Merry Christmas

Hay Street, Fayetteville, NC

The bars were razed and the hookers who tagged along were dispersed. That was all the civilians wanted. To spread Hay Street across Fayetteville like margarine on Wonder bread.

Three generations of bloused boot paratroopers spent Christmas on Hay Street. Cheering beer and strippers in Suzy Wong, The Seven Dwarfs or Pop A Top Lounge.

30 years later I walk an unforgotten route and nothing's the same. Cocky paratroopers are replaced with the waddling middle class twirling pasta in ersatz Italian restaurants.


Santa poses for pictures and I follow him to my hotel bar. He joins a red head and she smiles offering him a saved bar stool. He lights a cigarette with a Bic and orders a drink.

I think of Christmas when I was 19. Offering a stripper a heart shaped Whitman Sampler in my Bullit black turtleneck. She smiles down at me from her stage. When I think of her... I smile at Santa and buy him a drink.

Wide Boys

A Wide Tie: Purple Label Shirt/ Tie & Turnbull Asser Blazer


A Wide Boy: Hardy Rodenstock aka Meinhard Gorke

They say they're coming back -- As if they ever left. In London, 'Wide Boy' is a derogatory term for a working class schemer. A phony always on the make. Someone who deals in goods of questionable authenticity. Hardy Rodenstock (not his real name) allegedly created bottles of rare wine (not his real job) and sold them to the world's biggest suckers. Rich people. I suppose it's hard to be poor and a sucker -- At least not for very long.

But Rich people can be suckers and live long lives -- As long as the money holds out. Kip Forbes paid $156,000 for a suspect bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson. I doubt it has kept him up nights. You can read about Hardy/Meinhard and Kip and Robert Parker and Michael Broadbent and lots of other "experts" in the true mystery, "The Billionaires Vinegar" by Benjamin Wallace. You'll never look at the wine world or experts in the same way.

Someone told me they were an 'expert' since they had read a 'book' on a hot new collectable. Of course, this party also sells these hot new collectables so I'm sure they know what they're doing. The point is, you should know what you're doing -- But that's not always possible. Like the $300 I threw away on a fake box of Cuban Cohiba cigars in 1994. Or, back in '76 when I gave $25 to a hooker -- who told me to drive around the corner where she'd meet me -- only to find a Fayetteville cop who asked me what the fuck I was doing and convinced me to leave before I got into, 'real trouble.'

There's a lotta Wide Boys in the world but there's not a lotta Wide Ties. Least not in the High Street shops. That's an old Purple Label up there from six or seven years ago. Word is they're coming back. Which means some of you are gonna have to have one or two. And that means you'll have to buy shirts with a spread collar. And suits with wider lapels. And a watch with a larger dial. And... You see where this going? No? Then I have a box of amazing Cuban cigars and if you'll give me $300 -- I'll meet you around the corner.

All The Way...

"In my life there have been few
who've affected me the way you do
(you do, you do)"
Pet Shop Boys
It Always Come As A Surprise

The news of a whore house in Spring Lake spread through the barracks like wild fire on the Serengeti. Spring Lake bordered Ft. Bragg to the north and was home to the poor, enlisted and hundreds, if not thousands of mobile homes - of which one double wide, The Devil's Playground, was doing a booming business.

There was talk of a woman nicknamed, 'The Screamer.' She'd shout profanity laden descriptions of what she wanted, and that sounded pretty darned good to me, seeing I was 19 and all the screaming I heard had to do with what I was doing wrong.

A bunch of us climbed into someones car and after an hour of searching a trailer park in the dark, we found a double wide that fit the description. We also found a line for the screamer that reminded me nothing was a secret long at Ft. Bragg.

The Madam of the house took my military ID and paper clipped it to an index card which she filed under 'T' in a gray metal box. I sat down on a folding chair in the shag carpeted living room and watched TV with the line, my buddies and two huge black staff sergeants still in fatigues and providing security.

The Madam had a body that said, "Go Airborne" but 40 miles of bad road on her face. Her hair was jet black along with her disposition. She was not happy with the line and started asking if anyone wanted a date with her. No one moved. Feeling sorry for her (and being at the end of the line), I raised my hand like it was first grade.

I could hear the screamer as I watched the Madam undress in a tiny bedroom. A red rose tattoo covered her belly button and a tattooed green stem with thorns traveled all the way down to what she called her pot of dirt. Afterwards, she returned my ID and punched a hole in the index card. "Get to 10 and you get a freebie." she said.

I'd go back for the Screamer but the Madam would smile when she saw me, hand me a beer and whisper something amazingly filthy in my ear. I came to know Rose well and was something of a regular. Besides, I was pretty sure the screamer was full of crap - what with the screaming taking on an all too repetitive pattern.

I found a woman who'd actually go out with me and quit going to the Devil's Playground. A year or so later, I saw Rose having breakfast at IHOP with a woman who looked to be her mother. Rose looked at me for a good three or four seconds, and without any expression, turned back to her mother. I never saw Rose again but more than anything, I remember her eyes -- Big and dark and able to see every mistake I ever made or would make.