Saturday, February 27, 2010
The 8.8 earthquake in Chile was one of the strongest ever recorded in history. Hawaii authorities were quick to issue tsunami warnings and thousands of residents fled low-lying grounds for safety. The Reverend Jerry Falwell waited for the landfall of the tsunami before declaring that the devastation on the Pacific was caused by their satanic adherence to the grass skirt, Hawaiian slide guitar, and spam.
God's wrath is still out there.
My friends and family in Hawaii avoided his doom.
Can't catch me either.
GW Bush landed on US Abraham Lincoln on 10/30/2003. The banner 'mission accomplished' hung from the control tower. That claim proved premature and the president underwent five years of slogging through negative press, sentiment, and politics before leaving the White House in a helicopter. His successor waved from the ground and since that day the ex-president has avoided most contact with the public, almost as if he knows that someone where out there someone wants to kill him or even worse arrest him for crimes against humanity.
At a recent breakfast with former staffers Mr. Bush admitted that he was content to fade back into the shadows.
"I have no desire to see myself on television. I don't want to be on a panel of formers instructing the currents on what to do. I'm trying to regain a sense of anonymity."
I understand his sentiment entirely. The ex-model from Paris phoned the other day. A long-time admirer had contacted her with unrequited love in his heart. She mentioned my name and her suitor warned that I was a dangerous drug addict capable of harm both financially and physically.
"Yes." The ex-model from Paris had defended my reputation.
"Me?" We had lived together two years on the Ile St. Louis. I never so much as stole a centime. maybe a few long-distance phone calls which were paid by her husband. He thought I was gay. I think that she did too.
"it's not like you're harmless."
I never said that." I'm no saint. So I understand GW Bush's desire to stay in the shadows. He's gone but not forgotten at least for now, for you never lose the taste for fame.
"Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever." - Napoleon Bonaparte
With one days to go in the Vancouver Winter Games the Olympic Village has been hit with a shortage of condoms. Athletes have gone through the seemingly endless supply of contraceptives. 100,000 or 14 per competitor. Some entrees having sex more than once a day are one reason for the dearth of rubbers and religious leaders in the USA are praying for the souls of these sports lost in Vancouver's hedonistic pleasure domes.
"Abstain USA abstain."
I ran cross-country in high school. Our team was state champ. The lead runner swore that sex before a race made him run faster. Ray's girlfriend was a cheerleader. The competition knew of his practice and mostly lost to him, because they wanted to be just like Ray. Our team did too. None of us had girlfriends like his and I only did once I was thrown off the team for bad grades.
None of us ever wanted to abstain and none of us wanted to use condoms.
But they do work.
I know because I have two kids.
Condoms were never a thought.
I'm very pro-life that way.
The Thai High Court has denied reports that the principal judges were offered a 5 billion baht bribe or sin bon to rule in favor of ex-PM Thaksin on whether his fortune should be confiscated by the Supreme Court.
Who wants to be a billionaire?
Five of the nine judges in the court denied accepting any bribe from the red-shirt leader, although no one has asked them about any offers from the old school elite.
5 billion baht versus a cut of 46 billion.
Strictly a question of where does that 46 billion go now that it is the hands of the Supreme Court.
Some people have very big pockets
Sam Royalle is planning to open up the Ban Suay Go-Go on Walking Street. He offered me the position of manager. The pay was better than my salary on 47th Street.
"You speak Thai, understand the culture, and have worked bars before. You're perfect for the job." Sam texted the message over Skype.
"More like I mumble bad Thai, have a small inkling of what Thai think of us, which is nothing good, and I haven't worked in a bar since 1997." I can't even remember the name of the lounge. The owner was Nur. He dismissed my services because I preferred punks and rave kids to rich trendies. Nur was right. It was no longer the 70s. Money made people cool.
"No one is this town better than you." Sam and I are friends. He didn't care for my politics. I accepted his fear of heights. He wanted me back in Thailand. The labor pool for honest farangs in Pattaya is very shallow.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." 57. I broke off the communication. Broke and contemplating running a Thai go-go bar. Only a few of my New York friends are privy to this information and I've mentioned nothing about Thai authorities targeting go-go bars on Walking Street as a venue marketing sex.
They aren't wrong either.
Go Go girls are barfined to accompany farangs to short-time rooms, hotels, restaurants, shopping malls, condos, and houses. The purpose is strictly carnal, but these excursions generate billions of baht to the coastal resort and the Isaan Plateau, the home of most go-go and bar girls. Men and women trafficking in sex for money. The police even raided a seafood restaurant rumored to be a destination for under-age sex.
A pimp is one thing.
A procurer of young girls is another. Sunee Plaza is infamous for young boys. Karaoke bars for young girls. The city government has long hoped to replace these sordid establishments with family-oriented entertainment. The new police chief swept Beach Road for ladyboys and sex workers. The round-up netted 60 suspects, who were fined for loitering. Most returned to the beach to work off their debt to society and local wits suggested that the action strangely coincided with the month's end when money for the brown shirts gets a little tight.
This is Pattaya.
I've been there before.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Foreign embassies have been issuing warnings to their nationals about possible upheaval sparked by the demi-seizure of ex-PM Thaksin's wealth. Last night Mem asked if I wanted the airport closed by the yellow shirts.
"No." I had plans to visit or possibly stay in Thailand. EDT - march 2010.
"If airport how you come see Fenway?" Mem's question was a good one.
"I'll take a boat." My family had clipper-shipped to Thailand in the 19th Century. Aunt Bert said the women were beautiful, but had black teeth from chewing betel. Mem's teeth were hurting. I needed to send her money for a dentist. I liked her smile, especially the yim tang nam dtah or truly happy smile. I had seen it a few times and the Thai smile is one of the country's greatest tourist attractions.
Over 20 million tourists last year alone.
14 million, but another 6 million were illegal and this concern of bad tourists has infected Sweden's opinion on the travel of Thai girls to the Nordic country. Visa standards for Thai nationals is fairly liberal compared to other Western nations and the police have been complaining about the some of their visitors.
“We know that some people are lying to us and going to Sweden with the wrong purposes. But we really try to stop them. We do a lot to avoid sending people with the wrong purpose going to Sweden. But I am also sure that we can not get 100 percent right."
5000 Thais are issued visas to Sweden per annum.
400,000 Swede visit Thailand without any requirement of a visa.
I met a Swedish girl in Beijing Aeroport. She was drunk. Tattoos and heading for the Full-Moon festival. I know several Swedish bikers in Pattaya. Nice guys to have your back in a fight. They were all criminals. Druggies on elephants treks. Naked girls on Koh Samui. Heavy drinking Vikings glad to be far away from the Lutheran buzzkill of their Scandinavian nation.
Berserk in behavior.
And the Thais are coming to Sweden for bad reasons.
The word in Thai is pôo-lòk-luang
This morning I called Thailand to speak with Mem. 8am my time. 8pm her time. She answered the phone from the karaoke bar across the soi from her apartment. My son Fenway likes to sing. I so want him to be a superstar. It's my alternative retirement. The other is to rob a bank in Norway and get the court to sentence me to life. Free herring and my own cell.
"You hear about Thaksin?" Mem asked with a little belligerence.
"They took have his money." Halfway around the world I stay current with Thai politics thanks to www.2bangkok.com
"Yes, they take his money for themselves." The common people like Thaksin. His family is half Thai/ half Chinese. He doesn't come from the aristocracy, so everyone thinks if Thaksin can make it then so can they. "Why farang hate Thaksin?"
"I don't hate him." I blame him for the troubles in the South and I know one person killed during his anti-drug campaign. The man was no danger. The police shot him to get his money. "He is no better than the other khon yai."
"Farang kii nok." Obviously the Thai media has been blaming this judicial ruling on foreigners, even though not a single farang can vote in Thailand.
"I don't like yellow shirts." They're devoted to preserving the old ways. The poorer and stupider the people the better they can soak the poor to preserve their wealth. This system works in the USA and every other country in the world, because there are only three ways of making money. Big Money. Birth, marriage, or theft. The Thai Supreme Court seized half of the deposed prime minister's assets in a gamble to quiet his red-shirt supporters.
"You red shirt?"
Thaksin had earned his fortune the old-fashioned way by selling off the Thai satellite network to Singapore in violation of sovereignty laws. $1.4 Billion for the courts would come to approximately 2000 baht for every Thai family if the courts decided to redistribute the wealth. Mem wasn't expecting the yellow-shirt government to give a single baht to anyone but their own families. Big people or khon yai.
"But I don't like Thaksin too, but why would any Thai care what a farang thinks. Thai know better than anyone else about Thai life."
"Farang know nothing about life Thai."
Mem was right and I didn't want to get into an argument about a power struggle between shadowy factions.
"I'm a green shirt person." Boston Celtics green to be exact. "And so is our son. yet daeng. Yet si-luang. I'm green."
Mem was hot. Her temper can flash like a strobe. She knows that I love her, but like every woman in the world doesn't trust a man out of her sight. Fenway started crying and she put him on the phone. I made bird noises. He laughed. Fenway is green too.
Unbelievably Thaksin's supporters cried at the judgment as if it were their money.
Then again you can buy your freedom with money and the Thais now understand that their money means nothing to the Khon Yai. Then again neither have their lives. Once a slave always a slave.
My son will be a superstar either way.
Sukhumvit or Route 3 stretches from Bangkok to Trat. This road serves as the main conduit south to the Cambodian border and its lanes cut through a series of coastal cities and town. In Pattaya Sukhumvit is more highway than road, although drivers speed over its asphalt with an abandonment of regard for life and limb, theirs and anyone else in their path. Car crashes, motorcycle accidents, pedestrian hit-and-runs occur with deadly frequency. Houses are bigger and cheaper on the inland side of the motorway, but I preferred to live in Pattaya proper rather than endanger my life crossing the busy thoroughfare.
"Sukhumvit taang lŭang mah dtaai." Pi-Uan, who rented cars outside the Buffalo Bar, worked the rescue crews cleaning up the bloody aftermath of wrecks. He called the road. The highway of dead dogs. He . Scores of pi-dogs litter verge and I have dreamed of joining their corpses. The number of farangs who meet their maker on Sukhumvit is a classified secret of the Thai Tourist Board.
The origins of the adage 'god loves a drunk' are lost in time, but the words were once more proven true by a Sattahip musician, who succumbed to the excess of lao whiskey and pulled his motorcycle to the break-down lane and fell asleep a meter from the death race. His head rested on his shoes. The police awoke the singer. He sang them a song and fell into a heavy slumber at a bus stop.
Thailand has only four breathalyzers, so the attending officers were unable to get a blood-level reading from the unconscious entertainer. His wife advised the uniformed police to let him sleep it off and two hours away the singer arose from the dead.
A miracle on Sukhumvit and it occurred in broad daylight.
The Canadian Women's Hockey Team beat USA USA USA 2-0 for the Gold Medal and the hockey players celebrated in a traditional fashion by drinking champagne, sipping beer, and smoking cigars long after the crowd had exited the arena. They looked good with the cans and bottles, only the cigars were out of place, but the IOC condemned the images as inappropriate and offensive.
Not a single hockey fan would agree with that stiff-backed judgment.
Bravo Team Canada and beer on.
You're prettier beer after beer.
How sweet it is.
Jackie Gleason was no ahtlete. A good golfer and gambler, but no Olympian except for drinking and eating, especially at Toots Shor's West 52nd Restaurant. One night the comedian challenges his host to a race around the block. First one back pays for dinner. The two men set out running in the opposite direction. Toots doesn't see his competition until arriving back at the bar. Jackie Gleason hasn't even broken a sweat.
"No one said nothing about taking a taxi."
How sweet it is.
"If you have it and you know you have it, then you have it. If you have it and don't know you have it, you don't have it. If you don't have it but you think you have it, then you have it." - Jackie Gleason
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Asia is hot. SE Asia especially. Thailand is subjected to 35-40 C temperature throughout the hot season. Eyeballs boil in the heat. Clothing stick to flesh like snake skin. Only sweaty. Tempers flared into deadly encounters. Words are not enough and neither are 3layers of clothing this evening in New York. The city is experiencing a snowacane. Homer and I were sitting at Frank's Bar on Fulton Street. On the TV the Celtics were playing the Cavs. The point spread was even. The oddsmakers know best. The game was in Boston. Paul Pierce was sitting out and Rashid Wallace had no interest in playing good. he was on the trading block. Outside Snow was flying across the window horizontal with the sidewalk.
"I ain't going nowhere." Homer's a bookie. He don't need to be anywhere as long as his wife doesn't tell him to come home. Homer is 75. He's comes Mississippi. They don't have basketball down on the Delta.
We bought each other two rounds of drinks. Our mood was good. The game was even just like Vegas prediction. Everything changed with the opening of the door. Big Mo entered the bar. he was no one's friend. I didn't know what he was and didn't ask. He was on the hone threatening someone. Ray Allen missed a three. He said hello to Homer. I pretended to be a honkie. The loanshark didn't buy the act.
"I see you here sometimes. What's your name?" His hand covered the voice piece of the phone.
"James." I never told anyone my real name.
"Jimmie, tell Leroy on the other end what to do."
"Leroy, I don't know you adn you don't know me, but if Big Mo wants you to do something then I suggest you do it."
I passed the phone back to Big Mo. He clapped a palm on my shoulder. It felt begger than stingray's wing. Big Mo sat at the other end of the bar. I said nothing to Homer. He said nothing to me. Five minutes later an older black man in a suit entered the bar. He sat next to Big Mo. The Celtics were down 10. The bookies couldn't have seen this happening. Big Moe in Frank's. He was a big buzzkill. I left the bar after paying my bill. The snow was gaining elevation. I looked inside the bar. Big Mo was leaning on the older man. Across the street a cop car was in position to chase speeders.
I walked home driven by the cold wind.
Joe the guard at the diamond exchange used to drink on the job. Beer. The ex-cop drank off the job too. Beer. The first beer was a Bud for breakfast. According to his calculation Joe consumed 15-16 beers during the course of a day. His doctor advised his patient to cut down. Joe ignored the warning and his body bloated to an enormous size. Gas from all the carbonation was seeping from his stomach. The only remedy was a complete cessation of beer and soda. Joe has been bemoaning his fall from grace.
"Even after the four week abstinence I won't be able to drink beer. Not like a man is supposed to drink beer."
I commiserated with my friend, because I'm a lightweight in my old age.
No more 20-beer nights.
5 is a lot nowanights.
Neither of us were world-class drinkers like Andre the Giant who drank enough for 30 men according to this piece from Wikpedia.
"He has been unofficially crowned "The Greatest Drunk on Earth" for once consuming 119 12-ounce beers in 6 hours. On an episode of WWE's Legends of Wrestling, Mike Graham claimed that André once drank 197 16-ounce beers in one sitting, which was confirmed by Dusty Rhodes. In her autobiography, The Fabulous Moolah alleges that André drank 327 beers and passed out in a hotel bar in Reading, Pennsylvania, and because the staff could not move him, they had to leave him there until he regained consciousness."
I'd died after drinking a 10th of that.
Andre the Giant would rise from the ashes of his hangover and drink as if there had been no yesterday.
My next beer is to him.
The King of Beer.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Andre the Giant is a legend. His presence in the WWF gave the wrestling federation credibility. This man was big. He entered Studio 54 when I was working there. I opened the ropes and said, "Right this way, Andre."
He smiled and ushered in his three guests.
No much of an entourage and I was surprised to hear that a graffiti artist from Providence RI had tagged numerous cities with the words ANDRE THE GIANT HAS A POSSE. Supposedly this phrase was everywhere in the world where there were graffiti artists and skateboarders. Neither were my crew nor Andre, although I'm sure that he approved this expansion of identity.
This story from wikpedia is why Andre might have traveled light, but he did have a posse.
'Another feud involved a man who considered himself to be "the true giant" of wrestling: Big John Studd. Throughout the early to mid-1980s, André and Studd fought all over the world, battling to try and determine who the real giant of wrestling was. In December 1984, Studd took the feud to a new level, when he and partner Ken Patera knocked out André during a televised tag team match and proceeded to cut off André's hair. André had the last laugh at the first WrestleMania on 31 March 1985 at Madison Square Garden. André conquered Studd in a $15,000 Body Slam Challenge. After slamming Studd, he attempted to give the $15,000 prize to the fans, before having the bag stolen from him by his future manager Bobby "The Brain" Heenan.'
We are Andre's Posse.
A filthy storm is aimed at the northeast Atlantic Coast. Coastal flooding, heavy precipitation, and high winds. New York City is supposed to get 13 inches of snow. John Holmes and more. The GOP climate general has yet to comment on this latest winter weather, but I've heard from his religious constituency.
"This is not global warming. This is the wrath of god."
These words come from a fundamentalist preacher from Paris.
"Graven images will become dust
22+02+2010=9 21+12+2012=11 9/11
22/2/2010 encoded in the dollar bill ................ end of the old world order the dollar dies, 21/12/2012 beginning of the New World Order.
Third world war, Iran Israel, the death of the dollar, a flat currency based on nothing, total chaos, paves the way for the New World order, the Anti Christ and the end of the world as we know it 22/02/2010 date for the beginning of the end, Jesus predictions coming true, sheeple sleeping................... God have mercy."
I am really doomed this time, but 12/21/2012 gives a nice length of time for sinners to either repent or go for the gold, because no matter what they say 'heaven' is not for everyone.
The nuns instructed their classes that anyone with a tattoo won't get into heaven.
Sacrilege of the Flesh.
My skin is pure, but I won't go to heaven. Not in 2012. I'm not going until the Boston Bruins win a Stanley Cup.
The 1912 Summer Olympics were held in Stockholm. My paternal grandfather was scheduled to compete as a pole vaulter for Canada. He broke a leg during practice. Harry Babcock set a new Olympic record with 3.95 meters. The USA won the gold and the silver and the bronze. Two years later the world was at war. My grandfather served in France as a doctor for the RCMEF and met my grandmother there. None of the next generation went to the Olympics. None of mine too, but my sister's-in-law cousin is competing in the finals of women's aerial skiing.
Emily Cook from Belmont, Massachusetts.
She was 12th after the 1st jump.
I googled her name for a better result.
Still the same.
I'll never get so close.
At 57 I recognize my greatest athletic feats are well behind me, although I W'ed against a 13 year-old on the DeKalb basketball courts. 21-16. He had a good shot.
Richie Boy and his wife are up north in Vermont. He reported blizzard-like conditions mirroring the predictions of meteorologists across the Northeast. The region will be hit Thursday and Friday by a frigid hurricane sweeping moisture off the Atlantic. I warned Richie Boy to clear the roof of his trailer and get fire wood in the house. A skier he understood the possible severity of the upcoming storm unlike GOP Senator James Inhofe who has been labeled Planet Enemy # 7 by Rolling Stone. The Oklahoman begged to differ.
“I should have been number one, not number 7. I am serious about that. I have spent now literally years on this thing, and it has been a long involved thing.”
During Washington's Snowageddeon the senator had his grandchildren create an igloo for Global Warming spokesperson Al Gore. He also suggested criminal investigation into the possibility of faked research into the effects of climate change. His well-wishers around the world support this proposal. None of them live on the coast. The senator hails from Tulsa. Nice town. I drank there with the Spear sisters in 1973 and 1974. Bring your own bottle. At 700 feet above sea level it should survive the planetary alignment of 12-21-2012. Watch out Manhattan. god's wrath is after you sinners. I'm on Fort Greene. It's the highest point in this part of Brooklyn.
I will survive.
ps Senator Inhofe earns a B.A. degree from the University of Tulsa in 1973, at the age of 38. I graduated a year later from Boston College with the same degree. so I can be a climate change expert too.
Politicians are so strange that they actually believe what they tell the public as in the case of Moscow's mayor, who said he would hire the Russia Air Force to seed storm clouds with cement powder, dry ice or silver iodide to prevent any frozen precipitation during the winter months. Having once attempted to reverse the flow of the River Ob the mayor is no virgin when it comes to miracles and with a civic budget larger than New York the mayor suggests that the savings on no-snow winters would improve the life of Muscovites. His hand-picked city council has green-lighted the project after the city experienced the heaviest snowfalls since the winter of 1944.
26 inches for a double-John Holmes depth.
Of course there has to be some danger of mixing cement powder and ice at high altitude.
Not for the pilots of the planes, but those down below.
The sky most certainly will be falling if the mayor gets his way and even in Russia there is no fighting city hall.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Last week a Russian producer contacted me to write a screenplay about New York nightlife in the late-70s and early-80s. He had read IN ABSENCE OF AMNESIA my story about the Continental and thought I could incorporate the plot of Russian gangsters running an after-hour club in Chelsea.
Crooked cops, Russian mobsters, FBI informers, my ex-girlfriend, drugs, and rock and roll.
"It almost writes itself." I said to the producer.
I later explained the story to Andrea, with whom I work at the diamond exchange. She couldn't believe the story was true. I googled 'continental nightclub murder' and this article from the NY Times popped up. Nothing else. Almost like the Continental existed like Brigadoon. Only in people's mind, but here's some proof. I knew Viktor. He had turned for the feds. Not on his crew. Other mafia. he wouldn't squeal on his friends. The FBI cut him loose. He was found dead the next night.
A February 7, 1983 article (“Soviet Émigré Is Found Slain”) from the New York Times states:
A 24-year-old émigré from the Soviet Union was found shot to death Saturday in the doorway of a commercial building in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. The police said yesterday that the motive for the crime was unclear. They said they doubted it was robbery because the victim, Victor Malinsky of Floral Park, Queens, was wearing gold chains and a diamond ring and had $265 in his wallet. He was also carrying a paging device, which was beeping when officers arrived at the scene at 5:30 A.M. Mr. Malinsky was shot in the head, chest and back, the police said. The body was found at the entrance to 601 West 26th Street, between 11th and 12th Avenues, by the building’s night watchman. Mr. Malinsky, a self-employed interior decorator, arrived from the Soviet Union in 1980 and lived at 270-15A Grand Central Parkway, according to the police. They said they had not determined whether the victim was slain at the Chelsea site or slain elsewhere.
I was there that night. I left town the following week. My subleasee said that the police wanted to speak with me. I thought it better to stay out of the USA for a couple of years. French became my second language.
So far the film producer hasn't come up with any money.
What a surprise.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Frank's Bar on Fulton Street is black. It's not Black Panther 'Black' or Malcolm X 'Black' but it's blacker than any other bar in Fort Greene. Since 1972 too. I've been hanging out there for the last year. I have never pretended to be anything more than what I am. A white boy from Boston and the regulars of the bar have accepted my whiteness. I speak with Homer about the Knicks. We agree that they suck. Billy in the corner tells me tales of the 50s. He is that old and Tim, the owner's brother, drinks with me on Sunday afternoons. Ain't no one else there but me and him. He's 75. I'm 57. We've seen some of the same things, but I was a white boy cracker.
I stopped at Demel's Chocolatier in the Plaza this evening. They were closing on Friday. Attila packed a box of cakes. He asked where I was going, thinking I might be trendy, after all my boss Richie Boy had been in the Boom-Boom club the other night.
"That's not my game. I'm strictly Frank's."
Especially on the nights Rosa tends the bar.
She's funny, hot, and pours free beer.
This evening I arrived with chocolate cakes. All the girls at the bar cooed with expectancy. They were chocolate-lovers to the bone. I fed them pralines, dark chocolate mousses, super chocolate pies. All the sisters were ecstatic and the largest on all said, "Thank you, Mr. Chocolate."
"Mr. Chocolate?" I pondered the enormity of this appellation and said, "I have reached the promised land when a white man can be recognized as chocolate. Chocolate City I love you."
Everyone laughed except for one young man.
"You ain't no brother."
These were harsh words, but I stuck out my arm. It hadn't seen the sun in six months.
"I blacker than you."
And it was the truth.
Everyone laughed harder. Even the brother lighter than the white boy.
I do love this bar.
Tiger Woods appeared before the TV cameras to apologize for his philandering ways. His mother was in attendance. His wife was understandably absent. His statement didn't address the night of the crash outside his Florida house. He unequivocally denied his wife swung a golf club at him without explaining why he fled in such haste. Tiger's crime was not murder or taking performance drugs or stealing money from children.
Tiger Woods was a sex addict, then again many other athletes and public figures and plain old folk like sex.
"I was unfaithful. I had affairs. I cheated. What I did was not acceptable."
Unacceptable to his wife, who was probably not putting out enough. Unacceptable to his sponsors who exploited the image of clean family living to sell their products. Unacceptable to the religious leaders of America who tolerate child-abuse from the Catholic Church and polygamy from the Mormons. Unacceptable to TV lip-bumpers who have nothing to say about anything other than the sins of others.
Wilt Chamberlain boasted of having sex with 10,000 women. The Winter Olympic Committee distributed 100,000 condoms to the athletes in Vancouver. Last time I went to a hockey game a beautiful girl begged for an introduction to a Ranger. I was sitting behind the bench. I called out his name. She did the rest.
Sex is not a sin.
At least not in my book, then again I'm faithful to my wife.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Big Buster sent this letter.
WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT TO TURN ON THE TV AND HEAR ANY U.S. PRESIDENT, DEMOCRAT OR REPUBLICAN, GIVE THE FOLLOWING SPEECH?
"My Fellow Americans: As you all know, the defeat of the Iraq regime has been completed.
Since congress does not want to spend any more money on this war, our mission in
Iraq is complete.
This morning I gave the order for a complete removal of all American forces from Iraq. This action will be complete within 30 days. It is now time to begin the reckoning.
Before me, I have two lists. One list contains the names of countries which have stood by our side during the Iraq conflict. This list is short. The United Kingdom , Spain , Bulgaria , Australia, and Poland are some of the countries listed
The other list contains every one not on the first list. Most of the world's nations are on that list. My press secretary will be distributing copies of both lists later this evening.
Let me start by saying that effective immediately, foreign aid to those nations on List 2 ceases immediately and indefinitely. The money saved during the first year alone will pretty much pay for the costs of the Iraqi war.
THEN EVERY YEAR THERE AFTER IT WILL GO TO OUR SOCIAL SECURITY SYSTEM SO IT WONT GO BROKE IN 20 YEARS.
The American people are no longer going to pour money into third world Hell holes and watch those government leaders grow fat on corruption. Need help with a famine? Wrestling with an epidemic? Call France. In the future, together with Congress, I will work to redirect this money toward solving the vexing social problems we still have at home.
On that note, a word to terrorist organizations. Screw with us and we will hunt you down and eliminate you and all your friends from the face of the earth.
Thirsting for a gutsy country to terrorize? Try France or maybe China.
I am ordering the immediate severing of diplomatic relations with France , Germany, and Russia . Thanks for all your help, comrades. We are retiring from NATO as well. Bonne chance, mezamies.
I have instructed the Mayor of New York City to begin towing the many UN diplomatic vehicles located in Manhattan with more than two unpaid parking tickets to sites where those vehicles will be stripped, shredded and crushed. I don't care about whatever treaty pertains to this. You creeps have tens of thousands of unpaid tickets. Pay those tickets tomorrow or watch your precious Benzes, Beamers and limos be turned over to some of the finest chop shops in the world. I love New York
A special note to our neighbors. Canada is on List 2. Since we are likely to be seeing a lot more of each other, you folks might want to try not pissing us off for a change.
Mexico is also on List 2 its president and his entire corrupt government really need
an attitude adjustment. I will have a couple extra thousand tanks and infantry divisions sitting around. Guess where I am going to put 'em? Yep, border security.
Oh, by the way, the United States is abrogating the NAFTA treaty - starting now.
We are tired of the one-way highway. Immediately, we'll be drilling for oil in Alaska
which will take care of this country's oil needs for decades to come. If you're an
environmentalist who opposes this decision, I refer you to List 2 above: pick
a country and move there.
It is time for America to focus on its own welfare and its own citizens.. Some will
accuse us of isolationism. I answer them by saying, 'darn tootin.'
Nearly a century of trying to help folks live a decent life around the world has only earned us the undying enmity of just about everyone on the planet. It is time to eliminate hunger in America It is time to eliminate homelessness in America .
To the nations on List 1,a final thought?:
Thank you guys. We owe you and we won't forget.
To the nations on List 2, a final thought:
You might want to learn to speak Arabic.
God bless America .. Thank you and good night."
If you can read this, thank a teacher. If you are reading it in
English, thank a soldier.
I agree with withdrawing from Iraq and Afghanistan, although I thought 'mission accomplished, dated back to 2002.
As for foreign aid cuts paying for the war foreign aid per annum amounts to 22 billion in 2006. The wars cost $50 billion per month plus supplements. The writer of this letter might want to go back and visit his math teacher with a Glock because he can't do his pluses and minuses for shit.
If we cut off the biggest beggar nation ie Israel's 2 billion/year, it would take 500 years to pay off the trillion dollars in military spending. The valiant dead can never come back. Not even the 141 Canadian soldiers who have given their lives in Afghanistan.
The biggest leach on America are our own the manufacturers. They make sure the wars continue no end.
"Beware of the military industrial complex." Dwight E Eisenhower
As for hunting down terrorists.
It's 2010, where the fuck is OBL?
Probably in Palm Beach fucking cougars with Tiger Woods.
I agree with saying 'adios motherfuckers to NATO and Korea and Japan.
As for Mexico if the 160,000 combat-hardened troops can't keep terrorists out of Iraq, how can we expect them to stop the beaners. Zombie dogs from Haiti.
I'm also in favor of spending our money here. I went through the Midwest this last spring. The cities looked like someone had dropped a neutron bomb on them, but I would spend another penny on Urban Renewal. Those cities that are fucked will remained fucked until we start producing something other than fat people in America.
I was in Boston harbor last month. Not single tanker, container ship or fishing boat on the water front.
Bring back the jobs. That's how you create them.
The Future begins with change not more of the same shit.
Oh yeah and legalize drugs too.
All of them.
5000 died of narcotic ODs last year. 100,000 from pharmaceuticals and another 600,000
from tobacco. I don't see anyone breaking down the doors of JR Reynolds or Merck.
Freedom only comes when you know your oppressors and believe me they know who you are.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
THE REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED is a little dated, but I still buy it.
To view this radical golden oldie go to this URL
The Vancouver Winter Olympics was officially marred by the untimely death of a Georgian luge competitor. The American news stations have harped on this tragedy as well as the lack of snow and the French language as signs of a failed Olympics, while at the same time USA USA USAing about female downhill Vonn winning the Gold for the Red White and Blue. I've avoided watching any of the events on NBC.
They suck as a TV channel.
Old # 4.
More interested in commercials than the sports.
I've heard from my friends that the presentation has been abominable.
Then again over 60% of Americans are fat or obese, so they're only interested in watching the commercials about fast food.
Eat eat eat. USA USA USA. We might not be the most populous nation in the world, but we get the gold for the heaviest country on the Planet Earth.
USA USA USA.
The Land of the Fat and the Freaked.
The government is after a rabbit in the woods. It's impossible to catch him. They offer a $10,000,000 bounty for its capture. The CIA, FBI, and NYPD show up for a try. The CIA go first. Two hours the black squad comes out of the woods.
"We found the rabbit, but we had a team rendition him to Gitmo." The CIA agent tell the G-Man.
"Bullshit, you didn't find any rabbit. FBI, you're next."
The FBI go into the woods. Two hours later their team exit from the woods.
"We got him but he's in the witness protection program."
"Bullshit, you didn't see any rabbit." The G-man sends them away and turns to the NYPD.
"Don't worry, we'll get your rabbit." The Sargent leads his squad into the woods. The G-Man hears fighting and screams and after ten minutes the NYPD drag a battered and bloodied bear out of the woods. The G-man asks, "What the fuck is this?"
The NYPD sergeant nudged the bear, who says, "I'm a wabbit."
My friend Bruce is a famous writer. His name is in Wikpedia. I wrote a small piece about Florida. It's the only profession left from a man of my age. During our dinner in the East Village Bruce asserted that my story displayed promise of increasing literary lassitude.
"You're better than that." Bruce thought that several of my novels should have been neglected less than total rejection.
"I don't really have the time to be anything other than lazy." It was a pallid excuse. The real reason is that I'm not as good a writer as Bruce. His words flow from his books like tiny diamonds fleeing a broken hourglass. "But strangely Fenway's mom read that piece and afterward said that she now knows that I love her."
"Why?" Bruce had not met Mem.
"Because I wrote that I was faithful to her." I had invited him to Thailand on many occasions.
"You're not faithful." Bruce knew my past. 20 years ago he would have been right.
"I haven't been with anyone but Mem since 2006." I kept accusing her of slipping a love potion into my beer. She denied having to use magic. I showed Bruce her photo.
"She's skinny and beautiful, but not as skinny as Jeffery Kime's old girlfriend Violetta. She was the skinniest girl I ever met. she had arms thin as licorice sticks.Jeffrey hooked up with her she had arms like a strand of licorice. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to. Didn't you ever meet her? It must have been before you knew him. Victoire was his next, and she is still my close friend. Then he married the Limey aristocrat."
"She wasn't skinny at all." I had spent time at Jeffery's farmhouse in the Luberon. His wife was lovely. "A nice girl."
"Jeffery thought he was marrying up."
"He was, but the marriage didn't last." Jeffery has been dead for over a decade. The last time I saw him was at Bruce's condo in Miami. We went to see Tom Petty. It was a good night. His wife has since re-married. My friends say that she is happy. I lifted a glass to Jeffery. He had been a good friend to us both.
When I got home, I googled Violetta. One photo was on offer. She was skinny and hairy too. My Mem is nothing like her. She's phom enough for me. Phom means skinny in Thai.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The History Channel has proposed a mini-series about John F. Kennedy’s presidency. There is no script, cast, or budget, but critics are attacking the project for its potential to debunk the JFK legend. A website is sponsoring a lashback at the producer.
CBS attempted to show a depiction of Ronald Reagan's regime and the mini-series was canceled by a flood of conservative complaints about Frank Sinatra fucking Nancy Reagan in the White House.
A similar wave by the left will not save the public from seeing JFK and RFK having their way with Marilyn Monroe. The right runs the media. ABC, NBC, CBS, Fox. They are strong and if they have they way then America will witness the spectacle of JFK and RFK menage-a-troising with Marilyn Monroe.
We can only hope not to see J. Edgar Hoover in a dress.
NBC paid millions to air the 2010 Winter Olympics from Vancouver. Downhill skiing is the penultimate event on the card. Curling is # 1, as evinced by the recent SIMPSONS' episode where Marge and Homer win the gold for mixed curling. My bookie at Frank's Bar on fulton covered that bet, but not the wager that NBC would fuck up the broadcast of the Men's Downhill. It was a sure thing.
Only six segments.
None of them complete.
Each one bracketed by ads for fat-ass couch potatoes.
When I returned to my apartment, I picked up my Sony TV and hauled it down to the street. Not an easy task after five beers. I chucked the boob tube atop a snow drift and cursed NBC.
They killed my love of TV for good and I feel good for it.
The 2010 Winter Olympics wasted little time in gaining notoriety. The scene was the luge course designed for record speeds. A Ukrainian athlete hit 90 mph before losing control in a turn. G-forces catapulted his body into a stationary stanchion. The collision killed the sledder. Reactions ranged from sorrow to the Olympic Luge Committee blaming the fatal accident on the sledder.
NBC broadcasting the Olympics to the USA decided to white-out the incident. No more mention of the sledder and onto the scandal about the USA's premier men's skater wearing fur on his costume.
Death has stalked the Olympics on various occasions. 1964 was the inaugural entry of the luge. A Polish sledder exited the course during a practice run in Innsbruck. A skier also died on the downhill that year and in 1992 another skier never made it to the end of the piste in Albertsville. None of these fatalities were shown on Tv, however ABC's Wide World of Sports opening montage featured a tumbling ski jumper to the words 'the agony of defeat'.
That Yugoslavian skier was Vinko Bogataj. He survived that crash and once said after a car accident on the way to be interview for TV. "Every time I'm on ABC, I crash."
Two nights ago my landlord AP, his two kids, and I walked over to Ft. Greene Park with a sled. AP was a true alpinist, testing the slope with his two little ones and himself sliding down the hill. He asked if I wanted to give it a try. The last time I was on a sled was 1994. Steamboat Springs.
I'm not covered by medical insurance, but said, "What the hell."
Sitting down with my feet on the steering I aimed the sled on the longest possible trajectory. City workers had shoveled a pile of snow to the right and two benches were obstacle to the left. AP gave me a push. Slow instantly switched to fast and the sled revealed a mind of its own. We hit the mound of snow at full speed. I was covered in white. AP and his two kids were laughing with the joy that the crash hadn't happened to them.
I was happy to be funny.
I only wish that Nodar Kumaritashvili could say the same thing.
He was only 21.
The Thrill of Victory will always be in his heart.
Monday, February 15, 2010
As a child I could put my ankles behind my back, then I could touch my toes to my nose. during the 60s I could sit in a lotus position and in the 70s I was supple enough to bring my sole of my foot to the small of my back.
That flexibility has vanished in my 50s.
I'm happy to touch my toes with my fingertips.
Even while sitting.
Dick Cheney riled up the standing Vice President Joe Biden after the former Vice President asserted that Obama should thank GW Bush for Iraq. Joe Biden is a man known for his speaking without thinking, but he avoided erupting into a Tourette Syndrome debate with Mr. Cheney by saying that his predecessor was wrong to rewrite history.
"Iraq wasn't worth the price."
The right-wing talking heads will castigated the VP for this statement, even though one of his sons served in Iraq. Neither of Cheney's daughters were in the military, although the Vice President once shot a hunting partner.
Personally I'd like to see Joe beat the snort out of Dick.
I'd even pay $50 for the paid-for-view.
The outcome is no sure thing. Go to Google and type in Dick Cheney image or photo.
None are available.
The man knows how to cover his tracks and a man like that is always dangerous.
President Obama's poll approval stands at 48% this week. Odds-makers give little chance of the health care reform bill passing both houses and the job outlook darkens with every passing week. Tea Party enthusiasts laughed at Sara Palin's quip "You feel the hopee and changee now?" At Daytona motorheads mobbed the former Vice Presidential hopeful, as the past and present VPs jousted on the Sunday talk shows. The president refrained from joining the fray of brays and concentrated on the offensive in Afghanistan. 15,000 troops vectoring toward Marjah, a small city on the Kabul River. The Taliban are dug in deep. Bogged down has been mentioned in the media and even worse Barack's statue was removed from an Indonesian park.
"Mr. President, some bad news." Someone has to break this development and I would ahve to assume that this messenger was a low-level staff. His nickname with the Secret Service 'Fuck Up'.
"What is it, son?" The President wants to call the intern 'Fuck-Up' but more only are people watching. They are listening to his every word.
"They took down your statue in Jakarta." The young man trembled with each syllable.
"The one with the butterfly in my hand." The President lifted his head from the strategy folders.
"Yes." This is a guess on the intern's part. He had never seen a photo of the statue. "But it's only for a cleaning. It will be back for your visit next month. In fact the school principal said that it was a tourist site. You are very popular in Indonesia."
"Probably more than 48%. Thanks for the news."
The right-wing media have portrayed the removal as a further sign that Obama's popularity is waning around the world. Great insight from a group of people whose only visits outside the United States are Epcot Center and Manhattan.
Obama might not have answered my dreams, but I'm still glad he's there and not John 'Maverick' McCain and Sara 'MILF' Palin.
I do feel the 'Hopee and Changee'.
Soemthing is always better than nothing.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Like most farangs I had a hard time learning Thai and only those Thais close to me can decipher what I'm trying to say with a Bostonian accent.
Conversely most of what is said to me is too fast for my ears to catch the meaning, but one day I was arguing with a woman from whom I rented a motorcycle. I had slightly scratched the front fender. Other scraps graced the bike. She wanted 1000 baht to replace the fender. I knew that was too much and countered with 200. We couldn't meet in the middle and she spat, "Yet mung."
I've been called many things in many languages.
Thanks to Hollywood most nationalities know how to say 'Fuck you'.
But every language has its own lexicon of sharp phrases.
I instantly realized she had the Thai version of the f-word, although when I asked anyone what this meant, they all said, "You can not say that."
"You can, why can't I?"
"Can not." Was the only explanation.
Anytime I have since asked about swears, the Thais mostly smile and say they don't know any bad words. I think they are lying since most swearing occurs behind the wheel of a vehicle and judging from the faces of drivers I have cut off, there seems to be a broad vocabulary for slagging off both farangs and their own countrymen.
My wife's favorite Ngao or idiot.
Mine tends to be hua-kee or shithead, which my Thai friends say doesn't really get anyone worked up, but was one of my hometown favorites.
In really it's better to keep it simple and stay with what the locals use.
I advise you not to use them too often.
And be very careful no one can catch you either.
Back in the 90s a German gave a finger to a local in Chiang Mai. A year goes by and the Thai shoots the German dead. Like an elephant he had a memory. Better to use the following words against farangs. Always makes the Thais smile.
Farang ba = Stupid foreigner (we've all been called this).
* Yet = Fuck
* Kuay = Cock (banana also. Amazing how some words have different meanings)
* Ai sat = Twat
* Kwai = Buffalo (we all know what this means 'MOOOOO')
* Hoop baak = Shut up
* Orn kuay = Suck cock
* I hayer = Son of a bitch
* Gengri = Whore
* Farang keenohk = Birdshit foreigner (Actually said because you're cheap)
* Chong mang = I don't give a fuck
* Ga-ree = Whore, Slut
* Dollair = Bullshitter ( sort of the bad version of barg wan or sweet mouth)
* Sudd-Na-Rok = Damned Devil
* Tood-Muek = Asshole
* Gook Kuay = Damned Penis
* Na-Hee = Cuntface
* Ai Na Dad = Clit face (Very vulgar)
* Hee mah = Dog pussy
* Gratoey = Homosexual
* Yet ped = Duck fucker
* Hee = Pussy
* Baan poh mung = Bullshit (lit. your father's house)
* Naa maw = Flirt (vulgar)
* Laew = Evil (vulgar)
* Baa = Crazy (vulgar)
* Chuk wow = (male) Masturbate (lit. fly kite) (this I understand very well)
* Tob bed = (female) Masturbate (lit. fishing) (no woman will admit to doing this)
* Kun Heeat = A lizard that eats garbage (quite vulgar!)
* Mai chawp khun, dag ling = I don't like you, monkey arse.
* Som nam nah! = In your face! (probably the #2 Thai expression used by farangs)
* Nah peeh = Ghost face
* Hua kuai = Dickhead
* Heeh men = Smelly pussy
Don't ever use the next eight.
I only added these so you understand what is being said to you.
* Mung = Highly derogative form of 'you'
* Goo = Highly arrogant form of 'me'
* Loog-Ga-Ree = Son of the bitch
* Por Mung Tai = Wish your father dead
* Mae-Mung-Tai = Wish your mother dead
* Yed Por = Fuck your father
* Hee mae mang = Fuck your mother
* Mae mung = Your mom (yo mamma)
I only use about 4-5 of them a day unless I'm driving and then I use them all, but only with the windows shut. It's one thing to use bad language and it's quite although to have people hear you swear.
ps I waive all responsibility for any beatings you may receive for usage of these words.
Her father owned a pub, she’s 3′4″ with a flat head so you can put your beer on her.
Simple needs, but in Thailand more than likely your girlfriend’s father is distilling moonshine lao khao or rice whiskey, she’s 5-3, and there is no way any Thai will let you mess with their head even if it’s flat.
So what qualities make up the perfect Thai girlfriend?
Years ago I googled ‘perfect thai girlfriend’ and the search engine came up with over 870,000 results.
The late Mangosauce’s contribution was a reverse alchemy factor where a Thai girlfriend can turn gold into a base metal. Funny, but more a warning shot over the bow than a helpful hint as to what pluses might answer a farang’s fondest desires.
Thailovelinks.com promises the perfect Thai girlfriend.
The girl on the home page seemed right for me, but she’s nowhere to be found within their promo pages, plus my attraction was only physical. Being near-sighted I don’t need a beauty queen. Pretty yes, but I don’t want to fight duels over the perfect Thai girlfriend every other farang wants.
The next website was asiastreetmeat.com.
No one is looking for girlfriends on that website.
Only girlfiends who serve their purpose well.
Love is possible and I came up with a list for the perfect Thai girlfriend.
No tattoos / especially if it’s a heart with a name scratched out.
Minimal to zero English / Not long on the bar scene.
No cigarettes or drinking / nasty habits in a woman, but makes for a good bloke.
Dead Thai boyfriend / hopefully by a meteorite to the head so everyone would be scare shitless at the mention of his name.
No children / there's always a Thai boyfriend.
No internet skills / Dead give-away of a foreign boyfriend, who strangely shows up when you are leaving town. “Not worry, he only friend.”
No Gold necklaces / Another indication of sucker boyfriend, although we have to defer to Mangosauce’s theory of reverse elements. Diamonds to ashes.
Your first date should be a short-time from Soi 6 although there no more blinding passion than lust at first sight.
And penultimately of all no slash marks across the wrists / the warning sign of a true dangerous maniac. Also great sex.
She also has to be beautiful, funny, and loving.
Needless to say no such creature exists in Thailand or America or the rest of the world, because no one is perfect.
Charles de Talleyrand manipulated kings, emperors, and statesmen during the 18th Century. This eminence gris had been in love with the most beautiful and erudite woman of the Paris salons. The starlet ditched him for a captain in the Swiss Guards, who was supposedly gay. Being smart she needed a challenge. His marriage to the daughter of country gentry astounded his friends, until he confessed, “One must have loved a genius to appreciate the love of a fool.”
And I’m no different.
No matter what qualities I admire in a woman they will be never enough to satisfy my dreams, so we have to be content with what we get, because as the the great philosopher MICK JAGGER said, “You can always get what you want, but if you try some time you might end up with what you need.”
Deviant Londoners would love to see Mr. Jimmy, except the Chelsea Drugstore is a Mickey D. fast food chain instead of a nihilistic heroin connection, which was featured in CLOCKWORK ORANGE.
Nothing is sacred anymore, especially the profane.
Men have many expressions for an erect penis; tentpole, wood, are so hard you can hang a bucket of nails off it are a few. Hardness is a matter of pride as well as how many times you can achieve an erection. Shame comes from the opposite result. No wood, Softitis, and the cashew are derisive terms banter about in the company of men. None are brave enough to admit suffering from ED or erectile dysfunction, but the clients number in the millions judging from Pfizer’s Viagra profits.
“I’m a man.” The Yardbirds.
Virile, hard, and hard for a long time. A schoolboy cock on a 50 year-old man and the harder the better. Superman hard? Kryptonite-proof Superman? No one knew the frontiers and the Journal of Sexual Medicine surveyed thousands of men to gain a consensus about the degrees of penile hardness.
The Erection Hardness Score (EHS).Patients were asked to rate their hardness on a scale from 1-4. Women were also included in this survey to give an objective eye.
The results are as follows.
1. Penis is larger but not hard (severe ED)
A classic pre-mature erection or softie or no wood.
2. Penis is hard, but not hard enough for penetration (moderate ED).
Most men will resort to oral sex in the vain hope they will hit critical arousal mass. It’s not a bad tactic, since ED can come from mental stress.
Like do I really want to have sex with my wife?
Loss of hardness.
If I fake an orgasm, will she believe me?
Back to the cashew state.
Viagra was invented for men with incompatible partners.
Especially their eyes say they don’t want have anything to do with your Johnson.
“It might be broken.” Most men think after too much of that look.
3. Penis is hard enough for penetration but not completely hard (mild ED).
This isn’t a problem as long as you get some help from your partner.
“Can I have some help?”
And we know what help means, for while the State of Georgia might regard sodomy ie fellatio a sin, Bill Clinton rightfully placed a BJ outside the boundaries of sex so that it is now more like a handshake between good friends.
Remember the word ‘help’, ladies.
It takes two to tango.
4. Penis is completely hard and fully rigid (no ED).
Hard beautiful wood.
This rating system was destined to help women and men discuss the ED problems and also to have men understand that an erection is a good indicator of the body’s health as ED may be a warning sign of a wide range of diseases such as diabetes, cardiovascular disease, hyperlipidemia and hypertension.
I usually wake with an erection.
Women hate sex in the morning if you wake them up, but if they rise before you and find the erection then they might give you the green light, but not always since a French girlfriend considered a morning erection an indication that you had been dreaming about another woman.
“Or you want to piss.”
Now you can see why men lose wood.
Of course I have no problem with Mem. Even her voice acts as Viagra.
The Pattaya Mail has been the coastal resort #1 weekly. The newspaper can be found almost everywhere. Its circulation has to be in the tens of thousands and no other publication has rivaled its reportage for brown-nosing the local authorities or ignoring to take a stand on any issue. I only read it for the Letters to the Editor, where farangs complained about lazy Thais, unfaithful wives, and soi dogs barking at night. My perusal of each issue took less than two minutes and I'm not a speed reader.
A better option is available to the expat community in the online Pattaya Times.
News of the town, nation, and world packed onto one website also offering Thai-English translation, maps, and information on upcoming events.
No letters to the editor, although the blog offers a chance for longtime whiners and complainers to vent their bile.
Just go to this URL
Saturday, February 13, 2010
diamonds sales were non-existent during the run-up to Valentine's Day.
At least for the masses.
The wealthy were splurging on big ticket items. 6-figure purchases of watches, diamonds, and jewelry. The good items were still rolling for Wall Street. None of these sales trickled down into my pocket and I was entertaining a tempting offer from Sam Royalle to run his go-go bar in Pattaya. Working papers and $5000/month.
"I'll be your first customer," said my favorite cousin at Winter, where we tucking into Dover Sole and a very expensive bottle of French wine. He had regained his position in high finance. Money was once more no object. Only something to be moved here and there. How never made sense to me, which was why he earned the big money.
"Be only happy to serve you." Nightclubs, diamonds, and road trips were my forte. "It's only the first of many and one day we'll open one here."
"You open a Thai go-go bar in Manhattan and there'll be traffic jams in New Jersey of lonely guys trying to get there."
"All wanting to hear that famous cry "hey sexy man'."
"And no to mention 'love you love time'."
"Ah, the classics." We clinked glasses. My cousin lived the Pattaya experience through me. He was faithful to his wife and so was I. Him 15 years. Me 3. It seemed like only yesterday I saw Mem and she would always be young. Especially since the mother of my son, Fenway, was three decades younger than me.
"Have you told Richie Boy about this move?"
"Not at all." I still held out hope for making a big score plus working night at a bar was a deadly proposition for a 57 year-old man. I liked to drink and Mem was more than a little 'hueng' or jealous. "Try telling your wife that you're not fooling around with go-go girls."
"I do and it's the truth."
'I can be strong too." About the women it was easy. Drink was my one unforgiving vice. "Another reason is that the police have announced a crackdown on Pattaya Go-Go Bars to arrest foreigners backing sex bars.
The news came from the Pattaya Times.
Interpol was reportedly opening an office in Pattaya to nab farang fugitives. I had met several of their officers at the Buffalo Bar on 3rd Road. They always joked that they were on duty.
The Pattaya Times advised bar owners to clean up their act, although Sam Royalle said this was the same story every time the Thais change the head of police. More tea money for the Police Benevolent Society. I told none of this to my cousin and I certainly wasn't mentioning to Richie Boy, at least not until after the February 18 deadline.
It's only five days away.
Will Plan B survive to save me from plan A?
"It's not the despair I mind so much as the hope." Woody Allen.
Thailand's The Nation newspaper recently reported the following;
Core supporters of Thaksin Shinawatra reveal that the former prime minister has appointed General Chaovalit Yongchaiyud as the Supreme Commander as the People's Army of Thailand. The news comes as core leaders of the red shirts return to Thailand today from a trip to Dubai to discuss political issues with Thaksin.
General Chavalit must have spewed back his morning coffee upon reading this news.
Big Jiew had been elected to PM in 1996 only to misplay the run on the Thai baht leading to the collapse of currencies throughout Asia. Once burned by the spotlight the masterful intriguer has preferred to operate behind the scenes and probably has gone on holiday rather than become further involved with the Red versus Yellow turmoil.
Better head up country than be arrested for treason for Thaksin.
Like Kenny Rogers sang in THE GAMBLER. 'You gotta know when to hold and when to fold."
The Thailand Attorney General has decided to seize all assets of the deposed PM Thaksin. $2.2 billion will go to the coffers of the Thai government. The best of re-distributing this wealth would be a taxless gift of $30 to each and every citizen. A 1000-baht in the pocket might not seem much to most people, but better than nothing, for this money will end up where it usually ends up. In the hands of the rich and powerful and the government has set up 38 security centers in the North and Northeast to curtail any insurrection against the state on this Valentine Weekend.
At the same time the nation has freed the flight crew of a IL-76 airplane, which was transshipping arms from North Korea to Iran.
"The trial here will not benefit Thailand so we have decided to drop the charges," stated a spokesman for the Office of the Attorney General. "Their countries of origin want to try the men in their home countries."
Another official said that the crew is being deported not extradited, although their native countries have requested their release. The arms cache remains in the seized aircraft at Don Muang airport. Missiles and RPGs. No value was put on the shipment, but a 1986 IL-76TD is listed on Ebay for $1.5 million, proving you can buy anything on Ebay.
Then again the Thai military could use these arms for their their new security centers.
Red versus yellow in the Year of the Tiger.
How will this story end?
Friday, February 12, 2010
This photo was froward from Alison in North Palm Beach.
This was at the beach right by my house. The Channel 5 helicopter spent half the day bothering everyone at the north end to get these shots. I was so pissed off I called their news room and told them to go to Singer Island or use file footage. It's not like this doesn't happen every year and every year they shoot the same thing, migrating sharks looking like herds of cattle. The difference this year is that someone actually got eaten. Not a good time to be in the water in any case.
A kite surfer was reputedly bitten by a great white this past week, rising the total of shark attacks for 2010 in the USA to 3. 2009 saw 34 possible assaults mostly in California and Florida. New York had none, mostly because the ocean temperature excludes swimming ten months of the year. Only one attack resulted in a fatality. Sharks seem to bite and then released their victims, as if humans tasted bad.
Back in the 1970s Dr. Joyce Brother suggested that the primary reason for human survival was not our larger brain or adaptive thumb or the ability to stand upright, but that human flesh smelled bad and tasted even worse. Animals such as deer do not run in fright. Our odor is an insult to their refined senses. Dogs have no such prejudice, then again they spend most of their live with a runny nose pressed to the ground in search of exotic pisses.
This week's shark attack got a lot of press. Everyone has seen JAWS. We are terrified of these aquatic monsters, who kill one of us a year. Cigarettes are a major cause of death in America and no one runs from them. Maybe the US government should put a fin on the tube of a cigarette. Nothing else seems to scare the American public more than that vee of cartilage vectoring through the water.
As for anyone swimming in Florida during the President Weekend.
The odds of getting attacked by a shark are slim.
Certainly worse than driving a Toyota with a racing accelerator.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Gil Scott-Heron is three years older than me. He was born in 1949. The Chicago-born poet/musician has never had a hit, but his line 'the revolution will not be televised' survives till this day at least in my memory and that of Keith Raywood who put WINTER IN AMERICA on his Facebook home page, proving that website is not 100% devoted to old friends prattling about their wasted lives.
To hear WINTER IN AMERICA go to this URL.
You won't be sorry.
Now this is my man for president.
Yesterday's blizzard knocked New York off its track. Snow accumulation outside of Manhattan was John Holmes in depth. 12 inches and white. Few commuters risked the journey into the city. Richie Boy and I were the only ones at work in the diamond exchange. He supposed to be leaving for Palm Beach that evening. His flight had been canceled due to the storm.
"How am I going to get to Florida?" Richie Boy had shipped over $5 million worth of jewelry to the Antique Show in West Palm Beach. This was the most important trade exhibition of 2010. Only rich people had money and Palm Beach had plenty of those.
"Drive." I joked although the airports were closed for the day. The trains to Washington and points south were sold out. A car seemed like the only option left.
"Or wait to see what tomorrow brings." The snow was falling heavier on 47th Street, although it was no blizzard of 1977. That storm left the East Coast under three feet of snow.
"How long a drive?" Richie Boy was serious. he hit the panic button fast. I called it Palm Beach.
"18 hours." I had driven the 1400 miles between NYC and Miami a few times. The first time in 1971 I had been listening to the Montreal-Bruins playoffs on WBZ. The Bruins were leading 5-3. The station faded as we drove into the Florida Welcome Center. Free OJ for all visitors. Almost forty years ago, however the segments remained familiar; New York-Washington-South of the Border-Savannah-Palm Beach. I The phone rang. Richie Boy answered the call. It was a jeweler in Boston. His flight had been delayed until Friday. Richie Boy hung up and said, "I'm stuck here."
"Only tonight." Snow was dropping like clots of cream. We closed up at 3. Richie Boy went home. I stopped at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal for clam chowder. it was the best in New York. The waitress claimed that they had never seen so slow a day.
"Not even during 9/11."
The train back to Brooklyn was empty. I bought a bottle of wine and had a glass before trudging through the drifts to Ft. Greene Park. The slopes were alive with sledders and the fields were growing columns of snowmen. I returned home to call Thailand. Mem wasn't feeling good. It was the beginning of the hot season. The temperature was already 34 Centigrade. I fell asleep early and woke up at dawn.
The morning sun reflected off the new snow atop the brownstones across the alley. The storm was over. I bathed in the tub listening to Gil Scott-Heron's WINTER IN AMERICA. I had about another ninety minutes before I had to be at work. I spoke with Mem on the phone. She had fainted in 7/11. Her friends had taken her to the hospital. The landlady of the apartment building cared for my son. Mem was okay for the moment, but she was getting tests later on. I ended the call, telling her that I'd send money to Western Union.
The music changed to LIVING IN THE BOTTLE. i was in the mood to sing along with the chorus. The telephone rang again and I answered without looking at the number.
"Road trip." Richie Boy was even more serious than before. No flights until Saturday. All the trains were booked. Driving was still the only option. "Don't go to work. Pack a bag and get ready to drive to Florida. Suits and shorts. Be ready to go by noon."
There would be four of us. Richie Boy, his wife, a female co-worker, and me. Neither of the women drove. I didn't trust Richie Boy behind the wheel. All the driving was on me. I saw the open road. The stops. The speed. The big trucks. Bad music on the radio and then the first palm tree. I had driven across country over ten times. Tibet-Nepal once. Lima-Cuzco. Cancun-Tikal. So many road trips and I was always up for another.
"Count me in."
I got out of the tub and put on Canned Heat. ON THE ROAD AGAIN. It was a theme song for long-distance drivers. I packed my bag with spring clothing. Flip-flops. I was working the show. Big money billionaires. Bleached blonde divorcees. Mansions on the sand.
The telephone rang again. It was Richie Boy. He had found an afternoon flight. I was going nowhere but 47th Street. I was already late and would be even later. I wished Richie Boy 'good luck' and hit the pipe. Green goo ganja and Blue Cheer's PILOT. It wasn't a road trip, but it was the best I could do on the day after a snow day.
ps Montreal came back to beat the Bruins 7-5.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
I woke early this morning. Snow flakes darted against the window of my Brooklyn bedroom. Beyond the glass a winter storm was decorated the city white. Richie Boy called at 8. He had a client for an expensive watch. 9:30. I called Thailand. My son Fenway was a good boy. Mem was feeling good. It was a good way to start out the morning and I dressed in my ski gear to face the weather.
Three blocks later I was at the Academy Diner.
Bacon, eggs, toast, coffee.
The train ride into the city was daunting. One hour instead of 30 minutes. I was only 30 minutes late. Not bad for a snow day. Richie Boy's customer was already there. I didn't make a penny from the sale. It was 100% RB and rightfully so. The snow wasn't letting up. Richie Boy was booked to fly to Palm Beach for a jewelry show.
All flights cancelled due to inclement weather.
The phone rings. I look at the number. I already knew what the caller wanted to say. Richie Boy's customer had given a Jersey address for the weekend. The snowstorm stopped delivery. The customer was a dick. People in New York get that way, especially in Manhattan. He had canceled the package without authorization. That package (a diamond ring) was in the FedEx hub.
"It's like limbo." Andrea from across the aisle had a package in the hub for 3 days.
"Let's see if we can save it from a fate." Richie Boy asked the FedEx rep about options. "The customer can pick up the package from 11th Ave and 42nd Street."
Winter along the Hudson River was punishing. The winds unforgiving. I thought Richie Boy wanted me to pick it up. We haven't been getting along recently. he and I both know the reasons why. Only yesterday he said that I was a fuck up for not getting the package to the client. An act of god was no excuse. I bit my tongue. I have four kids to my name. They're more important than my pride.
But only a little bit.
"Where you going?" Richie Boy asked without putting down the telephone. The only time of day his ear if free is when he's asleep. No one calls me. I'm a ghost in New York. Richie Boy is threaded into the fabric. Everyone calls him.
"To pick up the package." I figured the go-come back would take two hours.
"Let the prick pick it up." Richie Boy hung up the phone. His ear was boiling red. Better his than mine. I have no one talking in my head while I sleep.
"Fuck him. He was a dirtbag." I don't talk about any customers like that, although Richie Boy's father considers all Gs are POS or piece of shit and they prove the truth of Manny's words more often than not. Richie Boy made another sale. We closed early. The snow was gaining on the rock salt and shovels. His wife was waiting at home. A bottle of wine was my companion. Later a telephone call would join me with Mem. She would know from the tone of my voice that I had been drinking.
"It's a snow day."
Mem is smart.
She knows what that means and she knows me.
I love snow.
Nothing says 'no valentine' better than that.
Beermas for all stupid cupids.