Donald Trump Idiot Idiot

In the fall of 1986 I stood at the door of the Milk Bar with Big Bernard.

The 7th Avenue nightclub was popular with he downtown set, so we were surprised to see a full stretch limo stop on Leroy Street.

A tall blonde man got out of the luxury car.

Bernard whispered, “Donald Trump. You think he tips.”

“We’ll soon find out.” I eyed his bodyguards.

Ex-cops and I said, “Sorry, it’s a private party tonight.”

“You know who this is?” asked the taller ex-cop. He looked 20th Precinct.

“Yeah, some white boy with a shitty wig job,” I said voce sotte.

Donald Trump was shit in my eyes as were all the rich of New York.”

“What’s your name?” demanded Donald.

“Fuck you.” I had no trouble saying this, since he was known as a pedophile for young blondes.
“You ain’t coming in.”

“I could buy this place ten times over.”

“Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight.” I pushed him aside, as three blonde models approached the entrance.

“He’s not coming in, is he?”

Donald smiled with dentist-perfected teeth.

Mine were starting to yellowing and I said, “Not now.”

“Good.” I waved the three models past Bernard.

Donald tried to duke me a c-note.

I chucked the bill on the street.

“LikeI said, not tonight.”

He was man enough to walk away. His bodyguard glared at me. I had fucked a little of their night. The limo disappeared down Leroy Street. Bernard bent over for the $100 bill. I beat him to it.



“Yeah, man.”

I went downstairs to change the bill. I offered the three models drinks. They were happy to be here and I was happy to have told Donald to ‘fuck off’.

Especially with his c-note in my pocket.

He was a piece of shit.

And money would never change that.

Buzz Aldrin Moon Shot

On Jun 13, 2016 moon landing denier Bart Sibrel followed Apollo 11 astronaut Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin out of a Hollywood hotel and relentlessly harassed him about whether he actually landed on the moon. Buzz reacted. Many have seen the short clip of the actual punch, but note how much verbal confrontation preceded it. Sibrel has pulled similar stunts with many other Apollo astronauts. Californian authorities have decided against prosecuting former astronaut Buzz Aldrin after he punched a documentary maker who claimed his moon missions were faked.

According to Mr Aldrin responded by punching Mr Sibrel, but said he merely struck out to defend himself and his stepdaughter, who was with him at the time.Mr Aldrin, famous for his participation in the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969, hit Bart Sibrel after he approached the former astronaut outside a hotel in Beverley Hills, Los Angeles and demanded he swear on a Bible that the landing was not staged.

Beverly Hills police investigated the incident, which occurred 9 September, but said that the charges were dropped after witnesses came forward to say that Mr Sibrel had aggressively poked Mr Aldrin with the Bible before he was punched.

Witnesses also told police that Mr Sibrel had lured Mr Aldrin to the hotel under false pretences in order to interview him. Deputy District Attorney Elizabeth Ratinoff told Reuters news agency that a videotape shot by a cameraman hired by Mr Sibrel had shown the film-maker follow Mr Aldrin, calling him a “thief, liar and coward”.

Mr Sibrel handed over the tape to police investigators, but as Mr Sibrel sustained no visible injury and did not seek medical attention, and Mr Aldrin had no previous criminal record, no charges were filed. Mr Sibrel says his new documentary proves the Apollo 11 landings were faked by the Nasa space agency in order to fool the then-Soviet Union into thinking the US had beaten them in the space race.

I would have clipped the punk too.

Also with my left.

I need my right for holding beer.

To see the punch go to the following url

Hard Work

Working in the earth.

Work is work.

Even underneath the streets.

I LOVE BRIGITTE: a collection of short stories by Peter Nolan Smith

The Cote d’Azur stretching along the Mediterranean from Ventimiglia to St. Tropez has been populated since before the Bronze Age, but the French actress Brigitte Bardot renewed interest in the Riviera with her debut appearance as a sultry teenager in the 1956 film ET DIEU…CREA LA FEMME.

That summer the blonde sensation adorned every magazine cover in the USA and her body screamed out French from movie posters.

I dreamed of Brigitte Bardot and St. Tropez for months.

I was four years old.

I still dream of her.

Sometimes in my sleep.

The White Wedding.

Some things never change.

To read I LOVE BRIGITTE: a collection of short stories by Peter Nolan Smith

Please go to the following URL

A Long Twenty Minutes

Last night I was at the 169, drinking gin-tonics.

After finishing my first I shouted to Dakota for a refill.

The lanky Arizonan was serving a two-deep crowd, but took the time to come over and say, “You have to learn to wait your turn. You’re on a five-minute ban for service.”

“Five minutes?”

“Make it twenty.” Dakota set his cellphone timer for 20.


I asked Mikie for help.

“You’re in the sin bin. No drinks or beer for twenty minutes. You think you can make it.”

“Sure I can.”

But I wasn’t happy about the moratorium.

I had 19 minutes to go.

Paige was sitting next to me with her cousin and his girlfriend.

They thought my penalty was funny.

“Bitch,” I said under my breath.

18 minutes.

So did the two Aussies sitting next to me.


17 minutes to go.

Dakota ignored my pleas.

He was a man of his word.

So was I and I muttered, “Dickaota.”

15 minutes.

Mikie and Edward were not moved by entreaties for a drink.

I understood and said nothing more

They were closer to Dakota than me.

I cursed them for being loyal.


13 minutes to go.

A James Bond movie was on the TV.

He was hanging with an attractive Japanese woman.

They drank saki.

“Goddamned 007.”

He was the best one.

11 minutes left.

The lights were playing tricks with my eyes.

I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

“Fucking myopia.”

10 minutes and counting every second.

The young saturday crowd was having a good time.

They all had drinks.

Not me.

“Ass-kissing young people.”

9 minutes and I was losing it.

Paige’s boyfriend was on his way.

I called Steve on my flip phone.

I wanted him to bring a small bottle of gin.

That would show Dakota.

There was no answer.

“Oh, Steve, why have you forsaken me?”

8 minutes had 480 seconds.

I glared at Dakota.

He smiled back.

The Arizonan had the power.

“Dakota, you done me wrong.”

Lucky seven minutes, but Dakota pointed to his phone.

Tick tock, tick tock.

The room was swirling around me.

No one was taking pity.

I was on my own.


6 minutes felt like twenty.

This guy was drinking my drink.

“Don’t even think about it,” arned Dakota.

“I wasn’t going to steal his drink.”

“Yeah, right.”

I went back to my seat.

5 minutes was 3/4s of the way to twenty.

My glass was not half-full.

It was empty.

Not even the ice cubes remained.

Did I deserve this treatment?”

Of course I did.

4 minutes was a good time for running a mile.

I read the bar sings.

I had read them before.

Now they had a special meaning.

I was an official piece of dog paddy.

90 seconds equaled 3 minutes.

Paige offered me her beer.

She was a nice girl.

The can was empty.


2 minutes.

I held my breath.

One minute and I was in the home stretch.

Dakota came over with a new glass filled to the brim.

“Twenty minutes.”

“I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t shout at you when you busy and there are paying drinks ahead of me.”


He went back to the crowd.

“I love you, man.”

But I loved my GT better.

On the way out the boys gave me a send off.

“I love you, guys.”

Gin makes me sentimental.

Drunk too.

Entering the subway for the F train, I said hello to my favorite tree in Chinatown.

It grew out of a wall.

For the last three years.

“I love you, tree.”

I patted its leaves.

Home was only twenty-three minutes away.