135 in the Shade

My South African friend Richard spends most of the year in Jeddah along the Red Sea. $40K for eight months teaching English to young Saudi boys. No taxes. A comfortable condo. The pluses are matched by one minus. The import, manufacture, possession, and consumption of alcohol or illegal drugs is illegal in Saudi Arabia. Penalties range from jail sentences, fines, public flogging to deportation. Richard likes drinking, but has no interest in violating Sharia law in the strict kingdom and he suffers his exile from booze in silence, although this last month Richard emailed these words of advice to his friends.

"We've reached 51 C now, and it's still rising! Those of you planning on visiting Saudi, if the would let you in, don't!"

Warning taken for 51 Centigrade translates to 123 Fahrenheit.

Hot, but I've experienced hotter.

August 1975. Andy K and I are hitchhiking east from LA. We were stranded in Barstow with 50 other longhairs. Not a speck of shade in sight. One car every ten minutes. A couple from the Haight said that they had been on the ramp for 20 hours. We were six people behind them. They were New Orleans-bound. Our destination was Boston.

"You two should split up. No one picks up two guys." The strung-out hippie had hair to his ass. His skinny girlfriend could have passed for his twin. They made a cute lesbian couple for anyone not looking too closely.

"Except for perverts." His girlfriend was fuming mad, hungry for a fix. They were 23rd in line. She wanted off this onramp limbo.

"Yeah, I've had a couple of offers from some sick fucks."

"Wanted me to watch." Her face screwed up with disgust. Sex was as distasteful to junkies as it was to nuns. "Nothing wrong with being queers." I danced with gays at the 1270 Club in Boston. They pawned me off to fag hags. A god deal for me. "Especially if it gets us out of here."

I tried to look bisexual. Andy didn't play that game and the cowboys weren't buying my solo act. The day was fast approaching mid-morning. The temperature was in the high 80s. By noon the sun would melt the on-ramp's asphalt. It was time to move. Andy and I dashed to the station. A bus station was in sight. A Greyhound was billowing diesel fumes. Its driver was exiting from the station's diner. $8.50 bought our escape.

The bus interior was AC Alaska. No one had dared get off the bus in Barstow. There were two seats in the back. The bus left on time. Next stop - Needles, California.

170 miles.

Two hours later the bus pulled into the desert town. I had a map. Needles was on the west bank of the Colorado River. Andy mentioned that the Joad family's first stop in THE GRAPES OF WRATH was Needles.

The portal to the Okies' paradise of California.

We exited from the bus into the desert heat. I stopped in my tracks, thinking I had walked into the exhaust of a thousand buses. Our Greyhound was the only one in the sweltering parking lot. The other passengers hurried into the station. The sun beat down as if its rays were ironing our flesh.My backpack had gained two tons. My sandals had sunk into the molten asphalt.

This was worse than Barstow.

Across the street a large thermometer displayed the temperature.

135F.

"That can't be right." Andy was gasping for breath. We were from the East Coast. New Englanders wilted when the mercury lifted north of 85.

"No one else is outside."

The highway was in the distance. Cars and trucks sped through a shimmering mirage. It was less than a mile away. In this heat that walk was a test of survival.

"There's a Dairy Queen." Andy headed toward the promise of cold. Ice cream and AC. I followed my friend without question. The heat was so dry that the sweat was sucked off our skin. We ran across the parched grass verge. The time was 2pm. High noon lasted long in Needles.

Our entrance into the ice cream parlor was loud. Doors opened and shut, as if the outside air was poisoned by the leaching sun. The other customers appreciated the gesture. They were farmers, teenage boys and girls. Hippies were a common sight. Their spoons fed their mouths with cold. The AC was 68. Everyone looked comfortable.

"Two vanilla ice cream sodas." My mother had given the sweet slurry of cold comfort to me when I had strep throat.

"I want chocolate." Andy stepped up to the counter. "Two too."

After the 3rd ice cream soda our core temperature had returned to 98.6.

"Is that thermometer right?" I asked an Okie rancher.

"Sun got to it. Ain't right by 15 degrees. Makes it 120. Hot but ain't half as hot as July 2, 1967. That was 122." He said the temperature with pride. Not many humans can handle that heat. "Felt like the Devil was burning my bones. You boys, headed east?"

He offered a ride to Topock. Some 20 miles from here. The other side of the Colorado. Okie was driving a Ford pick-up. His dog was in the front seat.

"He don't mind the heat. Don't like strangers though. You gotta sit in the back."

3:22. Temperature about 110.

"We're ready when you're ready." Needles was the type of town to suck a day from your travels. I had $33 in my pocket. I gave the driver two of them. Gas was 40 cents a gallon. He was grateful for the donation. Twenty minutes later he pulled off the highway. The town was two miles away. We were on the wrong side of the Colorado. The sun was fours hours from setting. The only shade was a bullet-holed billboard. Some 300 feet off the highway.

I stuck out my thumbs. Cars were coming our way. Trucks too. I pretended to be Jack Kerouac's illegitimate son. He had to have one somewhere.

"Look like you're harmless."

Andy was studying piano at Berkeley. He was good at looking harmless. So good the second car stopped for us. A retired couple heading for Kingman. A Delta 88. Gray. V-8. Leather seats. Power windows. AC. Escape.

The retirees had left Chicago for a ranchhouse on Lake Havesu. The view from their terrace was the London Bridge. The developer thought that he was buying the Tower Bridge.

"It's cooler up in the high country. Sometimes down here my head feels hot enough to fry an egg on." The driver had said the line maybe 100 times. It was funny to us. Mostly because we knew it was true.

"We're happy with the one we got." The desert sun had leathered his wife's skin. Her blonde hair was a homage to Dinah Shore. She had grandchildren. "That's why we picked you up."

"They're hippies too." The old man smiled in the rearview mirror. The man and woman complimented each other. "There's lemonade in the cooler. Drink as much as you want."

There were four glass screw-top bottles.

"Don't be shy." The driver was floored at 110. The Olds was torching the miles. We were on the only car on the road. The rest were trucks. Fruit and vegetables on their way east. "Drink as much as you want."

Andy and I drained one each in thirty seconds.

We were safe.

At Kingman they pulled into a motor lodge. The price of a room was $20.

$10 dollars each. We begged off poverty.

The old man offered to pay for our room. We thanked them and stood on the highway. Old Route 66. The air at 3000 feet was cool relief. We had dinner at an Italian restaurant. We ate spaghetti and meat balls. Good as the North End of Boston. The town was mentioned in Chuck Berry's ROUTE 66. I stuck out my thumb. The sun was setting in the pines. A semi was throttling its diesel.

135 in the shade.

That is hot.

Especially when the thermometer is broken.

There’ll Always be an England

England’s loss to Germany in the World Cup devastated by Brit friends. They knew their team was going nowhere, but the referee’s blown call on Lampard’s goal was an insult to the national identity. After this was the country that invented football and a foreigner has to ask, “Will there always be an England.”

This rephrasing of RULE BRITANNIA’s “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves” come from the popular 1940 song by Vera Lynn and even with the collapse of the British Empire, England seemed eternal, although my drinking friends in Pattaya are constantly bemoaning the present state of the island nation.

“England ain’t what is was.” Richard claims, ignoring that he’s half-Polish.

My introduction to England was in 1978. London. I was cohabitating with a blonde fashion model next to the Chelsea football pitch on Fulham Road. Quiet except for football days. Everyone was English then. Proud of the puttering cars, Stalinist wages, polluted skies, and double-decker buses. I felt like it had always been 1984 in the UK and nothing was ever going to change that Sphinctered Isle.

“And England’s dreaming.”

However the construction worker from Luton has a point.

England ain’t what it used to be.

The mad London bombers came from his hometown. Chicken curry has outpaced fish and chips as the #1 English meal and even more pointedly by year’s end Mohammad will be the most popular name for newborns in the UK.

Mohammad beating out Jack?

Whatever happened to Percy?

Maybe it all went to shit when Tiny Tim sang THERE’LL ALWAYS BE AN ENGLAND at the Isles of Wight in 1970, then again integration is the ultimate price of imperialism. You go, conquer, leave, and bring a little bit back with you.

Not just the curries.

Of course there’ll always be one place that’s always England and that’s the Falklands.

THERE’LL ALWAYS BE AN ENGLAND

I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen.
I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen.
May this fair dear land we love so well
In dignity and freedom dwell.
Though worlds may change and go awry
While there is still one voice to cry – - –

There’ll always be an England
While there’s a country lane,
Wherever there’s a cottage small
Beside a field of grain.
There’ll always be an England
While there’s a busy street,
Wherever there’s a turning wheel,
A million marching feet.

Red, white and blue; what does it mean to you?
Surely you’re proud, shout it aloud,
“Britons, awake!”
The Empire too, we can depend on you.
Freedom remains. These are the chains
Nothing can break.

There’ll always be an England,
And England shall be free
If England means as much to you
As England means to me.

And to me.

Half my blood is English. The other half Irish. We are in civil war.

Free Northern Ireland.

Dengue Fever Pattaya

Penang was a different city in the early 90s. Seedy bars stayed open late and delightfully wicked brothels served the shifting population of sailors seeking companionship for a few minutes. Hotels on Chulia Street were cheap. A good thing in 1994, since I was stranded without of a homeward bound ticket.

Wiring money took time. My camera and a large aquamarine gem ended up at the pawn shop. 300 rupiahs had to last two weeks. I read books at the British Council and walked about the city for amusement. A Dutch girl joined my sojourn and we ended up in the cemetery.

The gravestones were covered with moss and green mold, yet the carved inscriptions told of countless deaths from tropical diseases. Mostly the very young. Westerners can survive the hot climates much better than in the prior centuries, however even Pattaya is home to very serious afflictions.

Say Dengue Fever.

Sam Royalle called yesterday, “My sister is in the hospital with dengue fever.”

“Dengue fever?” I thought the fever only hit upcountry.

“She had a fever and itching.” Sam was concerned since his sister’s health is fragile.

Fever is the first sign of Dengue. A severe headache, muscle and joint pains. The red rash splotches the legs and chest. Sometimes it can spread to the entire body. Nausea and stomach aches can accompany these other symptoms. Without proper diagnosis victims will think the fever is something minor and carry the disease throughout its febrile state, which lasts from 5-7 days.

“The hospital wanted her to stay for a couple of days, but she went home to take care of herself.” Sam was glad his sister wasn’t ailing serious enough to need a recuperative stay, for Bangkok-Pattaya Hospital is notorious for gouging farangs fearful of exotic diseases.

Someone has to pay for the new wing.

Treatment generally calls for an increased level of liquid intake.

More beer?

I think maybe.

IV intake might be required if the patient is too nauseous.

Beer Drip?

Sure, why not?

Aspirin and steroid drugs used to combat pain or fever should be avoided as they might exascebate blood strength. A dangerous sign is blood in your ca-ca indicating internal hemorrhaging and that the disease should be treated in a hospital not at home.

While not always fatal, Thailand has 58 reported death of 31,000 cases, however medical authorities are hushing up any mention of Dengue Fever to protect the country’s tourist trade.

The Swahili called the disease “Ka-dinga pepo” and thought the illness came from evil spirits thus causing the victims to walk carefully or ‘dinga’. More realistically Dengue is carried by mosquitoes. Evil creatures outnumbering Man by the trillions. All that DDT and Raid has done nothing against the virus-carriers. My wife loves to spray the hosue, but I have never seen a dead mosquito on the floor.

Hearing this news about Sam’s Sister, I taped over any holes or gaps in my screens. I burn citronella candles at night and spray my feet Citronella oil extract. Mosquitoes don’t bite me, because my blood isn’t sweet anymore, but better to play safe and sorry.

I want to drink beer into my 90s.

And heroin into my 100s with a little white wine.

The Guilt of Innocence

Every weekend the police set up a roadblock to catch motorcycle thieves and incarcerate drug suspects. The cops stop car drivers too, although the round-up is aimed at young people out for fun.

Anyone whose piss turns ‘purple’ gets a trip down to Soi 9 for processing.

And this is not Paris Hilton jail.

Soi 9 has no chairs, fans, or hot meals.

My friend Fabo came home the other night to discover his wife missing.

Not really worried, since she had a tendency to go out on a bender. He went to sleep. The next morning still no sign and her phone was shut off.

Concerned she might have had an accident, he checked the hospitals. No wife. Someone suggested a call to the police. The officer answering the call informed Fabo that his teelat had tested positive for ja bah or the speedy mad medicine and was residing at Chonburi Central Prison.

Prison in Thailand is notoriously medieval, since penal authorities deem criminals, innocent or guilty, in need of punishment. Everyone has done something wrong or else they wouldn’t be there.

Chonburi Central Prison thankfully has witnessed some improvements with the arrival of a new prison warden, however conditions within the walls are scary to say the least and Fabo was frightened for his wife’s welfare.

Being the weekend her release could not be arranged until Monday.

20000 baht was the bail.

Fabo gave the money to the family.

He later explained the circumstances of his wife’s arrest.

The police had come to their house to search for a family relative. The person was from Lao. No papers. Fabo’s wife told them to leave the house. They responded by forcing her to take a drug test which she failed. The story has holes in it, but Fabo was more interested in getting his wife out of prison than the truth.

Was Fabo’s wife not guilty?

No.

Does she deserve a week in prison and a year’s probation?

It’s what is proscribed by the law of the land.

Fabo said, “Maybe now she will be a good girl.”

The betting pool is running against this logic.

3-1.

FIFA Blind Justice

The course of the 1982 World Cup detoured off the tracks for Team England when Diego Maradona scored Argentina's first goal thanks to a blatant hand ball. The referee 'missed' the play and thereafter the score has been called 'the Hand of God'. A winning player said, "In 1986, winning that game against England was enough. Winning the World Cup was secondary for us. Beating England was our real aim."

FIFA refrained from commenting on that illegal goal and the global football organization has done little to address the problem in the following years. Ireland was eliminated from the present World Cup after France's Patrick Henry handballed a ball to his feet. The referee only blew his whistle to signal a goal. Everyone else on the field and the viewing public saw the handball, but not the ref.

FIFA refused to review the play and the number of umpire miscues rose during the 2010 World Cup. Blown off-sides, missed penalties, and aberrant yellow cards were pandemic. My Uncle Carmine said that the only way for bookies to fix modern games is through the officials and it certainly looked like the referees were betting heavily on Germany, when they ignored a dog's balls obvious goal by England's Steve Lampard. The UK would have pulled even with the Deustchbags, yet FIFA announced that the error in judgment didn't effect the 4-1 outcome.

Playing 1-1 is completely different from 1-0,

FIFA said the shot was too close to call.

The ball dropped a half-yard inside the net.

Blind as bats.

The on-field calls got worse,as Argentina's Tevez scored against Mexico on an offside completely changing the tempo of that game.

FIFA's response.

A ban against instant replay on the stadium screens.

See no evil. Hear no evil. We are not evil.

Bet Germany and Argentina.

The fix is in.

WHY TEACHERS DRINK

Young Charlotte

Charlotte Rampling

Forever a goddess.

Martha Stewart to the Rescue

Uncle Carmine was born on the Lower East Side. His wife Jane hailed from Maine. She called Cumberland Falls the last place God created. It's a good 10 hours drive from East 11th Street. Carmine's death wish was to be buried overlooking Schoonic Bay on Columbus Day. Jane's old man gave up the ghost in the summer of 2002. I was in Thailand. Friends and family traveled north for his eternal internment in the stony soil of Maine. I shared driving Jane's Cherokee Jeep with her nephew Rick. We didn't let Steve, her cousin from Montana, touch the wheel. His glasses were thick as the bottom of a wine bottle.

The October weather went Indian Summer for the long weekend. The cemetery was surrounded by blueberry fields. A flag pole was twenty feet from his grave. His ashes were accompanied by those of his dogs. Their eternal companionship was the result of Jane's mixing up the urns. No was quite sure who was who. We tossed dirt on the coffin. No one mentioned 'god'. Carmine would have wanted it that way.

After the service we drove over to Acadia National Park. I was the guide. First stop was Sand Beach. One other car was in the parking lot. We walked down the to beach. The sand is really the fragments of broken shells dropped by seagulls onto the rocky shore. They date back to the end of the Ice Age. A lone couple approached our group. Older. Well-off. Familiar.

Martha Stewart.

American icon. Success. Money. TV power house. Cooking. Decor. Good taste.

All threatened by a SCC investigation for insider trading.

Martha was on the run and we recognized her as a woman on the run. She pulled up her coat collar. The gesture proved her guilt and several months later she served a five-month bolt. As a new fish she held her mud and came out of prison a new woman. the media has yet to re-embrace their star, however this week the Tourism Authority of Thailand shelled out hard cash to the ex-con for the promotion of the troubled country's good points; food, flowers, and decor.

Thailand wants women.

Old foreign women seeking rebirth to counter the nation's image as a sex destination.

My Thai men friends are constantly asking to meet a 'farang puying'.

Sex.

Not culture is on their agenda.

And maybe Martha Stewart has the same thing in mind.

"Older woman seeks Thai male for companionship'.

10,000 strong. Week by week.

500,000 per annum.

Everyone will be happy.

Especially Martha Stewart.

Believe me, I won't throw any stones.

Assicons

We all know those cute little computer symbols called “emoticons,”

:) means a smile

:( is a frown.

Well, how about some “ASSICONS?”

(_!_) a regular ass

(__!__) a fat ass

(!) a tight ass

(_*_) a sore ass

{_!_} a swishy ass

(_o_) an ass that’s been around

(_x_) kiss my ass

(_X_) leave my ass alone

(_zzz_) a tired ass

(_E=mc2_) a smart ass

(_$_) Money coming out of his ass

(_?_) Dumb Ass

SKATING ON THIN ICE by peter nolan smith

The monsoons coincide with low season in Pattaya. Hotels offer special rates and the bargirls call everyone ‘sexy’. This season was shaping to be lower than a snake's belly. The government's repression of the 'red-shirts' and the global economic downswing had rewritten the Thai Tourist Board's projection.

"Thailand not have farang." Mam was happy. I was here with her. Fenway was happy too. My son had his father to carry him around the soi. He was a busy boy.

The guesthouses in Jomtien were in a dire predicament. Bar girls were fleeing Pattaya for the Issan Plateau. Better to work in the family rice paddy, then settle down with an 80 year-old retiree on a limited pension. At least until high season comes back in November. I'd be back in New York within a week. I had a family to feed and so did everyone else.

The desperation on the go-go girls’ faces was a cruel mirror of hard times. I stayed close to home, for any venture farther afield was like running a gauntlet of lust. Every girl sang the same chorus “Take me home.”

My good friend Sam Royalle was recovering from a long ailment. I couldn't follow the treatment. It seemed like one step forward and another two back. Anytime I mentioned diet, the English art director protested, "What you expect me to eat? Thai food?"

It was good enough for 60 million Thais. Few of them were overweight. Mam was only 49 kilos. When we first met, she had been 41. Her family thought she looked healthy. To me she was more than cute.

"Let's go out on Saturday. “Sam Royalle liked go-gos. We drank shots of tequila. He conversed with people despite 110 dB levels. The naked girls were listless on the poles. It was an ordeal, but he needed the company. We had been friends almost 20 years and a long-standing friend is expected to accompany his mate to go-go bars.

Mam gave her blessing.

"Sam take care you. You take care Sam." Her spies covered Walking Street. Their network had agents on every soi. I was a good boy. I met Sam at What's Up a Go Go. Several girls knew my name. We drank beer. Two bottles. The owner of Heaven bought us tequila. He had run a pimp bar in East St. Louis. He was most men's hero.

65 and running a go-go bar.

"Any girl you want. No bar fine." He offered as my birthday present. I had turned 58 the previous week. I thanked Paddy for his generosity, but refused about twenty nubile dancers before midnight. I told them the same story.

“Mai mii keng leng.”

“I can give you power.”

They promised a trip to heaven or hell. I wasn’t interested in either destination after ten beers and deserted my bar stool at Heaven Above a Go Go, telling Sam Royalle that i was going to the bathroom. Three naked girls were on his lap. He wouldn't notice my absence.

The air on Soi Diamond was strangely cool. The wind carried the threat of rain and I walked to 2nd Road rather than be tempted by another drink on Walking Street.

Two transvestites grabbed my arms at the top of the alley. They towered over me in their heels. One hand dipped into my back pocket. I could feel her fingernails grasping my wallet. It only had 500 baht, but all my ATM and credit cards. My struggle to break free was futile, until the pickpocket yelped with pain.

“Pai loi.” The voice belonged to Jamie Parker. We were friends from New York. He could never go back. Crimes against the state have a long statute of limitation. Two years older he carried the menace of the killer. Eleven years hard time. It was no act. "Get fucking lost."

“We go. Come back too.” The taller TV sneered with a helium alto.

“Good luck then.” Jamie stood his ground and the girls strode off to find easier prey. Handing back my wallet, he coughed with a hack. This didn’t come from smoking cigarettes. “Thought you could use a little help.”

“Those girls were tough.” Bruises would color my arms tomorrow. The indentation from their nails would fade faster. “What happened to you?”

Jamie’s body was perennially thin. Drugs and diet, but his face was gaunt and Panda black circles masked his eyes.

“I look that bad?” He stared at his reflection in the 7/11 window.

“You look that bad.” Ja-bah bad. The cheap speed was addictive and I went to the ATM. “You need some money?”

“A thousand wouldn’t hurt, but it isn’t for what you think.”

“Jamie, you can do what you want with it.” After dark any money you give a friend you have to consider as a gift. I pulled out a purple note. Richie Boy, my boss at the diamond exchange, had Western Unioned $300 this morning. It was going fast. “You’re an adult.”

“I don’t feel like it.” He stuck the bill in his jeans pocket. “Mind if I walk with you a bit?”

“I’m just going to get my bike.” The eyes of a passing policeman convicted Jamie of several crimes. “Let me give you a ride somewhere.”

“Yeah, there’s too much light here.” He lowered his head like someone might be following him. I fought the temptation to look over my shoulder. We drove to 3rd Road. His body wavered like a wraith on back. I checked the rear mirrors every ten seconds. No one was there. At the Buffalo Bar I ordered him a beer and waved for the girls to leave us alone.

“Man, it’s been a hard month.” He sat on the stool as if he had been on his feet for days. “But you don’t want to hear about it.”

My mother had prayed for God to send her second son an avocation to join the cloth. I refused the priesthood after hearing Led Zeppelin’s first LP in 1969, but she had been right. I would have made a good priest or at least a confessor. Everyone liked to tell me their secrets. Even more so after two beers.

Jamie drank both in less than a minute.

“I’m all ears.”

“You ever hear of Ice?” He whispered the word with worship.

“Crystal Meth.” The drug had hit the fly-over of America hard. The cops had cracked down on traditional drugs and the dealers synthesize a smokeable speed from ephedrine, the basic ingredient for over-the-counter cough medicines. The substance was equally available in Thailand.

“That’s the one. The Nazis used to give chocolate bars laced with the stuff to Luftwaffe pilots.” Jamie was a vast abyss of useless knowledge. “Kept them flying for days.”

“And you started smoking it here?” Drugs are readily available in Thailand, although opium, heroin, grass have been supplanted by ja bah and ice thanks to the repressive interdiction of the Thai Police and DEA.

“With Ort.” He shrugged to indicate his complete surrender.

“Ort?” I knew Ort from Soi 6. I hadn’t seen her since her boyfriend left her for a transvestite. The little vixen wanted to be my geek. I had refused with deep regret. Ort was very sexy. ”How you run into Ort?”

“She was dancing at Paris A Go-Go. Told me to meet her after work. We went back to her place. A little furnished studio. Bed, TV, AC. She asked if I minded if she smoked some ice. You know me. Anyone can do what they want as long as it doesn’t hurt someone else.” Jamie’s heroin addiction had stolen his youth. Cocaine took away his edge as a comedian. His taking up with speed in his 50s could be a show-stopper. “Don’t look at me like you were a Parole Officer who discovered a bad blood test. You’re no angel.”

“You’re right.” I had disappointed Nancy Reagan too many times by saying ‘yes’, instead of no’ to throw any rocks without hearing the sound of breaking windows in my own house of glass, but I tried my best to avoid drugs in Thailand.

“And you’re right too.” Prison here was worse than any of Jamie’s stateside time. “I knew it was dangerous, but did it anyway.”

“And how was it?” Jamie didn’t need a lecture and I was curious. About ice and Ort.

“Ice is nothing. No rush. Shooting speedballs is a thousand times better for a high.”

“So what the attraction?”

“Sex.” Jamie spoke low, which was a little strange in a bar where every girl was looking for a date. “I thought she wanted me only to buy some ice. 1000 baht. But once we had a few pipes, she said she was hot and asked if I minded if she took off her clothes. Another bowl and mine was off. A day later and we were still at it.”

A binge. “How many days?”

“3-4. I took Cialis to keep up my strength.” Speed and Cialis were tough on the heart, however Jamie was tough enough to survive hardcore XXX games. “And then another 4 days and we had sex the entire time. I had to stop because my skin wore off. Ort wasn’t happy and started screaming for it. It was like being with a nymphomaniac. A tyranny of sex. I told her I was going to the ATM. I didn’t go back.”

“How much money you spend?”

“About 15000 baht and lost about 5 kilos.”

“Cheaper than Jenny Craig’s or Weight-Watchers.”

“I don’t have the weight to lose like you.”

A loss of five kilos would put me close to the fighting weight of my early 40s. “And you didn’t go back?”

“Don’t trust myself. It’s not the Ice. it’s the sex, the ice, the lying in bed with nowhere to go but here.” He drank his beer with a thirst to quench another demon. “Sawan.”

“Heaven.” I was impressed Jamie knew the Thai word for paradise.

“A little hell too, which we both like.”

“Without sin, there is no pleasure.” I loosely quoted Luis Bunuel, the Spanish surrealistic film director. “So now what?”

“I changed my SIM card # and started clean again.” He ordered another beer. They were going down smooth. “Not 100%, but close enough. Another few days and I’ll be back on top of the world.”

“More like top of the heap in this town.”

“As long as it’s a foot higher than anyone else, you see the stars.” Jamie had a way with words, which slurred after our tenth beer.

He stayed at my house for several days before changing apartments. I got a call from him the other day. He’s running promo events for bars and restaurants during the low season. The next is an erotic hot dog eating contest at TiggleBitties Tavern.

Ort had called several times asking where is Jamie. I told her out-of-town. She invited me over her place. I said I was busy. She said she was thinking about me and thanks to Jamie I knew why. I don’t answer her calls anymore. Like Jamie I’m too weak to skate on thin ice.

That's why I stay home most night. I want to live forever. At least until I’m in my 80s.

At that age everything is fair game.

Deluded Grandeur

Three weeks ago Fabo and I were sitting at the garden bar of the Welkom Inn on Soi 3. I hadn't seen the Belgian oil explorer in a year. Both of us had suffered exile from Pattaya. His place of banishment was the North Sea. I was stuck in New York. We were equally glad to be away from either. He greeted me with a kiss on the lips. The girls on the patio regarded the gesture with disgust. They only liked straight men. Preferably newcomers to Thailand. They spent money like bankers on a cocaine binge.

"Papa." Fabo thought that we resembled each other.

"My son." I didn't see the likeness, but I drink San Miquel. It's made in the Philippines. Heineken is my pseudo-fils' beverage of preference. He was 31. I had been in Brussels at the age of 36 in 1988. A Walloon girl had taken me home to her parents. They had made breakfast for us in the morning. Her mother was glad that I was white.

"Welcome back home." His skin was tanned from the sun's reflection off the sea. Fabo looked healthy. He had been a month without a drink. We ordered beers. The time was noon. Loso was playing on the radio. He told me about his months of the oil rig in three seconds, "No fun. No beer. No girls."

"New York. Cold beer. No girls." Six syllables to his seven. The economy of age.

"One plus. Two negatives." Fabo had once shown a photo of his mother. The skinny punk girl with wide eyes looked familiar.

"Now we're here." His nose had been mashed by too many accidents, but his eyes were arctic blue. Mine were high Nordic steel.

"Paradise." Saying that I felt like Adam waking on the day after his maker created 'woman', except the almighty hadn't the heart to destroy his previous failures. The line-up at the Welkom Inn's entrance had a woman for every man's desire.

"You can say that again." I was blind to their allure. Mam dominated my libido. She was too cute for words. Fenway's mother knew that I was here. Trust. I had no choice, but to he true. I ordered another beer. The first bottle died after 47 seconds. The heat of May gave any human a thirst."

"Paradise, and I blame it on our position." He didn't speak about his wife or the German. It was better to not say SS Tommy's name.

"The equator?" I had heard his hypothesis on more than one occasion. My one attempt to explain it to Mam had met with her contempt. She had little patience for 'tawh-lay' or bullshit. All women say the same about men.

"Only 1200 miles south of here."

"I know." I had crossed the equator in the jungles of Sumatra. The relative speed of the earth's rotation is meant to send more blood to your head. "Speed."

"Not speed. The reformulazation of the theory of gravity." These words were spoken in French. Fabo loved the idea, but recognized his conjecture was full-on mad or 'bah mak' as say the Thais.

We argued about acceleration measured in m/s2, air resistance, and the downward weight force. The 3rd beer cured the affliction of banality. We were happy to sit at a bar. Happy the phone wasn't ringing. Happy heading toward drunk. The afternoon stretched east. We watched the men run the gauntlet before the entrance of the Welkom Inn's bar. The interior was night. The mama-san played any song from any year. The male clientele liked 1977. No matter what the nationality everyone knew the words.

We had been surprised by the arrival of four Mideastern men. Jeans. White shirts. No robes. They normally frequented the smoking bars at the end of Walking Street.

"Egyptian." Fabo sniffed the air. Strong tobacco.

"Turkish." They weren't speaking Arabic. Neither did I, but I had heard enough Arabic in Paris to know the difference. I bet Fabo 500 baht on their country. They sounded too Roman.

An hour later they exited from the bar to the warm wishes of several girls. They had barfined eight of the hostesses. One produced a bottle of Sky Whiskey. Half-done. Another flourished a handful of banknotes. The colors were strange.

Not dollar green or the green, blue, red, and purple of Thai currency.

One girl looked over her shoulder. Prueng. A shortcake angel with soft hair and small breast. The tomboy was almost 24. 6 years older than the first day she worked the Welkom. Her girlfriend worked at a big hotel. Preung saved money to pay for her girlfriend's penis operation. 200,000 baht. She lifted a thick fist of money in the air. Her co-workers cheered her order for more whiskey.

Five minutes later she brought two glasses of whiskey-coke to the bar. We were too polite to say no. Preung slapped the foreign money on the bar. It was a big pile. Many zeros. Zaire Francs. Value almost zero. Fabo was frozen on his seat. Someone had to pop her balloon. A bottle of Spy Whiskey was close to 500 baht at the Welkom. I was down to 300. Preung reached for the free drink bell. There were about 33 people with the range of its peal.

Drinks for everyone.

"Don't."

She didn't ask why. I read the finance section of the Herald Tribune, studied currencies, and scanned Karl Marx. An exchange rate came to my head.

“62 baht per million.”

Preung was holding ten million.

The buffalo herd for her father was kidnapped by disappointment. Her daughter was banished in the hicks or ban-nok. Her girlfriend stayed a woman. 600 baht for a short-time trip to heaven was the asking price at the Welkom. Her math was good.

"I not win. I not lose." Preung dropped her hand from the rope hanging off the bell. "It was nice rich one minute. You want go short-time?"

Preung was asking me, but Fabo seized the gauntlet. He had been at sea three months. No fun, no beer, no women. I was one hour late for Mam.

"Another step closer to a million." His arm encircled Preung's waist. She was no longer an heiress. A common girl. One with a good heart and smooth skin. Fabo paid the bill. 300 baht was tomorrow's breakfast or five beers tonight.

Paradise.

I was heading home. Fabo and Preung strolled to room 101. It was the closest. He did look like me only me from six years ago. I had been only 51.

Not young, but younger and therefore rich, because youth was always worth billions in both dollars and baht.

But never Zaire Francs.

Tiger Woods' Hole in One

Tiger Woods took the cure for his sexual addiction, but people have not forgiven his trespasses on morality. Women haven't stopped wanting him either. $300,000 for a non-win at Pebble Beach is good money and nothing makes a man more attractive to a woman than money.

"Money is so powerful that a woman can believe that a bald man is not bald." Frederick Engels

Child Lottery Ghosts

The Somali government is hard-pressed by warlords. Troops chew qat. Their afternoons are spent in a euphoric stupor. Few want to man roadblocks, so children have been drafted into the army. AK-47s replacing their battered toys. A few dollars a week for food. Lucky in a country where there is no work.

Everyone loves the lucky. The lottery players on our soi in Jomtien have my son Fenway pick their tickets. They've won three times. Not big money. Not little each. Fenway is considered lucky and lucky in Thailand is good. Good other countries too.

“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” - Seneca.

I feel lucky for my life. I have a good family, a beautiful wife, Mam, a job (and that's not a small thing these days) and my health, but some people want more and hard work is not the answer for their desire. They know hard work. They need a break and Thai police recently arrested a former nurse selling post-abortion foetuses as "child ghosts" or 'luk krok'. The officers found 14 pickled foetuses in her inventory. She told investigators that the 'child ghosts' were good at picking lotteries.

Most Thais would prefer to have a luk krok amulet than the real thing.

Of course the power of the luk krok stronger in Ban-nok.

Most farangs don't buy into these beliefs. They are too smart to believe. But not all farangs are so smart as to be that stupid.

“I can believe anything provided it is incredible.” - Oscar Wilde.

American Quagmire

America sought revenge for 9/11. Al-Quada was the main target. October 7,2001 the US opened its invasion of Afghanistan. The Northern Alliance backed by US strategic bombing swiftly routed the enemy. The media were astounded by the swift collapse of the Islamic republic without taking into consideration that the mountainous country was on the verge of mass starvation with the approach of winter. The Taliban faded into the people and Al-Quada retreated into the tribal areas along the Pakistan border. Victory slipped out of the grasp of the US military with the escape of Osama Bin Laden during the undermanned assault of the Tora Bora stronghold.

Since then our troop presence has steadily increased to 94,000 thereby surpassing the effort in Iraq. There is no front line. Suicide bombers target the populace. IEDs blast IASF convoys. Corruption is rampant. The opium trade flourishes and warlords rule small fiefdoms financed by Pentagon.

Afghanistan is a country that eats armies. Strategies fail and soldiers die.

This week the war claimed the commander of the occupation forces, where comments by General Stanley McChrystal made to Rolling Stone created a firestorm in Washington. The general obviously was obeying President Obama's edict of the revocation of 'don't ask, don't tell. Honesty was in the air, as he said on his way to a Paris dinner at the Ecole Militaire,"I'd rather have my ass kicked by a roomful of people than go out to this dinner, unfortunately no one in this room could do it."

His rejection of VP Joe Biden's advice was another nail in the coffin, calling the second-in-command by the nickname 'Bit-me'. The general's take on Obama was even worst. The two remained at loggerheads and the emergence of these statements led to his dismissal. The first time A president has relieved a general in combat since Douglas MacArthur was summoned to the White House by Harry Truman.

The new top dog is David Petraus who is credited with saving Iraq.

Bombings and corruption.

The new state of democracy.

Messy like Dick Cheney said it would be, but the truth is that no one knows how to put this country back together and that's the truth no one is able to say.

Not even in a free society.

"In Afghanistan, this is the problem, because everybody holds a piece of that mirror, and they all look at it and claim that they hold the entire truth." - Mohsen Makhmalbaf

Over US 1000 dead and counting.

No one counts the Afghan dead.

They are strictly collateral damage.

Ecological Stomping Grounds

British Petroleum's latest attempt to seal the DeepWater oil spill ended with the underwater robots knocking off the capture siphon. Even more oil spews from the damaged oil head than before. The Pentagon is offering another plan to fuse the leak with a heat bomb. One mile down. No one else has offered up with a more viable option and the Supreme Court has revoked the presidential moratorium on drilling in the Gulf of Mexico. America needs its oil, even if answering that need kills off an ocean.

Our ecological footprint grows larger every day, yet America could take lessons from one of the Axis of Evil to improve its impact on the Earth. North Korea has been considered a threat to world peace since George W Bush partnered the Hermit Nation with Iran and Iraq back in 2002. Their danger is graphically revealed by a satellite photo of the hermit nation.

South Korea had bright cities.

North Korea?

My Christmas tree has more lights.

So basically the most dangerous Axis of Evil is ecologically sound.

What about my ecological footprint?

I live in Brooklyn, recycle, eat fresh food, exercise, pick up plastic, bike, and drink beer. I don't use air-condition. I sleep with a fan.

Still there are questions and I went to the Happy Planet Index to discover my compatibility of your environment through a series of questions about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Multiple choice.

Completely anonymous.

First question is about your place of residence.

#150 USA wasn't a good place to start with 3% of the world population consuming 25% of the energy.

Yesterday I scored 82 which is close to the ideal HPI. Today’s 64 is on par with #2 Columbia. Cocaine makes happy faces. Civil War who cares?

My life expectancy is 80.

My ecological footprint is level with #162 Botswana

Guess I’m a tree hugger or consumer deprived.

Everything else was above average.

So I guess life isn’t so bad for the moment. Let’s hope I keep it that way.

HAPPY PLANET INDEX Test

http://www.happyplanetindex.org/survey.htm

One more thing North Korea isn’t listed in the Happy Planet Index.

Evil has no place with happy.

Edith Shain 1919-2010

Her kiss represented the mirage of 'welcome home' to the troops returning from WW2.

The promise of lust.

The reality of a family.

The union of man and woman.

Edith Shain has joined the mortal coil.

Her kiss is immortal.

Chuck Norris Top Ten List

After Tom Selleck, Chuck Norris was my late gay brother’s favorite actor. Michael’s favoritism was based on trim facial hair. James Brolin was his third choice. Strangely Bryan La Boeuf, painter and rodeo phenom. emailed a list for Chuck Norris.
And Bryan is straight.

Being a Bruce Lee fan I have never understood the white guy martial arts thing, especially the fascination with that hairdresser Jean Claude Van Damm.

Steven Siegel said of him, “He’s a nice ballerina.”

Chuck might actually be tough.

Anyone who acts that bad has to have a back-up talent.

Chuck Norris's Top Ten List

1. Guns don’t kill people. Chuck Norris kills People.

2. There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live.

3. Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.

4. The chief export of Chuck Norris is Pain.

5. There is no chin under Chuck Norris’ Beard. There is only another fist.

6. Chuck Norris has two speeds. Walk, and Kill.

7. The leading causes of death in the United States are: 1. Heart Disease 2. Chuck Norris 3. Cancer

8. Chuck Norris drives an ice cream truck covered in human skulls.

9. Chuck Norris is my Homeboy.

10. Chuck Norris doesn’t go hunting…. CHUCK NORRIS GOES KILLING.

30 In 30 Out

The hierarchy of farang Pattaya is ranked according to the source of your money.

At the top are those rich retirees divorced their wives before their investments could be raped for alimony. Second come the westerners working for the up-market chains as executives. Third stand successful go-go bar owners and hotel proprietors, although everyone knows their success is as lasting as their ability to resist a go-go dancer who says the word ‘love’. The most stable of the top bracket are the 30 day in, 30 day out workers. Oil drillers and mercenaries make up the majority of this illustrious group.

My friend Fabo studied in Belgium to be an engineer. All he had to do was finish his last year at university. His father gave him money to take a trip to Thailand. He came to Pattaya and fell in love with Gai. A hostess from the Buffalo Bar. Not her first or her last lover.

But the young Belgian was convinced he could sweep her off his feet.

Fabo was young. He had money. Gai accepted him on those two assets alone. She spoke Thai and he spoke French. Everything they meant to say was murder by their broken English and the two fought constantly because of this communication gap.

It didn’t help that Gai had other boyfriends.

But then a girl like Gai would.

She was a Thai version of Anna Nichol Smith.

Buxom in a country where most women describe their breast as kai dao or fried eggs. Her height help stretch her Rubenesque proportions and her smile could win a fistfight.

The affair ended when Fabo spent the last of his money on a trip to Koh Chang. He called it their honeymoon. Gai whispered to the other girls that the honeymoon was a week in nalok or hell.

Not that she didn’t love Fabo, only she had obligations. A small girl by the name Chickie. She needed money. More than Fabo could provide as a student. Even with his father’s help.

She waved good-bye at the airport and promised to write. As soon as he vanished into the departure lounge, she fought back a tear and headed to catch the bus back to Pattaya. She didn’t have time for crying.

Fabo finished his studies. It took time and he thought Gai would wait. She did, but with other men. His friends told him to forget Gai and on his next rip to Pattaya he met another girl with an animal name Poo or crab.

While he waited for his appointment to an oil-drilling ship, Fabo kept going to the Buffalo. Gai wasn’t there. She was off with someone else. They were in Phuket. He even thought about going there and would have if Exxon hadn’t called with an offer to explore the Bay of Bengal for oil. He was gone the next day.

A month later he showed up in Pattaya. He spent a fortune on Poo. He was happy. Things were going his way. He was a made man. Then he went to the Buffalo. Gai was back. One look and his heart flamed like a rogue oil rig ablaze. “I still love her.” And in some ways she loved him.

I left them there together and didn’t ask any questions afterwards. When his 30 days were over, I asked Gai, “Is there any chance for you to fall in love with Fabo?”

“I love him like a brother.” She was wearing a soft shade of pink. A hue for a chiffon goddess. “I don’t think Fabo wants you as a sister.”

“He comes from Belgium. Why not?”

“Well, he likes you like a man and a woman.”

“I know how he likes me, but now he has a wife.” She ordered and beer and the waitress put the bill on my tab. “We are friends. Nothing more. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure.” I dropped the subject.

It’s always best not to question love, because the answer is never what someone wants to give.

Fabo came back in another 30 days. The two of them acted like lovers, yet went home in different directions. Of course both those directions could lead to the same place.

Pattaya only has so many roads.

Just A Little Talk

Last night the Big Four of the Celtics ran out of gas. The pre-season games, 82 regular season games, and four grueling playoff series let the future hall-of-famers gasping for breath in the 3rd period. Playing in the Lakers' house didn't help their cause. Kobe got an early birthday gift in a 3-point shooting foul. LA played a mugging defense. Kobe had submarined the Celtic center in game6. No foul. Still the game was close. If any of the Celtics hit a shot during the 3rd quarter's scoring drought, the final outcome could have gone either way.

Rasheed Wallace had played a stellar 1st half. His lungs were sucking vapors in the last 24 minutes. Doc Rivers, the Celtics coach, suggested the nappy-haired shooting center might have played his last game. Temper-ridden and prone to technicals. He is the all-time leader in Ts and after the game 'Roscoe' as he's known to LeBron James headed to the officials' locker room. Security prevented him from speaking to the referees. His foul-out on Kobe in the last 25 seconds proved to be the difference in the 83-79 score.

"I just want to talk."

LA had a 37-17 edge in free throws.

His talk might have been a little too threatening to the officials and the NBA. After all Wallace lashed out at the refs in 2008

"All that bullshit-ass calls they had out there. You saw them calls. The cats are flopping all over the floor and they're calling that shit. That shit ain't basketball out there. It's all fucking entertainment. You all should know that shit. It's all fucking entertainment."

Pro Wrestling.

And my man Roscoe is more right than he is wrong..

As for his retirement, I played ball in the DeKalb playground this evening. 2 on 2, then 3 on 3. I hit from deep and score from the paint. I'm 58. 5-11. Vertical leap of 1 inch. Old School. We won both games and my teammate asked my name.

"James. James Mahon."

Everyone knew what I was talking about and so does Rasheed.

Rasheed got some game left in him. Some techs too.

Go Roscoe Go.

Kobe Ain't Shit

Kobe Bryant entered the NBA as a 17 year-old rookie out of Lower Merion High School. The Lakers shooting guard has been the league's top player throughout the 21st Century. A perennial All-Star. 81 points in a single game breaking Elgin Baylor's team record. 4 championships. The top selling tee-shirt in the USA.

New York basketball fans have abandoned the Knicks for the Celtics. I was surprised to see in Frank's during the pre-season that the clientele preferred the Celtics broadcast to the game from MSG. I wore my Celtics shirt at the bar. One regular was a LA fan. Their rivalry was important to us. We have the basketball jones.

"Kobe ain't shit." I'd greet Larry and he'd respond, "Kevin Garnett ain't shit."

Our riposte were good-natured. Kobe was a lock for the Hall of Fame in Springfield as if KG, however Kobe's name is spoken by basketball fans as if someone shit in their mouth.

"It's his attitude."

I didn't buy this excuse. Most basketball players have attitude otherwise they couldn't get playing time in the NBA.

"He only thinks about himself."

Everyone in then world is the same way. The 'woman and children' talk is fine and good until the Titanic is sinking in the cold Northern Atlantic. It's 'everything man for himself' in the best of situations.

"He raped a woman." Kobe had been arrested for sexual assault in Colorado. The same circumstances as Mike Tyson, except Kobe escaped from the threat of prison by paying off his accuser. His wife's support was rewarded with a $4 million dollar diamond. They are a girl's best friend.

I understood that Kobe was facing a multi-faceted antipathy from non-Lakers fans.

"He's a philander." They say the hardest thing in the NBA is for a player to not break into a smile while kissing their wife good-bye before a road trip. Wilt Chamberlain boasted of having sexed over 20,000 women. Tiger Woods was nailed for a mere 15. Kobe has to be in triple digits. It's no big thing. I'm in the same league.

"Kobe snitched on Shaq."

This was the heart of the matter.

Kobe had sold out the Lakers center to the police, saying, "He should have done what Shaq does ... that Shaq would pay his women not to say anything."

After that statement Kobe has worn the snitch jacket.

"You dirty rat."

Those immortal words were falsely attributed to James Cagney in PUBLIC ENEMY, however finking out a friend is considered a sin as grievous as shitting on the wedding cake,which was why I was surprised the other day by General Stanley A. McChrystal stating to the media that the Afghanistan Occupation Forces were received good intelligence from reliable sources. This claim has worked well in Washington. General Stanley A. McChrystal actually believes the USA can succeed in Afghanistan, where the British Empire and Soviet Union have failed, but the on-the-ground reality is that if someone says someone is snitching out the bad guys,then the bad guys will kill all the someones they can find until no one is saying a word.

Afghanistan is not the NBA.

Betrayal is a mortal sin punished by death.

Usually with pain most extreme.

And General Stanley A. McChrystal has forgotten one of the prime tenets of crime.

"You can only snitch up."

Like Kobe on Shaq.

Which is why I say,"Kobe ain't shit." and neither is Stanley A. McChrystal.

Time to Go Home

Last night after the Celtics - Lakers game LA Larry, 'SSippi' Homer, Big Ears Rosa, and several other drinkers at Franks kept the night burning by catching 'last call' at a nearby karaoke bar. Homer didn't get home until 6am. He looked like a deshucked zombie at the bar tonight.

Too much fun and Homer is nearing 80.

I was glad I was feeling same as him.

I'm not about going out for dawn.

At my age my sin is best hidden from the rest of the world

Chris Rock performs a comedy piece about why men get married.

“You don’t want to end up the old guy at the club.”

The old guy at the club.

At 58 that man could be me, except I have surrendered my long-standing after-hour privileges for the sake of sleep. Not beauty sleep. Just plain old good-fashioned rest. It"s been months since I stayed out late. I was supposed to paint Pattaya 'black' with my old friend, Sam Royalle, except The Thai Police declared a curfew after the Bangkok massacre. Mam said 'go out'. She was in bed with our son. A 2 year-old. She knows what Sam has done for us over the years. I said 'maybe, knowing that Sam gets going late. This evening was no exception.

10pm.

A text message.

Sam was heading for Heaven Above off Walking Street.

A long night of go-go bars and tequila shots. I had done it before.

More than a thousand times.

I texted back that I was already in bed.

I shut off the lights and went to sleep holding Mam.

It was always time to go home with her.

Game 7 - Celtics versus Lakers 2010

Tomorrow night the Lakers and Celtics meet at the Forum for the final game of the 2009-2010 season. This rivalry dates back to the 1959 sweep of the Boston Celtics over the then Minneapolis Lakers. While the championships for the Celtics and Lakers respectively number 17 and 15, the actual head-to-head has been dominated by the Celtics 9-2. Those two championships for the Lakers came during the legendary Magic-Bird Era. Their 2008 meeting resulted in Boston's return to glory.

The Lakers won their 15th against the Orlando Magic, who had ousted the previous year's champions in a 7-game series. Boston was missing star forward Kevin Garnett and few members of the basketball press predicted the Celtics to mirror their 2008 performance. Lackluster play, injuries, and age condemned the Celtics as damaged goods, yet during the play-offs the team beat the greatest stars of the East by playing team ball.

Goodbye Wade.

Adios LeBron.

See-yah Dwight.

California here they come to face Kobe, striving for recognition as the greatest player since Michael Jordan.

A rematch of the greats and the series has not disappointed the fans, although last night's 6th game was an embarrassment for the Celtics. Phil Jackson toldhis team that the Celtics had champagne ready to be uncorked in their locker room. His words acted as a catalyst for a moribund bench. The Lakers scorched the Celtics. Our center was submarined by Kobe. Out for game 7 and beyond. Artest elbowed Rondo. 17 stitches. Bill Russell# 6 walked out in disgust. The final 89-67 was the second lowest losing score in the history of the NBA finals. Utah's 54 against the Bulls in 1998 is the worst.

I watched the game at Frank's Bar. It's only three blocks from my apartment. The regular crowd was augmented by hip interlopers celebrating the release of an independent film. Something about a white boy lost in Jamaica. I didn't pay them too much mind. They were into their own world and I was freaking out because the Lakers took an early lead in the 1st quarter.

"Basketball is a game of 50/50 chances." Phil Jackson the LA coach stated to the media in the pre-game show and throughout the game every bounce, call, and errant rebound went to his team. It wasn't even close. The only word to describe the game was 'ugly' and Larry crowed that 'Garnett ain't shit'.

I had said the same thing about Kobe the previous game.

Crow tasted like crow.

Now the season comes down to one game. A bombardment of cliches. There is no tomorrow.

Which is a lie.

Only just that they will only be a tomorrow for either LA fans or Boston.

I am calling it all green.

As if I had a choice.

Mandingo Lives in South Carolina

Two weeks ago Alvin Greene was a black man from nowhere. South Carolina Democrats voted this previously unknown native son to contest the GOP for the US Senate seat. His opponent in the race offered his congratulations. It wasn't until the day after that party officials asked how an unemployed man could garner 59% of the turnout.

No campaigning. No yard signs. No TV appearances. No debate.

The party honchos also questioned where Alvin Greene came up with the $10,000 filing fee to run in the race. A quick examination of their candidate revealed Alvin Greene was living with his father. They called him 'homeless'. Accusations of sexual misbehavior also accompanied the investigation. After all this was South Carolina's first black man to run for the Senate.

The newspapers suggested a GOP scam.

In South Carolina registered voters do not have to declare their party allegiance.

Voting preference is decided at the ballot.

However it is not the GOP who is lynching this decorated war veteran and graduate of the University of South Carolina. The Democratic Party HQ are like a prom queen waking up in bed with Mandingo. His living with his father has been colored as a portrait of a homeless man rather than a loving son taking care of his father. An involuntary discharge for health reasons further tars a reputation tarnished by a November 2009 obscenity arrest.

"Let's go to your room."

These words were said to a SC coed.

She was white.

He is black.

Some party officials suggest that blacks voters to him since his name is similar to Al Green the famed soul singer.

"I hope he will see the wisdom of leaving the race.”

The party faithful could only pray that Mr. Greene would resign, however he has refused to bow out of the race. He is a black man running for the Senate. No black man has ever been elected to that position since Reconstruction.

His politics are moderate. His campaign frugal.

No one has yet to say the n-word.

Even South Carolina knows better than that.

Black man. Unemployed. Homeless.

Sounds like he might know what is wrong with the picture.

Al Greene.

Take me to the river.

Prom Night 1970

Thai Tsunami ESP

The 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake caught Xmas holiday-makers by tragic surprise.Over 200,000 people were killed by the killer waves generated by a monster quake off the coast of Western Sumatra. The 9.1 tremor rang the planet like a bell. The hum continued for weeks, as the coastal communities of Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka, and India struggled with the aftermath. The horror of that morning was televised around the world and every shudder of the Earth is a cause for rightful panic. No one knows when or when the next disaster will occur, although rumors flooded Thailand that the Meteorological Dept denies speculation of massive quake, tsunami Meteorological Department had predicted a powerful earthquake and tsunami for June 12.

Obviously a well-intentioned functionaire had read the wrong info from the tsunami early warning system.

Thais abandoned the beaches and Mam, the mother of Fenway Smith, reported that residents on our soi in Jomtien had moved their possessions to their townhouses' 2nd floor.

The day and went without misfortune and the Meteorological Department assured the coastal communities that an earthquake in either the Pacific or Indian Ocean would endanger the Gulf of Siam. I had been in a kayak off Koh Samet the morning of the tsunami. Not a ripple in the sea. I returned to shore from my 10 miles voyage. The TV showed images of Koh Phi Phi. Devastation. I knew the island well. Thousands died in their hotel rooms including the King's grandson. It was a horrible way to go and I understand the fear of the people and to this day keep my eye on the sea.

Ready to run for the hills.

This photo was taken in Phuket. A Swedish mother runs into the sea to help her children to safety. It looks like none of them will survive the onslaught of the sea. They were lucky.

Mam and Fenway are safe too.

We live on the 5th floor.

It is our hill.

Going Upcountry

Most farangs come on vacation to Thailand for the beaches food, culture, and temples. A friend off-handedely suggests a visit to the Last Babylon. In Pattaya these love-lost western men meet a girl. Past present are unimportant. She is something out of a dream and they spent an idyllic vacation on Koh Samet.

The disgust of fat western women rivals the envy barely hidden on these obese cows’ husbands. The Thai-farang couple make love five times a day, mostly to make up for years of abstinence. Upon his return to Pattaya, she doesn’t seem to mind accompanying the older man to go-gos. His blindness is almost comical, since he can't that she doesn’t trust he out of her sight.

This has to be paradise and two weeks into the honeymoon his beloved says, “I want see my family. You come with me?”

It seems like an innocent proposition and the old geezer agree to this journey to Ban Mai-mee-tee-nai.

Hearing these plans his bar friends say exchange a knowingly glance.

“What’s wrong?” The newby really want to know.

“Nothing.” They smile like he brought a blind donkey “Have a great time.”

“Thanks.” The western man rents a car for several days and leaves Pattaya on a great adventure. Ban Mai-mee-tee-nai is not on the map. He asks his sweetheart for directions. She is about a minute from a semi-coma and points north. “Isaan.”

Isaan.

The mythic plateau of Northeast Thailand which has figured into his friends jokes about the sick buffalo, blind aunt, feeding a host of hundreds and drinking Lao-Khao whiskey with toothless rice farmers till dawn. The farang suddenly realize that he doesn’t know what he's gotten himself into and his tilat isn’t explaining either, because she is scrunched against the door in a state of exhaustion.

Oblivion comes easy after two weeks of making love to a Viagra-crazed farang.

The highway turns into a two lane road. At one point his darling opens an eye and indicates a dirt road. By the time the car hits the first pothole, she has lapsed into another coma.

The electric lines disappear and dry fields stretch to a hazy horizon. Buffalo laze in a torpor. No cars. No people. Crossing a bridge over a muddy creek and his girlfriend opens her eyes.

“We here.”

“Ban Mai-mee-tee-nai?”

“My home.” She beeps the horn, as he pulls into a forested complex.

A horde of Thais surge from several wooden houses. The old farang haven’t seen any place this ramshackle outside of a National Geographic magazine, but everyone is all smiles. He smiles back. Kids pull on your leg. An older man greets the farang with a bow. He wais back as directed by his girlfriend. Everyone laughs. He smiles. Food appears out of nowhere. Everyone sits down and eats on the ground. The old codger thinks this isn’t too bad, until his legs cramp up and everyone laughs at his uncomfortability.

His girlfriend’s ‘brother’ gets a chair dating back three centuries. Sweat pours from his skin. They offered beer with ice. He's never drank it like that before. Now it’s perfect. The heat is stultifying. More food is eaten. Some of it he doesn't recognize. He tastes a little. Your mouth is on fire. He drinks more beer. Soon it’s gone.

“Need more beer.” His girlfriend holds out her hand.

He reaches into your pocket. The girlfriend grabs 2000 baht and jumps on a dilapidated motorcycle with the 'cousin'. “Be back soon.”

The remaining crones clear the food and he's left to drink Lao-Khao whiskey with the male family members. They insist on his drinking, even though he's passed triple the legal limit for DWI an hour ago. His girlfriend hasn’t shown up and the farang peaks his ears for the sound of the motorcycle, only to hear the buzz of the early evening’s mozzies.

Several hours later he wakes on the floor of a house with three men aromatized by lao whiskey. He has no idea where he is. His wallet is still in his pants. Thais are very honest. Female voices babble under the floor. Nothing they say makes any sense. The farang climbs over the pile of sleeping men and descends a vertiginous set of stairs to the ground.

Over head stars blaze in their billions. A fire burns in the yard. Some of it is plastic. His girlfriend is sitting with a gaggle of women. She smiles at him. He smiles back, wishing a doctor could shoot him with an injection to get rid of his throbbing hangover.

Footsteps sound behind him. The men are carrying plastic bags of Lao-Khao whiskey. He protests against being offered a glass. His girlfriend frowns. The Lao-Khao goes right to his stomach and the farnag rushed into the bushes to heave like a girl scout drunk from sherry. Everyone laughs and that’s the last he remembers before waking to the sound of roosters cowing. It’s dark. hell, it’s night.

His girlfriend is asleep and so is everyone else.

The farang tries to go back to sleep but his feet have been bitten to death by mozzies hungry for a taste of new blood. Soon dogs are barking and the sky is getting light. Before the dawn a loudspeaker crackles to life. For the next hour a man rants on in Thai. No one stirs from their slumber and the farang wish that he was back in his hotel room.

Air-con. Cable TV. Swimming pool. Mobile phone service. Western food. Chairs. Beds. Beaches. bikinis. Go-go bars.

Of course his girlfriend doesn’t respond to any hint about a return to Pattaya other than to say that tonight is a big party, which ends up a repeat of the first night only with more family members. Everyone is having a good time and why shouldn’t they? No one has put a hand into their pocket since his arrival and he mentally calculates that he could have flown to Bali for the price of the last two days ie bar fine, car rental, and expenses.

And his girlfriend hasn’t as much as kissed him, as she has reverted to a village girl. Food, friends, family, everyone having a good time. And she knows how to play a man, farang or Thai, because at the night’s end, she comes up to him and says, “Everyone like you. Me, I love you, because you not make face.”

“Make face?”

“Yes, make face same dog, because you spend too much money.” She sneaks a kiss and everyone laughs. He too and he decides to stick it another day.

On the fourth day he wakes up and pack the car. Everyone waves good-bye, except for the three family members joining them for the voyage south.

Back in Pattaya he drops off the relatives without a word of thanks. He delivers the car three hours late for a half-day penalty. The farang is glad to be back in civilization, but his girlfriend cries, “I miss my family.”

They make love for the first time in four days and she cries throughout. He feels like he's having sex with a war widow and almost stop, except those years of abstinence have create a monster and he completes your mission, after which he leaves her in the hotel room watching TV to meet his friends.

The farang os happy to be missing them and later that night the gang at his favorite bar ask, “How was it?”

“It was great.”

And they nodded in unison because they’ve said the same thing too.

New Words for the Modern Age

This year Webster Dictionary has allowed a new series of modern slang to be entered into the lexicon of the English language. Most people I know ie English speakers are light years ahead of the educational tome in their ugly venacular depravity, but here are some words which might make it into the revision for 2007.

1. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

2. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

3. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

4. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

5. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject
financially impotent for an indefinite period.

6. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

7. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn’t get it.

8. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

9. Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

11. Karmageddon: It’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it’s like, a serious
bummer.

12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

13. Glibido: All talk and no action.

14. Dopeler effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

15. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you’ve
accidentally walked through a spider web.

16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit
you’re eating.

And the pick of the literature:

18. Ignoranus: A person who’s both stupid and an asshole.

Punk rocker dates Thai policewomen

Punk rocker dates Thai policewomen

Richard has been dating Lee two years. He is an aging UK punk rocker and she works for the Bangkok Police. District 8. His friends called her ‘Angie Dickinson’. Her friends named him ‘Sid’.

She’s a good girl and hasn’t asked him for a dime. Richard bought a CRV pick-up and trusts her to take care of the car while he’s back in the EEU playing retro-punk to dissatisfied university students.

Richard professes to never having cheated on Lee.

Thanks to Bill Clinton oral sex is no longer considered sex and Richard possesses a clear conscience in regards to his fidelity.

After a two month stint touring UK pubs with his punk quartet, Richard planned a 20 day stay in Thailand. He phoned Lee. She was upcountry attending a police academy a good 8 hours. She said she would meet him on Tues. He arrived and took the bus down to Pattaya. After one night of staring at go-go girls, he settled into doing nothing, which is his favorite pastime.

But Tuesday comes and no Lee. Her phone service is off. No signals. Richard calls Lee’s friend. No single. Phone service is terrible. It’s Buddhist Lent and everyone has gone home for offer flowers at the village temples. Richard gets worried. Maybe Lee has had an accident.

I run into him this morning and he say he’s thinking about heading up to Bangkok to check if she’s alright.

“Where are you going to go?”

“Her station.”

“Bad idea.” I shake my head. “She’s a cop. Her life at the precinct is being a cop, not some chick dating a westerner. You show up and the other officers will think she’s a whore.”

“So what am i supposed to do.” The stories of cheating Thai girlfriends he has heard from his mates have infected Richard with a dose of jealousy.

I want to tell him, “Go to Soi 6 and get a BJ.”

Instead I say, “Do nothing. Lee’s a good girl. She isn’t fucking some Thai boyfriend. She’s probably at the temple on his knees, praying to Buddha for your luck.”

It 3was what he wanted to hear and I suggested, “Call her office tomorrow. Don’t show up there. The coppers will think you’re a crazy farang stalking their co-worker and throw you in jail. She’ll show up when she shows up. This is Thailand.”

Anything can happen, but it’s better if you think it doesn’t

ADDENDUM 6/12)

Lee showed up last night. Her purse and telephone had been stolen at the police academy. She didn’t have Richard’s number and had to drive to Bangkok to get it. The traffic was horrible. Richard couldn’t be happier and never questioned one part of the story.