my favorite was Associated Trucking,
known in the trade as AT&T.  As far as I was concerned, the trucks’ sole purpose in life was to surpass the
number of trucks that passed my window the previous day.  I was captivated by the sheer power and force
exhibited by tractor trailer engines--the noise of the shifting gears and the carefree, independent lives that the
drivers apparently led.  Especially intriguing were the movements of the dolly wheels, the spaghetti-like
connections of the air and brake hoses and the jumbled organizational chaos of the totality of the trucks
themselves.  It became my ambition to not only become a weatherman but to drive a tractor-trailer.  This was an
ambition realized many years later while attending Graduate School in Buffalo, New York.

Once, while on one of our weekend trips to Lake George, my mother’s sister, our Aunt Rose "The Hose", related
a story concerning her husband, P.J. LaVine, our Uncle Phil.  Before they were duly married, he had formed a
small trucking company.  The company had become quite successful on a regional basis.  He was using tractor-
trailers to haul steel from Albany to New York City and back.  Just at the moment that he was on the brink of
enormous success he fell apart.  The government of New York State was about to offer him an exclusive contract
to haul steel in New York State during the war years.  He must have panicked at the opportunity for at this
juncture he sold out to Roger Sherman Trucking.  Roger Sherman went on to become the biggest hauler of
intrastate steel and a multi-million dollar enterprise.

While alive he and his family lived well enough in the New Scotland Avenue area which was the expensive side of
Albany.  They maintained a small cabin cruiser and another Chris-Craft power boat, dockside, in front of their
Abe Lincoln log cabin summer retreat on Lake George.  The retreat lay directly opposite Lake George Village.  
Today that property would sell and did sell on the open spot market for well over a few million dollars.

Uncle Phil was a handsome handyman.  He had cleared the wooden area at Lake George with his bare hands and
hewn an Abe Lincoln log cabin out of the wilderness.  The cherished memory of him was when he used to play
Santa Claus.  He would descend upon our Clinton Avenue address in full uniform with a sack full of wit and shit
strapped to his broken back.

He was a romantic workaholic, a gruff and uneducated man.  He could be extremely obnoxious and would tease
you unmercifully.  He put people on the defensive.  At the core he was a good enough person yet ignorant of
everything going on outside his own little world.  He had his one opportunity at empire building but didn't have
the business capacity to do it.  He would have been surprised to hear me utter in these pages that had I had that
opportunity during my promotional years I would have had no trouble building that empire.  He thought me to
be completely inept, shy and introverted.  These were all attributes in his mind used as evidence for my crimes
against successful humanity.

He opened up an Army and Navy store in downtown Albany.  One of my first and last after school jobs was
sweeping up, straightening up shelves and occasionally waiting on customers.  The business was actually run by
my cousin Sanford “Mr. Perfect” Levin, who married fortuitously Ruth “Boobs” LaVine, Aunt Rose's big busted
daughter.  Irwin “The Cliche”, my cousin and Rose's son, also helped out.  That business folded because of the
fierce competition of a better Army and Navy store down the block.  Then P.J. bought some land high up on the
apex of the hill of Route 9.

At auction, he purchased a whole batch of U.S. Army Surplus horseshit and at one time or another sold just
about everything imaginable from that field and warehouse--from gas masks to bulldozers.  In the ultra modern
sense he could have been considered one of the first flea marketers.  But at the time neither he nor I looked at it
that way.  I worked for him briefly at that place and then went over to my cousin's leased Amoco gas station.  
The gas station went quickly out of business.  His son didn't have the capacity to build a successful business
either.  Irwin (Uncle Phil’s son) then became a successful Dodge used car salesman after a succession of sales
jobs.  He never again had the courage, ancillary ability or imagination to strike out on his own.

My uncle Phil struggled with LaVine's Surplus Shit until his mid seventies when he contacted lung cancer.  He
had been a chain smoker since his youth.

The move to Clinton Avenue was a great transition for me.  It was at the age of nine that we bought our first
television set.  It was a Philco 12" black and white set.   These were also the years of numerous trips to New York
City to visit my father's sister, our Aunt Edith and her husband, our Uncle Max and their daughter, our cousin
Marilyn, and her son Keith "The Cute".  They were all pure New Yorkers with their delicious scented accents
with all the New York trimmings.  Her apartment was on West 181st Street and St. Nicholas Avenue.  These were
the pre-abortion years when the Washington Heights area was in its litigious pre-nuclear winter stages of tooth
decay.  It was crammed packed with the delicious maladies of Jews, Puerto Ricans, Blacks and Hispanics.  By the
late "1040"s" and early 1950’s the Bagel Exodus of the shipwrecked middle-class had already been completed.  
The place was beginning to look like a misplaced eye of a stoned hurricane yet it still teemed with cannibalistic,
"ghettoized" life forms.

I was stunned by the meta-massiveness of the cleavage between the poverty stricken, the power insensitive, and
the powerless versus the power prolific, power hungry, power sensitive, power brokers.  I was also stoned by the
sensual, humid, putrid, musty, oppressive heat in summer in direct contrast to the distilled bitter chaos of a tail
along tushy of a raw boned, saw-toothed winter.

My aunt's apartment building was a crow's walk from the barnacles of the Polo Grounds.  With a walk of a few blocks one could
peer into the never ending perspective caverns that was back then the New York Giant's baseball home.  I just meandered around
the aroma drenched bagel shops among the brethren, the beards, the iron clad commotion and the London, 19th Century stench
that assaulted the nostrils at every other pick.  It appeared to be a Jewish City, so unlike anti-Semitic Albany that was filled with
WASPs, Irish, Germans, Italians and “sexified” “Shixas”.  

Staring down at the Polo Grounds I used to long to see a professional game but nobody in our family, including the faithful
relatives were interested in baseball.  At nine I became a life long Yankee fan.  When we came to New York it was so exciting to see
a live game on television.  In Albany the games were transmitted on the radio via coaxial cable.  New York City had a half dozen
stations to our one--WRGB-Schenectady, home of the first Hipsters.  Yet, here I was at my Aunt Edith's, seven short miles from
the Major Deegan Highway and the entrance to Yankee Stadium!

While visiting my Aunt Edith one sunny family weekend, my father took me to see a Boston Red Sox-New York Yankee slugfest.  
What a semi-thrill it was to see it all come alive together with 56,243 other Yankee fans—sans Billy Crystal.  That awesome day
Ted Williams and Mickey “Mantlepiece” were both belting them out of the ball park.  But the cumulative curvature effect and
edge of gravitational excitement was diminished by the fact that I knew that my father had no interest in baseball.  He did not love
the game the way I did.  So we were there because I wanted to be there not because he wanted to be there.  Only take your children
where you both want to be.

I mentioned earlier that my father had a slight but perverted interest in golf.  I, on the other hand, had no interest whatsoever.  My
memory of that sporty sport was that it was tiring and boring.  I used to follow his behind and traipse all around this agonizing
golf course.  I obtained a few odd jobs caddying but I was too lazy and hated the game so I resigned forever and anon from that
career and all subsequent careers!  I moped around the course dragging those second hand rusty clubs.  Those clubs remained
rusted and molded away somewhere in the slave pits of our cellar long after my father shot his last game somewhere in the heady
200's.  But golfing was his way out of his “hermitism”.  Yet what could be more hermit like than playing golf alone?  His only
source of recreation was his daily, impressionistic walk around the surrealistic city of fury Albany, reading and an occasional trip
to Saratoga Springs to sprinkle some light bets on the Trotters.  All of these pastimes bored me.  I didn't look forward to the
walks.  He walked too fast.  But it would have been a complete loss for him if he had to slow down for me.  I understood and
forgave.  But walking in my future would be a passion that we could both share.  But as usual, in life, recognition of this
clandestine Byzantine fact comes oftentimes too late.

The other passion he had was for fishing but he didn't do that much better than golfing.  We would take little forays to Saratoga
Lake, Lake George, the Mohawk River outside Schenectady, down Route 9 to Kinderhook and further afield to the Taconic State
Park in order to do battle every Sunday with the 3 inch belfry monsters of the Northeast Deep.  Closer to home, we would head
out to Thatcher Park on frequent family picnics.  These outings left an impression on me, not for the inane fishing end of it, but
for the more Eucharistic picnic aspect.  I cast in bronze one of those outings in the first poem of my awesome career:

Later in life, when it came to judging my artistic merit, I remember this one comment my father made when on a rare occasion I
showed him my proposed Master’s Thesis on Time's Arrow in a Non-Relativistic Universe.  He read the first page of the document
and then looked up at me with a Moses like half stare and said: "you know Marty, you're either too far behind or too far ahead of
your time.  No one will care to understand this.  It's probably much too complicated for me and you as well as anyone else."  (Of
course, in the early 2000’s, we all know the direction advanced Cosmology and Physics was to take and my work in retrospect was
quite simplistic and conservative in comparison to the applied and speculative work being done in that decade).  I did not respond
in any overt fashion but simply half stared back at this crazed, uneducated but highly intelligent man, my father, and realized then
and there that the only reason I was a gentle genius was the benign fact that my father before me had been a gentle genius.  He
understood at a glance that my work would never see the light of day in my lifetime but that did not matter.  He also understood
the basic guiding principle of Infinitism.  He made no judgment, no criticism, gave no praise, comfort or advice--nothing.  What a
wonderful person!  Few people could be so objective concerning their off-spring's creations because that would reflect to their
detriment, back so heavily upon themselves.  It took raw unadulterated courage to make that simple statement.  What greatness it
takes to be so accurate of your one and only begotten son, who at the age of twenty eight stood before him-an existential and
artistic failure.  For all he knew, at the age of one hundred, his son-of-gun would still be more or less as he was on this awkward
day.  My father was the real or imagined genius of this or of any generation.

My one act of preordained momentum--that is to say, one of my few chores on Clinton Avenue would be shoveling snow from the
front and rear of the house.  This chore was kind of symbolically enjoyable but on the other hand it was agreed that even in my
pre-teen years I had been exposed to a lethargy lodged deep within my mother's bone marrow.  There was a lack of energy and
enthusiasm to dive into any absurd project on all fours and do it right.  This was a prototypical, pivotal confrontation with a
mental and physical anguish of weakness from deep within the configuration of my hereditary center of psyche or center of
existential being.  It plagued me all my young life and has been responsible for an apparent lack of dedication, my somewhat
neutral, anti-delusional, attitudinal approach.  It represents my erectile, penile and masturbatory approach to life as opposed to
the rectal, female and vaginal approach to life.

In short, the essence of life's essences, the spokes of realization, were missing.  To put this in another form is to mention the fact
that the things that make us what we are, the "thinginesses", were not there in abundance.  Reality was anti-invisible for me.  I did
not have existential endurance, lost concentration and developed an acute case of premenstrual fluid that manifested itself as
ennui.  In the same artistic fashion, like a young, ancient Philistine harassing the Lords of Palestine, I attempted to rush through
every project in order to get things done--to build the Roman Republic in less than a nanosecond.  I did not feel a sense of guilt
for lying back on the raft of subterranean consciousness and viewing the nexus of the ebb and flow of passing events.  I was not
then or am I now a Grecian perfectionist.  I did enough to get by in the “Sengalian” sense and not in the Hegelian sense of things.  
Lack of energy came from the psychological realization that most pursuits served no useful purpose beyond the recognition of
themselves concerning their own self-actualization.  All these instances could be construed as begging the questions of the universe
at large.

I would henceforth make referential thought statements concerning the spokes of reality and compare them to the universe in
order to form some sort of justification for the persistence, the very insistence of the valid nature of those referential statements.  
Naturally, not very much in formal reality, in existence as existence, can measure up to that kind of referential slide rule standard
of justification, composition and comparison.  The philosophical universe was always intruding and embedded within me and I in
it.  As a result of this reciprocal interaction were born the twin harlots of meaninglessness and absurdity.  They were my tender
hearted companions during my pre-tension years, i.e., the years before full employment and full fledged masturbation.

Most of the preoccupation of the human category of endeavors, precisely speaking, would eventually fall victim when compared to
the universal set of axioms of space as they nestle in their hierarchical cubbyholes of importance.  This prerequisite is not meant in
any degrading psychological sense, or in any downgrading disassociated sense.  For example, to get this snow off the ground which
is in front of me.  Yes, that has some momentary strictly American pragmatic purpose--a need unfulfilled attribute, the moment it
is considered in that ambiguous light.  But what purpose does it serve beyond the arbitrary momentary need?  It has no further
purpose to my existence beyond the compulsory necessity for the sinful act of removal.  Therefore the lewd act of shoveling snow
becomes some sinister, diabolical, biblical, bucolic blessing from the future tense but only the merest chore in the present tense of
being and the source of deepest ennui.  It becomes a holier-than-thou canonizing act of heuristic rebellion.

That same type induced ennui haunted me in Graduate School when I subsequently played center field for Philosophy and tried to
amputate the unrealizable connections to get at net understanding--the bottom line of feeling of inter-connectedness for say, the
act of riding the bus to the University of Buffalo's campus and the universal, irreversible, invariable relationships between the
cutting edge of practical Ontology for the layman in the immediate here and now.  It was very much like the hypothesis of trans-
versing half the distance from my apartment to the campus like a somewhat constipated like "Zenoian" Tortoise at half-mast.  If I
could generate the connections and make them, make their own sense, then nothing in proto-Ontology itself could ultimately make
sense.  These senseless things therefore had to be tossed in abeyance in the Arena of the Absurd.  These thoughtless actions, but
benign nonetheless, you must recognize, were not acts of criticism leveled at the linguistic quarters but subjugated some of that
criticism while at the same time warmly embracing, or at least abjuring their basic truths.

It is the question of how a certain path gets me from here to there in the here and now.  Whitehead tells us that life is a process, or
more correctly, even on his own terms; that reality's rims are a process beyond recall.  So then, where was I?  I was living this
ontological process but the process made no sense out of the self's self-hood.  The “Kierkegaard ion” problem became one of
wanting to be there immediately on the threshold of the Christian Absolute--at the absolute resolution of things or "thinginesses".  
This impatience led to malaise or an anxiety drainage that leaves one barren in one's own grave.  But only in the "Pascal ion"
scheme of things can this be understood.  For at this tender age I was confronted with the choice or leap into a "Kierkegaard ion"
void of fear and trembling.

My best friend during the age span of nine to eleven was Billy "The Kid" Graham who lived two doors away.  I had the tendency
to gravitate to the “unbegotten” and rejected and to have empathy with the “telos” of one who could ill-afford to compete.  Billy's
pedigree represented the dark, dwarfish tokens of pedagogy in my past as well as his.  Billy's family was poorer in economic
outlook and viewpoint than the Marxist oriented Lewis'.  He came from a gargantuan family that looked like strafed, over-stuffed
Billy Goats with inverted goatees.  They were under educated throughout their udder less bloodlines.  Bumptious Billy had a heart
of Kublai Khan gold coins with a murmur slightly attached to it.  Therefore this ventricular simpleton was restricted in the amount
of clowning around that he could accomplish.  He ignored the ventricle and played for keeps.  He maintained a dignified strong
counterbalance to the matriculating vision of himself as something less than the Duke of York.  His house relatives and he always
had a strange odor of sunken poverty draped around them like burnt “Teffilin” wrapped around Hebrew prayer shawls.  His,
Billy's odor, actually followed him around like a Russian photogenic kaleidoscope of broken dreams.  He was a seismic hero of no
great proportions.  A country bumpkin sort of contrary individual full of contrariwise, counter-clockwise contrariety and hard to
savor because of the simplistic way his pituitary gland gratuitously dangled softly from the kidney bean shape of his jettisoned
eyeballs.  He also had a thumping “goitered” neck but I enjoyed his company.

When baseball finally came to the fore and aft of my life, I had to leave Billy in a heap of prodigiously democratically complex
odors by the proverbial roadside.  His family did not think it propitious propinquity to partake of that sport.  Perhaps it was
because he already had a death sentence inscribed, bedridden and spin fed alongside his encephalitic oblong forehead which was
filled to the brim with propionic acid-- CH3CH2CO2H.

In any event, Billy was left to inhale his own complicated odors when Bleecker Stadium was exhumed for my benefit.  Even my
sisters used to say, "Billy smells" and leave it that.  It might have helped his acceptance problems had I carried a catheter of rosy
flavored lemon extract deodorant around to flagellate the fragrant air every time we came into mixed company.  But who could
have foretold in advance that that was the simple logistical solution to Billy's acceptance problems!  In other words, I was the
typical ten-year-old with the whole weight of an inverted, overfed universe on my bony shoulders and I acted accordingly.  

The next nearly important thing that transpired around this sordid time was softball playing among the avocados as an avocation
at P.S. 21.  When I began I was the worst player on the team.  The reason that I got to play at all was that I volunteered to catch
without an umbilical cord or a catcher's mask.  That was preferable to being used as home-plate.   I had no idea how dangerous
catching without a mask was until I got hit in the apple pocket of the Adam’s fruit with a searing, tear jerker of a foul tip.  It only
winded me but took the wind out of the sails of my fruity opponents.

Right from the beginning I developed a pre-natal natural wildness in my arm and forthwith became known as the Wild Man of
Borneo.  This was to hinder me in my future development as a Major League ball player.  I was a fairly good line drive hitter to
the opposite field.  Instead of going with that natural instinct I forced my hitting to left.  The game of softball didn't grab my
gonads so I wandered across the street to complete my Ph.D. of childhood in the St. Blessed Park of Bleecker Stadium and took
up the full time occupation of baseball in the mathematical abstract.

I was a well coordinated freak, light on my feet, nimble as a rubber thimble, with excellent reflexes, a good fielder, with a strict and
sometimes laser pin-point accurate arm from a measured Michelson-Morley distance.  Baseball became the perfect game for me.  
It was a truly heroic, “causa sui” lazy man's game where every once in awhile you would wobble over and exert yourself against all
of your gravitational influence by sticking out your gooey glove and field a ball or two for the folks back home.  Most of the time
was spent in a dreamy coma, watching the sarsaparilla swelling of sweet springtime cumulus in the virgin blue sky.  You lolled
about the field like a stuffed cow meandering amidst his own shit-balls and chewed aimlessly on your cud in orchards and pastures
of pubescent pleasures.

But now to take up the most important topic of the Clinton Avenue years.  It is really not a topic per say.  It is a place per say.  
Bleecker Stadium was 1,000 yards diagonally across from my weather bearing observation window at the corners of Clinton and
Ontario Streets.  That didactic group of ball fields and adjoining recreational areas--swings, volley ball courts, tennis courts and
bird “cess” pools became the staging area for the next decade of my supple life.  It was the foreground against which the Novel of
my existence had its moorings.  The discovery of this sportsman's like paradise could be linked to the horror with which Vasco De
Gama and bold Balboa clumsily discovered the Pacific Ocean of the New World.


                      POT BELLIED EXISTENZ

My relationship to Time, at this time of my disjointed career, that is my relationship to my relatives, was basically shy but
balanced.  And you know the way relatives handle shyness don't you?  They always point to its sly manifestations.  Talk about you
when you're in the room as if you were not the exact super symmetric composite configuration of that very room.  I was always
considered such a nice boy and I was truly one of your few, rare, nice young boys.  I was commissioned and sent into the ungodly
world by God Almighty himself, to be a nice boy as long as his fly wasn't opened.  I wasn't a bully of deep feelings or a “snot
nose” of a different color gender.  I felt sorry for the underdog, namely me.  I had a tremendous amount of snuff and empathy-
sympathy compared to the typical eleven year old on the street.  I was the Hava Nagila kid in drag!  So then, I was a nice kid and
that’s sort of nice in the “Orwellian” sense of things.  Of course, later in life, you pay dearly for all that niceness because the world
nurtures only bastards.  It's a Schande!  Until this day. I am not a bastard and never shall I be!  I would give a rotten kingdom to
be a bastard!  To be the Devil's right hand man-- his gorilla tactics so to speak.

The very next day I summarily marched over to Bleecker Stadium and began my illustrious career.  By this time my circle of
outsized friends had grown to include Kenny "The Dutchman" Wolven and Georgie Porgie "The Gentleman" Parker, both of
whom lived across the street on Clinton Avenue.  Parker had a natural flair for baseball and always fancied himself a fancy pants
pitcher.  He had a moderate curve, good control of his bladder but wasn't Major League fast--wasn't even minor league fast--
wasn't even Albany Twilight League fast!  And that's slow!  I learned my baseball from him and Kenny Wolven.  The Dutchman
laughed and giggled a lot at my laughing and giggling lot.  In a theoretical sense, Georgie Parker replaced Jerky Jacky Highland in
that we did a lot of that "go get some cookies and treats from your mother" crap.

Our schedule through the nefarious summer days started to strengthen and take on a lifeless form of its own.  We began the day
with a good baked breakfast of Puffed Wheat and Puffed Rice shot from cannons, Shredded Wheat, Wheaties, Cream of Wheat,
crushed oatmeal and three bears' full of hot steroid-laced porridge.  Then we would go up to the ball park and sneak in the hole
perforating the iron clad bars of the fence that held the Stadium a willing prisoner of 1950's peace.  Fifty five or so years later, that
bent bar and bent path over the hill are still intact.  The hole in the fence was on the Clinton Avenue-Ontario Street side.  I know
because the other day I walked by and went through it.  Yep!  I did!  I still fit!

In the park I would pretend (using a voice like Mel Allen, Jim Woods, Red Barber and Vince Scully all rolled into one) that we
were playing Major League games.  I had a voice like a teenage Frank Gorshin.  The voice descriptions that I did made what we
were doing more interesting.  All we were really doing was hitting out fly balls to each other.  Gradually I came to the stark
realization that it would be kind of cute to be a ball player or a sportscaster at the very least.  I also knew that only one in five
billion make it in these useless but fun professions.  I greatly improved despite the hi-jinx of unreality.  We got a team together.  I
was Captain Bly with a silver fly.  We challenged other symbiotic sandlot teams.  We formed our very own scruffy Free Mason
League.  This was the only time in my life that I was a part of group therapy except for the sweaty, sexy army years.

During the evening hours we played cards for money.  I never won or lost much.  I met "String Bean" Billy Green or just plain old
Greeny as everyone patronizingly referred to him.  There were and still are Twilight League games at Bleecker Stadium.  Greeny
ran (and his great grand children probably still do) the soda, peanuts, popcorn, hot-dogs, bases outlay and scoreboard
concessions.  He and his green family all looked like counterfeit dollar bills.  They had a monopoly headed by a Shylock named
Joe Schmo.  Joe took Greeny under his misshapen wing and Greeny, with a song and a dance, took us under his wing.  Naturally,
Greeny wasn't liked because of his economic dominance.  He, like his foreign baked half brothers spoke with wooden lisps.  Lined
up end to end the family looked like a failed Masters & Johnson Kinsey sex experiment.

Most of the ball players that comprised the Twilight League were semi-professional cast off bums from the Old Albany Senators'
urinal stalls.  Ironically they would end up in their twilight years, in the twilight of their careers, in the Twilight League, which was
a twilight zone of its own best kind.  For a dollar every night I would put out the bases for dear old Greeny. Patriotic Marty, for
another dollar, would hold the flag like an extended erection for the singing of the National Mayhem.  Alas and alack!  It never
failed.  While the game was suddenly joined Greeny inevitably won back my easily won money in the Black Jack games held
nightly on the apron of the green scoreboard in right field.  We got so engrossed in the card games that often Greeny, or one of his
doting slaves, would forget to put up the score and they would have to make a special announcement over the loudspeaker.  Then
the entire crowd of twenty five angry people would get their one and only sport's thrill of the night when Greeny stuck up his
middle finger and flung it towards them.  In those days the Albany Twilight League was serious business!

To earn extra money I would retrieve foul balls and return them to the foul smelling, horrid looking gatekeeper for a quarter a
ball.  Or if we needed them for the next day's game we would pocket them.  Bill Green, String Bean's older and younger brothers,
controlled Albany's first multi-city entertainment conglomerates.  Greeny easily made $50 a night.  He was rich compared
to us.  We usually gambled ours away--ending up in Billy Green's pockets.  But it was innocent gambling.  It was the first time that
I got a good whiff of what it was like to be down to my last farthing.  When I had lost all my money I would agonize, "Oh Christ!  
I don't have any money to buy a soda or a pretzel!"

I was getting a small, horny allowance.  But not much.  My parents had less money than Greeny made in a night so I really
couldn't go to them.  I fended for myself and tried not to put financial pressure on them.  But when I won at cards it was terrific!  
You were Black Jack King for the night and treated accordingly.  We all did this.  I'm happy to say, even stingy, penny pinching,
envy besotted gloating Greeny did.  But Greeny made sure he did a lot of perfunctory gloating, teasing and rubbing it in before he
broke down and bought you something.  It was his favorite way of getting back at the scum bags who made fun of his “cuspy
wuspy” lisp.

But what was I really winning!  $1, $2, $5 at most!  It was enough, however, to make you feel rich until you lost it all in the
following night's card game.  We were especially prone to large net operating losses of deductible income when we got suckered
into games where the older more sophisticated players participated.  They were a constant menace and crashed our games in
perpetuity.  They cheated the hell out of us!  But what were we cowards to do against the likes of 16' 4" Billy "The Kid" Kirchner
and his crowd of verbal vermin who looked to us like they had bloodshot heads made of cannon fodder from 17th Century bird
shot.  They really could have just grabbed our money and ran, instead of going through the chemically induced charade of playing
cards for it.  Nonetheless they went dutifully and dishonestly through their “scamy” routine.  I suppose one could call it some
critical criminal code of injustice.  

There were several circles in which I was a lower level functionary.  I was much more connected back then during my schizothymia
stage than I am today.  Then I was accepted and yet I always sensed that people thought that there was something different about
me.  Like a rare piece of furniture, I was not always there one hundred percent of the time.  There was always a some distance from
my Doti to theirs.  They somehow sensed that "yes you are with us, with this group, but you're also with another group.  This
means that you're not in your head of heads with us."   I discovered that when people sense you're not entirely with that group
they will never really completely accept you unless they have all of you.  They want the feces and wafers of your body and soul for
their selfish consumption before they grant you absolution and redemption.  They want to curtail your repertoire of interactions
within the soiled world at large and confine you to their inner limits.  Otherwise they will remain eternally, yours truly, jealous and
forgiving as fallen angels.  Woe-be-tide the separated self caught in the breach without political friends or waterproof condoms.

I sensed that I was unique.  I had my own private secret.  I knew what I was going to be--crazy!  I knew that I knew I would be the
direct opposite of a pathologist, a urologist and a meteorologist.  Other people haven't found themselves or were bouncing on the
tarpaulins of immaturity.  The catastrophic irony obviously being that they had found themselves without even looking and it was
I who had lost his way.  I didn't know that I was lost.   I was also the token babbling Jew from Albany's striated ghettos.  Most of
the other Jews lived in the Hollywood-New Scotland Avenue enclaves of “richdom”.  I was the only Jew within a 20 square block
radii who dwelleth underneath the railroad tracks and the kids knew it.  They were the typical bigots.  I cringed when they made
snide remarks but I wasn't a tough guy with a toughened soul.  I certainly didn't feel the need nor have the emotion necessary to
defend race and religious designations.  I was an Internationalist.  There were no “Entebbefied" Israelis to be proud of back then
or to strike fear in the hearts of Goyim.  All there really was, was Sal Mineo screwing Eva Marie Sainthood behind a purple dradle
bush.  In those pre-Israeli years there was some "Hertzlian" notion that we were going to pass over Israel in a super sonic matzo
ball compost in order to regain our maidenheads.

My mother kept a Kosher home and would flip out if my father, his father or his father's father brought home ham or any other
goy tripe that had been successfully dental flossed from between the cloven hooves of pig's brains.  "Tripe", just the very word
reminds you of cockroach droppings.  But other than a Kosher home we went to synagogue only on the "necessary" cause of
occasions.  "Necessary occasions."  Judaism is by its very nature a necessary religion full of necessary necessities.  Everything is
governed by necessity.  It would not look nice if you didn't go to Shule on Saturday mornings.  It would not look nice to an
unobserved, but observant, scientific, Catholic observer with open book and quantum pen in hand jotting down the fact of your
lack of fulfilling necessity.  This observer actually couldn't care less whether you went or not. He was only interested in taking
simultaneously your measurements, your position and momentum.  The observer hated you none the more, none the less, but just
the same.

My God those were the heady years!  No wonder Lucifer had forsaken his one and only lackey!  That is a real shell shocking
experience!  Sort of like coming home from an Iraq like Viet Nam and finding a fattened Jane Fonda stumbling sideways in a
strapless tutu.

Between the ages of 10 and 13 I attended Hebrew School and became the leading scholar of the day.  Naturally I loved it like all
the others down through the centuries.  It made me feel different from the other kids--the German Luftwaffe, the Italian Stallions,
the Irish Setters and whatever lay in-between.  They didn't know to what “Masonial” secret society I would disappear to every
afternoon.  They didn't suspect that I was davining among my brethren of the Sanhedrin.

This was a completely different group of friends that I was establishing a dynasty with in Hebrew School.  We formed a Boy Scout
Troop.  Can you imagine!  A Jewish Scout Troop!   Until now it wasn't Kosher to tie knots and lay in orange tents on top of the
goyish worms.  Jews didn't’t know how to blow farts or start fires with a butane torch never mind trying to rub two horny sticks
together!  It wouldn't be until fifteen years later, in the bondage shops of Greenwich Village, that I would learn knot tying in
earnest.   It wouldn't be until the 1960's that the Israelites would begin to perform the forbidden Catholic and Protestant
enterprises.  These then were my giggly years.  My best friends were the likes of Steve Lubin whose favorite topic was
masturbation in the shower using soap bubbles for a dildo.  Lubin went on to be a sanctimonious Doctor of Masturbation at
Cambridge.  Mel Silverstein, who masturbated and just didn't’t discuss it with his peers.  Silverstein went on to be a strikingly odd
looking neurosurgeon in Boston.  Art Cohen, who had a head shaped like a corkscrew in a partially opened bottle of champagne
where part of the cork has broken but hasn’t quite sunk to the bottom.  Art Cohen went on to be a doctor’s doctor.  Georgie “The
Gentleman” Parker went on to be a pharmacist or chemist whichever came first.  He graduated from the University of Kansas at
the bottom of his class—“Magnum Cum Failum”.  One of the main reasons he had been accepted at Kansas U. was that he had
finished reading Hans Christian Anderson by the age of 20.

For fun and games in the Jewish Boy Scouts we succeeded in burning down the tents on our very first campout.  At the first scout
meeting held in the cellar of the evergreen synagogue of my youth, me and my wealthy cohorts of future doctors and lawyers took
lighter fluid and poured it over the freshly waxed floor and ignited it.  Naturally it lit and the Scoutmaster, a bedraggled,
bespectacled spectacle prophet from the Bible, rushed forthwith to extinguish it.  He disbanded the troop on the spot.  Leading
and egging us on was a warped, Wilde-eyed saw tooth 14 year old communist gangster, Art Fowler.  Many years later I bumped
into Fowler “The Pinko” in a Grade A East Greenwich Village Opium Den.  He was still pushing left wing opiates for the masses
from a pill box at a Marxist-Lenin Combine Candle Factory located in southern Vermont.

Then there was Jay Katzel!  Now there was a character!  A genius of sorts.  He and I once went head-to-head on the old radio show
out of Chicago
THE QUIZ KIDS .  I think it was a draw between the two geniuses.  Ole Jay Katzel’s friendship stretched back to
the early dawn of my career on Park Avenue.  I met him going into the synagogue on the High Holidays as opposed to the Low
Holidays.  Jay’s grandfather (maybe it was his father) used to go through the uncongested streets of Albany-- get this!  Wouldn’t it
be terrific!  Could you see that same man today in our dynamic, no nonsense pantyhose of a computer ridden cell phone
besotted society doing what he did?  Even amidst the lunacy of the East Village or the controlled degradation of the Bowery you
wouldn’t see such a sight!  

It’s a national disgrace!  It’s an American Tragedy!  It’s a Schande!  It’s a Yisgadol, Yisgadosh, Shmah Rabah!  It’s an unabashed
Schande!  He used to go through the streets of Albany in a horse drawn wagon yelling “Rags!   Rags!   Rags!”  What a great
guttural gurgle of a sound he made!  “Rags!  Rags!  Rags!  Rags!”  His horse’s barn was 100 cms., to the right--in the center of
Albany, on a high hill overlooking a steep Rockefeller bluff that overlooked a secondary Fractal bluff which overlooked
Park Avenue.  The old grizzled man in his hay infested wagon, with his ancient, grizzled attire, would emerge daily, looking for his
daily bread and looking for all the world worse than the worst of his rags.  Today they would make him an honorary member of
Creedmoor Mental Hospital on an outpatient basis, diagnosing him as aberrant absentia--seducer of rags, smelling them and then
selling them short down on Wall Street.

Incidentally, his occupation brings to mind another way that I earned a living as a child.  How did I earn a living as a child?  Let
me count thy ways!  I went around with my customized wagon and collected old papers.  You just can’t do that today in our
liberated, no nonsense cash flow, bottom-line, right wing economy designed by “futurecrats” who resemble the backs of tarot
cards.  In order to make a living today you have to sell cocaine spiked crackers to orphans of Aids’ victims.  We went around with
our wagons picking up old bras and girdles, paper Mache parasols, lead pipes, brass knuckle rings and steel filings.  Then we
brought them to the local junk shop.  We ended up making a couple of “smackeroos”.  Today there is no thrill of putting it all
together.  I mean we literally went out to people’s dirty old dust bins and into their dingy cellars and pillared and plundered and
then carted the shit outside--arm by dirty armful.  We were a blackened and sickened mess when we erupted from their coffin like
cellars.  We tasted the ashy dust and squandered the squashed, squishy, indigent earthworms who brunched like rusty colored
polyps on the moldy encasements of the cracks and canine grainy crannies of the cellars’ arm pits.  We knew what it would be like
to be beggars in the pre-Nineteen Nineties era of the professional bag beggar personae.  One would get the perverted feeling of
going into other schlubs’ cellars and pulling out their filthy, besmirched rags.  Boy what a sustained thrill it was to go another ten
blocks under the indifferent, pregnant sun, pulling our gravitational wagonloads of paper manure and metal riches to the Ontario
and Livingston Avenue Junkshop.  I mean to us this was really big business at its best.  The “Weigher-Inner” would take it
seriously enough.  At least it seemed he did to us.  He would put our cartloads of shit on the big scale where tons of other scrap
chotchkas boiled over and his lethal voice would boom out “that’s 100 lbs!  Here’s $2 pal! Up yours!  Now get the hell outta here
and don’t you come back no more, no more!”  But we always came back.  Now I was rich for the day!  Amen!  Rich from the
bloody sweat and tears of our toxic shock syndrome rags.  For two or three centuries afterwards we would gorge ourselves on
penny candy.

I am doing and accomplishing all the normal things that a congenital, eugenically inclined schizophrenic would do during his pre
and post mitzvah years--the naive, asexual years--the innocent years.  The great years!  The fun filled years!  The guileless years!  
The “Wordsworthian” years!  What would it be like to go back to “Hebronic” School and Hebrew my way around the City of
Albany!  What a joy to behold!  Wouldn’t it be great to go back in time and pull that classical non-relativistic, non-”dopplerated”
red wagon again!  To be able to go house to house and make a couple of nuisances of ourselves.  I would be making as much as I
am now on Social Security!

My musical abilities extended far beyond the caprice of being tone deaf and into the musical instrument arena.  In my final year of
grade school, the 6th grade to be exact; we were asked if we would like to study a musical instrument.  Just for kicks, I picked the
clarinet.  It wasn’t long after the lessons started with good old Mr. Denucci that I discovered that I had about as much talent for
the clarinet as I did for singing or signing a capella.  However, since my Madre Mere had already invested money in the instrument
I decided to stick it out for what seemed an interminable while.  I hated the practice sessions with Denucci and his annoying

At about the same time that I was excelling in music I met Louie “Gumbaya” Rendano who was in my 6th grade class and lived a
few blocks from the Ontario Street Junk Yard on North Manning Blvd. and Livingston Avenue.  Louie took his lessons a little
more seriously and went on to become a First Clarinetist of the third order.  I began where I started, a Third Clarinetist of the First
Order.  Louie played in the orchestra and school band.  I participated rather than played but I didn’t march in the high school
games.  During the concerts I used to fake my way through an assortment of Benny Goodman  and Woody Allen roles by
pretending to be blowing in the mouthpiece and running my fingers up and down the keys.  I struggled with the clarinet for five
years and finally chucked it altogether in my Junior year.

One day I was daydreaming as usual while tuning up my instrument.  Denucci was dutifully warming up the orchestra by running
up and down the scales.  I was absent-mindedly playing around with the silver mouthpiece reed protector, slipping it on and off my
engorged middle finger when I discovered to my experimental delight that I couldn’t remove it.  I tried frantically to extricate my
finger but the more firmly I pulled the more firmly it established its “Gluonic” hold.  Denucci tried his many vainglorious attempts
and finally I had to be rushed to the emergency room where a bedazzled intern took some pruning shears and cut through the bull
shit and the metal and extruded my finger.  So much for the clarinet.

There was a time in my sordid life when I was as popular as a gangster rap rock star.  I was an easy listener, easy to listen to, easy
to get along with, gentle as a southerly breeze and just as well received--just flowing with the currents of subsistence existence.  
People liked me as the Hava Nagila Kid.  When people got to know me they liked and respected me.  You would think that a kid
like myself would be used as target practice.  But I was not.  You didn’t have to worry about rocking any boats in the late 1940’s
and early 50’s because there weren’t any boats to rock.

These were my religious years.  This is what I learned in “Hebronic” School while brooding on the simple essences of the semen
output of the universe.  It was hilarious to dabble in the double think of non-chimera choices.  It was at the age of 13, shortly
following my Bar Mitzvah, that God and I got a divorce by mutual consent.  I had to leave Her ravished and “rapined” next to the
roadside heaps of Billy Graham and Jerky Jacky Highland.  Today I wouldn’t mind looking up God like some old mistress that I
haven’t seen in fifty odd years.  We could go out for a night on the town.

The two strained themes in the pre-mitzvah years are running in two bi-sedimentary directions and thereby severing my personality
from its nourishing trunk.  I was enjoying the Hebrew and the baseball way of life.

At home I am given free reign like an unannounced King.  When I’m not in school I can do what I want.  I would walk in about
eight or nine in the PM.  My father would be watching television and say, “Hi Marty, what were you doing all evening?”
I, feeling very shy, contemplative, meditative and uncommunicative, had no desire to be cross-examined on my “comings and
goings”.  I answered with a few, quick, precise, severe grunts, groans and mumbled a few descriptive expletives of what I was doing.  
What was I going to say?  “Well Dad, I lost $5 to Greeny in a card game tonight, struck out twice and banged three hits to right.  Me
and The Dutchman, Kenny “Dances With Wolves” Wolven, wrestled each other to the ground, then giggled into each other’s faces.

As I aged I got more and more introverted and embarrassed until by the age of nineteen I never said anything to anyone.  I have a
total free reign.  I would come home in-between games and gobble down the food that I loved--peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  
At night I would consume fists full of the basics, steak, potatoes and corn.  I remember the one instance where my parents forced me
to eat something that I didn’t feel like eating.  My mother used to make us hard boiled eggs.  I would take the egg every morning
and put the squishy yoke in my pocket and dispose of it on the way to school.  That’s as severe as they got with you to make you do
something that you didn’t want to do.  They were great about such things.

I had no direction in the world because the world, by its very nature was directionless.  The goal and direction oriented propaganda
was based on the rather absurd proposition that there was meaning, hidden or otherwise, in the midst of a directionless abyss.  I was
not the only one that thought this way.  The Existentialists of the 1940’s went through a great deal of torture to explain away the
topological and mythological structure of the psychological universe.  Therefore, by implication and a certain ignoble subtraction,
the meaninglessness of human endeavors became a wholesome principal.  I did not just pull this dogma out of the hat “in vitro”;
because our destinies are counter balanced somewhat perversely on the fulcrums of a radiating universe.  I proceeded to hitchhike
childlike on the shoulders of giants until I realized that I had the original giant’s shoulders that everyone else was standing upon.

But let’s return to the basic “themeology” of my teenage years.  Where was I?  Oh, yes, so all this time I am completely happy and
enjoying myself.  I have no idea what pain lies ahead.  I have not yet begun to question and defy the grave--the cemeteries of
menopause, emptiness, the nothingness, the nausea and the vomit of an institutionalized, premenstrual, unfolding future.  It’s just
like Daddy Long Legs Wordy Wordsworth predicted.  I had no idea that the child seduces the adult.  If I had had an inkling I would
have clung to those EXISTENZ years and stuffed them like a model ship-- right side up in a bottle.

These were the years of the preshuffled deck of clear days of  May.  The clear blue sky was just like the one I held in the Palm
Sunday hands of yesterday--the year of the Orwellian prophecy unfulfilled.  These are the types of days that great theories are spun
dry and autobiographies are begun.  For in effect you can see clear around to anywhere.

I finally conducted my Bar Mitzvah at the Washington Avenue Congregation Ohav Shalom.  Ironies started to pile on ironies.  The
Shule was closed down a few years later due to a lack of attendance--no minion--in a direct relationship to the rise of attendance in
the American League of Jewish ball players.  The people were flocking in great numbers to the newly constructed, highly rectified
shrines that were springing up all over town.  The Shule became for a brief respite a Pentecostal Church ground.  When I returned to
those sacred grounds in my late twenties it had been converted to a temporary bomb shelter for SUNY University students while the
New Campus was being built.  Nelson Rockefeller’s Follies were being constructed in the suburbs of proverbial Albany on the upper
bluffs of Washington Avenue.  Imagine that!  Albany itself was a suburb and already it had its own suburb!

An abrupt change occurred in my life after my Bar Mitzvah.  I left Judaism in a heap and a holler by the wayside alongside of Billy
Graham and Jacky Highland.  I like to think I left it in order to enter the pagan, raucous years.  For I had long ago stopped holding
up my Macintosh apples to God so that he could wipe off the germs.

After milking the Bar Mitzvah for all I could get in the way of Gelt, I started down the yellow brick road of Thomas Mann in search
of a magic mountain of my own and rejoined the Neo-Freudians.  I was going to try to avoid the mistake of converting the universe
into a super symmetric force field as the only result of an overwrought “Einsteinium” bed time story.



By the age of 14 ½, rational perceptions and procedures were becoming vague, unreal, distorted and unrealizable.  I did what I could
about the typical be-bop-a-lu-la post Bar Mitzvah blessings and then an abrupt change occurred after my rites of passage into
“Nothinghood”.  The Sanhedrin religious passions of my youth vanished into a varnished transcendence of traditions, customs and
rituals.  I entered an era of ritualized Pushkin-like Byronic melancholy.

I entered the Catholic world in full force and in full wedding regalia.  From the age of 13 through 19, after school and during
vacations, I was spending my blood, sweat and tears at the ball park.  One of the first jobs I procured after my unsuccessful
gambling career, was at the Empire Super Market on Central Avenue.  It was at this first job that I looked closely into the essences
of most jobs, i.e., that they have the twin characteristics of unfiltered boredom and unremitting ennui.  The main thrust of this job
was bagging groceries.  We also had the dubious honor and unrewarding task of making sure that the boxes and cans of food were
all up center, up front, or up the prissy manager’s ass.  Nice even rows.  The manager would come around with the typical
managerial-employer attitude and say, “hey, you can’t just stand around with your hands in your pockets playing with your
adolescent dildos.  You “gotta” look busy.  We’re paying you a penny an hour!”  In reality you’re earning your penny an hour by
just showing up and forfeiting a major slice of your adolescent life.

Later, when I became the token relative working at my Cousin Sandy “The Searsucker Suit” LaVine’s Army & Navy store, Sandy
had the same attitude.  You would think that one could expect a more sensible attitude from relatives.  They should realize that it
was okay to exploit strangers but not one’s own flesh and blood!  It was either sweep up or get the hell out!  I got the hell out!

Each of my relatives had their own set of problems.  I have already mentioned my crazy as a lune Aunt Suzy a democratic doozy
who lived downstairs.  A woman after my own heart!  Never worked a day in her life!  Crazy as a bat turd!  Her brother, Maddy The
Gambler, took care of her most of her adult life from the left overs of his gambling goodies.

By this time my mother had descended deep into her self’s other self, both physically and spiritually.  She suffered from a garden
variety of  blockbuster ailments--high blood pressure, low blood pressure, aggravated assault, assault and battery, hypertension,
arthritis, Agamemnon’s Agamic Agamogenesis, cancer of the head, agrophobia and rheumatism.  Yet she lived to be a healthy
rhetorician until the ripe old age of 83.  There was a period between the ages of 40 to 60 when she suffered every deadly disease
known to womankind.  She had that stubbornness to persist underneath the droppings of her own isolation.

As I reported earlier, when “Numbers” betting became illegal in the 1950’s, my father went into the only profession left when one
fails everything else.  It is the second oldest profession in the world--sales.  It was the same position I found myself in when I reached
my 30’s.  He was a little more adept at it than I was because he was more friendly.  He was retrospectively literate.  He limped along.  
He wasn’t going to be a great salesman, a heavy hitter; a designated hitter or even a pinch hitter.  He obtained a license to steal at a
discount sales office which double “dealed” in domestic lines and oversized Tampon-Kotex pads.  He swam around the Ghetto of
Lark Street, door-to-door, collecting money from menstruating winos who would eke out a dollar a week for eternity in order to pay
for unleavened towels and soiled linens.  I vaguely recall that one day my father had a falling out with the manager and was accused
of something or other.  Probably the exact same thing that happened to me a generation later.  He had to steal his own commissions
in order to make a living.  There isn’t a sales job in the world where you don’t end up stealing the money owed to you.  He ended up
working his final job selling used cars to carrier pigeons.  Eventually, in his early 70’s, a laudable complex failure, he retired and
then died.



In their own way my parents had a happy go lucky life.  They didn’t go through all the supercilious, gizmo, Lamaze Classes,
abortions, separations, divorces, rap sessions or other Westchester inspired, liberal authoritarian, suburban-urban “tritenessess.”  
They were of another, fonder, far simpler minded generation.  They got along perfectly well without all the modern Geritol folderol.  
They weren’t richly in love, no extra-marital affairs of the heart to speak of or to write a best seller about.  Except to have three
children, they never slept together before, during or after marriage.  So what!  They weren’t any less or more happy than their
petrified neighbors or for that matter anyone else in the world.  They’re condemned by this generation because they were just simple
Simons, unredeemed blobs, not doing much of anything.  They followed their natures with only the most transparent of motifs.  
They owed nothing to anyone.

Then, of course, there was Uncle Phil, a working dollar bill of a man who built a summer camp at Lake George, New York
with his own dirty little hands.  It was at Lake “Georgie” that I was to spend some of my happiest weekends of childhood in the semi-
reclusive summers of the New Delhi of the 1950’s.  The Lewis’ would be the poor working class, be-trodden relatives that would be
summarily trotted out for their humility.  We didn’t have financial prospects to move up in the world of uncertainty.  We would be
the token servants and savants allowed to come up on periphery, preselected, preconditioned weekends.  This was nice of the
relatives.  But there was a certain amount of patronizing about it all.  We knew we were the poor ones of the fabled Clan.

I remember one enigmatic but enjoyable pastime I had at Lake Georgie.  It was early in the Chaldean, consecrated, besotted,
morning when the Lake was as clear as swamp grass.  You could see clear to the bottom where schools of Lock-Ness Perch hovered
over pornographically crouching minnows.  I took the butt end of a fishing rod and reel and waved it back and forth like a horny
Huck Finn, gesticulating, undulating wildly in the calm waters, banging the heads of the fish with it.  Most kids tortured cats.  I
tortured fish for a living.  It was a good feeling (a good way to pass the day) when the rod came into contact with the fishes’ skulls--a
rubbery, bouncy, buoyant feeling.  Now I know why the police enjoy cracking skulls with their riot clubs during peaceful
demonstrations.  They receive that same, intense, insane velvety cream cheese factory full of feelings, feeling.

Jews, it seems, are not fishermen or Fishers-of-Men.  To actually fish topographically correctly with a struggling, squirmy worm on a
rusty hook was beyond me and my ken and beyond my whole Race’s patience and endurance. Fishing is definitely a Catholic
enterprise (Macho-Mano Hemmingway comes to mind).

During this pre-Club Med. period, my cousin Irwin, would be out on the Singles’ circuit, on Weekenders at the Catskill Game
Farm, at the Inns of Lake George or in the spittoons of West Weehawken or East Paterson brothels.  He was ravaging an assortment
of women and at one of the Catskill resorts “Internationale”, the Concorde Hotel to be exact, he met his first of his three merry
wives of Windsor.  Naturally, she hailed from the State of New Jersey.  Who else would marry someone like Irwin who had a fetish
for multiple clean clichés.

This was my first contact beyond the world of baseball, masturbation and Hebrew School--the singles’ bachelor laureate world.
There was now the Jewish world I was leaving behind.  There still remained the Relative world of the present--weekends and
summers.  There was the world of school, the world of baseball and finally the world of the Stoop co-inhabited by all my cronies--the
dirty dozen.

During the winter there were touch and tackle football games.  Again I formed a team and we challenged other teams in the area.  I
was the Quarterback because I had a wild imagination and was the only one who had an I.Q. bigger than his penis size.  I would
dream up all sorts of weird, psychotic, antiestablishment plays--dizzying, spell binding multi-triplistic, multi-phasic, multi-spastic
hand-offs, pass-backs, spread eagle giant shifts, vertical and horizontal super bowl laterals and “scatdatels.”  I was as creative and
fast as the Statute of Liberty.  



We had a few borderline normal people in the family but most of them were legally insane--people like my cousin
“Twirly” Shirley Filson.  For some reason she and my catatonic sister Rita were very close.  They had less than nothing in common
yet Shirley was the only one that could pierce through Rita’s schizophrenic doom and gloom.  She was able to relate to her on a
childish, bitchy, non-verbal level.

Shirley was always carousing about town like a female built Paul Newman.  In “them” days it was only your dedicated tarts
and strumpets that would visit the local watering holes.  Today it is all too typical to breach this paradigm of female behavior.  
Shirley never worked a day in her life because her father was the owner of a fur store in Troy, New York.  Shirley was not by any
“stench” of the imagination an animal rights' activist.  Her father gave her numerous rubbles throughout her illustrious career as a
certified Trollop for the Smart Set Nightclub on Central Avenue.

Just about the time that it seemed she would have to go out and earn a living, simultaneously her father, our Uncle Morris, and her
brother Eddie “The Stenographer”, passed away leaving Shirley a dollar short of being a millionaire.  It seems that the Lewis Clan
had a dearth of people that never worked more than a day in their lives--rich or poor.

Shirley’s parents had a summer home at Lake Georgie which was set like an artificial jewel above my Uncle Phil’s.  It was off
the beaten path.  But Robert Frost would not have considered it the “path not taken.”  There, not a soul was able to view their
insipid anonymity.  In the interim, “Amenhotep” Shirley III went through a litany of 5 husbands and was dubiously busy shell
shocking a sixth.

We are all just little psycho specks adrift in a bathtub full of certain eternity.  Compare for a foolish moment, Shirley’s whoring
around and dyeing her hair a Goethe rainbow of Newtonian colors and then inheriting a million dollars for her effort—compare that
with the violent contortions of a wretched universe.  There is no rational, empirical relationship that exists betwixt the two.  There is
however, no need for the analyzers of craziness, i.e., the 20th Century behavioral “phenoms” of “vitalistic” micro-biological
psychology phraseology to intervene or to explain it to us.

We cannot void our collective and individualistic responsibility for our “fucked-up-ed-nesses” and lay it on our relatives’
doorsteps.  We have to brave it out and don the hair shirts of a Bully Geist of Guilt and wrap them tightly around our own gonads
and twats.

I am completely existential at this embryonic stage of my developmental passage of life.  I take seriously the existential
prerogative that Heidegger “The Nigerian” Nincompoop so off-handedly throws at us and warmly but savagely embrace it.  We are
independent modes of Being and more than superficially responsible for our own “Merdre” even though it be “Merdre” emanating
from other than our own animated fetus fans.  We have singular as well as a pluralistic ownership of our little psychic messes.  It was
at this time that a lot of these messy fragments of original ideas were parading through my willy-nilly synapses.  But Meteorology
was still tugging at my testicles.

This was my world in the beginning tropes of Schizophrenia.  I had my religion and my friends.  But to be a successful Schizophrenic
in today’s cumbersome, pragmatic society; you have to abandon your Jewishness and enter the cruel world of the Goshen Goy.  In
this manner you can relate to the pure havoc and joy of the non-kosher negative quantum energies of insanity.

I was starting to get interested in girls.  The little perky 32” AA “busty” types would start hanging around the ball park.  One
of the apostolic mirror image Platonic model blonde brats that I would naturally gravitate towards was Paige Phelps.  She belonged
to the Phelps Dodge Watusui, WASP, German-Polish Axis of the Warsaw Pact of Protestant Womanhood from the middle of Rundi
of Burnundi, Rawindi.

Of course she was a beautiful rosy hoax of a foxy lass.  On my very first renal attack on her person I made a subterranean ass of my
subaltern self.  I went to the Madison Avenue Theater and took along a pre-digital, pre-video, pre-VCR, hand-held Kodak
automatic focus camera.  I was so enamored of her that I was going to take pictures of her after the movie.

She sat down next to me but I happened to have the index digit of my hand on the seat where she alighted like an Australian
Butterfly on The Strange Attractor.  It was too late to remove it.  By the time I had extricated my thumb and forefinger from the
incision of her anal tract all was lost.  I knew then that Tom Jones and Lord Byron never got their first piece of ass in that invasive
manner.  I kept my reserve and grace under extreme “Hemingwayian” pressure and managed to snap some pictures by first darting
ahead then davining behind to see if I could capture on film forever the imprint of my finger on her deflowered rectum.  That
hologram resides today at the Museum of Pornographic Art.  This was a stunning example of my early craziness, for who in God’s
bad times “thenadays” as well as “nowadays”, takes a camera to a theater of ill-repute to snap pictures of the girl you want to marry
and winds up raping the rear end of her personae with a very personal digit?  This type of down casting typecasting event
foreshadows, with a pointed accuracy, to a degree not uncalled for, my malevolent greatness that will attach to a multiple sclerosis of

Two additions to my friendship list happen along about this time.  One yo-yo was called “Pumpkin” Harold Cookingham.  He
was nicknamed “Pumpkin” because he liked pumpkin pies when he was a baby.  In any association with him I never saw him eat a
pumpkin pie.  He was the tough guy of our crowd.  Another friend was Bruce “The Drummer” Allen.  Bruce would spend most of his
teenage years practicing from Gene Krupa records.  He even gave me a few drum lessons in my spare time but he soon realized that
his drumsticks knew more about the art of drumming on their own than I ever would.  We would spend the rest of the time playing
Tiddlywinks and Tilt games.  Naturally, because of his dexterous hands he always won.  Bruce wound up as a Death Row prison
guard at Sing-Sing in Ossining, New York.

Two doors down from me on the Clinton Avenue side lived Howie “Two Ton” Schmidt who went on to be a Nobel Laureate in the
Albany Fire Department.  And let’s not forget freezing frigging ffffFritzy Peters the erstwhile bully of the block.  Of course, there
were the older more Gentile crowd at Swinebourne Park, the older, wiser, more nubile, gentlemen farmers of the volley ball courts.

At first, our little crowd of dragoon beggars were doomed to be outsiders.  The older boys had hair under their arm pits and had
their little in-jokes and jibes.  There were a couple of shining stars from this superior constellation such as the likes of
Delahaney, Mooney, Bugsy and Joey Nickelson.  Joey’s family had money and he was a nickelodeon snob cracker with barb wire
blue eyes.  This crew thought they had all the answers to life right there in Swinebourne Park--all jerrybuilt into their sharp
“comebackers”.  Most of their older brothers, sisters and kissing cousins were playing in the Twilight League.  They were complete
anti-schizoids and were constantly stretching the girdle of my psychotic metaphors to their legal limits.

I was friends with all of them but there was still that certain distance between me and all that rabble.  For I was going on to
college and do grand things besides swimming in the bird “cess” pools of Swinebourne Park.  Most of these people were going to
wind up in the morgue of the Albany Medical Center after a brief stint in their undies of purse snatching, or brown bagging it and
brown-nosing in the State, Local and Regional government reservation sweat shops.  At their very best they might turn out to be
Gordian flute players.  Today, they are, for the most part, happily married, happily divorced, happily remarried, with stable jobs,
stable incomes and New York State pensions and have a life filled with unremitting boring happiness.

Nothing of a serious nature was happening at home around this time.  My sisters would have a series of menstrual outburts.  They
were in their late teens by now and going out on dates.  My mother was going through her blockade of diseases of the decade and as
a result my sisters’ boyfriends weren’t allowed in the house.

Often, from my vantage point of the second floor rear “Hitchcockian” window, on the Elk Street side, at precisely midnight, the
late Rita’s beau, the current Jerry Spero, came courtesy calling from the nearest Rexall Drugstore, loaded up to his gills with
over soaked Aids proof Natural lamb oily condoms.  He would stand outside in the blowzy weather and talk to Rita through the
screened-in window for half the date and spend the other half cursing himself, his destiny and the Lewis’ clan on the car ride to and
from our little house on the Albanian Prairie.  In the background my mother would be pulling Rita by her pubescent roots back into
her dungeon bedroom while shouting verbal “verbosities” and obscenities at Jerry’s “Tourette”, forlorn, moon-dipped, watermelon
face.  All the while I stood at attention at my window thinking nothing amiss about the common twaddle, comings and goings of
these window-sill suitors for my sisters’ hands.  I felt my beloved mother had behaved in a most orderly and motherly fashion.  I
thought for the time and the period that all mothers assailed and assaulted their Daughters’ Of The American Revolution social life
by pulling the short hairs of their daughters by the roots while showering holier-than-thou invectives on their prospective husbands.  
As it turned out I was right!  I stood by and took it all in exactly like I would do if I was taking another weather observation or
recording barometric pressure, dew points and the like.  Since beaus couldn’t come in, my sisters, being what they were (Eisenhower
Republicans in an otherwise Democratic Parish) were hanging out at the Y and going to Y dances. Nothing else really memorable
happened throughout the Junior High School or High School years.  I graduated Junior High School Cum Laude Lawdy Failum.

My second crush left a deeper impression on me but not on my middle finger.  It was with Carol “Mynt Green” Seashone, another
park filly with perfect 32’s.  She used to hang around the volley ball courts of Swinebourne Park.  I nick named her Mynt Green
for the color of the blouse she was wearing on the first day that I met her.  Later, at the age of 19, I took that name for my pen name
and used it for my first poetry book, MYNT GREEN’S: THE DISORDERED SPRING.  That book opened on Broadway much in the
same manner as did David Hume's or was it Thomas Hobbes’ book (I don’t know whom, but it was one of those British Empiricists)
to mixed reviews-- stillborn.  Mynt Green represented the free spirit and cool menthol fresh air taste of spring days in May.  In the
end, however, I lost “Mynt Green” to a Swinebourne regular, Bugsy “Dirty Fingers” Fisher--from the park crew of Thunderheads.

During my high school years there were a number of girl friends.  There was one very beautiful redhead, Cindy Kellas, an Irish
beauty of no mean proportions and a black haired Italian filly, Lorraine “The Vita Nova” La Bella--Lorraine “The Beautiful”.  On
the Jewish end of the stick there were two girls I was in love with: Barbara “Say Heh” Susser and Gail “The Beer Bottle” Schaffer
and two that I went steady with during the middle teens--Mary “T.C.” Rafferty and Carol “C. C. Rider” Cummings.  I garnered my
consolation from the lips of the daughter of one of the richest businessman in Albany, Andrea “The Deep Faulted Throat”
Tabachnek whose father owned a string of supermarkets.  I garnered my first Olympic heavy petting medals and cheap feels from
“Mynt Green” at her sweet sixteen debacle.  Back then the spasmodic relationships that I would have with all types of women were
beginning to foment with these first macho-man gropings.  That is to say, I would fall in love with them and they wouldn’t be in love
with me and an equal number of women would fall in love with me and I wouldn’t with them.  I never had the real experience of a
mutually falling in love and therefore by the theorem “ober dictum” the love experience doesn’t exist in its own right.

Finally, I lost my virginity on the Evergreen streets of Green Street, the Albanian version of a Juarez Red Light District of the
1940’s and 1950’s.  From my vantage point now, as I look back on the years from six to nineteen, which on first reflection appeared
to me as the uncomplicated years, were much more complex than I had imagined.  All the foreign born elements that display
themselves so ruggedly in my personality at present were germinating Mendel-like in the Skinner Boxes of my mind.


                    ROCK AND ROLL IS HERE TO STAY

My closest friend at this accursed pubescence adolescence period was “stewy” Louie “Gum Ba Ya” Rendano.  He occupied my
Italian Renaissance, “Duckass Haircut”, engineer boots, motorcycle jacket phase of my career.  Even Van “Goy” had his blue
period!  It appears that superior players have colored phases to mark their crucial divisional fulfillments at different times in their
lives.  I too had a black and blue period.  This was a period that was to mark a big change in all teenagers’ lives.  We were suddenly
shifting from the make believe Eisenhower, “Olly Olly Umph Free, Hide-And-Go-Seek” post war military industrial complex
mentality to the atomic razz-a-ma-taz of the nuclear fueled “Rock and Roll Era”.  This Era was heralded by the first official song of
“Rock and Roll A Billy”, Bill Haley’s ROCK AROUND THE CLOCK.

Even the fiercest critics of Rock and Roll fell far short in their predictions of the resiliency and viability of the genre to last more
than five years.  Seventy years later we are entering our seventh decade of this type of New Year’s Eve Party Machine noise blasting.  
All the changes that have occurred in our youth culture can be dated back to 1948-1952 (The Rhythm & Blues Revolution).  When
Elvis Presley cut his HEART BREAK HOTEL in 1954, or thereabouts, the face of the music world would be changed forever.  Not
only was there a musical revolution in the making but here would be the man who would be King.  Although, I must confess, no one
saw Elvis on horseback and remarked like Hegel did when he saw Napoleon ride through the streets of Paris bare ass; “I have seen
the World Spirit (Geist) on horseback today.”

The Rock and Roll mentality merged with baseball and baby sitting for Stoops.  Here on the Stoops of Albany we would be glued to
our radios waiting for the latest ear splitting release from Elvis.  Rock and Roll was truly a healthy outlet back in those years for
these were the pre-everything years.  It was pre-drug years, the era of beer and pretzels.  There was nothing but lemon, honey, wine
and roses.  We had our own version on the local level of a Rock and Roll teenage idol, Eddie “Phew” Plew.  Eddie cut his one and
only record during this craze.  Eddie was a graduate from our sandlot baseball league.  He made several dubious appearances at the
burgeoning number of record hops and “rock-ins” staged at the local churches and National Guard Armories of Albany.

Louie and I cavorted together.  We night prowled like two Protean overstuffed, oversexed Tom Cool Cats.  We double dated
together.  We got laid together.  Louie played Junior Varsity Football and was on the track team.  I joined the high school baseball
team and played against the likes of Joe Thorpe and Joey Landers.  I played alongside Richie Cronkite who went on to the minor
leagues with the Dodger funny farm clubs.  At night, Louie and I would join forces in his bootleg, zooted up, souped up, three wheel
Dodge Tricycle with overdrive.  With our pegged pants up to our navels we would raise the level of Hell’s consciousness one full
“Danteian” Circle before we would be through for the night.

Louie took on a conservative outlook and slow track throughout the rest of his life.  He went to St. Bonaventure and then settled in
for a life term as a Quality Control Manager at some ubiquitous, faceless corporation just emerging from a Chapter 11
Reorganization and became a full fledged corporate skank and finally retired on a dubious pension as head of Quality Control for
the New York State Board of Regents.  There’s an oxymoron for you.  He went steady at the age of eleven with one Janet
Smith"sonian”.  By the age of his herpes “ladened” Catholic Bar Mitzvah he had already indulged in most of the sexual prisms of
experience.  After Janet he went steady with Elaine “St. Bernard”, Queen of The Stoops.  Her parents owned the Stoop where we
planted our teenage assholes for the next five generations.  Louie’s mother didn’t want Louie to marry Janet (or Elaine for that
matter) so she prevented both relationships from maturing beyond the condom stage.  Louis also dated a gelding named Doe
Doe, a groupie cutie with falsies from the Lincoln Park Ice and Roller Skating coterie.  Eventually Louie hooked up with a cute
beauty parlor clinician from Ohio who happened to breeze through Albany late one Sunday afternoon.  Donna and Louie, right at
this very moment, are happily married on the outskrits of Albany.  

In high school, I’m becoming more and more detached.  I began to accumulate a small coterie of friends like Casey “At the Bat”,
the “chewing constantly chewing” Shippey and the Bianchinos (named after the Chinos Pantaloons and Louie’s next door
neighbors) Mike and Ritchie.  Both of whom went on to be Viet Nam War Lords.  Mikey did a brief stint as a Hollywood stunt man
and then retired to an Arizona Army Terrorist training camp in order to teach novice marines the fine art of killing at a distance in
preparation for World War III.  I must also give honorable mention to the likes of Johnny Wickert, who at different times in my
indifferent career, kept popping up in the strangest places thousands of miles from our hometown.  It was from John Hayner from
back in the grade school days where I contacted the habit of always carrying a book.  Ray Martone, a close buddy, was one of the
first contenders on the “Bowling For Dollars” TV show and went on to be a Punch and Judy card for the Department of Motor
Vehicles.  Joe “Wing It” Thorpe was a better pitcher than Georgie “Porgie” Parker and was scouted and hounded by the Cleveland
Indians.  (Scouting Report--”had the control but not the speed”.  End of career).  Bob “The Sailor Hat” Sealsey, was the only person
to win consistently in our card duels with Greeny.  Norm “Shindig” Schindler was the person I almost beat out for the batting crown
in my high school senior year.  It was that same year that he was being boondoggled by the New York Giant Boy Scouts.  Finally,
there was Nicky “The Sickie” Chambermaid Chamberlain.  He was the only one of our crowd that had enough sense to talk to
himself backwards.  He went vocally insane before it became fashionable to do so on the Sodom and Gomorra streets of  Albany,
New York.

As a general rule of thumb I am not really a Five Star General in the crowd at large.  I feel at the gut level that I am still going into
Meteorology but there is no one around to relate to on the meteorological level.  I am in a non-person’s land.  I am doing average
school work and my grades are mostly circled 65’s.   I never open a book except to study for an exam or two.  I’m not
scholarship material.  I’m not even a bankable school loan prospect.  Like the GRADUATE I have no idea as I approach my senior
year what I am going to do when I graduate.  I haven’t laid the ground work in math and physics so dearly necessary but irrelevant
to take up official Meteorology at the one or two universities that offered it during that timeframe.  Those universities were New
York University and Chicago University.  I certainly couldn’t afford those expensive schools even if I had had the marks to go there.

So once upon a dreary day I ups to my father and then he ups to me.  “Well, Marty, what are you going to do next year?”  Then he
did a Carmarthenshire dyslexic back and about face.  I thought about it for three and a half minutes and responded in kind with
confidence and aplomb.  “Everyone else from our school is off to college, off to jail, off to the army, off to the races at Saratoga, off
their rocker or off to a full time lifetime job with the State.  I think I’ll go to college just for kicks!.  I have two friends, not close
friends mind you, but friends nonetheless.  We’ll form a car pool and commute to Hudson Valley Technical Institute and I’ll become
an electrical Whiz Kid.”  Today I would give my right “cancerated” ball to start all over again and take serious my interest in the
colloquial aspects of that line of pursuit for it offers serious recourse in the practical business of making a living in the reflexive here
and now.

In those days, tuition at Hudson Valley Technical Institute didn’t yet surpass the National Debt and was only a few hundred hard
earned rubbles.  Most of this treasonous ransom was paid for by the Scholar Incentive Awards doled out by the State
“Whoreacrats”.   My parents paid for books, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and methane gas distilled from horse manure.  I
formed a car pool with “Handsome” Joe Downs, Jeffrey “Groggy Froggy” Miller and Dave “The Bookie” LeVine.  Dave had taken
all the off-track football betting action at Albany High School.  LeVine was a four eyed cretin with a potato chip wise half-time
smile.  So I was off to find the wonderful Quantum Electrical Wizard of Oz in Troy, NY!

Before I leave the high school years forever in bliss and bathos, I must mention one of my childhood friends of this Black and Blue
Period-- Joe “The Bullshitter” Trillio.  Joey lived down the block on the opposite side of Elk Street.  His father was an Italian
Scallion brought up in the old secant logarithmic Sicilian School of Tough--strong as a sideboard of Schnauzer salami steel, a
barrel chest with an oil and vinegar accent and bowdlerized boulder of a body to match.  His grocery store was a mom and pop
extravaganza opposite the Ontario-Livingston Avenue Junk Shop Complex Mall.  

Joey had some older sisters who were married and out of the house and a live-in old maid sister, the chubby Samaritan “Sweet
Serene” Serina Trillio.  Many’s the time we would charge admission to crowd around her bedroom window and watch her struggle
out of her Maidenform Bra and Girdle.  For a double feature, on some of those lusty Saturday nights, Freezing Frigging FFFFFritzy
Peters, Howie Schmidt, Bobby Haywood and I, et. al  Elk Street regulars would watch “Saint” Burnadette, an unearthly “eating
stuff” blonde (who lived next door to Joey) do her nightly strip tease and then exercise her clitoris.  Joey had one other tormenting
sister, “Queen” Cecilia.

As I had mentioned earlier, my father had a chemistry set which he didn’t use but on occasions I did.  Besides ferreting out mercury
for my thermometer and barometer making enterprises I scoured the brown weather beaten bottles for other concoctions and
brought them and various glassware (retorts, beakers, flasks and tubes) to Joey’s cellar.  Joey had recently purchased a chemistry set
of his own and had an abiding although short lived interest in that arcane field.  So did I.

We began innocently enough, running through the juvenile experiments outlined in the book which accompanied the set.  We soon
became bored with the simplicity and dullness of the basic level effects.  After about three or four days of turning litmus into purple
toilet paper and into an embarrassing array of Goethe like colors and then learning how to distinguish Fatty Arbuckle acids from
stolen bases, we decided we needed something more explosive to investigate. We began to experiment with potential rocket fuels
(made out of gunpowder-sulfur, charcoal, magnesium and potassium nitrate).  Joey was good with his hands (the after effects of his
mastabutory efforts) so he built a mock-up model of a rocket which stood about one and half feet off the ground stripped to its
waist and looked like a mirror image of "SETI" Carl Sagan.  We painted it an interesting shade of turquoise red, hollowed out the
fins and packed them with superheated gun powder and threw in every other unstable chemical compound we could lay our hands
on.  We hiked up to Bleecker Stadium and strung a lengthy fuse wrapped in gunpowder dipped in lighter fluid around the rocket.  
Amidst the pompous ceremony and after the greatest of fanfares, the rocket was propelled up to 300 feet.

Following this success, we were anxious to outdo ourselves and make and detonate nitroglycerin.  We didn’t quite get the ingredients
right.  It was fortunate for us that our apparatus was not sophisticated enough to produce the Nitro G.

But one fine day our “Nobelian” careers in rocketry and explosives was about to come to a stunning conclusion.  Louis, Joey and I
were experimenting with a new type of gunpowder that we had whipped up the previous night.  Louie decided it was his turn to light
up the charge.  On the first go-around it didn’t ignite or so he thought.  He reached out to grab it and it went off in his hand.  By the
time the dust had cleared, Sweet “Serene” Serina Trillio, rushed out in her Playtex Girdle and whisked Louie to the emergency room
where he was treated for third degree burns of his fistula.  Serina passed some gas and then passed the information on to Tough
Sammy and Tough Sammy forbade us forever and anon from using Joey’s chemistry set.

Since I didn’t have much of a family life, I used to hang around Joey’s Home For Platonic Pharisees and mooch love, affection and
good Catholic food.  His mother would make delicious tasting Italian Combo sandwiches.  This was the kind of food that I just
knew would send me straight to the Jewish "Gehenna" (Schenectady-On-The-Mohawk) if Jehovah were to find out about it.  I kept
it a lifelong secret from His Holiness and was never punished.  The sandwiches were the perfect diet supplement to my peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches.  I considered Mrs. Trillio runner up inventor for the first Italian Combo Wedges that were the forerunners of
the Submarine Heroes that the delis today use in their war with the bankrupting tactics of the computerized supermarkets.

In a certain horrendous sense Joey was a whipped Victor Hugo outcast but a personable fellow nonetheless.  He was not an Arnold
Palmer sportsman or particularly attractive.  As he aged he grew bald but trimmed off some of his Italian fat.  At one time he had
some ridiculous notion of becoming a sado-masochist chemist.  He took up that obtuse subject for one year at Hudson Valley
Technical Institute but gave it up and opened a liquor store.  When his old man died he left Joey the turn key operation grocery
store.  When Joey failed at his old man’s grocery store and his own liquor store, he opened up another grocery store at the Third
Street and Ontario corners on the same side of the infamous “Junk Shop” of my lucrative childhood.

Joey’s only claim to fame, besides me, was “Willy Nilly” William Devane.  Eventually Joey became a footman in William
Devane’s entourage.  Every time he would visit Albany, Joey would be allowed to carry Willy around in his hammock like a
judicious pall bearer.  Willy and Joey used to carouse around the local pubs of Albany shooting darts, blowing farts and “shooting
the shit”.  Joey would lend “Weeping” Willy money and give him his shoulder to cry on.  Everyone cried on Joey’s two by four
shoulders--especially when he became chief bartender at a local high school-college hangout in downtown Albany--Gasberry’s.  I too
hit Jolly Joey up for  mommy’s money from time to time and most notably the time I got a notion in my silly head to self-publish
my first book of poetry  THE DISORDERED SPRING.  I guess I knew even at that early stage in my artistic career that I would
never be legitimately published during my lifetime unless I did it myself.  I was much too good.

At the age of 19 and fourscore I went to Joey and asked him to co-sign a student loan, the proceeds of which I would use for the
project.  We would both get rich and famous.  Can you imagine getting rich on Romantic Poetry!  He agreed and so a star was
born!  THE DISORDERED SPRING was published by a press called Vantage in 1965.  Although neither of us knew it at the time, a
revolution in poetry was beginning which spelled doom for the political, social, psychological claptrap hacks which had up to this
day and age passed poetical wind and passed for Post Modern Poetry.  It wasn’t until the year 2015, over fifty years later, did it
dawn on anyone of that landmark status that would attach to this slim volume of verse which is now extinct.  I was an endangered
species. Of course, I suspected the consequences of that book at that time and in his own way so did Jolly Joey.

The Work, like Hobbes’, came still-born off the press to the sound and fury of one hand clapping in a forest of non-believers.  The
Empiricists’ revolution had begun much in the same manner when it brought to bear fruit shortly after Hobbes (or was it David
Hume?) stubbed their respective toes on the stones of reality only to discover that indeed there might be a world out there instead of
the Blake-”Berkerlyian” “hokum-pokum”.

Willy Devane, of course, went on to Hollywood fame and bona fortuna.  But he never quite made super star status.  Nobody from
the City of Albany had yet reached the fame that I would attain.  If we translate that into terms that we can understand that means
posthumously, Philosophy and English Literature 4, Theater and Mass Illusion 3.  In those days Devane was just one of  Joey’s
cronies, a hanger-on and a Trillio Bar Bunny.

Since Joey wasn’t very popular during his middle-finger fucking teenage years, being fat, lazy and good for nothing, he and I
watched a lot of TV together while munching on our Fritos and Italian goodies.  Ironically, Joey got on quite well financially.  It was
mostly due to the Shekels he saved from his bar hustling days.  He acquired a sexy wife which surprised everyone including his
friends, enemies, me and especially his old man.  This brings me to his old man.

His old man had an interesting career.  During the bootlegging days he supplied the local gangsters with regional quench “thirsters”
brewed in the marble vats in his cellar.  Occasionally a gangster or two from New York City would hustle up to Albany on his day
off and try to expand his markets and flex his inflexible muscles.  Joey’s father told us once and for all, a story, a true story.  It must
be true because Italian stereotypes don’t lie.  They have no need to pinch anyone least of all to impress themselves.  They are for all
intents and purposes egoless maestros of kindness, violence and maniacal madness.  The story he trotted out was that Legs Diamond
had many business interests in Albany.  Legs was always on the lookout for expanding his bootleg operation in order to amass more
distribution and manufacturing points of departure.

One Spencer Tracy oboe of a day, Legs with a ocarina dangling from his torso, showed up at Sam “The Tough” Trillio’s doorstep
with a couple of hungry salami benders in tow.  He was going to attempt to convince Joey’s papa to use his facilities as an East
Coast Research Brewery.  Legs would fully fund the Foundation with a downstate Arts and Farts Grant.  When Legs was announced,
“Tough Sammy” came to the head of the stairs with a sawed-off gherkin Shot Gun and told “leggy” Legs and his Anna Karina
henchmen to “gett-a the hell-a outta Albany-a!”  Legs did!  For good!  After that Legs never approached Sammy or showed up at the
bottom of the stairs again!  In fact Legs never showed up anywhere again.  Mr. Trillio was one tough Sicilian.



Tough Sammy’s favorite good morning epitaph greeting to Joey everytime he was in a bad mood was “hey-a, youa Guinea fatta
bastard-a.  I’m going-a breaka your-ahead-a and your a fuckin face-a.  Getta the hell outta here-a before-a I’m gonna kicka
your-a wop-a assa into your-a brains-a!”  Then to “me-a”.  “Thatta goes-a for you-a too-a, you skinny Irishman!”  (All Jews were
Irishmen to Joey’s old man).  “You basta”.  I loved Joey’s old man.  So did Joe.  So did everyone!  We loved the whole criminally
insane family.

Joe inherited from his mother the ancient Jesuit habit of carrying his old man’s snub-nosed 38 revolver strapped to his clammy
crotch to the Junior and Senior Proms.  However, she was an excellent cook.   She kept her own Italian Oath of Silence and in her
tiddlewink efficient manner saw to it that Sam “The Tough” Trillio and the rest of his Hoboken born Family towed the horrific
line of nobility and honor.  Once in a great while she would up and box Sammy’s ears, nose and throat.  She was a real Baptist
Episcopalian Specialist.

When Sammy was in a good mood his greeting, with a wry, spry smile, would be “nice-a daya.  The King-a of the shit house-a,
Joey, is on-a da throne-a (the toilet).  ‘Hey-a Joey, getta da hella outt-a here-a!  We needs da sheets for da table-a!  That nice
Jewish fart Irish bum is here-a!  Marty, you know-a I knew-a your-a Uncle “Mad Maddy The Hatter The Gambler” and Sama
“The Store” Trilling before they died-a.  Two gooda Jews-a.  Honest-a bastards Jew-a boys-a.  They runna an honest-a game-a.  
Any relative of “Mad Maddy” is a friend-a minea.  Comma on-a ina and getta some good-a food-a for a change-a.’”  Then he
would personally make me an ionized sandwich and reminisce of the good ole days of the 20’s and 30’s.  All this time would not be
wasted however, because Joey would be jerking off to the latest bunny photo in PLAYBOY MAGAZINE  in the middle of his
sunken bathroom.

“Heya Joey, why-dunna youa take-a after this good-a looking Jew-a boy-a.  Hees-a smarta assa boy-a.  Heesa a going to be-a
somebody.  Notta like you-a, you fatta dumba son-a-bitcha, farthead King of da Shit-a House-a.”  He would end his civilized
proclivities for conversational French when Joey exited the bathroom with a wicked split fingered fork slap across the back of
Joey’s head.  “Youa fatta sloba, getta your bigga assa outta here-a youa load of constipated horse-a shit-a!  Gett-a off-a your-a
Throne-a and getta to work!”  With that bit of mucus off his chest, his tuberculin old man was off to the grocery store.  Joey never
got off the Throne for very long, or went to work and I never got to be a somebody.  I did get to be a nobody.  Poor “Tough”
Sammy Trillio.  He was a good soldier but a lousy prophet!  He was the only Italian Talenica I knew of who could stand in the
nude and recite verbatim from Paragraph Nine of the Declaration of Independence backwards and still be considered an attractive
bow-legged man.

Meanwhile, back at Hudson Valley Tech., Electrical Engineering became a chronic bore.  My imagination’s fancy was beginning to
take on a romantic, Childe Harold, melancholic thrust.  I am on the verge of making a major break with my Albanian past.  I
didn’t relate at all well to the “Maxwellian” Mesh of Electrical Engineering pre-quantum courses.  I spent a year or so dabbling in
preventive maintenance for the pretentious circuitry of blown light bulbs and contentious looking condensers.  I ended that bit of
electrical chicanery by choking to death on Ohm’s Law (I x E over God forsaken R sakes).  It would be an "erstwhile and a half"
before I would become a quantum mechanical genius in my own right.

At the conclusion of my rookie year (when it became apparent that I wasn’t going to be voted the most valuable electron) I said to
my own benign self.  “Now what am I going to do?”  (Since that thirsty question was first posed I have asked it at least thirty times
in my stunning career).

In those days, the only path open to a half crazed electron quark was enlisting as a neutrino in the United States Army.  I started
to “ponderate” to myself.  “Well, I should become a marching meteorological menace by tickling thermometers under their
mercurial chin bones.  This, as it turned out, was one of the most sensible and seismological astute moves in the not too profitable
chess match of my life.  By becoming a simplistic pawn, pursuing an army career properly and by not succumbing to military
toadyism, I would have become a legitimate meteorologist for the rest of  my “nightmarish” life.   It wasn’t meant to be.  I started
to lose my toehold on my meteorological wet dreams.

The second important thing that happened at this time was that I was beginning to get my first writing erections.  Before enlisting
in the army I would take early 19th century walks by myself in Washington Irving Park.  I would sit and withdraw from reality at
eight feet per second every second.

One day, at the end of a fairly snowy February day, I walked into the Double Entendre Library situated on the corners of Northern
Blvd. and George Washington Avenues--the corner where Washington slept over.  I was poking my Grapes of Wrath speckled
fingers through the poetry section for no particular reason, when I pulled out a book at random with itself.  I read one of the
poems.  I remember exclaiming “Eureka! and then streaked bare-ass up Central Avenue yelling “I could so something as bad or
worse than this!”   It wouldn’t be until a year later, on that very same pessimistic February date, that I would pen my first verse
THE PERSIAN SORCERESS OF THE THATCHERS and thereby get in touch with the carpi-diem of my wretched soul.

My first writings would commence that spring in Swinebourne Park when I began a fanciful novel under the pen name of Mynt
Green (my delightful delegated nickname for Carol Seashone).  I titled it MYNT GREEN’S THE DISORDERED SPRING.  Later,
that title was used for my first poetry book published in 1965 but actually written during the years immediately following Hudson
Valley Tech. in 1959-1964.

It was the “right out of the clear blue sky” aspect that is worth noting.  I have done numerous things like that.  Things which sent
me off my rocker--on different tangents, different routes rather than the historically compelling route.  However, it is true to an
Andreas Fault, that while I sat for unending hours watching nature, the first images and metaphors of my poetry were being stored
away since the age of six.  My romantic nature derived from this “clear out of the blue ‘skyedness’” thing.  As I reflected more on
the matter, I decided to become a novelist because of the image that I had at the time of the writer’s life.  I bethought it was
somewhat sinister like the life of a U-2 spy somewhere off on leave in a secluded villa.  The spy would be lounging around in day-
glo Victoria’s Secret see-through briefs while semi-naked women catered to his every whim.  They would feed him grapes and fan
him with their bobbing breasts.  Outside, an adoring audience would be waiting to get a glimpse of him.  I enlisted in the U.S.
Army and was sent down to Fort Dix to lounge around in my B.V.D.’s at Basic Training.  There I was fanned by semi-nude
sergeants in banana colored skivvies and seersucker khaki leotards.


                          FORT DIX, AKA FORT STYX

It was at Fort Dix, the Styx of the Eastern Establishment, that I met the English Professor, Sir Thomas “The Intransitive Verb”
King.  He had been drafted when he was well on his way to getting his Ph.D. Knighthood in English Literature.

My first bloody encounter with him was when I and my bunkmates were teasing him one day about his hometown sweetheart,
Heather “The Fancy Feather”.  I guess I was needling him the most for he signaled me out for revenge.  It was probably because
the others involved were twice as big as he.  One day later, in a latrine to end all latrines, amidst the stench and puke, he walked up
to me and punched me in the mouth.  With that punch he changed forever the landscape of Literature for the first decade of the
21st Century.  After he hit me he apologized and tried to explain how insensitive he was about “Hefty” Heather-- the girl he was
about to marry with or without a Carl Sagan Shotgun at his head.  He was marrying her just because she lived next door.  We
shook hands and that ended it until a short time later when we were both in the army library at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey
Weather School. I was studying voraciously for a correspondence course in Aeronautical Meteorology.  Simultaneously I was
compulsively writing some “Amateur Hour” nonsense for the infamous novel THE DISORDERED SPRING.  

King approached me with his Sherlock Holmes cap-a-pie and pipe.  In his best professorial manner he asked what the hell I was
writing.  I showed the red headed Huckleberry Finn the first chapters of my novel.  With an Ovid like bearing to his mannerisms he
said unto me: “You know Marty, you can continue writing this rubbish and perchance you’ll just get discouraged before you are
halfway through or better yet you’ll never fall in love or write again.  I suggest that you try something different, simple as a
pimple, shorter and less challenging and humiliating than the novel form--like Poetry ".  “Poetry!”  I was aghast!  “I’ve never
considered the junk!  In high school I always thought that was sissy stuff.”  “Will you do me the honor and just write me a poem,
anything, just a few agreeable lines?  I’d be curious to see what you write.”  So I agreed, what the hell!  I wrote him out THE
PERSIAN SORCERESS OF THE THATCHERS.   He was impressed and so was I!   It must have been on account of the
uneducated sophistication of the first poem I had ever written.  He told me the following day that he thought my real talent, at
least for the moment, resided in poetry composition.  So I began my three dimensional three year apprenticeship and indentured
bondage under Professor Thomas King.  It continued on and off for the rest of the army years.  After my discharge for insufficient
data, I corresponded back and forth to Sacramento River Junior College where King had managed to finagle an ivory tower all to
himself.  He retired to a life of academic luxury and illicit sex with Heather "The Feather” and lived happily ever after.  When I
was discharged, on the other hand, I began my lifelong trek up and down the Mountain of Art.  So began my career as the Robert
Frost, Wilfred Owens and Robert Penn Warren of the U.S. Army.

In reality, King and I had a falling out towards the end of our enlistment terms when he lost confidence in my poetic vision,
endurance and powers.  I believed that King would have liked the feeling that he had discovered, as he put it, “a diamond in the
rough”.  Should I become a poet of some renown it would rub off on him.  Never in his wildest nightmares did he realize that I
would eventually become one of the greatest poets of this century or any future or preceding century.  He had classified me as a
Neo-Romantic comparable to the Wallace Stevens, Hart Crane and Stephen Spender School of Psychopaths of the later 1920’s,
30’s and 40’s.  I, on the other hand, conceived myself more of a Faustian Futurist of the early 2000’s.  I also saw myself in the
same surrealistic, Da-Da, Romantic role-- traveling a straight line from Byron, Shelly, Keats, Coleridge and Wordy Wordsworth
because of my return to the Classical notion of the piling up of compressed, lush images.  I had made the irrevocable decision right
in this very first poem. that I would avoid the claptrap of the anti-poets of the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s on through the 90’s (the Little Bo-
Peeps of Greenwich Village, the Barbie Dolls of Soho Barbarism and the political hackneyed polemics and social blabber mouths
of Bohemia) and keep poetry as the one pure residence of Beauty and its objectified descriptions.  I would not get slovenly,
subjective, personal, individualistic or provincial but deal in the grand Ann Rand right wing themes of lasting value.  With King, it
was his chance to enhance his status with the “me teacher, you student” scam.  I was the only poetic genius within 100,000,000
square miles of the barracks who could approach the square root of King’s naval intelligence.

The fact of the matter is that King kept me from being bored during my coffee drinking MASH army days.  It is probably true that
I would not have written another word had I not run into Thomas King.  I would have written ten trillion words.  I guess no matter
how great we are we all owe somebody something.  I have always wondered to whom and to what God owed his success to-- to
Bringham Young or Bing Crosby?

“Poetry!”  I should have slapped the shit out of King!.  I looked at King with a kind of fishy-eyed photographic lens look.  Here I
was in this Army world of the non-“plussed”, this unromantic, pragmatic real world in the bowels of Fort Dix, marching to the
tune of similar drummers, swearing, smoking, huffing and puffing while all the while being prodded by the electric vibrators of
the Master Sergeants.  Shoveling coal into 19th century pot-bellied stoves, cleaning muck from latrines and on K.P. with M.P.s
peeling potatoes for the Generals' mistresses.  Poetry!  I don’t even write post cards back home saying “wish you were here.”   I
said, “Okay” and the rest is the miasmas of historical fact.

King adjudicated himself by saying that my poetry was over and above the usual amateurish mish mash outpourings of the 20th
Century.  My first poem was not subjective, personalized or autobiographical like ninety percent of amateur poets, but reached
out to Nature and the universal of universals in order to resurrect Platonic themes.  At the time I didn’t know Plato from an M1-
Rifle.  For these were the same themes that have haunted all the great poets throughout most of their bedeviled days.

My sense of the absurd deflowered the army and people liked me because I made them laugh and I knew the secrets of the universe
which they always suspected I was keeping from them.  I met “Sir” Thomas “The Irish Stew” Davey at Basic Training.  Gradually
we grew very close.  He tried to get me interested in the unmanly art of Karate at close quarters.  He used me for punching practice
so he could perfect his Kartas.  I lost interest when I realized that it was more fun to be home plate.  He was perfecting the art
following his short stint in Puerto Rico.  Davey was the typical Irish Monster from off the streets of Lowell, Mass.  His father was
the Captain of the Lowell Police Force.  He was post Kerouac (which rhymes with bivouac) era and had his Irish Soda Bread hands
filled with the dying stages of the Hippie Revolution.  The Rock and Roll Era was in full fury and the drugged generation was just
around the corner.  Tom King was part of our crowd but only from a “Kingian” distance.  For we were the enlisted peons and he
was the drafted Professor of English on a perpetual holiday!

Basic Training passed uneventfully enough except for one trivial incident which could have changed my whole army career but
unfortunately didn’t.  I made friends with a “Gangsta” off the streets of Jersey City.  He had a girlfriend in Maywood, Redbank or
Freehold, New Jersey.  One foggy, Bella La Gossi night he decided he couldn’t be away from her any longer so he asked me if I
wanted to go on a date and go AWOL at the same time?  How could I turn down this dialectical adventure so I said “yes”.  We
made up our bunks as if we were still sleeping and masturbating in them and then sneaked out of summer camp and drove up to
Maywood.  I ended up in bed but at the moment of penetration the girl whipped out her Ava Maria wooden stake Cross and a
series of rosary beads and said “you wouldn’t make me go against this would you?”  I said, “yes!  I’m Jewish!  You can’t hurt
"Hebes" with that wooden cross stake in the heart scam!”  I paused ever so briefly over her beautiful besotted hairy sweat body
and like a misbegotten Gerard Manley Hopkins Windhover mannequin and then sank into her and dispelled forever the mythic
powers of recklessly waving crosses at Sunpires (daytime brothers of Vampires).  We returned to the Army Base at three in the
morning.  The guys in the barracks told us that there had been a spot bed check at about eleven and when our empty doublets and
codpieces were discovered at 2:AM everyone was called outside in the frigging, freezing rain.

The next morning we were called into the Commanding Officer’s townhouse separately and meted out separate cruel and unusual
punishments.  The Hood, since he was despised by all and a sundry, despised by society and only a low level soldier from Jersey
who couldn’t drive straight, was sent packing to the Stockade in Fort Benning, Georgia for six months of hard labor.  I, who was
to depart the next morning for Weather School, was told to get a haircut before boarding the bus.  As it turned out the bus left in
an hour.  I hopped aboard the bus sans haircut and never returned until my Discharge three years later.  I like to think that he is
still waiting at the bus stop to check my haircut!  This incident would begin my life long struggle with my superiors to keep the hair
on my head, under my arms and between my legs.  Evidently, in the minds of Middle Managers, there is some “assine” connective
tissue correlation between the length of your hair, your job performance and productivity.

Fort Dix was witness to my one and only hospital stay.  In the middle of basic training, while bivouacking in the freezing rain I
contacted the Flu.  I missed the worst part of Basic Training--hand-to-cock combat.  Anyhow, my army career began in November
1958 and ended 3 years, 3 months, 3 days, 3 hours, 3 minutes, 3 seconds, 3 nano seconds and 3 pico seconds later on February,
1962 at 10:30 in the morning.

After all these years of unofficial Meteorology, of Meteorology in the Abstract--Eastern Establishment Meteorology, I was going to
be taught Weather Observational Techniques at the Fort Monmouth Weather School without being subjected to all the preliminary
bull shit of differential equations and sissy physics.  These subjects had no practical value in the real world of Weather’s stark
Being, of weather forecasting per say.  They had no value that is until much later following the computer, satellite and Chaos-
Fractal Revolutions.  I realized to my great astonishment, that I was not going to be allowed to do weather forecasting in the
romantic sense but was being prepared to analyze ballistic data, i.e., rocket and missile trajectories in order to make impact
forecasts for snot nose nosecones.  I would study in detail the calculus of the upper air wind flow patterns.  I wanted weather in the
raw and here I was getting it clothed in the climacteric, “theodolitic” statistics in preparation for my tour-de-force duty at White
Sands Missile Range in White Sands, “Holy Cow”, New Mexico.  It appeared at the time that I had made a mistake in my choice
of a Branch of Service.  Had I joined the “Yes Sir” Air Force I would have received excellent training at their weather forecasting

Tom  O’Davy and I spent our off duty hours ravishing the maidens in and around base camp.  (It was also about this time that
Cindy “The Redhead” Kellas wrote me a “Dear Marty letter” at the same exact moment that I was writing her a “Dear Cindy
Letter”).  The next four months were spent in observational bathos and bliss at the Fort “Mammoth" Monmouth Weather School.  
Afterwards, King, O’Davey and I were shipped to good ole White Sands.

Let’s face it.  Even “unimpressible” Marty Lewis was impressed with White Sands.  It was a self-contained jugular vein filled with
jack rabbit infested desert space.  It was filled with itself which in itself foretold of glory and beauty gone bonkers in Yonkers.  I
was in the midst of the hemorrhaging thrill, excitement, hub-bub and controlled chaos of the race to the Goon in The Moon and
the exploitation of outer space.  Here I was, just a skinny dipping kid from Albany, New York, right in the middle of the middle,
standing alongside the latest computers (UNIVAC II, III & IV).  I surveyed the undertow of row upon row of Blockhouses chock
full of top secret technological marvels.  I needed only a Secret Clearance because the Top Secret lynchings (except for a few
isolated projects such as The Redstone and the like) were being hand launched in California and at the Cape.  We were bunked
right next to the people who were working on the Top Secret Telecommunications’ Projects.  They never talked about their day’s
worth of work except to the whores of Juarez.

They weren’t allowed to divulge that they were working on Top Secret projects but they were as obvious as FBI Cold Case agents
concealing their crew cut haircuts while taking a shower in a room full of yelping hippies!

The grainy, texture-less sands of the desert, the lusty Orion border town of Juarez, the semi-tropical luster crazy lazy city of El
Paso, the sauerkraut smells of Von “Baron” Braun and his German cohorts, the ghosts of the previous generation of scientists who
slept and fornicated in these very beds while hatching the destruction of the human race, the wild west turkey hurly burly of Las
Cruces, New Mexico where Billy “The Bully” Kid still dangled in the winding sheet of the Santa Anna winds, the austere sexuality
of the “Swissified” Sierra Madre Mountain Chain, the grid locked space resulting from the fiery exhausts lighting up the desert
bound beyond redemption night with the rockets’ red glare, that gained confidence despite the woodpiles of liquid oxygen, as they
sped off to their scientific resolutions--all this was White Sands at its level best.

At long last I am getting into the “Darth Vader” period of my writing career.  I am writing more superficially every day.  I pick up
some classical treatises on Plato and Aristotle and begin to pick my literary nose more frequently.  I begin to know what I already
knew in my heart.  I started to double think in the claptrap language of Metaphysics and dabble in funky philosophical
conundrums from my empirical past.  During my early perusal of Aristotle’s or Plato’s specimen bottle description of Socrates’
Angst, I said “Yes! Yes!.  This makes sense.  Or no!  No! this makes no sense!  This is all wrongheaded!”

I intuitively knew everything that they were not ever going to say.  I felt like the Bernard Baruch or Charles Pearce of pragmatic
thought.  It was then that I realized that I was Aristotle and Plato and all the rest reincarnated.  I knew where they were headed
despite their complex Faustian Dialectics.  Why go back and read their books for this is exactly the way I would have demonstrated
their final positions.  I’m too tired.  Too lazy.  Or worse yet, I have been assigned extra K. P. duty.  Besides it bores me to no end
worth repeating.  I understood that Philosophy was the Mother Queen of Sciences and Knowledge and all other disciplines were
subsumed beneath it.  These musings were not a great discovery.  It did not open up a whole new world of learning.  I hadn’t
found my calling and was not going to be a scholar for the rest of my defrocked, bedeviled days.  It was simply a matter of setting
the Metaphysical record straight.  I was going to rid the White Sands landscape of the existential perpetuity of multiple “isms.”

Naturally, feeling the strength of my post war convictions, confidently knowing what the Knowers were going to say to the Known,
even before they said it; I said to myself, “hey, why can’t I do the same thing and sit on the pedestal of thought with my hand to
my brain and take up the basic and not so basic questions of Eschatology, i.e., the notions of substance and substratum, that
underline our existence as we know it, the thermionic, thersitical, thermanesthia hemstitch of the despair and anguish of the finite
and the sublime of the trans-infinite--the absolute and the not so absolute--the existential and the non-essential.

I would reincarnate and recreate an Avant Garde Wheel of Being and see if I could deduce the same sadistic notions as the “Big
Guns of Being” did in their heyday.  Since they had to use complex logic to arrive at their simplistic conclusions, if I used the same
crowbars of logic, I too could compose grand theories for the basic structural lime pits of cosmological composition of the
universe and therefore I could answer most if not all of the conundrums of existence that have been generated by “logos humanis”
and “logos parentis”.  For those structures, the foundation garments if you will, as the Ancients quite properly noted, were serving
up the sculptured ideas shaped by the demigods of discourse in a direct line of tortuous disclosure up to the present day.

Aristotle was as good a place as any to start my reexamination because like Descartes, “carte blanche”, he is where the “I am”
terminus action begins.  He explored the basic categories of nature’s design of other natures.  By postulating a paradigm absolute
such as the one nature constructs--of the moving ship’s wheelwright’s log of destiny, destiny itself would be unmasked.  In some
mysterious way I could touch upon all the theories from 10,000 BC. to the Relativistic Meson-Laser Quantum Fractal Mechanics
of today.

This pagan belief became the focal point for my poetics.  Yet all the while this was taking place King would be in the background
yelling, “Hey Marty, read this guy and read that guy!”  I would yell back.  “Hey, I haven’t got time!  I don’t want to read this guy
or that guy!”  I’m the best and I know it all beforehand.  I don’t have to read this guy or that guy!”  The fact was that King was
foredoomed to be wrong headed and I was right minded.  I knew it all during my years of enunciating the Theory of The Absolutes
(Infinitism--the precursor to The Speed of Dark Equations and the combination of the Super Symmetric and Super Asymmetric
Univere(s)).  Only later did I become semi-literate and was forced to go back and read this guy or that guy in order to find out
what the hell I was talking about!  I, like Pasteur and Joey Listerine, went my own way and spontaneously generated whatever
theory for the cosmos at the time best suited the circumstantial circumstances.  It was on such a wave of exhilaration that I swept
away great gobs of philosophical sludge and gunk and degreased my ulcers with lethal doses of Marty Lewis’ thought
experiments.  I would let less able bodied minds fill in the missing physical and mathematical symbols of my reasoning processes.  

Being completely spontaneous, the earliest probings were most fruitful because they were not censored and unconditionally stated.  
I did not have to worry about violating this law of logic or mathematical composition of  that law of physics.  Am I doing it right
never entered my crazed mind.  I just did philosophizing in the nude.  The thought processes were unleashed with Cro- Magnum
force giving birth to the beginnings of Absolutism which eventually led me to the Complete Field Theory of Transformational
Fractional-Fractal Dimensionalism (Infintism in its latent and most potent form).  This helped point the way towards my own

When I pick up the gauntlet forty years later, taking as a point of rapid departure the forces impinging on a rotating, infinite,
pulsating, contracting-expanding spherical point and its accompanying fields of Geometries in free space; I entrust it with my
prime beef metaphor.  I will show how topologically as well as exponentially such forces would be descriptive of the forces that
operate in the everyday world of phenomena for the humanistic orientation.

Here, however, I just wanted to give the flavor and not a complete seasoning of the powerful panoply of philosophical bubba
“meisers” that I was wringing from the red hot desert of White Sands, New Mexico.  A full prognosis, together with the genocide of
finitude would have to wait for a deeper extrapolation of the variable-invariable rates of asynchronous time in a discontinuous,
diaphanous universe.

For recreational purposes at White Sands we had the pick of the latest crop of proselytizing prostitutes of Juarez.  I managed to
contact a goodly dose of the “Clapp” and “Crabs” which was successfully treated with Blue Ointment, a good clean shave and a
week’s worth of remorse.  I dated a West Side Story Spanish Inquisition Mexican named Maria.  She didn’t understand a word I
said, nor I her.  So we didn’t speak.  Somehow, with our hands on each other’s genitals we understood each other.  Maria wasn’t a
prostitute in the prostitute sense but lived in the depths of Mexican poverty’s raw being behind the glittery gluttonous facade of
Juarez’s main drag.  She came from a fine family of faulty felons.

One fine day I remember driving out to pick her up with a half cocked cock.  When I got out of the car, her brother “Honduras
Julio” was standing at attention brandishing a pistol.  In his simple, Bride’s Head Revisited, pimply minded way; he wanted to
know my intentions towards his sexy sister, “See Ya” Maria?  Boy it would be great if I could take Maria to the States, “Eh
Gringo”.  Perhaps the whole family could move in with us just like they did that night at the Drive-In-Movie.  Eventually I would
be able to take the whole nation of Mexican Chihuahua Contradoras across the Border!

I bit the bullet and agreed to take Maria and the rest of the family to the Drive-In-Movie.  It seems that that was the only way that
the family could afford to see a movie short of a Revolution or a change of Government.  There we were.  Maria and I in the front
seat grunting, sweating and petting in our respective languages and Maria’s greasy relatives straining to see the Mexican dubbed
version of the first Gay Spanish Bugs Bunny cartoon.  All the while her brother was gaily waving his 38 “pistola” while screaming
“Viva La Zapata’s Vulva!”  So ended my brief affair with the Mexican Common Woman, Maria Quetzalcoatl.



We’re now talking about the days of coca-cola and dandelions, when my waist size was still 32”.  These were the post rocket, pre-
moon years and the ages of 21 to 24 from 1958-1962.  This was the Age of Pentateuch, 3 years, 3 months, 3 days, 3 hours, 3
minutes, 3 nanoseconds and 3 pico seconds of pure bliss that ended precisely at 10:30AM, February 15, 1962.  The reason that I
remember the rather dubious chronics of this time, well, it’s the same thing as remembering your Army serial number.  Once
learned you never forget.  It never quite forgets you.  Like your shoe, bust or penis size, your IQ. Rating or the first time you got
laid.  Hmm, let's see if I can recall it.  RA 12-572-719.  I’ll be dammed!  That’s it!  Isn’t it?  If you don’t believe me you can call
the United States Records Center in St. Louis, Mo. for full confirmation.  Those guys can confirm anything, at any place for
anybody, any time of the day or night!  You were supposed to remember your number in case you were ever taken as a prisoner of
war!  I had more of chance of being taken for granted!  I was a prisoner of peace.  Hell, this was the peace man’s army.  Nothing
was happening in the world.  Absolutely nothing!  Even the price of coffee was stabilized.  Everything was at one with itself.  Peace,
Oppenheimer opulence and happiness prevailed over our Eisenhower crew cuts and Johnson Hair shirts.  It was the Elvis Presley
generation.  Rock and Roll was flowing through everyone’s veins.  Dylan and the Beatles were passing wind on the grimy horizon.  
Inflation was at a minus 10% and a good time was being had by all!

My debut at White Sands Missile Range began with an absurd incident that occurred in El Paso, Texas.  On the first weekend of
my arrival I heard the rumors concerning the opulent sex available in the sin-bins of Juarez so I was anxious to visit it as soon as
possible.  Since I didn’t have to report to Base until the following Monday I had the whole weekend to explore El Paso and then
take a jaunt across the Border Bridge to visit the Mexican Dollies.

El Paso stands about 30 miles due south of White Sands and then it’s a walk of about a 1,000 steps across the border into Juarez.  
I stopped at a small park appropriately named Alligator Park in downtown El Paso.  A tourist attraction, it contained several
small to medium size alligators swimming around and self-abusing themselves in a “cess” pool.

Occasionally a G.I. would come back drunk from Juarez and start to hassle and tease the alligators.  More to the point, others
would actually jump in the water and wrestle with the alligators.  I was standing around the edge of the pool and some civilians
were teasing the gators.  I happened to be smoking at the time and decided to toss my butt at one of the alligators.  The lit end
bounced off his scales several times before being extinguished in the water.  At the instant that the sparks were igniting the El Paso
night air, out from the bushes surrounding the pool jumped two detectives disguised as cactus plants.  They rushed over and put
handcuffs on me and ushered me into a car and drove to the nearest precinct.  I was fingerprinted and booked.  A criminal charge
of molesting alligators was formally filed!  I’m sure that if I went to the Hall of Records in El Paso I could unearth that record of
molesting and terrorizing alligators.  After I got over the initial shock, the whole experience started to take on the aurora of the
Absurd.  I found out later that after a series of incidents at the park committed by soldiers from White Sands; the El Paso police
had decided to crack down on the molesters.  They had been staked out in the bushes stark naked on a nightly basis.  It just
happened to be my bad luck to be at the wrong place at the right time.  Since I was the only army guy in uniform at the time who
was harassing the alligators, they decided to make an example of me.  I was bemused by the whole incident.

The Police Captain said he would have to call White Sands and alert my Commanding Officer to make arrangements to pick me
up.  Since it was the weekend I would have to stay in a cell overnight.  In the morning the M.P.’s would escort me backwards to
White Sands.  By the time the Captain had decided all this he was becoming amused and bored with the whole thing.  He said he
would leave the door of the cell open so that I wouldn’t get that closed in feeling.  I went into the cell, straightened my pillow and
had an excellent night’s rest.  The El Paso Jail, I must say, was the most comfortable jail cell I had ever slept in.  I give it a five star
rating and strongly recommend it for insomniacs.  If you’re ever in the neighborhood and visiting the alligators in Alligator Park
do drop by for some of that southern fundamentalist hospitality.

In the morning, following some bread and water, my prison career came to an abrupt conclusion when two snot nose M.P.’s
arrived and escorted me back to White Sands by Jeep.  When I arrived at White Sands I was ushered into Major “Double
Bourbon” Durbin’s office.  Durbin was a cross between the defunct Ronald Regan, Robert Duvall, Rodney Dangerfield and
Rich Little of yesteryear.  Durbin proceeded to give me a stern lecture on how I had just arrived at The Sands and within forty
eight hours I had managed to get myself in deep shit.  He warned me that it was very easy to get into trouble in the border town of
Juarez and had my incident happened across the border in Mexico, it would have been possible to be thrown in jail and never
heard from again.  He ended his Absurd outlook on Mexican Life Lecture with a direct order for me to get a haircut.  When the
Irish Strumpet Cindy Kellas heard of the event a few weeks later she wrote back and expressed puzzlement.  "Couldn’t I wait to
get back home so I could molest her?"  Welcome to White Sands!

Be that as it may, here I was at White Sands Missile Range applying my vast secular fund of three month’s worth of
Meteorological Technician’s knowledge to the deepest mysteries of outer as well as inner space.  Most of the meteorological rites of
passage duties were a bore.  The observational data had the ancillary goal of assisting the young, nubile, science of rocketry and
astrophysics.  We were supplying wind statistics, weather gossip and upper air Radiosonde readings on the Jet Stream.  Some of it,
I suppose, was useful for it gave the scientists the practical every other day knowledge needed to fine tune a rocket’s path just
before launch lunch time.  This data served as a preliminary foundation for the satellite technology of the next decade.  White
Sands, as opposed to Cape Canaveral, was used primarily for the testing of the upper atmosphere.  The old romance was missing.  
It wasn’t like the good old days back in my observation room in Albany, where the prong-tong protrusions of the cold fronts
would gang bang the curvy, busty blobs of the warm fronts and during the daily intercourse of events eventually give birth to a
blustery occluded front.  The day to day Newtonian Mechanics of observational meteorology was taking its toll on my warped

Of course, there were some important implications for the science of Astrophysics.  Among these were the “Sherlockian" Holmes
investigations into the sexual nature of the Van Allen Sanitary Belt, comic rays, solar winds (sun farts) Northern Light analysis and
Ozone depletions due to bi-monthly blasts of particles from outer space.  Most of this raw data was obtained by the more
sophisticated rockets that were being shot up to 500 to 1000 miles range as opposed to our Aerobees, Nike Zeus's and Little Johns
rickety dickety rockets that were propelled to the 100 to 500 mile range.  The big stuff was launched and manhandled at the Cape.   
They did, however, have the Redstone at White Sands.  The Redstone was the original rocket slated to be the bottom stage of the
three stage moon rocket.  That plan was subsequently scrapped and the Redstone was replaced by the more powerful Titan-Rock-
Of-Gibraltar Rockets.

Tests of every conceivable type were performed at The Sands.  There were the usual wind tunnel, static engine tests and every other
day some contraceptive contraption would be blown off course--straight up or straight down--blow up on the launch pad or land
surreptitiously in the night on the hung over heads of the whores and whoremasters of Juarez.

Remnants of these rockets would show up in the Mexican Market stalls and be sold as authentic canto slithers of catastrophe crap
to generations of unsuspecting “touristos” north of the Mason Dixon Line.  Las Cruces and El Paso would be the likely targets for
the wayward, lighter than lead rockets.  But most of them would be blown up in mid-air before they strayed too far off course.  A
considerable amount of the give and take shenanigans at White Sands were on the Secret Level.  I had a Secret Clearance but only
once did I have the rare opportunity to visit the Redstone Site.  The particular day that I happened to stop by they were testing a
top secret Missile-To-Plane experiment.  The object of the silly game plan was to send a heat seeking, horny, manless hapless drone
that was commanded by Robby The Robot and come as close as possible without destroying the Drone.  To hit the Drone would
cost the deserving taxpayers a lottery’s worth of money.  Drones cost about $1,000,000 apiece.  The Operation’s Officer, for some
unspeakable raison d’être, let me push the button igniting the missile simulating the downing of the Drone.  Much to the chagrin
of the launching crew, the rocket stayed true to its course.  It destroyed the Drone.  Needless to say, I beat a hasty retreat from the
Blockhouse, pausing only to notice the gleaming gammon sprockets of the Redstone Rocket all aglow against the sheet metal
reflection of a somber desert day in full flux.  I thought it best not to wander over to the Elmer Gantry and topple it over with a
quick quiet reflex forefinger flick of my wrist for I theoretically might have just cost the taxpayers a million dollars.

The secret goings on at The Sands were concerned with telemetry tests of the latest computers, Krypto analysis of belly telegrams,
rocket fuels and metals stress tests.  There was also the confirmation of Einstein’s 4th postulate that light waves bend in
gravitational force fields somewhere in the Twelfth of Never or the topological vicinity of the planetary sphere of Mercury.  (Five
years later I was to show that Mercury and light bending in its gravitational field had nothing whatsoever to do with the pinions of
gravitational flux).

Our Blockhouse was the typical Circa Circus Class B Hollywood Science Fiction farce.  It was constructed in a tornado cellar of
prepossessing concrete hacked out of the desert dunes.  The computers were the gigantic UNIVAC vacuum packed mainframes
that existed before the solid state, transcendental, transistorized, miniaturization of computers that would plague and forever
revolutionize micro technology in the next ten years.  But in Gertie Stein’s words, “A Blockhouse, is a Blockhouse, is a
Blockhouse.”  It is not a métier metaphor for my life so I got on with it.

The computers would display a deck of Von Newman lights that resembled Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree decorations.  Green
was for go-go, goo goo gai pai yan, yellow signaled Oh!  Oh!  And red symbolized No!  No!--Hold that dancing bull!  During the
red phase the bull’s silver dipped balls would be ablaze in a sea of multi-media lights that pre-figured a So’Wester’s Flame Trees of
Thika or the “strobic” period of the middle 60’s.  Finally, when all the goddamn lights across the board were in sync. (which was
often, too often, much too often) the great bull rocket (that up to now had been pawing and “garfawing” in the gargantuan gantry
on the insane sands of the desert floor) would be given an ignition slap on the back of its metal tushy and infected with a lethal
dose of Lox which sent it yelping, yenching, plenching, retching and far fetching into the Dutch Schmaltz ducts of the Sigmund
Freud atmosphere with a mighty roar and a hearty “heigh ho silver away!”

Often as not the red lights would be sparkling like “jellied” baubles on a beach.  This required “Holds” for several decades as one
by one by one the lights were encouraged, discouraged, coddled, fondled, stroked, cured or cursed at until they all “ambered” on
in unison and sang out “Hallelujah!  Hallelujah!”

During the numerous rocket holds, I, along with my patriotic brethren could be found fully “khakified” under the spawn of a
desert dawn where the cool, hard-on stiffness of the night was erupting into the rheumatic fever of morning.  We would be
stretched out like Southwestern Draculas in the coffin like spaces of our Deuce-and-a-Half-Ton Trucks.  We lifted the skirts of the
hoods and climbed next to the feminine outline of the engines or lounged on the canvas pelts of our Safari recreational jeeps in
order to catch the last falling star of a Texas day dream.  We’d bull shit the day away and in my case I would be reading the
Classics, disputing Newton and overthrowing most if not all of Einstein’s ideas.  I would be creating my first poems of pure bliss or
putting the final touches on Absolutism and Infinitism.  I would be sketching the first six corollaries of the geometric logistics of
Dimensionalism.  Then I would fall asleep between the burnt flanks of the carburetor and slimy generator.  I was coming closer to
the goal that I had had as Tyco Brahe’s little boy--of driving a tractor-trailer-rig.  The Deuce-and-a-Half had five speeds forward.  
I was half way there because the full blown tractor-trailer-rig had ten speeds forward.

On the Left Bank of White Sands, I formed a Congregation with Sir Thomas O’Davey and Thomas King.  With this triumphant
Triumvirate we established the Paris, France of Southwestern Texas.  We would sally forth and march two by three in two step
goose step into El Paso and then cross the beggar ridden Juarez Bridge into the dens of sin and evil for the sacrosanct purpose of
getting laid!

King would pretend in a King “Learian” fashion that he was doing scholarly research “hokum-pokum” in the sin bins of Juarez.  
He attempted to use his public awareness, political speaking abilities and translating skills on the hapless prostitutes.  He got down
on his knees and ate them in three different languages.  He played the role--“I’m really one of you because I speak the language
and I’m not like the other horny G.I.’s--the high school May magpies that run about cavorting with the ninny nannies of
Whoredom”.  He threw out a slew of post idiomatic hymns.  The waiters, whores and the whore’s pimpled pimps couldn’t have
cared less.  He even catered to the old, over the hill, syncline crones who hovered like Death Row Guards in front of the
prostitutes’ bedrooms with basins, spittoons and towels.  They were the old guard retired whores who would make a living out of
washing off the government inspected penises before they entered the crab infested wombs of their drip-dried cousins.

This was a great liberating experience for King, because most of the Mexicans didn’t expect the average schnook of a G.I. to
understand the pidgin Spanish that they spoke.  Most likely we would be insulted right to our faces in Spanish gibberish while the
whores donned their Mona Lisa smiles of  “G.I. I love you.”  Then they engaged in the grossest cross talk since Babylon.  This was
fair play however, because the soldiers didn’t mask their obdurate disdain and matched insult for insult.  As you can readily see,
all this had nothing whatsoever to do with Logical Positivism, Mach, Auerbach, Karl Popper, Wittgenstein or British Empiricism.

You knew, that they knew, that you knew, that you all knew, that you were there to get laid and they were there to get paid.  You
had your need and they had their need.  This was the perfect coexistence of the needy.  That wasn’t enough for King.  He had to
get at the hard-on of the cultural matter and find the real Juarez.  The fact was that the real real was really right in front of him--
language transcriptions notwithstanding.  All King’s bullshit couldn’t put Juarez back together again.  He wasn’t, so he professed
to them, there to get laid in simple guttural terms but to learn!  Learn!  Learn what!  What could he learn from those ignoramuses?

Even though one was completely exploited at White Sands, from a wage standpoint, the tour of duty by force was for the most part
a pleasant one.  I have only fond memories of the place.  Every once in awhile we would parade in the nude on top of the 120
degrees in the tomato night shade day of day.  We would be called out to honor and obey some industrious military American
Legion upstart.  But these were rare occasions as were the short arm inspections.

K.P. duty was usually sold to some inter-county, Midwestern clodhopper bumpkin, who was saving money to buy the State of
Oklahoma.  Our own Gun-Ho Kitchen Policeman was a Gerber faced dumbbell called Woody from the Steppes of deep Kentucky.  
He would take anyone’s K.P. for the right price.  So we gladly gave it to him.  

During this period I met the U.S. Army’s Rock and Roll representative, “Plunking Kookie” Robert J. Copper from St. Louis,
Missouri.  His only claim to fame was a rock and roll version of  WHEN THE SAINTS COME MARCHING IN.  Cooper and
Davey didn’t get along.  Cooper was deep into the Movement, plunking his magic “twanger” to the real or imagined cheers of his
woebegone mistresses.  We had something very important in common.  We both got our rocks off by trying to get away without
haircuts during our army careers.  We were both constantly harassed by barrack sergeants and Company Commander Major
“Double Bourbon” Durbin.  But “Coop” was to prefigure in my Messiah like destiny at the point of our mutual discharges.  More
on that later.

I met several other types at White Sands.  There were the contingents of scientists and arrogant new breed of technicians from
Godivaville, New Jersey and Silicon Valley, California.  They were making ten times ten the money that we made.  Most of them
were the classical military-industrial eggheads who didn’t give a tinker’s fart about the local, regional, much less statewide inner
space of man.  We referred to them as the Ignatius Loyola Spartacus’ of the sand dunes.  We just wanted to shoot the rockets,
shoot the shit and get the hell out of the army.

I spent two fabulous years down in White Sands.  Our daily routine slowly matured into one of shooting rockets, hanging around
the Dayroom at night, playing pool, cards and playing with ourselves.  On weekends we would journey into Juarez for our weekly
dose of Clapp, sex and aggravated assault.  I attended some USO dances in El Paso, Texas.  But the odds were ten to one.  If you
did manage to circumcise the odds the B Girls of the USO were instructed to be polite but not to reveal too much of their sacred G

Alas and Alack!  All good things must come to an unsuccessful beginning.  Our picnic at White Sands was slowly drawing to its
conclusion with the beginning of Operation Borealis.  Cooper, much later, after we shipped to Fort Churchill (the armpit of the
universe, in Western Hudson Bay, 1,000 miles south of the Arctic Circle) formed a small rock and roll group.  He played at the
army dances and had a small following of Eskimo Pie Bunnies dressed in Arctic Kimonos who worshipped him.

Before I left White Sands I spent some time at the White Sands Library.  I picked up a few correspondence courses in Aeronautical
Meteorology, read summaries of the philosophers, great and small, imbibed the flavor of their major themes and wrote a few
poems.  My writing began in earnest in the Arctic.  That is where my first book MYNT GREEN’S THE DISORDERED SPRING
began to take on its final shape and metrical form.  Some of these first poems I have already omitted earlier in this book and were
composed between the years of 1958-1963.  The major anchor poem CY-THERIA was composed while I was at home on leave
from Churchill.  To publish this book I secured the help of Joey Trillio.  (Remember him?   “Attsa nicea Marty, you son-of-a-
bitcha!”).  The book came out in 1965, a limited edition (very limited) published by The Disadvantage Press.  The Disadvantaged
Presses were the only way writers of substance could get published in this country.  A handful of those books exist today and
they are in the hands of present and former mistresses.  One of those copies reside in the petite bourgeois petticoats of “Rose
Hips” who we will meet later.   I dropped my novel at this juncture at King’s insistence and by my own willingness and villainous

Being sent to Fort Churchill was almost a quiet form of secularized punishment for not getting a haircut.  The whole lot of our
gang was shipped out at about this time.  Thomas “Dewey” Davey to Puerto-Rico--only to be regained once again a year and half
later at Fort Monmouth’s Mammoth Weather Station.  King, who had been drafted, was due to be castrated for good behavior
and would take a soft position in an ivory tower at the sacred parish of Sacramento River Junior College in California.  He would
shortly thereupon marry his one and only, the red headed, red “nippled”, Heather whom I suffered a punch in the mouth--a punch
that bloodied the guts of literature for the next fifty years.

I kept up an acrimonious correspondence based on our mutual distaste for each other.  The correspondence consisted solely of
critical analysis of my poems and a few of his which he sent to me from time immemorial.  I was a better Poet King than King.  I
knew that much after perusing some of his metrical monstrosities.  These belles “lettres” lasted through my Churchill years but
ended abruptly when King felt that I was regressing or at least not progressing in the manner that he thought I should.

Bob Cooper and I, me with my typewriter, he with his guitar, headed off to the wilds of Fort Churchill with brand new PFC stripes
tattooed to our sexy buttocks.  Neither of us got a haircut before we left and so disobeyed the last directive issued by “Double
Bourbon” Durbin before we boarded a cargo plane out of El Paso, Texas headed for Winnipeg, Canada.  We were to be joined at
the hip after our arrival at Churchill by another rogue off the streets of Philly, a former numbers runner for the Mob,
“Gortzburger”.  Gortz got his name (I gave  it to him) from the way he gulped down his food.  Cooper and he didn’t get along.  It
seems that my so-called friends didn’t get along with anybody.  I, on the other hand, got along with everybody no matter how
warped they were.  They would constantly vie for my attention when I wasn’t at the typewriter composing my Arctic gems.

King had always felt, that at my level best, I was approaching Wallace Stevens and the Hart Crane School of Neo-Neanderthal
Romanticism.  He kept insisting that I read those two yokels.  I never did until the age of 47 and three quarters.  I happened to
pick up a volume of criticism on Crane “The Brain” and the lines misquoted from THE BRIDGE certainly were similar to my own
Tom Foolery with words, metaphors, suppressed images, four dimensional synecdoche, tropes and lacerated syntax.  If Crane had
lived he probably would have been as good if not better than me.  I certainly sympathized with Shelley.  But I had little hands on
experience or contact in those years with Milton, Eliot or Whitman.  I considered myself more in line with Sammy Coleridge, Lord
Byron, Johnnie Keats, Wordy Wordsmith Wordsworth, Bobby Frost, Willie Blake, Emerson and E. Dickinson.  

Certainly like Crane and Stevens, I was apolitically rebelling against the Russian, Guinzenberg, Ginsberg, Delmore
“Swartzenegger”, Kerouac, Dylan political mass hysteria, exhibitionists, entertainment, public outcry, public nuisance poetry of
the 50’s and 60’s.  You know the type.  The genteel crap that got published without much difficulty in NEW DIRECTIONS,
Up Updike, Up Yours Corso, Bellows and Burroughs.  It was the poetry that unfortunately dominated the landscape of my

I realized that, before I was born, that social commentary or biological scatological polemics and references had no place in the
pure poetry of Beauty.  All other themes were properly delegated to baser artistic forms of artistic expression.  I was Neo-Platonic
in “themeology” and “Eliotonian” in scope, range and forethought.  I was jettisoning the French Symbolist School in my fabric of

I had merged the best of the Expressionists, Imagists, “Da-Daists” and the Surrealists (Magic or otherwise).  I drew on nature and
outer space exploration and the macro and micro technology of the new physics.  My renderings were more like the Romantic
Painters, Monet, Gauguin and I was surely a teenage Van Goy working in the Church of Rouen.  My chief theme, which I beat
into ploughshares, was the Death of Poetry in the 21st Century.  I cloaked its demise in the lyrics of Magic Surrealism (Futuristic
Romanticism or Magical Realism to the uninitiated) on the basic level.  My poetry could be construed as one long requiem in the
Verdi-Wagnerian traditions.  After composing THE DISORDERED SPRING and the unpublished second book THE MILK OF
PARADISE the death of poetry as we Romantics knew it, became an accomplished fact of an unassuming “Whiteheadian”
assumption.  I went on to the short story in the form of the Cubists, Picasso and the other pointed headed Rimbaud-Verlaine
School of “Sartreian” nausea, vomit, retching and regurgitation and sought to demolish that genre.  In point of fact I had no
direct contact with any poetry outside my own until DOS was completed.

In a mystical sense I felt that any artist’s creations were simply the reenactment of all artists that had preceded him, especially the
ones with whom one is in sympathy.  The poetry that flowed from my pen would have flowed from theirs had they lived.  I only
continue the work of the great Masters.  I am their instrument completing their unfinished business.  I pointed in certain  key
directions like a dowager dowser black widow points towards gold, oil or water.  In more “Nietzschean” terms, we are just
recapitulations of recycled Souls, doomed to be oft-repeated repetitions of the artistic souls that came before us.  It was not
surprising that my writing was similar to Crane’s without having had intimate contact with his work.  I was Hart Crane and all the
rest of the artistic souls had they lived in the original and not the imitative sense.

So here we were.  1,000 miles south of nowhere!  Six months of twenty four hour daylight and six months of darkness.  Twilight
time at the barrier apex of the Equinoxes.  We were going to lead a Basil Rathbone, Damon Runyon and George C. Scott type of
existence.  In the heart of darkness of the Deerslayer winter the sun would rise at eight in the morning and set an hour later leaving
a splash of acorn ochre behind it.   

During the night hours the Northern Lights would protocol like night riding protons conflagrating the Arctic horizons.  In summer
it would be the reverse of the anti-mirror image of a super symmetric winter with the beleaguered sun setting at the awesome hour
of 11PM and rising at 2AM.  Twilight would span the ranges in-between times.

We were shipped bag and baggage with our long hair down to our beautiful Private First Class Tushys.  From the blistering heat of
dog day afternoons a la the Crocodile Dundee desert of White Sands to our first stop two thousand miles later.  This was a journey
North by North West to Winnipeg, Canada.

Sure enough, waiting for a plane at Winnipeg was my old nemesis, Major “Double Bourbon” Durbin.  The first words out of his
Kenny Rodgers’ mouth evoked a chagrin grin.  “Hey, Lewis!!  Attention!!!  You need a haircut!”  This was a real existential
moment in the annals of the 1960’s military industrial complex code.  Winnipeg was the last god forsaken weigh station of
civilization before one reached the Kafkaesque penile penal colony of Churchill.  The only mode of transportation was a cargo
plane to the small penis size airfield at Churchill or a three day Star Trek journey 700 miles due north across the swamps of the
“Manitobian” Tundra by the Trans-Canadian version of the Midnight Orient Express. What I mean by existential experience is
that Durbin and I met quite by surprise.  We were both taken aback and a little off our right guard.  Neither of us had sprayed
under our armpits that fateful morning.  For an instant he didn’t know how to react.

Durbin:        “Should I slap him on the back and say, ‘Hi, Marty
How are they hanging?’  Or should I keep my military
demeanor and issue some half baked, inane military
directive as if I were back in the protective confines
of Home Base where I would naturally be a shit heel?
Or should I respect him in a somewhat more civilized
manner--here in the semi-relaxed neutral ground of a                                                 
civilian airport where I have about as much authority
and respect as an embalmed skunk?”

But Durbin can’t quite make that existential leap into “Humaness” and forego his vain ego.  Indeed, he says, “I see you didn’t get
a haircut when you left White Sands.”  (Little did he know that I hadn’t had a haircut since grade school).  What a pathetic case
when this man’s only occupation, or preoccupation, was whether another Being in the world has a haircut.  “So get one when you
land at Churchill!”

We looked at each other for an intense instant as my eyeball panned up to his official mucus filled nostrils.  We both knew it was
undiluted bull shit and even he couldn’t help cracking a civilian grin.  This gave me an opportunity to see what was going on in
Durbin’s mind.  A chance to see the true relationships between enlisted men and officers, between executives and peons.

Durbin:          “Should I order this shit eating, skinny grinning PFC
around or should I step out of my traditional role
and ‘let it be’ in the best sense of the upcoming,
uptight Beatle Generation.”

We both knew this was an existential moment for small little grimaces could be seen cracking across the crevices of his Midwestern
lips.  We both knew that the game of life was being played in earnest.

Lewis:            “Yeah, yeah, yeah!  I’ll get a haircut if I have to!  
And I won’t if I don’t have to!  Na Nah, Na Nah, Na Nah, Na Nah!
Na Nah, Na Nah Na Nah!  When I get up there”.

I said laughing, belching and farting at the same time.  “You know Major Durbin, there might not be a barber that far north.”

The irony being that my friend to be, the Gortz, was destined to be the barracks barber!  Up Yours “Double Bourbon” Durbin!  
Fortunately Durbin would have another crack at me in the near future and lose once again!

Sure enough, “Double Bourbon” was going to be my barracks mother and Commander and Chief at Churchill.  Ah well, what the
Hell, why not!  He didn’t like being up there anymore than I did--and eventually we became the best of friends.