Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The year was 1997. The night New Year's Eve. The party was hosted by my good friend, Julio. A Chelsea loft filled with old jazz musicians, real estate moguls, and Italian vistors. The latter wanted drugs. Cocaine to be exact. I had a connection. The desired amount was an ounce. The dealer gave a rendezvous. He was more than two hours late. I overcharged the Italians $500. They understood and appreciated my effort as well as excused the wait.
"Waiting for my man."
They loved that song.
The wait will never be obsolete.
Ex-VP Dick Cheney has accused Barack Obama of “trying to pretend we are not at war” in the face of a Nigerian's attempted downing of the Northwest Airlines flight. The president interrupted his Hawaiian vacation to state that a "potential catastrophic breach" of security led to the Christmas Day incident. The $40 billion spent on security upgrades seem to achieve nothing and airport guards were searching grandma's underwear with an extra dose of vigilance. The nation is tense. We are still a target and this afternoon NYPD shut down Times Square after a 1992 Dodge van was abandoned on Broadway despite Mayor Bloomberg's pedestrianization of the Great White Way.
Police were still looking for the van's owner.
New York was much safer from terrorists when junkie ruled the roost, although no one wants to go back to those days.
Other than me.
The Minnesota Strip was such a wicked thing.
My favorite was Sharon.
She came from New Jersey.
2000 started the new millennium. My plans for the future were short-term, so I had a good feeling for the next decade. MTV threw a New Year's Eve bash in Times Square. Most certainly drugs and drink were involved in the evening's festivities, yet no sex since I had forsworn coupling with white women in the previous century and could count the number of Caucasian females with whom I had mated during that period on less than two hands.
My first trip to the Orient infected my libido with race-traitorism desire.
Blondes disgusted me. Redheads were revolting. Freckles an abomination.
White women were equally offended upon hearing about my circumnavigations of the globe and their eyes spat accusations of 'child molester' and 'whore-monger' any time I mentioned the word 'Pattaya'.
The first was to expected by such ethnocentric harridans and the latter was right on the mark.
I had paid for sex and more than once with different women.
Foreplay have been a discussion of price.
Our romances lasted an hour in a cheap room on Soi 6. Divorce was never an issue fro discussion. We parted friends and I was a sexy man forever unlike in America where ever-aging women sought richer and richer men to fulfill their dream of a Park Avenue apartment and a 'cottage' in the Hamptons. This greed corrupted their beauty as completely as leprosy and they ceased to appeal to my lust.
I thought I was broken, until I hit LA in 2002. My cousin Sheree and I went out with my old girlfriend, Nancy. She was working as a reader for a talent agency. Her tastes ran to bissexual masochism and I exploited her weakness with the delicacy of a East St. Louis pimp.
In the morning she sulked at the breakfast table.
"You fucked me like a Thai whore."<
"So you faked your orgasm?"
"Then it must have been as good for me as it was for you." I complimented my bad behavior by dropping $50 on the table and walking out of her Hollywood bungalow, expecting a knife in my back, but Nancy wasn't a Thai whore and I was glad that white women in America had had their sexuality ripped from this body and soul.
They are no longer a temptation.
And my wives couldn't be happier about that.
I am a little sad, but only because my next flight to Thailand is a month off.
I could use a cheap fuck ina cheaper hotel, but like I said I'm a race traitor and my heart like my cock is true.
www.businessinsider.com compiled a list of previously vital items gone obsolete during this decade. Pay phones, VCRs, fax machines, dictionaries, encyclopedias, yellow pages, classified ads, CDs, floppy discs, bills in the mail, paper, records stores, landline phones, movie rental stores, camera film, dial-up modems, and palm pilots have been dodo-birded by the technological advances of the past ten years. I've personally deep-sixed TV, radio, and hard liquor, although hard alcohol was abandoned at the request of my psychic healer as opposed to the utter uselessness of the previous two. Pundits have no been predicting the demise of newspapers without taking into consideration that you can't swap at a fly with a TV or a computer.
I've been obsolete since 1995.
And obsolete always beats out extinct.
Just ask Martin Cooper, inventor fo the mobile phone.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Brooklyn Tony goes to school, and the teacher says, "Today we are going to learn multi-syllable words, class. Does anybody have an example of a multi-syllable word?"
Brooklyn Tony says "Mas-tur-bate."
Miss Rogers smiles and says, "Wow, Brooklyn Tony, that's a mouthful."
Brooklyn Tony says, "No, Miss Rogers, you're thinking of a blowjob."
The good citizens of Bozeman, Montana were outraged by the news that their councilmen has approved a plan to spend $50,000 on tennis courts according the the Drudge report.
"We're heading towards 12 TRILLION in DEBT and Barack Obama spends tens of thousands of dollars on tennis courts?" - entry to the Bozeman Daily Chronicle blog.
A better waste of the money would have been on rehabilitating the rodeo grounds. Angry people aside Bozeman is where humans first meet the Vulcans. Not that new tennis courts would help the first contact. I've never seen anyone on STAR TREK playing tennis or goat-roping either, so maybe this investment into the new tennis courts might change the history of the future.
"To go where no man has boldly gone before."
My boss Manny hates me. I don't fear him or his threats to fire me. I'm not indispensable. Merely very cost-effective as well as one of his son's best friends. That be said I know blood is thicker than thieves and regard this run in the diamond exchange as a temporary distraction from my life of leisure.
"You haven't done a day of work since you came here."
"The same could be said about you. All you do is shift papers from one side of your desk to the other and insult customers." Only this morning he called my main diamond broker a 'gonnif'. I couldn't put up with his kvetching and got my coat from the closet.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To get my lunch." I waved to Eliza Randolph. She was Richie Boy's partner. "Eliza, you want some chowdah."
"Chowdah from where?" Eliza attended UMASS-Amherst. We were good friends. Richie Boy had once hoped that the two of us became serious. Her father was glad that nothing came of our flirtation and in many ways so were we.
"The Oyster Bar where else?" The Grand Central Terminal institution had the best clam chowder this side of Boston's Route 128. Manny made a face. His mind had calculated the distance between our store and the Oyster Bar. "Don't worry, Manny, you don't have to pay for a thing."
"Don't get me nothing either."
"Who said I was in the first place?"
I left the store muttering under my breath. Our hourly tete-a-tetes were wearing on us. Manny was 80. I was going to be 58. Neither of us were young dogs. He was deaf and I was grumpy. His present state was my future destination, although my version of his age was set in Thailand at my teakwood farm. I indulged in this delusion on the 10 minute walk to Gran Central, ignoring the slow-moving tourists. Without them the city would be as empty as the New York of I AM LEGEND.
I turned off Madison onto 43rd Street. The syringe spire of Chrysler Building gleamed int he winter sun. I was used to the sounds of the city, but not dogs' barking. More than one. More than a dozen. The MTA cops had gathered their explosive and drug sniffing hounds to the Metro-North terminal to guard against a terrorist attack. Only the other day a Nigerian extremist attempted to down a NYC-bound flight by lighting his underwear on fire. He succeeded in setting himself on fire and complicating the travel plans of everyone going somewhere over the New Year's holiday.
The shepherd at the entrance to the terminal eyed me with suspicion. I had a half-joint in my pocket. A contribution to the cause by my fellow worker Hank. The dog growled and his master clocked me as harmless.
"He ain't a doggie."
"Doggies are cows, right?" Same as all these cops. All wanting to be a hero. All wanting to stop someone from doing that something stupid. I smiled and descended into the terminal. Passengers were hurrying through awe-struck tourists from Schawillagah, PA. I might be older than most of them, but I still was impressed by that great open place and surveyed the crowds for anyone who might damaged it or the people within the terminal. My inspection gave GCT an all-clear visa from the danger of terrorism. I entered the Oyster Bar and sat at the counter. I called Eliza.
"Anything other than Chowdah?"
"Chowdah be just fine." Eliza sounded hungry. I ate my chowdah with haste. My counter mates were from the UK. They loved New York and loved the Oyster Bar. They said they felt safer here than in London.
"I got robbed in Soho last time I was in the Smoke." He and his family came from Plymouth. That port was on the way to Cornwall. I had friends up west. They didn't know them. I sopped up the last traces of chowder with a small roll and hurried back to the diamond exchange through the underground passages of Grand Central Terminal. They were no dogs at the exit onto 45th Street. Eliza was so happy to receive her chowdah that she kissed both my cheeks. Manny looked at me with disappointment. He was Jewish, but liked tref too. Maybe next time he would get lucky. Their chowder is damn good. No wicked good and you might as well enjoy your life as much as you can without worrying about another man's underwear.
They never taste good.
My landlord wanted to reward my babysitting his two kids with an evening at the cinema.
AVATAR in 3D. Just the two of us and a joint of green goo ganga. First night. A snow storm forestalled our excursion and the window of opportunity remained shut during the holiday season.
"Wait until I get back."
The two nights ago the allure of watch-movies.net proved too powerful and I viewed their blurred version of AVATAR on my Mac. $300 million of FXs chucked down the tube, but I stuck with the simplistic story to the end. The next day my landlord called to ask about the house.
"It's still standing."
"And the cats." There are two.
"Shitting where they're supposed to shit and eating regular."
"Did you see AVATAR yet?"
"Yes." There was no point in lying. "I watched it on my computer."
"Yes, I guess I am." Not that I like sitting in a dark theater with a horde of popcorn-munching teenagers. "I still enjoyed it. Sexy alien bitch. I think she was naked. PG-13. And she was skinny too."
"You are so predictable." My landlord hung up on me. He was disgusted with my inability to contemplate a cinematic event far from my computer. He was right. It's not easy for me to be in public. An older man in the dark with young people. It's a crime waiting to happen. Better to stay at home and avoid any aggravation. I am a little cranky after all.
Monday, December 28, 2009
$300 million dollars. 3D FX. The last biggest film of 2009.
My good friend Andy Pollack offered to take me to see AVATAR at a 3D theater. Night #1.
I thought about it, because I used to be a movie addict.
1st show. 1st day. Biggest theater.
APOCALYPSE NOW at the Ziegfield in 1979.
1,131 seats filled to capacity. The lights go dark. A flutter of noise behind us. The audience shivers in anticipation. Helicopters pass overhead and then the first bars of THE END by the Doors. Throughout the theater matches flare to light joints. We are there. All of us. 1970. Vietnam.
The cost $31 million.
A snow storm detoured my date for AVATAR. I watched the film on my computer. Free.
Nothing will ever challenged APOCALYPSE NOW.
Unless it's porno in 3D Sensaround.
Chairman Mao and his red cadres sought to eradicate the blight of opium from China by executing addicts in the thousands. History according to the DEA and other punitive anti-drug agencies uphold that this policy worked beyond expectations, however my travels throughout China in the 90s revealed like in the USA drug use was merely suppressed by the draconian measures. I scored dope whenever and wherever.
Only for medicinal purposes of course.
China has recently announced a new campaign to exile the new scourge of porno from the Internet without taking into consideration that over 90 million men within the Communist country have no hopes of ever coupling with a woman because of the disparity of birth rate between men and women.
90 million men without a woman eating tiger's balls without any access to porno.
I hope this revolution will not be televised.
My baby brother died on AIDS in 1995. My mother succumbed to cancer in 1996. I mourned their passing with a circumnavigation of the globe. Every holy site on the route was my destination; Luang Prabang, Zhongdian, Lhasa, Benares et al. My soul was washed by the waters of the holiest rivers in the world. My pilgrimage ended at the statue of St. Brigid in NY's St. Patrick Cathedral. It was wintertime. As a non-believer I worship her as a pagan saint. A dollar bought a candle and my prayer was silent.
I took the Lexington subway to Astor Place.
Someone was looking at the sky.
I lifted my eyes to a double rainbow creating by the sun piercing high-altitude moisture.
My mother and my brother.
They are with me forever as I am with them.
The photo of the rainbow is thanks to Amos Poe.
The Meaning of Life in 13 Words.
Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what the fuck happened.
I know what happened.
57 years under gravity.
49 years of fucking.
47 years of drinking.
30 years of drugs.
I feel like Harry Potter who has lost all his powers, but for several good reasons.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
My father can't remember much anymore. His Alzheimer's is very advanced, but he does remember me, despite my living in New York.
"At least you look like you used to look."
The mirror argues that opinion every morning, but I have to agree with my father. Very few people like they used to look. Some of them blame the change on age. My theory is that the food they eat have altered their humanity. I can't tell them this. They already think I'm crazy, so I avoid meeting anyone anymore.
A friend sent an email invitation to a re-union of the Mudd Club. I was a regular at the nightclub on White Street. I worked the door the month of August 1980. A gunman robbed me in the alley, while a girl on 'ludes fellated me. Judy Nylon introduced me to Johnny Rotten. A lot of other adventures and people. I decided to not attend the re-union, mostly because no one will look like they used to look and I don't have the shreds of my father's memory to reconnect the past with the present.
Better to keep the past in the past.
The mirror loves us better than way.
It's not difficult to make a woman happy..
A man only needs to be
1. a friend
2. a companion
3. a lover
4. a brother
5. a father
6. a master
7. a chef
8. an electrician
9. a carpenter
10. a plumber
11. a mechanic
12. a decorator
13. a stylist
14. a sexologist
15. a gynaecologist
16. a psychologist
17. a pest exterminator
18. a psychiatrist
19. a healer
20. a good listener
21. an organizer
22. a good father
23. very clean
WITHOUT FORGETTING TO:
45. give her compliments regularly
46. love shopping
47. be honest
48. be very rich
49. not stress her out
50. not look at other girls
AND AT THE SAME TIME, YOU MUST ALSO:
51. give her lots of attention, but expect little yourself
52. give her lots of time, especially time for herself
53. give her lots of space, never worrying about where she goes
IT IS VERY IMPORTANT:
54. Never to forget:
* arrangements she makes
HOW TO MAKE A MAN HAPPY
1. Show up naked
2. Bring alcohol
Does that tell you something?
Teacher asks her class: "If there are 5 birds sitting on a fence and you shoot one of them, how many will be left?" She calls on Brooklyn Tony.
He replies, "None, they will all fly away with the first gunshot."
The teacher replies, "The correct answer is 4, but I like your thinking."
Then Brooklyn Tony says, "I have a question for YOU. There are 3 women sitting on a bench having ice cream: One is delicately licking the sides of the triple scoop of ice cream. The second
is gobbling down the top and sucking the cone. The third is biting off the top of the ice cream. Which one is married?"
The teacher, blushing a great deal, replied, "Well, I suppose the one that's gobbled down the top and sucked the cone."
To which Brooklyn Tony replied, "The correct answer is ' the one with the wedding ring on,' but I like your thinking."
My non-belief in Christianity forced my decision to give Christmas a miss this year. Presents to my kids and wives, a few glasses raised to Xmas, and a good luck wish to my 90 year-old father constituted my holiday celebration. I did not travel to Boston for the family gathering nor call up friends in NY to seek a sumptuous meal. My vow to disavow Christmas was sacrosanct and I didn't even leave my apartment on December 25.
I thought about it for a few seconds, but the rain and a raging hangover enforced my edict to the letter.
No gifts, no Christmas carols, no Zuzu in Frank Capra's seasonal offering IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE. This rejection of the holiday is considered dangerous by most. Solitude can lead to too much looking in the mirror, however I cooked a garlic pasta with sole and never heard the name of the Judeo-Christian god, who was actually born sometime in May. The December date was chosen by early Christian to compete with the birth of the sun god Mithras, thereby screwing up anyone born in December from getting a true birthday since Jesus was more important than any human.
Not to me anymore.
Not for a long time.
And this year Barack Obama recognized my non-belief in his inauguration speech.
"Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, and non-believers."
Damn, I had never heard the hyphenated word 'non-believer' uttered by a president or national leader without a declaration of a crusade against us.
So thank you everyone for freeing me from the spell of Christmas.
I'm no Scrooge or Grinch, but I like to worship peace and on this Xmas I did nothing.
It's my greatest skill.
FYI; The 1st Santa was St. Nicholas of Smyrna. He remains the patron saint of beer.
Has a nice ring to it, eh?
China unveiled its newest technological achievement; a maglev train connecting Wuhan to the southern city of Guangzhou. The cost of the project was a staggering $14.6 billion or about one month of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Communist nation is planning another 10,000 miles of these high speed lines to be completed within 10 years.
Top speed 245 miles-an-hour.
Conversely Amtrak trains this holiday season were canceled between Washington and Boston due to malfunctioning electrical substations, which were supposed to be repair with the $60 million slated by Congress.
$60 million versus $14.6 billion.
USA trains - 90 MPH if they're on straight line.
China over 245 mph.
Some say up to 350.
I recall seeing the TGV from the Autoroute du Sud. A metal snake crossing the landscape at a ridiculous speed. I've taken the TGV many times. Comfortable and fast. The Fung Wah Bus between New York and Boston is fast than the Acela. It's all a question of priorities. Fast trains or bombs. Health care or bombs. Star Trek spaceships or bombs.
Go fastest train go.
I've been drinking since the age of 12. My behavior on alcohol has often overstepped the boundary of good behavior and challenged my instinct for survival. I shot a spear gun at two boys attacking my brother in the dunes of Horseneck Beach, drove my car through every red light on Commonwealth Avenue, and puked on a girl in Central Park after a Ron Rico rum party at Fiorucci. My drunkest moment was at the opening party for Galleries Lafayette on 5th Avenue. Cheap champagne coupled with a joint cut my legs from under me and I crashed onto a glass table. My exit was a series of lurching bounces into the walls of the shopping emporium and outside on the sidewalk I searched from a rope to save me from falling into the gutter only to dive into the open door of a waiting taxi. I rewarded the driver by upchucking in the back seat.
The nuns warned their pupils that at the end of time all the people who ever existed will watch your life.
Hopefully I have the remote control to fast through these and other shameful episodes, however I'm strictly an amateur in comparison to the drunk visiting a convenience store in the following YouTube offering.
Go to the following URL
I've never been that fucked up.
At least not that I can recall
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Sales were few and far between on 47th Street this holiday season. The depression has robbed the middle-class of their imagined wealth. Diamonds and jewelry purchases have been sacrificed to pay mortgages and credit card bills. America as a nation continues to suffer from the banking debacle, the collapse of the car industry, and the two wars in Asia. Thankfully Richie Boy has rich clients who are taking advantage of the downturn to buy high-grade diamonds and luxury jewelry.
"We squeaked out another year." Richie Boy toasted our few successes at the Oyster Bar three days before Xmas. The wine was Austrian and the oysters from New England. His wife was happy with both.
"A million-dollar ruby sale, a couple of rich guys buying big items, and a few lucky sales off the street." I had sold an Italian suite of pearls and sapphires to a Swiss couple and the ruby to a woman from Boca Raton. Richie Boy's client was the richest man in New York. I'm sworn to secrecy about his purchases and his name. "We were lucky."
"And we showed up to work every day. 90% of success is showing up on time."
"Or not too late." I arrive at work 15 minutes after the opening time of 9:30. Every day without exception. "Here's to 2010."
As happy as we were with the year, Richie Boy's father shared none of our positivity. The bills came in faster than the money. His son's spending was profligate, but Richie Boy deserved every c-note. Without him the firm would be another dark window on 47th street. Manny brandished the bill from the Oyster Bar the next morning.
"$4 for an oyster. They sell them at Doc's for $1 at Happy Hour."
"Happy hour ends at 7 and we worked until 7:30." I had worked 7 days a week since my return from Thailand the week after Thanksgiving.
"And only two of them were $4. Willapas. Big as your palm." Richie Boy had been disgusted by the size. "The goy loved them."
"Almost as much as the clams casino. Double tref." Oysters wrapped in bacon. I turned to Benzy, my Hassidic diamond broker. He's a big Yankee fan. We're friends anyway. "If oyster are tref and bacon is tref, do two tref make something kosher like two negatives make a positive in math."
"That's a good question." Benzy laughed with the joy of a man with six healthy children. A small family for the Hassidim in Williamsburg. "I'll ask my rabbi. He has a good sense of humor."
He hated Richie Boy and me for spending too much money on oysters. We had invited him, but he had said, "I wouldn't spend a penny on an oyster."
"Why are you so miserable?" Richie Boy wasn't having any part of his father ruining his holiday. He was heading up to Vermont on Christmas Eve and then off to St. Bart's with his wife for the New Years. He had a good life and his father ruined every success with a bucket of Grinch. Manny recited our sales as if each was a dead loss.
"You should have got more profit for the jewelry suite."
"I'll take $20,000 on a $50,000 sale any day." The commission paid the flight to Thailand.
"Big hero." He thought I could have hit them for 70K. "You should have let them walk."
No one was exempt from his holiday gloom. He schlepped every dealer to the last minute. He chided my co-workers for every supposed fault. No one could do anything right. I told Richie to give us our bonuses before his departure to Vermont, otherwise his father would divine some way to make us miserable.
"I'm out of my here at 2:30." Richie Boy distributed our pay and Xmas bonus. He had wanted to give me a G. Manny cut it down to $800. I thanked them both. Manny had stiffed me with a nothing bonus on several occasions.
"Manny, let them out early. They're goys and have family." Richie Boy cared about us, although not enough to stick around to insure a early Christmas Eve closing. He had a long drive in front of him and was eager to leave behind the grumblings of his old man.
"I'll let them go at 7." The exchange closed at that hour from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve.
Only Manny wasn't joking about his remake of Dicken's classic Xmas tale. Manny was Scrooge and I was Bob Crachtit. Everyone wanted to go home, but Manny wanted to show he was still boss.
"Manny, could you let Deisy go home early? She has a baby and needs to go to church." I pleaded between muttered curses.
"She's go home at the normal hour."
And we sat there for another two hours. No customers. Nothing to do, until I went out an bought some beers to drink. I didn't offer Manny a sip. he kept his head down and crunched numbers on his ancient accounting machine. The tape his only world.
"Fucking mean old shit."
At 5 I started pulling the back showcases.
"It's not five yet." Manny lifted his head and tapped his watch.
"Then buy a new watch. The computer says 5. My watch says 5. My phone says 5. The clock in the back says 5 and you had the landlord retime it five minutes slow to get another few minutes of shopping time. We're closing."
"Since when have you become my boss."
"I'm not the boss. I'm a goy and we celebrate Christmas."
"You're a non-believer." Manny remembered my many rants against the Church.
"Not today. Deisy start pulling."
"Deisy, don't do anything."
"Manny, give it up. We're going home."
"Why don't you go home and don't come back?"
"I can't, because Richie Boy asked me to look after you."
"I don't need anyone looking after me."
Manny was seething with anger. He's 80 years old. His friends have all died or retired to Florida. His girlfriend lives in Miami. He doesn't want to join them and rightfully so because most of them sit in their rooms watching the wall. Manny got to pretend that he was actually doing something useful and truthfully the only reason I could show up 15 minutes late was that Manny arrived at 9:30 every day without fail. Richie Boy's 'extravagant' life style was managed by his father's careful balancing of the checkbook. Manny was Scrooge, but he was my Scrooge and after I closed the safe I wished Manny a good holiday.
I was still pissed at him, but I'm 57.
At that age most of my friends are retired too.
Manny isn't that different from me and neither is everyone else.
We all have a little bit of the Grinch in us this time of year, for as Manny likes to say, "There is no season for giving."
And ain't that the truth.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Harry Reid the Democratic Senate leader has expressed his confidence that the health care reform bill has the necessary 60 votes to avoid a filibuster by the GOP and Joe Lieberman. Maverick John McCain has admitted the bill that the bill will pass muster in the Senate. The opus has had the 'public option' whittled from the bill along with any mention of abortion, while saving the highly valued abstinence program of the GW Bush administration. Fox News spokespeople are ruing the rise of socialism in America without any mention of the massive corporate welfare to the nation's failing banks.
Laura Ingram paraphrased the old anti-Nazi warning by saying, "First they came for the rich and I said nothing."
The Bush family made money with the Nazis and they said nothing and more blueblood families earned interest off the Nazis with good reason. The Hitlerites were pro-business and nothing coined profit faster than slave labor.
Labor cost of zero.
And no health care either.
Now that's free-market enterprise at its best.
Unfortunately the Democratic Health Reform Plan is not so great for the workers. The insurance companies remain the final arbiter of the country's health. Obesity and fast food were left off the bill. And marijuana is still against the law on the federal level.
My health plan is the same as ever.
Organic food, beer, sleep, and occasionally cocaine.
And a prayer that I never get so sick that I can't rob a bank and get thrown in jail.
10-25 would cover my health cares to the end of my life.
Not much of a plan, but better than what is offered by the Democrats.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Rage Against the Machine beat out a TV idol's bid for Christmas # 1 hit thanks to a campaign by teen youths to tell the record industry 'fuck off yer gits'.
The insipid cover of The Climb by X Factor winner Joe McElderry lost by 50,000 votes.
The power of facebook propelled the LA-based band to the top position wholly on the strength of downloads versus radio play.
It's a new era for music and the record companies haven't a clue.
Killing In The Name
Even more amazing since the song was released in the 1990s
A classic old joke.
There is a new commander of a base of the French Foreign Legion, and the captain is showing him around all the buildings. After he has made the rounds the commander looks at the captain and says, "Wait a minute. You haven't shown me that small blue building over there. What's that used for?" The captain says, "Well sir, you see that there are no women around. Whenever the men feel the need of a woman, they go there and use the camel." "Enough!" says the commander in disgust.
Well, two weeks later, the commander himself starts to feel in need of a woman. He goes to the captain and says, "Tell me something, Captain." Lowering his voice and glancing furtively around, he asks, "Is the camel free anytime soon?" The captain says, "Well, let me see." He opens up his book. "Why, yes, sir, the camel is free tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock." The commander says, "Put me down for two o'clock then."
So the next day at two o'clock the commander goes to the little blue building and opens the door. There inside he finds the cutest camel he's ever seen. Right next to the camel is a little step stool, so he closes the door behind him and puts the step stool directly behind the camel. He stands on the stool, drops his pants, and begins to have sex with the camel. A minute later the captain walks in. "Ahem, begging your pardon sir," says the captain, "but wouldn't it be wiser to ride the camel into town and find a woman like all the other men?"
Private Eddie Slovik was last American to be shot for desertion. The year was 1945. In fact he was the only soldier executed for desertion in WWII
"They’re not shooting me for deserting the United Stated Army — thousands of guys have done that. They’re shooting me for bread I stole when I was 12 years old."
No US soldier has been executed since Eddie Slovik, although during the Vietnam War officers were 'fragged' if their orders had resulted in the death of their command or threatened the safety of a defensive position.
Over 8000 members of the all-volunteer army have deserted from service in Iraq.
"Hell no we won't go."
None are shooting themselves in the hand as was the practice in the Civil War. Some troops have been gaining weight to avoid their military duty and now a general in Iraq has threatened to charge pregnant female soldiers with desertion.
"I've got a mission to do, I'm given a finite number of soldiers with which to do it and I need every one of them."
The Pentagon has not responded to this issue. Neither has the president. Sex is not a subject America treats gently. Never tell unless you can make money from it or you're going out with Tiger Woods. This general better watch his back. He must top the 'most likely to be fragged' list.
Unwritten of course.
Bring the troops home from this madness.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The GW Bush administration opened a detention prison in the US enclave of Guantanamo Bay to house detainees suspected of terrorism. These prisoners were held without any rights. No legal proceedings were initiated against these men and they existed in limbo for years with few Americans caring about questions of guilt and innocence.
All that was supposed to change under Barack Obama.
Nothing did for months, however the president has announced plans to transfer the hundreds of detainees from Gitmo to an abandoned prison in northern Illinois. The GOP and several Democratic legistators have complained that this move will threaten the security of the USA, despite the fact that hundreds of suspected terrorists are already imprisoned on American soil.
The town of Thomson, Illinois is the proposed site of the super-max prison. This Mississippi River community of less than a thousand inhabitants is welcoming the Gitmo tranferees as an economic boon to the rural area. Jobs are more important than the political football being fumbled by those senators and representatives arguing for the eternal limbo of Gitmo Bay.
It's about the economy, you idiots.
The Dow Jones means nothing to the middle-class. They know only the rich get richer. These people want to work and they don't care with whom.
Welcome Terrorists to the USA>
World leaders are leaving Copenhagen. Five nations cobbled together a less-than-satisfactory proposal to combat global warming. China, Brazil, India, South Africa, and the USA hammered out an agreement as a first step toward reducing the danger of a fevered planet.
Too little too late.
That was the consensus opinion, however Alaskan presidential hopeful Sarah Palin tweetered the following argument against any legislation aimed at curtailing carbon emissions.
Copenhgen=arrogance of man2think we can change nature's ways.MUST b good stewards of God's earth,but arrogant&naive2say man overpwers nature
Earth saw clmate chnge4 ions;will cont 2 c chnges.R duty2responsbly devlop resorces4humankind/not pollute&destroy;but cant alter naturl chng
Once more the internet shows how badly we write with or without any education.
Actually I realize that nothing we do can stop the effects of our abuse.
The forests are gone, the water is foul, and the seas are dying.
No one really cares in America as long as they can eat potato chips and drink soda.
Freedom of choice.
Nachos or chips.
Fuck the planet.
We really are doomed by by the fat people, for everyone knows that global warming is really caused by their sweating too much.
Big bodies. Hot temperature. Global warming.
Thanks fat people for the doom.
Friday, December 18, 2009
A storm is headed up the East Coast from Florida and is threatening heavy snowfall. Global Warming skeptics regard this anomaly as an act of God. I haven't seen a really heavy snowfall in the 21st Century having spent most of my last years in Thailand, where there never is any snow or hi-mah. Tomorrow is another story.
Saturday...Cloudy...snow...mainly in the afternoon. Snow accumulation of 2 to 4 inches. Brisk with highs in the lower 30s. Northeast winds 15 to 20 mph. Chance of snow 80 percent.
Saturday Night...Snow. Additional snow accumulation of 4 to 8 inches. Windy with lows in the mid 20s. North winds 15 to 25 mph. Chance of snow near 100 percent.
Sunday...Cloudy. Snow likely...mainly in the morning. Additional light snow accumulation possible. Highs in the mid 30s. Northwest winds around 15 mph with gusts up to 30 mph. Chance of snow 60 percent.
Sounds like a blizzard or a very White Christmas.
Nothing like having the police at your back. I was arrested in Thailand in 2008. The coppers treated me like a prince. They even spelled my name right, but Thailand's # 1 fugitive has resorted to changing his name to "Takki Shinegra," for his passports from other foreign countries to avoid extradition when passing through airports unfriendly to his cause of regaining power to get the $2 billion frozen by the current Thai government.
My name in Thailand is James Steele.
Wife # 2 still thinks that is my real name.
I've never tried to prove her wrong.
Then again I'm only a wanted man by Sirenthep Pechdee.
My Xmas season consists of a marathon work schedule at the diamond exchange. 7 days a week. 9 hours a day. No caroling or egg nogg or festive cheer. I'm at work to sell diamonds and jewelry to the public. Business on 47th Street is better than last year at the Plaza Retail Collection. 2009 is not 2008. It ain't good but it's not dead.
Our clientele make big money. I sold a ruby for a million dollars. Richie Boy sold a D-flawless Pear Shape for $600,000. None of my friends are buying anything for their wives. A cashmere scarf and a bottle of perfume. Not a single call for a strand of pearls or diamond studs. Only the rich have money and Richie Boy was calling me a hypocrite the other day.
"For all your talk about re-distribution of wealth, you end up earning your money off the upper class."
"I never said I wasn't a hypocrite, but how I make my money has nothing to do with my political beliefs."
"You want to overthrow the capitalist system. What kind of jewelry do you think revolutionaries buy? Nothing?"
"Our customer base shrinks year by year. The rich get richer and the rest of the world has no money." I had been thinking about a red star ruby ring for myself. I remain true to the cause. My tastes run left of anarchy. My only jewelry at the moment is a claddagh ring and a half-dozen Buddhist talisman.
"Well, I couldn't be happier for my friends who are richer this year than last, because without them we wouldn't be in business." Richie Boy had met most of his customers at bars and discos. They liked to party. No one ever spoke about their good times with the wives around them. They were smarter than Tiger Woods that way. "What about your customer this week. Owns a natural gas company. Was a submarine commander. He's on MSNBC."
"He's a nice guy." The customer hadn't bought anything yet. He was looking for a $300,000 Emerald-Cut Bracelet. I had one from Cartier. The stones were not a great color. The broker pulled the three biggest diamonds. When the setter put them back, he polished out the 'Cartier' stamp. The piece lost $100,000 on that mistake. "I'm going to make him the piece. It will be gem. He'll be happy. His wife will be happier."
She liked my story about Uncle Carmine being buried with his dogs ashes. Aunt Jane had no idea whose cinders belonged to whom. The three cans are resting well above Schoonic Bay.
"You shouldn't think any of these people are your friends."
"Why not? You do." Richie Boy hated the idea of my customers becoming friends because that would change the commission ratio from 10% to 25%. "Today's strangers are tomorrow's friends. Opportunity knocking on the door."
The door opened for a couple. The husband visibly was in a hurry to buy something for his wife of 20-some odd years.
"You're up, Che." Richie Boy always gave me the opening. I was the fluffer for the firm. A hypocrite with a golden heart. A man too lazy to lie. A revolutionary waiting for retirement.
My wife is only 25.
That's revolution enough for me.
Day 1... Get naked and smoke.
Day 2... Ask a neighbor if they find it funny that every man in the neighborhood has a penis.
Day 3... Flash someone.
Day 4... Get your hair done.
Day 5....Go to a porn theater (or rent a porno movie)
Day 6... Whenever you hear someone say "shit" tell them you hate the brown word.
Day 7... Exclaim "What a day for an execution!" to strangers.
Day 8... Stomp on someones foot - laugh maniacally.
Day 9... Play "car accident." (Be sure to have plenty of ketchup on hand.)
Day 10... Get a baby sitting job - throw wild destructive party. Trash everything.
Day 11... Admit to God that you are a whore.
Day 12... Tell your nephew (or other younger male relative) you'd be so happy if he turned nelly and found a nice beautician boyfriend.
Day 13... Seduce a bus driver.
Day 14... Refer to your daughter (or young female relative) as "that little MF"
Day 15... Write "I sniff jury underpants" (or other obscenity) in a bathroom stall.
Day 16... Have sloppy joes for dinner.
Day 17... Go to doctor and demand "a wang."
Day 18... At the dinner table exclaim loudly "I'm so hungry I could eat cancer."
Day 19... Tell someone that you're a thief, a shit kicker and that you'd like to be famous.
Day 20... Condone first degree murder. Advocate cannibalism.
Day 21... Have sex with a midget in the back of a car.
Day 22... Be celibate for celluloid.
Day 23... Watch "Christmas Evil" with JW commentary.
Day 24... Send someone a bowel movement.
Bonus day - Return all your Christmas gifts for money because-"you can do that you know."
Thursday, December 17, 2009
FROM NOT THE NATION
WINDERMERE, FLORIDA – Tiger Woods, the world’s number one golfer and one of sports’ most famous superstars, finally embraced his Thai heritage this week by engaging in fierce and categorical denial of obvious reality.
In response to the worldwide media storm that began with the global athletic icon crashing his Cadillac Escalade into a fire hydrant near his home at 2:30AM,Woods has engaged in a series of actions that are only explicable when viewed as an extension of his half-Thai heritage.
“Most megastars are also experts at media control and spin,” explained Dee Meyerson, a senior reporter at Hollywood.com. “When things go wrong they call their publicists and consultants and agents, and immediately a pro team of managers handles the situation for maximum damage control. But Woods instead tried to ignore the problem, then denied it, then made some bizarre statements that just fed the fire. It made no sense.”
It wasn’t until TMZ ran a full rundown of Woods’ erratic and incompetent image-managing that the press began to make the connection: After decades of essentially denying his Thai heritage, Woods was finally expressing himself in classic and unmistakable Thai ways.
“The refusal to talk to police because he’s a big shot, the hypocritical demand for privacy despite making hundreds of millions of dollars cashing in on fame and endorsements, the absurd belief that somehow the story will vanish with blanket denials of clear facts – all of these are classic aspects of Thai culture,” said Dr. Farcheen Wongsawai, a professor of Southeast Asian Studies at Miami University. “This is the most Thai we’ve ever seen Tiger behave.”
Many analysts see Tiger’s timing as poor, given that his Thai way of responding to a crisis has so far not brought very good results in the western press, which, unlike the Thai press, has no fear of libel lawsuits and doesn’t treat celebrities and rich people as untouchable, sinless gods. “When you answer questions from western reporters with childish threats, diversionary appeals, and illogical vagueness, they just tend to ask more questions,” observed Manfred Sanchez, a sports media analyst with ESPN Asia.
The backfiring Thai strategy has turned a minor car accident into a media event, alternatively dubbed “The Tiger Zoo” or “Tigergate” and involving sensationalist allegations of serial infidelity, domestic abuse, and casual drug abuse. While some reporters see these new elements as even more evidence of emulation of upper-class Thai behavior, many editorials point out that there is nothing exclusively Thai about rich and powerful people acting like asses.
“Sleeping with B-level porn stars and skanky waitresses is quite American,” noted Sanchez. “Thinking that your icon status will stop people from writing about it, well, only a Thai would be that obtuse.”
Thais worldwide are greeting Tiger’s sudden Thai-ness with cautious enthusiasm. “It’s great that he’s finally acknowledging his heritage,” said Thongchai Jaidee, Thailand’s top golfer and winner of the 2009 Player of the Year award on the Asian Tour. “But I wish he could have expressed his Thai-ness some other way – maybe by smiling more, and being nice to people. That’s very Thai too, you know.”
Tiger Woods appeared on the Mike Douglas Show in 1978. He was two years old. The next year Tiger shot a 48 on a nine-hole course in California. His childhood feats were noted in various golf magazines, so that by the time he hit the PGA tour the young man was a semi-known quantity. He has dominated the sport since the fabled golfer was declared the Sportsman of the Decade, despite his off-course difficulties.
Tiger Woods' wife has threatened divorce over his sexual escapades. Friends say that he feels his world is falling apart. His wife says he needs therapy to deal with his libertinism.
Typical female response to an unfaithful husband.
Tiger is a champion.
Champions get what they want when they want it. His wife is basically an au pair for his kids. She will be getting a sizable chunk of cash from any outcome. Of course she'll say it's not about the money, but anytime you hear that phrase, then you go it's only about the money.
Tiger Woods only did one thing wrong and that was getting caught by his wife and media. Everyone on the tour knows that the hardest part of the tour is not breaking into a smile when you're kissing your wife good-bye for a month of golf in foreign countries or even the far West of America.
No man is faithful at least in his head.
Except for me.
I'm faithful to both my wives.
In Jan. 2008 I was arrested for copyright-infringement in Thailand. The police treated me as if I was a VIP. NO cuffs, no lock-up, no bribes.
"You didn't kill anyone and not sell drugs. Your crime is very small. Maybe $100 fine."
The police also warned not to believe any lawyers working to solve this problem with 'sin bon' or bribes.
"Once you pay, you pay more and more."
Trusting the police in any country is difficult, but I put my faith in these cyber-crime cops and they were right about everything, however I had to wait 3 months for my trial. 90 days without any money in a foreign country. I called all my friends. 90% of them were able to help me. Only now am I paying them back. They are good friends.
Today I received an email from a complete stranger begging for $2500.
Here's his note.
Am in a hurry writing you this note, Just wanted to seek your help on something very important, you are the only person i could reach at this point, and i hope you come to my aid. Because something very terrible is happening to me now, i need a favor from you now,I had a trip here in United Kingdom on a business.
Unfortunately for me all my money got stolen on my way to the hotel where i lodged along with my bag were my passport was ,And since then i have been without any money i am even owing the hotel here.
So i have limited access to emails for now, please i need you to lend me about $2500 so i can make arrangements and return back please,i have spoken to the embassy here but they are not responding to the matter effectively, I will return the money back to you as soon as i get home, I am so confused right now.
I will be waiting to hear from you.
Sorry Ed, but no way.
Somehow I think this is a scam, but I do love the broken English.
Origin of email.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The Berlin Wall fell 20 years ago and a German expat in Pattaya tried to recreate one of many escape attempts over the infamous barrier between East and West. Stasi Police would have shot him dead back in the good old days of the DDR, however on this occasion the Thai police responded by restraining the naked man and remanding the madman to his embassy.
I do recall reading back in the 1970s about another madman in East Berlin who decided to commit suicide was making an escape over the Berlin Wall. He ran out into the minefield without exploding a single bomb. He climbed the wall and was tangled in the wire. The guards shot at him only to snap the barbed wire and he fell into West Berlin. disappointed by his failure he jumped into the River Spree to drowned only to be rescue by the US Army.
He cursed them all and fled into the path of a street car. It killed him dead and he died a happy free man.
There is no success like a suicide getting where he wants in a hurry.
Hanukkah traditionally celebrates the victory of the Maccabees over the Alexandrine Empire, although the real battle was between the orthodox Maccabees and the secular Jews favoring the social liberalism of the Greeks. The latter were the losers and the former rededicated the Temple by lighting the eternal flame. Miraculously the oil burned eight days, instead of the expected one day. The menorah candles are a lasting reminder of that victory for the the forces of conservatism and this rite born out of conflict remains a contentious holiday.
My friends fight with their family throughout the eight days of Hanukkah. They curse those members who don't give gifts and old ills are brought up at the festive tables like the ghosts of Scrooge, so the latest kerfuffle about the White House Hanukkah party fits into a classic display of holiday misgivings.
The basis of the dispute comes from a Bush flack mentioning that the number of invitees to the White House were fewer than previous years. Accusations from Israel exacerbated the issue. The GOP questioned the president's commitment to the State of Israel. The president responded by ordering more potato laktes. They are all glatt kosher.
I love them with apple sauce.
As long as it has no calcium lactate.
Now that's tref.
As for the GOP.
They can go fuck themselves this Xmas.
A US Army squad was marching north of Fallujah when they came upon an Iraqi
insurgent, badly injured and unconscious.
On the opposite side of the road was a American soldier in a similar but less serious state.
The soldier was conscious and alert and as first aid was given to both men, the platoon leader asked the injured soldier what had happened.
The soldier reported, "I was moving north along the highway here, and
coming south was a heavily armed insurgent. We saw each other and both took
cover in the ditches along the road.
I yelled to him that Saddam Hussein was a miserable, lowlife scum bag who
got what he deserved and he yelled back that GW Bush is a coke-sniffing, Israeli-loving Jesus freak and that Barack Obama takes it up the ass from his wife.
So I said that Osama Bin Laden dresses and acts like a frigid, mean-spirited lesbian.
He retaliated by yelling, "Oh yeah? Well, so does Hillary Clinton!"
"And, there we were, in the middle of the road, shaking hands, when a
bus hit us."
This joke was thanks to Nik Reiter of Tottemham Hotspurs Infamy.
Go you yids.
No one hangs out at a Western Union. They are the employees behind the thick plate-glass windows and the customers fighting with the numbers in their heads. The lucky one the latter are receiving cash from a friend or family member. The rest are paying bills or sending money to friends or family members more down on their luck than you. I have been on both sides of this equation. A recipient in Thailand and a donor in the USA. Over the past two years I've been to Western Unions in Florida, New York, Missouri, Minnesota, Iowa, and even one time in St. Petersburg. My purpose in those visits was to send money to my two families in Thailand.
Regardless of location Western Unions have one thing in common.
All the pens have been brutalized by the patrons.
These mostly Bic pens are chained to the wall and look as if a pit bull tried to liberate them with their teeth to do lines of cocaine. I've asked the workers about these mutilated pens. None of them can explain the phenomena. I've watched as other customers have filled out their forms. They write like normal people, but obviously some clients grab the pen with their fists and scrawl with a destructive rage.
To be truthful I'm glad that I've never met this Western Union customer.
I imagine them to be 6-10 and 450 pounds.
My fantasy scribbler is probably the opposite.
5 foot tall and 90 pounds.
It's always the small ones who are most scary.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The girls at the Chic Bar were drunk. Nat had bought two bottles of whiskey to celebrate her upcoming trip to Australia. Her boyfriend had paid for her visa, passport, and flight, plus sent enough money to her home in Isaan for her mother to purchase two buffalo. While all the girls at the bar were happy for Nat, they also hated her, since they wished that they had a farang boyfriend to take them away from Thailand.
"Go Australia, drink beer and eat BBQ." Nat filled her glass to the brim. Her boyfriend worked at the post office. He was almost 40. He had never hit her the same as her Thai boyfriend. She couldn't be more lucky.
"Have too boom-boom too." Oom was nursing her drink. She needed to make 3000 baht to send home. Her babies were sick. "Maybe one day ten times."
"Not with my tee-lath. He go work. Come home. I give him many beers. He fall asleep drunk. Life be too good." Nat chucked down her glass. Her boyfriend was flying into Thailand tomorrow. She'd be gone in a week. "And I only come back for my babies. They stop be Thai. They be Australian same me."
"And you eat too much and get fat." Oom had seen what happens to Thai girls in Australian. They eat like farangs and get so fat their boyfriends leave them for new lady. Oom was never going to get fat. She was going to be slim forever. Her customers liked her that way as they did her little cousin Ping.
"My boyfriend like fat girl. Not like girl chicken skinny same you." Nat and Oom were friends, but rivals too. She didn't need anyone making her feel bad on this happy day. "You only 'itsha' I have boyfriend and you only have old Thai boyfriend Nai. Where Nai now?"
"Nai go home." Oom's boyfriend owed everyone money in Pattaya. Mafia men came to her room everyday for money. She tried to tell them that she never touch money, but the loansharks never wanted to hear excuses. they only wanted money. 500 baht every day and to finish 10000. She hated Nai now and wanted a farang to take her away from her problems.
"More go to krook." Nat knew the police were also after Nai for selling jah-bah. "He go krook then get sick. No have luck for nothing."
"Hoop-barg." The mama-san told the two women. They were on the verge of having a fight and nothing looked worse on Soio 6 than two women pulling at their hair and scratching out each other's eyes.
Neither woman wanted to shut their mouths, but Nat's telephone vibrating within her jean skirt diverted her anger. She lookd at the number and smiled at Oom.
"My other teelath from Germany. He's at the Dusit Thani waiting for me. He want take me to meet family. Have visa ready. I can go this week. Maybe go for this week and come back to go Australia. I have too much good luck." Nat hugged Oom with feigned sweetness., thinking a knife in the skinny girl's back would be so nice. "I wish you have same luck as me. I go hotel now. Have honeymoon."
Oom and Ping watched Nat jump on the back of a motorsai taxi. Oom stood with her hands on her hips. She was more than 'mo-ho'. She had had plenty of farang boyfriends who wanted to take her to England, France, Australia, and even America. Handsome men with money.
"Stupid girl. She think easy go Germany or Australia. Germany not easy for Thai girl. Cold, food bad, far from Thailand."
"Good money?" Ping knew nothing about foreign countries. Two months ago the only farangs she had ever seen in her life had been on TV or at the movies. They were all ugly. Fat, big noses. and smelled like they only washed once a year.
"Maybe 10,000 baht one day. Only have to 'boomsi' five men one day." Oom multiplied 10,000 baht by 30 days in the month. She would be a millionaire in four months. In one year rich as Thaksin's mistress.
"And you want go?" Ping was scared on the bus ride from Isaan. She was scared every day in Pattaya. She wanted to go back to being a teenage girl, but there was no way she could go back home, unless she was rich. She was a 'sophingni'. A bad girl and bad girls had no future in back home.
"No, I not want go, but Nat not go too." Oom poured herself the rest of the whiskey. Two farangs were walking up Soi 6. Both of them were eying Ping and her. She figured both of them good for 1000 baht.
"Why Nat not go to farang country?" Ping noticed the two farangs. She read the lust in their eyes. They liked young girls. All men seemed to be the same. Thai or farang.
"Because I call Nat boyfriend in Australia and call boyfriend in Germany. I tell them about each other. They make plan to meet Nat at hotel. Tell her finish."
"Why you do that?"
"I tired hear her talk about boyfriends. Buah." Oom wasn't usually so vindictive, but Nat owed her 5000 and had no plan of paying her back before heading off to Australia or Germany. She waved to the two farangs. "Hey sexy man. Buy me drink. I make you have good time with my sister."
Ping and Oom went inside with the two farangs. A drink, a bar fine, one hour upstairs, 1000 baht each. Oom was feeling good. Ping a little sick. She hated sex with these men, but at least he was fast and gentle. He told her that he was coming back tomorrow. Oom said it was good to have clients or 'kaks'.
"They treat you good. Maybe he fall in love with you," she told Ping as they came down the stairs.
Walking into the bar Oom was surprised to see Nat with two men. They were her two sponsors. Each was smiling as if they were long-lost brothers. Nat pointed to Oom and said, "Funny, I see my 'husbands' at hotel. I almost screamed like I saw a ghost, but I not scream. I tell them I love them both. They good men. We can make love together and have good time. They can share me. Good for them. Save money."
Nat laughed in Oom's face. Ping grabbed her cousin's arm. She had lost this encounter, but she'd find a way to take revenge. Oom was just that type of girl. Hard as nails and softer as a kitten. Never at the same time.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
"Caught in a trap. I can't walk out. Because I love you too much, baby." Elvis from SUSPICIOUS MINDS.
I'm 57 years old. My girlfriend Sirinthep Pechdee is 25. She has slept with more men than the number of women with whom I've shared intimacy. My friends accuse me of being naive. I'm only in Thailand several months a year. She is there the rest of the time. A woman as beautiful as Sirinthep has to have other lovers.
She tells me 'no'.
"I take care of your son. How can I have other men?"
My mind answers that question with the speed of a rattlesnake snapping at its prey.
"What is is."
It doesn't matter in the end, because I'm 57 years old. I live across the world. I don't care whatever anyone else says.
Because I'm a fool and there's no fool like an old fool.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Bill Clinton was President of the United States for eight years. A good part of his second term was devoted to defending his honor. The GOP were incensed that
'Slick Willie' had demeaned the Oval Office by having oral sex performed on him by Monica Lewinsky. They acted as if he had bumholed Jesus on the Great Lawn during Easter instead of getting head from a fat girl. None of them said a single word about GW Bush huffing blow in White House. Day in. Day out.
Sex is bad.
And now Tiger Woods has 'destroyed' his reputation thanks to an unbridled sex appetite. Compromising photos of the world's # 1 golfer are floating around the internet connecting him with cocktail waitresses and porn stars. His libertine lifestyle is threatening his billion-dollar a year endorsement income as well as his marriage.
Indiscretion at his level costs money.
Both before and after sex.
But the worst are the media reporters her harping about Tiger Woods' failing his public. He's the best golfer in the world. If he can't have sex with anyone he wants then who can and the same has to be asked about Bill Clinton. Tiger woods has announced a sabbatical from golf. The PGA can expect a 50% loss in revenue. The white guys in power have to think a little harder about what they want from their stars.
Especially if they're half-Thai.
Being a Thai man is never having to be à-sàt or faithful and the same is true for westerners.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Copenhagen is a nice city. Someone once said that Denmark was the perfect country. It scored high in the Happiness Index for 2009. I was there in 1982. The DJ from Bsir's and I were on a road trip. We drank beer in the Tivoli Garden and ate herring along the harbor. I bought Maxie Laing's RUNNING in a bookstore. The girls were blonde. We went with two of them to a disco. I slept with one of them. Her name was Anna. Good memories for a pleasant town and this week hundreds of world leaders, ecologists, and industry experts are congregating in the Danish capitol to discuss plans to combat global warming.
Most of western America is buried under snow. A Canadian is proposing one-child families. The right is still in denial led by their head nay-sayer James Inhofe from Oklahoma. Obama is asking for us to make sacrifices.
Unfortunately it's all too late.
All the talk. All the strategies. All the rescue plans.
We are doomed by the excesses of the 20th Century and nothing we humans do in the decades to come will change our fate.
Nine billion by 2050.
Think more like one billion if we're lucky.
What proof do I have of this?
Absolutely none and I've been wrong before, but I got a feeling that i ain't wrong this time.
Has a nice ring to it.
Sam Royalle and I miss Don Muang Airport. The International Terminal was the scene of so many hellos and good-byes. The new Bangkok Airport doesn't offer a third of the venues for tearful departures and joyous arrivals. Myth has it that many girls timed one boyfriend's farewell to coincide with another's hello. Don Muang was so romantic.
My girlfriend Sirinthep doesn't do airports.
At least not for me and certainly not on my recent voyage.
Her last words were via SMS ie it's over for good.
12/4 No problem. I think I can take care of everything. Good for you. You can take care yourself. You are old already. You choose good for you. I no love you anymore. You are a hurt in my heart. Good-bye my love. Broke heart.
12/5 Just want to say. You have other family. I go work in Germany. Just want to say good-bye.
Work in Germany means in a bar hustling fat krauts. I don't response to any of these emails.
12/5 You play your game. Goodbye. I leave your son with someone. Not easy for me, but I want to take care baby by myself. I not want stupid man. I have passport ready to go. Germany.
I wish her luck.
12/6 I have one heart. I not have heart for someone else. Only you. I not want anyone new in my life. Only work and make money for my babies. Love you big mistake. I want forever love. Why you think I have another man. I never go out. Only take care your son.
I don't respond. Silence kills a woman's overactive mind.
12/6 Sorry for last time you come. I do many things bad. I feel sick inside. Then worry too much about your first wife. I worry about have good sex with you, but hurt too much inside. Think all you think about is sex. I want to steal all your heart forever. But I too much scared. Sorry again..
I ask how long she goes to Germany.
12/6 3 months for work. Wait 3 months and go again. Not sure how many times can go.
I wish her more luck. Can't stop anyone from doing what they want to do.
12/6 I'm really sorry I not good for you. I not think about your feeling. Just think about me. You come long way. I not big girl. Only stupid. I'm so wrong. But I really love you 100%
12/6 All my heart. Go to sleep. Love you.
Somewhere there has to be a scenarist for Thai girls telling their boyfriends the 'truth'.
I've spent decades in the Orient. Any mention of these years to women in the USA usually resulted in their dsidainful regard. In their minds my Asian wives are subserviant sex slaves, because their racial prejudice mistake femininity for submisssion. They couldn't be more wrong, even if the most wrong a man can be to a woman is when he's 100% right.
Thai, Chinese, American, French, Russian, African, or Eskimo.
All women are the same.
Especially with regard to William Congreave's 18th Century phrase 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'.
These words work in every language.
My Thai sweetheart Sirinthep Pechdee si a good example. We spent two lovely weeks together. She's a beautiful as a flower. At 25 less than half my age. Everything always seems to be perfect until it isn't perfect.
Last week she found a bank transfer to my previous wife. Love and happiness burnt to cinders.
"I don't love you any more. I have no feeling for you. I never want to see you again."
I moved all my vaulables to safety. Thai girls are experts of throwing your possessions out of windows or into pools. Sam Royalle recently lost his computer, cellphones, flatscreen TV, and stereo to his teelat's temper. Other men have to flee knives, guns or irate in-laws. My love warned she was calling the police.
"Oh, call the police and tell them that I give you enough money each month to run an anti-drug operation in Buriram. I'd love to hear what they say. Better yet, going to jail would be a pleasure. If only to be away from you."
Not really, because ain't nothing good about being in jail.
It's like women.
Jails are bad in all language.
Women are only evil.
Presidents run in high circles. World leaders, government officials, senators, financiers. I don't expect the C-in-C to call my cell phone or email me. It'd be nice but it's not going to happen. Most Americans will never meet their President. The layers of security are supposedly impenetrable. The Secret Service's job is to prevent any unauthorized encounters, but the screen around Barack Obama failed at a state dinner last week. Two party-crashers gained access to the White House and once inside poised with the President and several VIP. The woman intruder got close enough to Joe Biden to play with his nipple.
This breech of security would have never occurred under GW Bush.
The White House was under a lock-down. Staff understood the nation was at war. The President was safe.
Bill Clinton never had his safety compromised during his two terms.
George Bush Senior was not so lucky in 1990.
# 43 was visiting New York for a find-raising dinner at a 6th Avenue hotel. Police had blocked off the area from protesters. My friend Phillip Brooks was waiting at the bar. I explained my rendezvous to the police commander at the barrier and he allowed me to pass through to the hotel. Security within the hotel was tight. Phillip was at the bar. We watched the action for several drinks and then decided to go over to Times Square.
It was still sinful.
The front was packed with guests so I suggested we exit through the parking garage. The first line of police ignored us. We were in suits. The second phalanx was more alert, but we stepped through the revolving doors just as the presidential limousine pulled up to the curb. Secret Service surveyed the entrance. George Bush emerged from the back. He was in a tux. I had never been this close to a presidential and called out softly.
Everyone's head turned my way.
"My sister-in-law says hello." She worked for the CIA.
"Oh, really." He knew her name. She had been his secretary while he served as director. George Bush came over and shook our hands and then proceeded into the hotel. A Secret Service man asked who we we were.
"Just private citizens that's all."
He had a soft warm hand.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
My boss Manny hails from Brownsville. The part of Brooklyn was tough in the 30s. That toughness breeds its own language. Manny is a master of that vernacular. For years he greeted Christmas shoppers to his diamond store with the phrase 'there is no season for giving'. His son Richie Boy tried on many occasions to explain that he was basically saying that at no time should anyone ever give gifts.
"That's not what I said." Manny didn't have an ear for his own spoken word. 30 years on the Bowery and 20 years on 47th Street tend to deaf your hearing. Too much talk about diamonds, gold, and rust. "I'm saying that you can give a gift whenever you want."
"We know that's what you're trying to say, but it comes out the wrong way." Richie's command of the queen's language wasn't much better, however his father's phrase rung wrong. I was too well-educated to suggest any improvement on Manny's speech.
"Wrong way. You understood what I was trying to say, so what's the problem?" Manny was at the age when being wrong wasn't an option unless you wanted to admit decades of mistakes and admission of one would lead to an avalanche of realizations. It was better to think yourself forever right.
Soon 'no season for giving' became our holiday motto.
Of course Manny like a corked wine ages with surprise and this afternoon my boss was showing a young man a diamond ring. The customer actually wanted earrings. He was too young to want to get married. Manny's hearing is gone so he only hears whatever he wants. The young man was trying to tell Manny he wanted earrings, when Manny came up with another gem.
"This is Christmas, a time for giving, not a time for jerking off."
Richie Boy and I exchanged a disbelieving glance. His father couldn't have said what we heard. It was holiday time. The busiest time of the year, although this season no one was buying, yet Manny didn't care. he was insulting the morning's only customer and he wasn't stopping either.
"I don't that the time to waste on someone who would rather jerk off than buy his girlfriend a present."
"All I want is earrings." The young man had never expected this abuse from an 80 year-old man.
"I already showed you rings, now stop wasting my time." Manny threw out the young man and went back to his desk. He looked at us and asked, "What?"
"Nothing." Richie Boy and I said nothing. We knew better than to ask any questions during the season of 'jerking off'.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Sir Richard Branson's spaceship THE VIRGIN ENTERPRISE will bring humans to the edge of Space. Its apogee before gliding to Earth will created a period of weightlessness. The small craft is built for two crew and six passengers, however there must be provisions for those space lovers who want a little privacy in order to become the first people to have sex in Space.
Supposedly US and Russian astronauts have had sex in space for separate research programs on how human beings might survive years in orbit. The greatest challenge to intercourse is the weightlessness. Astronauts and Cosmonauts alike have failed to achieve erections because the blood pools in their extremities. Pressurization is the key.
IN HEAVEN ABOVE is my tale of a bankrupt ex-Soviet republic threatened by a multi-national conglomerate with extinction. The triumvirate in charge of this nation turn to their mad economist to save the country and he proposed that they repair their decrepit space shuttle and hold a global lottery with the first prize to be a ticket into space to be the first man or woman to have sex. None of the studios clicked on this comedy. Maybe it wasn't funny enough, however a respected French scientific writer claims that sex in space has already been achieved by NASA and Moscow, although in deep secrecy.
NASA's Sex in Freefall program was codenamed STS-XXX and astronauts supposedly computer-tested about 23 sexual positions to divine the most viable in a conditions of no-gravity. They then used guinea pigs and reputedly videotaped the results. Censored except for those White House officials with agricultural training. NASA scientists discovered only 4 positions were possible without help from robots and high-tech equipment.
The missionary position is impossible in space.
You can push up and down when there is none in space.
IN HEAVEN ABOVE coitus galactica was a long languid session of foreplay followed by a drift to heaven among the stars.
NASA never contacted me, but I'm still waiting for the phone to ring.
Not NASA but Virgin.
"Hello, VIRGIN. We have contact."