HOT AS BLAZES by Peter Nolan Smith

Last year I flew from JFK to Haneda in Japan. The segment of my trip lasted 14 hours. The lay-over in Japan was two hours and the final hop to Bangkok took 6 hours followed by a 90-minute taxi ride to Sriracha. Sitting for twenty-six hours straight had flattened my ass, so my coccyx felt like it had taken a paddling from a nun. I arrived on my soi at dawn. I was happy to be home.

Fenway was waiting at the door. Mam stood behind my son. She was as beautiful as the first day I met her five years ago.

It was vacation time and our two other kids boiled out of the house. Fluke and Noy are my step-kids. The three kids swarmed me with kisses and hugs. It was good to feel their love. It was all kisses and hugs and then they repeated request to know when we were going to the Khao Khio Zoo.

"Punee." Kids don't like hearing tomorrow. Mam doesn't either, because my tomorrows tend to become yesterdays and I vanquished their doubt by saying, "Right now everyone gets a spanking."

I chased the kids and Mam around the yard. It wasn't very big, but they were faster than me. I could only catch Fenway. He's almost 3. He runs with a hop. I took him in my arms and gave him a kiss. It was good to be home.

May was entering the extended deep hot season and the next morning the sweat was bulleting from my pores. Our house has no AC, we had more fans than Howard Hughes' giant flying boat had propellers. The wind tunnel effect worked wonders, but out of their vortex the heat melted the beer girth off my flesh. We drank beer fast. It dripped out of me faster. Darkness came at 7. I lay down on the floor. The tiles were cool to my skin. Mam threw a sheet over my body and stuck a pillow under my head. I grunted thanks and dropped into a deep sleep.

The next day I woke early and took a bus down to Pattaya. I rented a car from Pi-san. His shop lay on land reclaimed from a swamp. My old house had a view of the reeds. Back then I called it a bird refuge. Pi-san was happy with the swamp gone. There were less mosquitoes.

The ride back to Srircha was swift. Sukhumvit was bare of traffic. It was before 11. Later in the day the multi-laned road would become a parking lot.

Mam, the kids, and their uncle nai were waiting in the driveway. I had promised lions, tigers, bears, and giraffes, elephants, and hippos. I looked at the sky. Not a could in sight. I reckoned the temperature in the high-80s. New York had been cool. High 50s. A swing of 30 degrees and the tropical sun promised 90s by noon.

According the complex Heat Index formula:

HI = c1 + c2T + c3R + c4TR + c5 T squared + c6R squared + c7 T squared R + c8T R squared + c9T squared. Here are the danger zones of heat.

ZONE ONE
27–32 ° / 80–90 °F
Caution — fatigue is possible with prolonged exposure and activity. Continuing activity could result in heat cramps

ZONE TWO
32–41 °C / 90–105 °F
Extreme caution — heat cramps, and heat exhaustion are possible. Continuing activity could result in heat stroke

ZONE THREE
41–54 °C / 105–130 °F
Danger — heat cramps, and heat exhaustion are likely; heat stroke is probable with continued activity

ZONE FOUR
Over 54 °C / over 130 °F
Extreme danger — heat stroke is imminent

Khao Keo Zoo was a 30-minute drive away from the coast. The narrow valley was surrounded by tall hills which would be mountains in Eastern USA. The slopes were jungles. The kids were ecstatic to see the giraffes, zebras, rhinos et al, but the temperature was rising fast and my shirt was soaked by sweat. The animals hid under the trees. The sun was burning through the shade. Mam complained about the heat. Fenway was happy with an ice cream, so were his brother and sister. With any luck the hot would zap their batteries dry.

"Lon tao-arai?" I asked their mother.

"Lon mak?" Mam weighs about 46 kilos. Her body wasn't build for retaining water.

"Mak-mak." Fenway echoed his mother and I agreed, for we were definitely in Zone Two.

"Kin beer?" The Thai word for beer is 'beer'. This shared word is a life saver. Confusion in this heat was common for people speaking different languages.

"Dim beer, dai." Mem was equally thirsty for a cold one. Her tiny beer belly was a tribute to her fast metabolism. I drove the kids to a waterfall and bought cold beer for us and iced tea for the young.

95F and rising. Time for taking it easy and drinking Leo beer.

It's good for you.

Dry Season

E

My wife Mam tells me that the water is running from the tap and the Sri Racha water authorities are promising no water shortages in the present heat wave, but in Pattaya old water mains are failing to keep up with demand and funky old water trucks are sucking the Jomtien lagoons dry.

City officials are telling the populace not to worry.

There’ll be plenty of water for Songkran, even if they have to ration water for a month.

The water shortage are no surprise, since the population of Pattaya has quadrupled in the last twenty five years, while the reservoir capacity remains a constant. More people dipping into the same well means less water. With that in mind Pattaya residents should embark on a program of individual conservation.

Have a shower with a friend or a complete stranger. Any visitor to Soi 6 is an expert about strange hands soaping down their back.

Ask for less ice cubes in your drinks, hoping that the bar will reward your sacrifice with a little more alcohol.

Save water with your toilet use, as Rudy Guiliani suggested during a NYC water crisis. “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown flush, it down.”

Lastly let your dog lick the plates clean, instead of using the dishwasher. Dog’s mouths are much cleaner than humans.

Every little bit helps.

More Of The Same Only Worse

Tomorrow workers around the world will celebrate May Day to commemorate the 1886 Haymarket Massacre in Chicago in which workers and police alike were shoot down by police gunmen. Demonstrations promoting International Workers' Day are scheduled for Thailand, although workers throughout the country are aware that their lot in life has dramatically deteriorated after the flood of 2011. Inflation has further exacerbated the situation and the Bangkok POst reported that 44.45% of workers said they are facing more hardship with 31.94% saying their living conditions were about the same; and 23.61% saying things had improved following a wage rise and promotion. The government's figure on inflation are based on overall prices to hide the fact that essentials are being priced out of the range of most Thais' incomes. Rice, cooking oil, petrol, baby formula, pork and many other basic items are subject to the upward surge, as companies seek greater profits to satisfy the rich. According to the Bangkok Post Prime Minister Yingluck Shinawatra this month said food prices are expected to ease starting in June, as supply shortages from last year's floods ease. Thaksin's sister is living in a high-rise condo with servants and chauffeurs. Like Mitt Romney in America she has no idea how the people are suffering from the current economic crisis and the rise of the daily wage to 300 baht will barely cover the increases. The banks have all the money and their presidents are following the lead of American investment firms in their refusal to loan money, since giving out loans will drain their wealth cloud. Vatchari Vimooktayon, the director-general of the Commerce Ministry's Internal Trade Department, told the Bangkok Post, "If you raise prices too much, your competitors may undercut you. It's better for consumers to be wise in their spending and their selection, rather than simply calling on the government to control prices." Of course that theory only works in an open economic system rather than the monopoly of collusion existing in Thailand and the USA, for the DG is only ย้อมแมวขาย or painting stripes on a cat. It still remains a cat. Faced with mounting debts without access to relief from the banks Thais are heading to the pawn shops or jum-jam shop for loans on their possessions such as gold necklaces and bracelets. In other words they're fucked for once that gold is gone, there is no safety net left other than a communal effort to save the country from the banks and rich. And that ain't ever going to happen, because the Thais have been taught that the squeaking wheel get thrown away and not fixed. But remember น้ำมาปลากินมดน้ำลดมดกินปลา or at high tide fish eat ants, at low tide ants eat fish

Thailand's Happiness Index Deficit

In 1972 Bhutan's King Jigme Singye Wangchuck attempted to reform his country's feudal economy on a Buddhist spiritual level rather than a capitalistic model. To best judge his efforts the king created a Gross Domestic Happiness Index based on life satisfaction, life expectancy at birth, and ecological footprint per capita. The Wall Street Journal ignores the Happy Planet Index, which placed the Pacific nation of Vanuata at the top of the list. Zimbabwe understandably was dead last in 178th place.

Thailand ranked 38 in the 2006 survey, however by 2011 the Bangkok Post reported that Thailand's Gross Domestic Happiness Index skidded into the 4s.

Thailand 'mai mee sanuk' or is not having fun these days. Inflationary prices ravage the wallets, unemployment for underpaid jobs remains high, people are worried about this year's flood, and the constant political drama over Thaksin's return have everyone on edge, but The Thais have about 43 smiles for every expression much like the Eskimos have 23 words for snow. The present smile is known as 'sao sokh yim' or unhappy smile. This mask of chagrin hides the basic dissatisfaction of the nation's present state.

7/11s do not answer all our needs.

Although a little beer drinking never hurts.

Last year I stopped into the Janet Bar on Soi Excite. It was past midnight. The temperature was still in the high 30s. The fans were useless. This was high dry season and everyone was praying for the rains.

Twelve ladies sat on the stool eating fried chicken feet. A single elderly farang sat at the bar nursing his beer. Natalee joined me for a drinking. The free-lancer was typically looking very sexy, but complained, 'Mai mi kak'."

"There aren't customers anywhere." The hot season offered lean pickings for the bargirls.

"No good." Her eyes begged me to bar-fine her.

"Mai mi taeng." I lied about my finances. Natalee requires training and my long-term devotion to sloth has relegated my sexual prowess to an amateur level

"Wah." She faked crying and resumed sucking on rubbery Chinese chicken feet.

The nearest westerner smiled sadly and said, "You speak Thai good. How long have you been here?"

"Long enough." My first arrival in Thailand dated back to 1991. I was only 39. A mere youth. So innocent. I never thought I would live here, but neither did I think GW Bush would win a second term.

"I've been here two years." The old git's accent was East end London. East End. He was dressed better than most of the beer slobs of Pattaya. "Married a girl and lived up-country the last year."

"How that working out?" I immediately regretted the question.

"Left her a week ago." Alan introduced himself and signaled the bartender for two beers. "She was as good as gold, but her family was stitching me up for money. Her step-father was an ex-cop and drank whiskey all day. And her mother took all the gold I brought my wife to pay off her gambling debts. The old man wanted 50,000 baht for a tractor. They cost more than that and I told him no."

"Good idea." I had heard this story a thousand times.

"He called me a cheap farang in my own house. Okay, not much of a house 5000 pounds and I spent another 300,000 baht on a wedding." Alan sounded more disappointed than mad.

"That doesn't sound gra-dook kat man to me." Up-country Thais think farangs consider farangs milk cows.

"No, but the worst was that my wife didn't back me up."

'Supporting you would go against the grain. Thai women place their mother first, father second, then the rest of the family, the village, every other Thai before you." I had experienced this first-hand with all my girlfriends here. The Thais are natural zenotropes.

"The old man came to house later with a gun. he still wanted money. I told him I was leaving. Asked my wife to come along. She said no, so now I'm here." He was looking for advice. Advice he wouldn't follow, because he's still in love. "My girl ain't so pretty, she's 31, but we had sex twice a day."

"Sex has nothing to do with love." Although spending a night with Natalee might come close. "Best to cut your losses. You're from the East End. You're not a square. Don't let a rice farmer sucker you."

"I don't know." Weakness of the heart is blood in the water to a Isaan grifter. "My friends that there aren't no kids and I've been married before." These failures rankled him. "I wanted this to work out."

"Sorry." I ordered another round and wiped the sweat off my face. it almost felt like it was getting hotter.

Natalee came over to massage my neck. "You still not want to go home with me."

"I want, but have no money." It was a lie. I'm faithful to Fenway's mom. "What about you, Alan?"

"My heart's not into it." Dry thunder rumbled to the north. There was no moisture in the air, except for perspiration.

She frowned and walked to join the other menless women.

Alan's happiness index had dropped below the UK average. Mine was someplace near Peru, which is #3, because while drinking beer makes me happy, hearing someone having it worse than me does my heart good.

Alan and I changed the subject and drank two more beers. It was 2am when I left for home. I wished him luck. Natalee blew a kiss. Alan stopped to speak with her. She smiled with enthusiasm. There wasn't another man in sight.

I arrived back to an almost empty house. Mam and Fenway were asleep in bed. The three fans were arranged around them. They almost looked comfortable. Drops of rain flittered on the roof and I went outside to see how hard fell the rain.

My dog Whitey was happy to see me, but then dogs are the only animal who loves you more than themselves.

Happy?

You should see his tail wag.

Now that's happy.

Lon Mak

Fenway my son called from Sri Racha to complain about the heat. "Ron mak papa." "How hot is it?" "Ron mak, papa." The three fans in the house were weary from constant use according to his mother and Wey-wey's skin is breaking out in rashes. "I know it's hot." I wanted him and his mother to be with me here, then my son could say 'naoew', for any temperature below 80 in cold in Thailand. This morning I checked bangkokpost.com, which reported that the temperature at the old airporrt to the north of the city had reach 39.4C, the highest recorded on April 27 in 30 years. The sun's zenith is directly overhead at noon. The temperature in Chiang Mai will hit the 40sC and like Fenway says, "Lon Mak." Of course Johnny Carson said it best, "It's so hot that I saw two trees fighting over a dog." Lon Mak indeed. TIPS TO DEAL WITH THE HEAT (CDC Suggestions) Drink more fluids (nonalcoholic), regardless of your activity level. Don’t wait until you’re thirsty to drink. Warning: If your doctor generally limits the amount of fluid you drink or has you on water pills, ask him how much you should drink while the weather is hot. Don’t drink liquids that contain alcohol or large amounts of sugar–these actually cause you to lose more body fluid. Also, avoid very cold drinks, because they can cause stomach cramps. Stay indoors and, if at all possible, stay in an air-conditioned place. If your home does not have air conditioning, go to the shopping mall for a few hours spent in air conditioning can help your body stay cooler when you go back into the heat. Electric fans may provide comfort, but when the temperature is in the high 90s, fans will not prevent heat-related illness. Taking a cool shower or bath, or moving to an air-conditioned place is a much better way to cool off. Wear lightweight, light-colored, loose-fitting clothing. NEVER leave anyone in a closed, parked vehicle. Although any one at any time can suffer from heat-related illness, some people are at greater risk than others. Check regularly on: Infants and young children People aged 65 or older People who have a mental illness Those who are physically ill, especially with heart disease or high blood pressure Visit adults at risk at least twice a day and closely watch them for signs of heat exhaustion or heat stroke. Infants and young children, of course, need much more frequent watching.

Paragon Park Memories

Funny how the places you loved disappeared and then come back as memories.

Paragon Park was one of them.

Gone in the Here-Now, but always there in the Here-Before. To recapture a taste of Paragon Park, please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDy3MN7rOTo

Obama Curse

Last January the Boston Bruins goalie refused a White House invitation to honor the team's 2011 Stanley Cup victory. Tim Thomas explained his reason for staying at home by saying, "I believe the Federal government has grown out of control, threatening the Rights, Liberties, and Property of the People. This is being done at the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial level. This is in direct opposition to the Constitution and the Founding Fathers vision for the Federal government. Because I believe this, today I exercised my right as a Free Citizen, and did not visit the White House. This was not about politics or party, as in my opinion both parties are responsible for the situation we are in as a country. This was about a choice I had to make as an INDIVIDUAL. This is the only public statement I will be making on this topic." In a free country Tim Thomas can act, say, and do what he wants, but his team slumped after his no-show. His decision created division and his crease performance was less than stellar against the last seed Washington Capitols. Cap fans waved Obama's photo at home. They chanted his name and in OT of the 7th game Joel Ward scored the clinching goal with a mulberry through Thomas's pads. Boston fans reacted to defeat with a venomous throwback to the busing riots of desegregation era. Why? Joel Ward is black. Here's a sampling of KKK Twitters as reported by chicagonow.com “So fucking mad. That fucking nigger scored #4thlineblacktrash” “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SHOWING REPLAYS OF THAT NIGGER SCORING” “We lost.... To a hockey playing nigger.... What kind of shit is this” “The Nigger scores again we riot #JoelWard” “Seriously.....fuckin nigger #stillfuckinlovethebruins Joel Ward your a nigger. Holtby, get a life. I never wanna see Tim Thomas in a bruins jersey ever again #washedup #bum Can't believe Boston just let a sand nigger beat them #gobacktothejungle @abrownn36 “A nigger beat us in #OT Are you kidding me?” “stupid nigger go play basketball hockey is a white sport” Scratch the skin of a white man and he'll bleed racism. Even me, but I'm prejudiced more prejudiced against peckerwoods, since other than a two-punch brawl on the West 4th Street b-ball court, I've never had a fight with a black man. I get along with people of color better than my own kind and it's not because I'm a nigger-lover. Maybe a little, however I don't blame the loss on the game-winner. Tim Thomas misplayed several pucks during the play-offs. The coach should have rested them in the last month. Bergeron skated in a state of concussed confusion and several injured players took the ice with a teddy bear's tenacity. Hockey is a tough game and the Bruins played flatter than a drag queen's chest. We lost on a good goal. I accept that. These racist twitters should be banned from watching any Celtic games for the rest of their lives as well as the Red Sox and Patriots or dancing to any rap or soul music. To thine own race be true and this goes for Tim Thomas. I do agree with #washedup #bum "I never wanna see Tim Thomas in a bruins jersey ever again." John Wayne the western hero of John Ford film said it best about JFK. "I didn't vote for him, but he is my president." I have to admit that I didn't feel that way about GW Bush, but I do pride my heightened hypocrisy. Go Obama. He lost votes in Boston. He gained in Maryland and Virginia. Four more for the POTUS. See yah for Tim Thomas, unless he shaves that 'tache. We are family. ps photo by Stanley J Foreman Boston Herald American

Christian Bullies

Enterprise Coming To Earth

NASA Orbiter Vehicle Designation: OV-101 was named the Enterprise by President Gerald Ford in response to a letter campaign by Trekkies seeking honor for mankind's first space ship. STAR TREK fans should have been more patient, because the Enterprise was an experimental craft designed without engines or a thermal heat shield for testing in the atmosphere. After completion of these trials the Enterprise was stripped of all vital equipment. It never touched the sky. In 1983 I was standing by the Seine by the Tullieries in Paris. Upon hearing the roar of a low-flying jet I looked up and spotted a NASA 747 piggybacking the decommissioned test shuttle. The French authorities had refused NASA a fly-over on the way to the Air Show at Le Bourget., but the pilot must have executed one and as a Trekkie my heart soared with pride. "We are going to the stars." I was ignorant of the Enterprise's flightlessness and remained bliss until reading about the test space shuttle in the morning Times, which announced that the Enterprise would be flying atop a 747 this morning. I checked the clock on the Williamsburg Bank. 11:01. The fly-by was scheduled for 11:05. I shouted down to AP. My landlord and I scrambled to the roof of his Fort Greene brownstone. We are kids at heart. I had binoculars. He was holding a camera with a long lens. The sky was clear and helicopters flittered to the west. "They have to be following its flight." I agreed with his hunch. Sadly our azimuth was too low to allow a sighting of the Enterprise's passage. "I think it's gone." "Yes, but it will be transported to the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum by barge some time in the summer. "We could bicycle over to Battery Park." "It's only 15 minutes away." Via the Brooklyn Bridge. We high-fived each other like 12 year-olds. NASA might have abandoned the stars, but we never will. Live long and prosper.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Sic transit gloria mundi translates from the dead language of Latin phrase into "Thus passes the glory of the world" in English, even though no one in America speaks that language. There is very little glory left in this world, which is why we look to the stars.

Next year Andromeda.

F Is Not For Fake

My editor Adrian sent this photo from Christie's in London. They want 50K Sterling for this scribbling by Karen Kilimnik. I worked the door of the Bains-Douches in that era of error. And I'm worthless. No commercial value no sell out - James Steele But I do like her work.

B'ak'tun Tsunami

Doomologists have pinpointed the end-date of the Mayan's 5,125-year-long cycle as 13.0.0.0.0 or December 21, 2012 without predicting the cause of Armageddon. Various options for the B'ak'tun have been offered by opposing camps. Fundamentalists are hoping for the Second Coming of the Messiah and survivalists are arming up for collapse of the New World Order, while New Ages search the cosmos for an errant asteroid or black hole. The apocalypse was supposed to start May 21 and culminate with a cataclysm on 12/21/12.

Last evening I had a dream in which I was staying on the 8th floor of a Honolulu high-rise. The waves surging into Waikiki grew larger and larger, until a surfer duck-dived under the crest of a monster tsunami. The wave crashed into the condo and water splashed against the terrace windows.

I looked out the window.

An even bigger wave was surging towards the submerged beach and I backed away from the window in time to escape the wave shattering the glass. The sea was only two stories below our floor. Another wave was coming and it was huge.

I woke up with a start and looked around my room.

Dreams about tidal waves are often the result of life's overwhelming pressures and our tendency to not dealing with our problems. I have to admit that I don't have everything under control, however not everything in the world is about me and I got out of bed to look out the window. It was still dark and no wave rose over the skyline of Brooklyn, but I don't really have to worry about a tsunami.

Fort Greene is only 104 feet above sea level and the doric column of the Prison Ship Martyrs' Monument adds about 149 feet of elevation. This added height would provide sufficient elevation to survive a tidal wave of epic proportions, but I would only be one of hundreds of Brooklynites seeking refuge from certain doom.

A jug of moonshine is under my kitchen sink.

It was a good back-up plan for doomsday and I went back to sleep content that the world was not ending today.

Ka xi'ik teech utsil, which is Mayan for good luck.

We'll be needing in the months to come.

Bummed By The Sopranos

Last month AP my landlord informed me that I could watch HBO on my iPad.

"What would you suggest?" I hadn't watched American TV in ten years.

"A good place to start would be THE SOPRANOS." The cable series about a New Jersey mafia family had been a success for HBO. Wikipedia called it the greatest TV series of all time.

"I don't know." I had seen a few episodes in Thailand. It wasn't STAR TREK.

"Believe me. You'll love it." AP and I had similar tastes in most everything.

That evening I signed into HBO and started a two week blitz on THE SOPRANOS. I fast-forwarded through Tony Soprano's panic attack and any relationship with his dysfunctional family in which his mother and uncle plot his death. The internecine struggles and cold-blooded murders came a little too slow for my tastes and my finger pushed through any scenes dealing with Tony's manic-depressive behavior.

Richie Aprile is killed by his sister. His best friend "Big Pussy" is shot for being a snitch. Christopher kills his longtime girlfriend. She's a snitch. The deaths and madness never stop and the Ides of March arrived with my succumbing to a recurrent touch of depression.

I wanted to die.

Same as Tony.

He was getting fatter.

And I was girthing a little.

He fucked women who meant nothing.

I was faithful to my wife.

He betrayed everyone for money and power.

I took care of my family. There was something wrong and I hadn't recognize the effect of THE SOPRANOS on my fragile psyche.

More people die in the show.

More madness.

My depression deepened through season 4 and 5 and finally 6.

THE SOPRANOS ended with a black scene.

I recovered from the long slog through the series.

I feel better now.

I'm no Tony Soprano.

He is only a TV persona.

We are real.

See Yah Jersey

Last night the NBA Nets ended their 35 year stay in New Jersey with a loss to the 76ers in Newark. Starting next year the long-suffering franchise will be playing down the street from my apartment in Fort Greene and hopes are high for the team to regain the glory from the two final appearance in 2002 and 2003. The state's governor wasn't sad to see them go.

"They want to leave here and go to Brooklyn? Good riddance." A little harsh from the fat boy, but I'm in agreement.

The Nets are not loved by anyone.

In fact I've never met a Nets fan.

Back in the 90s the team was one of the worst in the NBA. A dealer on the corner of East 10th Street and 1st Avenue had season tickets thanks to a sinse-buying banker. One night Franklin called me over and said, "I'm going upstate for a year."

"Sorry to hear that." Franklin watched my motorcycle while I was in the Orient.

"I might get out in six months." He had been convicted for sale of marijuana.

"I hope so." Franklin was neighborhood unlike many of the new dealers working the spot.

"But I want you to have these." Franklin pulled out a stack of tickets. "Season seats to the Nets in the Meadowland."

"I can't." It was more like I didn't want to go there.

"Don't be stupid. You can go see the best teams, even have two games with your Celtics."

"Really?" I was a diehard Boston fan and played basketball every day down at Tompkins Square Park. The tickets might come in handy and I thanked Franklin for the offer.

"Enjoy."

Two days later I invited Roberto Sharpe to see the Knicks and Nets. We caught a bus from Port Authority to the Meadowlands and walked into the stadium. It was a first for both of us. The seat were good and the beer was cheap, but the arena was quiet. Half the seats were empty and the braindead fans sat as if they had been lobotomized at the entrance. Roberto and I wondered, if they might be zombies, then again the team was shit and no one gets excited about a shit team.

The Nets stayed shit for many years, because of bad luck and bad management.

The team was an original member of the ABA, winning two championships with Julius Irving, whom they had to trade away in 1975 to pay their later entry into the NBA's New York area.

Their next shot at victory came in the 1983–84 season with Darryl Dawkins, Buck Williams, Otis Birdsong, and Micheal Ray Richardson, but the team imploded with Michael Ray's failure to pass a drug test for cocaine use. It was all downhill until the Jason Kidd years culminated in two shots for the title.

And now it's all over.

See yah, New Jersey. Love yah, wouldn't want to be yah. New Jersey Nets 2-Sided Banner New Jersey Nets 2-Pc. Mug Set

Chinatown's Dancing Chicken

Back in the 70s one of Chinatown's greatest attractions was the dancing chicken at the Chinatown Fair Video Arcade. The chicken or chickens didn't really dance the insipid tune, but shifted their feet to avoid the shock from the electrified plate. They also played tic-tac-toe and strangely won most, if not all the games they played against humans.

According to www.scoutingny.com the last chicken Lily was retired in 1998.

The arcade closed in 2010.

Another wonder of New York gone forever. To see the dancing chicken, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOAc1VdLoTg

photo by Michael Yashamita

Dave's Luncheonette

After a night at the Mudd Club, the clientele met for breakfast at Dave's Luncheonette on Canal Street. Eggs, toast, home-fries, and a cup of gruesome coffee was $1. Conversation was the night's evening. The cuisine got no stars in any guidebooks. I googled 'dave's luncheonette' and Robert Carrithers wrote the following on his blog robertcarrithers.com "Dave's was open 24 hours. I used to work at the Mudd Club a few blocks away. We would go there after working all night and get there at 4 or 5 in the morning. I have a lot of strange stories about Dave's Luncheonette. One night, someone finding a cigarette butt at the bottom of their milkshake. Another night, cockroaches in the sandwiches and we walked in one late night to find the big short-order cook beating up the skinny waitress while everyone watched. It was the only place open at that time. What can I say? If I am not mistaken Dave's was finally closed by the health authorities." An accurate description, but no one had to be to work in the morning and we walked home to Soho and the East Village in groups or couples or all alone, happy to have a full stomach thanks to Dave's Luncheonette.

The Lost Treasures of New York

A friend of mine was lamenting about the lost treasures of New York. "NYC has been thrown into a blender and homogenized into a bland and boring urban pastiche. This city once had character and disparate neighborhoods. Now it's just numbingly the same wherever you go. I was driving around the city yesterday and occurred to me that downtown-uptown, west-east, it all looked the same now. Same store fronts, same hideous developer apartment buildings, same gourmet coffee, same gentrifications, same same....shame." I know how he feels, for I was in Times Square the day Guiliani closed the XXX shops on 42nd Street. Their patrons stood outside in tears chanting, "Fuck Mickey Mouse." Really. But I think that my friend was speaking about egg creams and luncheonettes. Vanished without a trace. All of it for Starbucks.

Fast Talking

Last Summer I rented a car from Uan at Buffalo Bar for the drive north to visit my ex-wife and loving daughter.

At Chonburi I decided to cut through Bangkok instead of wrapping around the megatropolis on the outer ring. It was the weekend. The cityscape was clear under a peerless sky. Traffic was minimal. The direct route saved gas and time. The downside was that it was the end of the month and several traffic police were parked after the toll booth searching for tea money or sin bon.

Their eyes sought out-of-town license plates and farang drivers.

I filled both those categories and a smiling cop in brown motioned for me to pull over to the curb. He approached the driver’s side of the car, saying something was wrong with the license.

Nothing was wrong with the license and I dialed Charlee to explain the matter, however when the cop started to write a ticket. No way it would cost less than 1000 baht. I wai-ed the officer and spoke in Thai with a Boston accent, “Kor-thot gap-dtan, but I have no money. Only 300 baht.”

“Farang mai mi taeng?” My admission of insolvency stayed the officer's pen.

“Chai, I gave my money to my wife. She’s waiting for me in Chai-nat. Sorry.” I had told him the truth. I had spent 1300 baht at the gas station. Only 300 baht remained in my pocket. “Farang mii mia Thai, mai mii taeng.”

“Kao-jai.” As a Thai man he understood how fast a wife can suck money out of a man’s wallet and he waved for me to proceed without getting a single baht for the Highway Policeman Fund.

Arriving in Ban Nok west of Chai-nat I related the encounter to the family gathering. The men all laughed with relief, since I had another 1000 baht for beer, and the women frowned, thinking that I had only escaped a bribe by blaming my empty pockets on my ex-wife instead of drinking beer with my friends.

Then again women are not men.

Once in Paris I was riding a Vespa on the sidewalk down a one-way street. I ran a red light only to be stopped by an irate gendarme who wanted to know where was the fire.

“Pas de feu, Capitain.” I always promoted officers at moments like this and rapidly explained in French with a Boston accent. “I think my wife is having an affair with a German. I am going back to the apartment to give him a beating.”

The gendarme understood my mission’s urgency and dispatched me with a salute.

“Bon courage, Mssr.”

Cops or dtam-ruat are human too. I am not so sure about women.

The World Minus Cars

The price of gas in Thailand is well over 40 baht a liter. In New York the cost per gallon is close to $4 several petroleum experts are predicting $200/barrel by summer's end. That will push gas over $5 a gallon. Driving is already down from the heights of 2007 and public transit is booming in the cities. Suburbs without access to trains are cut-off from the malls by the price of gas.

Several years ago a writer proposed to sue OPEC since the true cost of getting oil out of the ground is around $15 per barrel

Sue them so the lawyers can earn 33% of the penalties and the price of gas will rise to cover the punishment.

So how do we combat the cost of gas?

By doing nothing, because if oil was ruled by the laws of supply and demand then the price would have fallen along with the driving miles, however oil has become a speculative asset and the investors will push the price until it reaches the bubble's breaking point.

$200 a barrel? $300 a barrel. $500 a barrel.

At this point there is no ceiling.

But at $10 a gallon we'll see a lot more bikes and more bikes meant less fat people and less fat people means better health for America.

No More Cars

A Reprobate's Parental Guidance

My first joint was smoked in my VW Bug coming from Nantasket Beach. Tommie Jordan and John Gilmore were my passengers. The reefer belonged to Tommie, who was a hockey player from North Quincy High. His hair was long for 1969. At least for a hockey player, but then Derek Sanderson wore his long and the center got big money for playing with the Boston Bruins. "Inhale slowly." Tommie counseled from the back seat. I followed his advice and the mild weed struck my sense of hilarity like cobra venom.

Marijuana was illegal in the 60s. It is still illegal today. A great number of the US prison population are convicted pot smokers. President Obama has not spoken on possible decriminalization and kids are constantly lectured on the dangers of smoke. The weed is not free. Last weekend I was out in Montauk this weekend. The surfing beachtown at the eastern tip of Long Island is a relaxed community. I watched the moonrise on Saturday night with my friends. It had been bigger on Friday evening, but size wasn't important this far from Manhattan or Easthampton. We retreated back to a beach shack in Ditch Plains for a BBQe. One woman and I vowed to saved a 80s beauty trapped in Detroit. We could have reached Wendy in 9 hours, except none of us were driving after a few glasses of wine. The town police arrested any driver over the limit. Wendy would have to wait for another posse.

I was surprised that our host's son was in the house of a weekend night and asked, "What the problem?"

"I caught him with weed." "And you grounded him?" My host had been straight for a decade, but she had smoked as a young girl. "What could I say?"

"Not much." I turned to the teenager. He looked like a good kid. "What were you smoking? Weed or sinse." He ignored my queries. I was over three times his age.

"Hydro?" A shake of the head, although he wasn't defiant and didn't roll his eyes. This was a sign of maturity beyond his age. Adults might not know what they are talking about, but teenagers didn't win any points for lip.

"Hydro's not really weed." I had been at Agent Rockford's underground weed plantation last Spring. Every plant had been a twin to the other thanks to a successful cloning experiment. Rockford had handed me a mask.

"7% THC gets in the air. Too much exposure and you're high."

"Is that a bad thing?"

Rockford's reluctance to answer had said a lot and I have steered clear of sinse and hydro ever since that trip to the Midwest. I could have given a sermon to the grounded teenager in Montauk. Instead I asked, "How kids in your school smoke pot?"

"90%."

"That many." I didn't doubt his number. He attended a Manhattan private school.

"The other 10% are Jesus freaks praying for our salvation."

"I only pray for our victory," I explained about Mexico's liberal drug policy. "Anything under 4 joints is legal."

"Even big fatboys."

"Maybe only two of those. Victory is in sight."

The teenager high-fived me. Later in the evening my host took me to the side.

"Thanks for the free-pot speech. Maybe you should be doing a tour. Smoke a marijuana."

"That used to be a David Peel song." No one in this generation or even the last two had ever heard about the East Village hippie dedicated to the freedom of the weed. It was too long a story to tell without going to youtubes, so I poured myself another glass of wine and watched the stars drift toward the full moon. It was a good night for it.

Ecological Footprint

Leaders of the Free World consider North Korea as a threat to world peace with good reason. Their intelligence organizations accuse the Hermit Nation of counterfeiting, drug trafficking, and rampant arms dealing as well as the Communist country's pursuit of an intercontinental ballistic missile, however North Korea's most recent launch was a failure and their  danger to world peace 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 recycle, eat fresh food, exercise, pick up plastic at the beach, bike, and drink beer, but to discover my impact on the planet, there was only one way to find out.

The Happy Planet Index tests your compatibility of the 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.

A setback, since USA with 3% of the world population consuming 25% of the energy, but yesterday I scored 82 which is close to the ideal HPI. Today's 64 is on par with #2 Columbia. Cocaine makes happy faces.

 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 Please go to the following URL to see if you're naughty or nice. http://survey.happyplanetindex.org/survey.php?po=0

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

Perfect Day

Lou Reed recorded a signature song on his album TRANSFORMER. Actually more than one. VICIOUS and WALK ON THE WILD SIDE was joined by PERFECT DAY, which was later used for a TV commercial.

“Oh, such a perfect day. I’m glad I spend it with you. You just keep me hanging on.”

Normally hearing a song you love selling a motor scooter made me never want to listen to it again, however I enjoyed hearing PERFECT DAY on TV and I forgave Lou Reed because he needs the money. I'll even have respect for him, if he sells HEROIN for a Nissan ad.

A perfect day for me and playing with my son at the beach, but other people have more complicated desires and Big Al from Pattaya sent the following list.

PERFECT DAY FOR HER

8:15 Wake up to hugs and kisses
8:30 Weigh in 2 pounds lighter than yesterday
8:45 Breakfast in bed, freshly squeezed orange juice and croissants open presents expensive jewelry chosen by thoughtful partner
9:15 Soothing hot bath with frangipani bath oil
10:00 Light work out at club with sexy funny personal trainer
10:30 Facial, manicure, shampoo, condition, blow dry followed by
12:00 noon lunch with best friend at fashionable outdoor café
12:45 Catch sight of partner’s ex and notices she has gained 17 pounds
3:00 Nap
4:00 Three dozen roses delivered by florist, card is from secret admirer
4:30 Light work out at club, followed by massage from strong but gentle
hunk, who says he rarely gets to work on such a perfect body
5:30 Choose outfit from expensive designer wardrobe, parade before full length mirror
7:30 Candle lit dinner for two followed by dancing, with compliments received from other diners/dancers
10:00 Hot shower (alone)10:50 Carried to bed . . (freshly ironed, crisp, new, white linen)
11:00 Pillow talk, light touching and cuddling
11:15 Fall asleep in his big strong arms

THE PERFECT DAY FOR HIM

6:00 Alarm
6:15 Blow job
6:30 Massive satisfying shit while reading the sports section
7:00 Breakfast: steak and eggs, coffee and toast, all cooked by naked, wench who bends over a lot showing her Growler
7:30 Limo arrives
7:45 Several beers en-route to airport
9:15 Flight in personal Lear Jet
9:30 Limo to Mirage Resort Golf Club (blow job en-route)
9:45 Play front nine - 2 under
11:45 Lunch: steak and lobster, 3 beers and bottle of Dom Perignon
12:15 Blow job
12:30 Play back nine - 4 under
2:15 Limo back to the airport (several bourbons)
2:30 Fly to Bahamas
3:30 Late afternoon fishing excursion with all female crew, all nude who also bend over a lot displaying growlers
4:30 Land world record Marlin (1234 lbs) - on light tackle
5:00 Fly home, massage and hand job by naked Elle McPherson (bending over, naturally)
6:45 Shit, Shower and Shave
7:00 Watch news: Michael Jackson assassinated
7:30 Dinner: lobster appetizers, Dom Perignon (1953), big juicy fillet steak followed by Ice-cream served on a big pair of tits
9:00 Napoleon Brandy and Habanos cigar in front of wall-size TV as you watch football game
9:30 Sex with three women (all with lesbian tendencies…some bending over)
11:00 Massage and Jacuzzi with tasty pizza snacks and a cleansing beer
11:30 A night cap blow job
11:45 In bed alone
11:50 Blast a 22 second fart which changes note 4 times and forces the dog to leave the room
11:51 Laugh yourself to sleep

Yeah, different strokes for different blokes

No commercial value no sell out

Bad Boys of The SS

The New York Times reported that the female escort at the center of the Secret Service sex 'scandal' has spoken in public about the the agent refusing to pay for her company. “I tell him, ‘Baby, my cash money." According to many sources Agent Cheap Charlie offer of $30 was well below the agreed price of $250 and she enlisted the aid of another friend and the city police to settle the issue without any further problems. My hunch is that the local police probably lost it, when the agent attempted to take the high ground by saying, "She's a whore and I work for the President of the United States." Wrong thing to say. The right course was to dip your hand into your pocket and pay the woman. In the article the New York Times called the nameless woman a 'prostitute' rather than an escort and the reporter gave a subjective and unflattering description of her attire; 'a short jean skirt, high-heeled espadrilles and a spandex top with a plunging neckline'. The following comes from today's Times. "There was a language gap between the woman, 24, who declined to give her full name, and the American man who sat beside her at the bar and eventually invited her to his room. She agreed, stopped on the way to buy condoms but told him he would have to give her a gift. He asked how much. Not knowing he worked for Mr. Obama but figuring he was a well-heeled foreigner, she said, she told him $800. The price alone, she said, indicates she is an escort, not a prostitute. “You have higher rank,” she said. “An escort is someone who a man can take out to dinner. She can dress nicely, wear nice makeup, speak and act like a lady. That’s me.” By 6:30 the next morning, after being awoken by a telephone call from the hotel front desk reminding her that, under the hotel’s rules for prostitutes, she had to leave, whatever deal the two had agreed on had broken down. She recalled that the man told her he had been drunk when they discussed the price. He countered with an offer of 50,000 pesos, the equivalent of about $30. Disgusted with such a low amount, she pressed the matter. He became angry, ordered her out of the room and called her an expletive, she said. She said she was crying and went across the hall, where another escort had spent the night with an American man from the same group. Both women began trying to get the money. The woman veered between anger and fear as she told of her misadventure. “I’m scared,” she said, indicating that she did not want the man she spent the night with to get into any trouble but now feared that he might retaliate against her." All I got to say is fucking straights. They think that they never have to pay for it. But $800 is a lot of money for a night. In Thailand you get a reverse gangbang for that amount of money. Two nights in a row.

Steve McQueen Wanted Dead Or Alive

Steve McQueen achieved national recognition for his role as Josh Randall in the TV western WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. The King of Cool parlayed his anti-hero persona in this series to win a lead in THE GREAT ESCAPE, which catapulted his name into the bright lights of Hollywood. His portrayal of a rebel sold well to the youth of America, however McQueen was a staunch republican, who strongly supported the war in Vietnam. His conservative politics clashed with his riotous behavior leading to a 1972 arrest for driving while intoxicated in Anchorage, Alaska. McQueen was supposedly drinking on 4th Avenue, the city's toughest neighborhood and decided to do donuts in his rented Oldsmobile for the crowd of drunks, miners, hunters, and whores. The police stopped his antics and he responded to their request for a sobriety test by somersaulting down the street. His audience applauded his exploits. They booed the police for arresting the entertainment. McQueen spent the night in jail. It took a lot of get arrested for DWI back in 1972. In the morning he paid bail and flew to California. An arrest for Steve McQueen remained open until his death. The star of BULLITT was a happy arrestee and flashed the peace sign for his mug shot, proving once more the veracity of Tom Wolfe's quote. "A liberal is a conservative who has been arrested." How true. How true.

The Vice of Frequent Fliers

Every Tuesday the New York Times publishes a special article called ITINERARIES in the Business Section, in which various frequent fliers relate their travel experiences. I fit into this category due to my international travel to Europe and Asia, so I decided to answer the four question featured in the small box. Question 1 How often do you travel for business? Only ten times a year, but I cover a lot of air mileage between JFK and Bangkok. Few of these flights are fro business. Question 2 What's your least favorite airport? There's a lot of choices, but Bangkok's international terminal ranks among the worst for the extortion artists at King Power Duty Free, the shabby interiors, the lack of electrical outlets, the miserly aircon, and the fact that I'm leaving rather than coming to Thailand. Question 3 What's the best place you've been? Lhasa in Tibet has to win hands down. I flew there in 1997 to pray of the Jokhang Temple for the passage of the dearly departed baby brother into the Here-Before from the Here-Now. The temples, the mountains, and the people were a balm to a grieving soul and the staff of the Snowlands Hotel were memorable in their hospitality with 24 hour smiles. Question 4 What is your secret airport vice? It used to be stealing books from the various book shops. Nothing has replaced that sin. So I drink beer. It's no secret. ps the photo is of Idlewild Airport 1960s Lounge.

Sick Buffalo Email

"Dear Xxxx I love you and I miss you too much. my friend bar say you old man look same same monkey but I know you hansum man I have problem I write you before that buffalo me sick Now it die Fall down and dead in middle rice field. Bad fortune when it fall it fall on papa and break leg he three place Now he not work Brother me make stretcher bamboo he take from roof house Roof come down and rain in house He take papa to hospital motorcycle Have big accident when he come home hit police car Police say brother me blame Police say he pay big money. not worry darling motorcycle OK but Police car bad broken Bad luck make Mama heart problem. Doctor say she must triple by-pass. I no understand but brother say you understand. You know darling I only work in bar and not go with man I wait for you come back Bangkok but if you no help me I fuck many many many many many farang get pay bills money. Old people my village say you responsible if you send money me before buy medicine sick buffalo then it no die papa no break leg house have roof brother no ride into police car Mama no have heart problem. Please send me 200,000 baht for my bank. Papa fix 10,000 new roof 30,000, new police car 100,000, mama fix 50,000. I take off 2,000 baht for sell buffalo meat but me have to pay more hospital bill for 24 people have problem eat contaminated meat 12,000 baht. I not know money England but my brother me say me it 71.2424 mid-market rate close of trading yesterday This means you send me 10,000 your pound I love you darling Noi" This lette is thanks to bangkokroughguide.info It is not from a Nigerian, but maybe those scammers could take some lessons from teelats

SICK BUFFALO FOR EVERYONE

Several years ago my future ex-wife's brother-in-law received a phone call from his brother. Bok and his son were in the hospital. They had had a motorsai accident. My future ex-wife hung up the phone. "Neither of them are dead?" I asked in Thai "No." This was good news. Bok and his son Beer were good people. "What happened?" Somehow this accident was going to cost me. My future ex-wife explained that Bok's brother called late. His favorite buffalo was sick and needed Bok's expert attention. Starlight cannot pierce the black night west of the Chao Phra River and Bok's eyes weren't so good, so he enlisted his 16 year-old son, Beer, to chauffeur him on this mission of mercy.

Buffaloes run about 10-20K baht. Thai farmers give them names and sing to them in the rice fields. Some people call it love and urgency coupled with youth necessitated Beer's driving at 80kph, which was way too fast for him to to see a rice tractor parked on the side of the road. The driver was pissing in the bushes. The motorcycle hit the tractor's rice wagon. Beer flew through the air like Superman for ten meters.

His father's flight could be measured in centimeters. Beer suffered two broken arms and Bok fractured his leg in three places. "Great." Somehow this was going to cost me money and it cost more in the end, because my future ex-wife went up country and never returned to Pattaya.

All for a sick buffalo, but any farang frequenting Thailand has heard the 'sick buffalo' story from their wives or girlfriends.

"Kwaii sick. Need money."

The story has become a joke and my friend, Jamie, thinks that Thais in Ban Nok rent a sick buffalo to prove the existence of this ailing bovine. "It's called RENT-A-SICK-KWAII."

Millions of baht had been dedicated to the health of sick buffaloes throughout Isaan. The total could even go into the billions, although until hearing Bok's story I thought the only people who heard the tale were farangs.

"How is the sick buffalo now?" I asked my future ex-wife over the phone.

"Buffalo good. Bok Beer no good. You come see them."

"Sure, why not?" I rented a car and drove north of Bangkok to Chai-Nat. A ferry carried me across the Chao Phyra River a little after sunset. 10 klicks out of Wat Sing my telephone service died, but I knew my way around the dirt roads.

Bok's new house was lit. My future ex-wife and daughter were waiting. We hadn't seen each other since Songkran. She hates Pattaya. My daughter loves the beach and me. Angie hugged me and we ate. Sleep comes early in the country and I read myself into the night.

In the morning we went to the hospital in Chai-nat.

Beer was released into my future ex-wife's's care and we visited Bok.

His leg was swollen an ugly shade of yellow.

His wife was hungry and the women left him with me.

"So why did you have to go see your brother?" I wanted to hear the truth.

"He had a sick buffalo."

"Mai shua." I didn't believe him. "You brother called you up to drink with him."

Bok lifted his finger. "Not say. Sick buffalo better story."

"Sick buffalo? I see sick buffalo in bed." I was seeing the 'sick buffalo' in its purest form.

"Stop. Not make me laugh."

"Sum num nah."

"Now no lao, no cigarette. Very not happy."

"Just like me and my skateboard." Two Februaries previous I had tried to skateboard down a steep hill in Pattaya. I had reached about 30kph within three seconds. The front wheel struck a rock. I was airborne. My body crashed to the pavement. My future ex-wife and her family were in the car.

Everyone had a big laugh and joked for months about my skateboard skills.

I think 'sick buffalo' will be a bigger joke in the years to come., because even you a farang can used the water buffalo excuse. It's a lie which everyone wants to believe when they don't want to hear the truth.

Songkran Driving

Nothing says Songkran better in Thailand than getting into an accident with a drunk, as revealed in this series of email dated from 2006.

EMAIL from the Old Roue April 4 after I invited him to join me on a trip to Phnom Penh to escape the Songkran madness.

His reply.

No thanx, I’m driving 2 Nana Plaza dancers to Isaan for Songkran. At least something will get wet.

Be careful in P-P. Ask permission before you soak one of those little motherfuckers. They’ve got no sense of humor and a shiv taped to the leg. Bad combo.

April 27

I drove up to Isaan for Songkran with a girl from nana, taking coals to Newcastle, and got in a serious accident in Ubon Ratchatani. 2 guys on a motorbike slammed into the side of me and went sailing over the hood, breaking one guy’s leg and launching a fucking gothic round of events - police station, hospital, insurance guys, police station, hospital, insurance guys, for days. I got off easy. My insurance paid for my smashed car, his paid for his medical and bike and I have to go back up there in about a week to sign the final police report and hand over 10,000 baht as a farangly gesture, not admitting fault, but so that the family won’t come after me ever again. I hope. That’s how it’s
done up there, when done right. The cops were great and my Thai-fluent buddy and his Thai wife waltzed me thru it over the phone with excellent advice and face grease.

MAY 12

Going up to Isaan with Bangkok lawyer. have to settle this in court. 20k for the loss of wages. I was a little wrong in that I was making a u-turn on a 6-lane road. Thought the driver would see me. Police are not being nice. everything should be okay.

In the end the Old Roue paid out 40,000 for the incident without any penalty points of his license.

Mostly since he didn't have a valid international driving permit.

You have to love Thailand.

Songkran Sanuk

The Songkran celebration ushered in the Thai New Year as well as the coming of the rains ending the hot season. This year's festival has been focused on Wan Parg-bpee April 14, when homage is paid to ancestors, elders and other persons deserving respect because of age or position. Traditionally younger people poured scented water into the palm of an elder, so that any past bad deeds or thoughts will flow away or they sprinkle water onto the person while uttering wishes of happiness and good luck.

In the old days young people actually helped bathe old people. Some still bring towels, so that the elders can dry their hands. When I had first celebrated Songkran on Koh Tao in 1991, I had never heard of Songkran and had been bushwhacked by the staff of the bungalows. Buckets of water had soaked me. Wet smiles and squealing laughter had followed as I had chased the girls for revenge. They had been remarkably fast in their flip-flops. Afterwards we had drunk Mekong whiskey and had had a good laugh, It was all quite charming, but the tradition has undergone some changes in recent years. Nowadyas street vendors hawk squirt guns of every capacity to hooligans ready to spray the unwary with a noxious mixture of itching powder and gutter water. Industrial drinking fuels the unholy holiday madness. Playful water fights escalate from harmless sanuk or fun into vicious shootings redressing old grudges. Pick-up trucks jerry-rigged with plastic reservoirs recklessly race through unwary pedestrians and ya bah-demented motorcyclists imitate crackheads fleeing a 7-11 robbery. In other words Songkran can be dangerous.

Millions of Thais migrate to the country by train, bus, and car, creating chaos beyond imagination on the roadways. Travel time is doubled by the congestion and road accidents claim hundreds of lives around the country. The seriously injured number in the tens of thousands. Thankfully the number have dropped in recent years, as a result of an annual media blitz aiming at reducing road fatalities.

Government officials pointed the finger at traffic accidents as one of Thailand’s top three serious health problems with almost 30% of in-patient hospital beds occupied by the survivors of vehicular crashes. Songkran can be fatal and many longtime foreign residents opt for three methods to avoid the mayhem.

The first is flight to another country i.e. Malaysia or Cambodia if the dates coincide with their visa renewals, however all Thai embassies are closed for the holidays. Back in 2008 my friend Nick and I overlanded to Phnom Penh, where we drank ourselves into a stupor. Neither of us remembered much of anything, but we didn’t end up in jail and the staff of the hotel was sad to see us leave.

The second options is to retreat within the confines of your apartment, condo, or house. Trips during the morning hours are not so wet, as the revelers are sleeping off their drunks and only children line the roads. After sunset you can travel again, though you should avoid any nightlife zones where the water frenzy continues beyond any constraints of sanity.

Lastly Thais considered any Puritan disapproval of Songkran as a sacrilege against sanuk, so if you can’t beat them, then join them.

Several years back my cousin, Griffin Bede hired a truck. The driver loaded the flatbed with three titanic barrels of iced water and we armed our extended families with multi-liter water nozzles. Overloaded by ten people the pick-up’s tires scrapped the steel chassis, as we cruised Pattaya’s streets with the audacity of Somali tech fighters whacked out on qat.

At Beach Road and Soi 8 the girls from two beer bars deliriously chucked buckets at the passing cars. Griffin deluged them into submission with a high-powered hose. On the corner of Walking Street we unleashed a hurricane on two ranking police officers. Everyone loved that. Beers for everyone.

Songkran can be a lot of fun if you observe some simple rules.

Enter the water festival and drink as much as you can.

Don’t bring your telephone with you or any device that might electrocute you.

Just because a girls is laughing doesn’t mean she is enjoying your dumping ice water down her back. Respect the word ‘no’ or mai ao.

Wear clothing that dry fast i.e. football shirts and swimming trunks.

Sunglasses are good for keeping water out of your eyes, because not all of the water smacking your mug is out of the tap.

Leave your wallet at home. Only carry money. It will get you drunk and out of trouble if you get in an accident. If the embassy has to identify you, they can use dental records.

Do not fall in love with anyone you soak. A wet tee-shirt is just a wet tee-shirt. Act accordingly.

Keep a jai yen or cool head. Tempers to flare.

During Griffin’s and my tour around Pattaya. We were soaking everyone we could. This win streak instilled a predatory glee in our Thai friends and Griffin’s tattooed wife jumped off the truck to soak several foreigners hiding behind a tree. It was supposed to be fun, but a humorless weightlifter wrenched away Dtum’s water gun. “Sopheni.”

Knocking down the teenager might have been an innocent mistake, but hearing the word ‘whore’ snapped a fuse and I leaped off the truck with a long PVC tube. The steroid junkie lifted his fists. He was bigger and stronger. I lashed his wrists with the plastic pipe.

His watch exploded into a shower of tiny gears. A headshot propelled him over a rack of t-shirts. I kicked the inside of his knee. He genuflected in anguish. Dtum and I jumped onto the truck. She flipped him the finger and the pick-up truck lurched down Beach Road.

“You hit him like napalm.” Griffin handed me a Singha beer. “Thanks for saving Dtum.”

“It was nothing. Nothing at all.” Mam’s face clouded with embarrassment. My outburst had cost her nah or face. The juice junkie wasn’t her type. My hands trembled with a fifteen year-old’s adrenaline. “I was lucky.”

This festival is about fun and that’s how I do it now.

Fun fun fun. Sanuk sanuk sanuk.

It’s all about having a good time and there’s too little of that is this world to act like Scrooge.

Kathoeys for Joni

I was born in 1952.

Doctors during that prehistoric period had no way of predicting an infant’s sex, yet my mother was convinced that her second child would be a girl. Her first had been a boy. A year’s worth of pretty pink baby clothing lay neatly stacked in a pink crib. When her labor pains began, my father drove from Hingham to Boston at great speed. My mother had later explained that she had gone down to the valley of death at the Richardson House. Twenty hours after her arrival I exited from her womb and the attending doctor announced, “Congratulations, you have a boy.”

"A boy?" My mother had remained conscious during the entire birthing. "Why is that a problem?" The doctor showed her a healthy son. "Not for me." Some women would have resigned themselves to this destiny, however my mother had dressed me in pink dresses throughout my early life. She wasn't letting them go to waste. My father finally rebelled against her pretending that I was a girl and declared firmly, “He’s a boy. Boys aren’t supposed to wear pink.”

This infantile transvestite period inflicted little if no psychological scarring on me, but last November I fancied dressing up in the extravagant silk costume for the Thai festival honoring the water goddess, if only so I can say that I was a ka-toey for Loi Krathong.

This one-night transformation into a deeply-desired daughter probably would reward my late mother with an after-life smile. Unfortunately for my mother I have always resisted this urge, since no 55-year old man should wear a dress unless it’s to escape from prison, although I have occasionally wondered about my appearance as a woman and several years ago at the Plaza Hotel and I tried on a long wig. Not too attractive, although a female friend said upon seeing the photo that I looked like Joni Mitchell on steroids.

I was thinking more on the lines of Brigitte Bardot.

The mirror is the best liar of all. Especially after a couple of beers. N'est pas?

Bad Girl Joni

Last week The LA Times published an interview with Joni Mitchell in which the famed artist lambasted Bob Dylan as a plagiarist. "His name and voice are fake. Everything about Bob is a deception. We are like night and day, he and I." Strong words from the singer. In the 60s Bob Dylan was our god. He redefined the folk world by going electric at the Newport Folk Festival. He was a man. Joni was a woman and we were banned from liking her. It was a sign of weakness. Times changed and in 1998 I was invited to a Bob Dylan - Joni Mitchell concert at Madison Square Garden. Bob was the headliner. Our seats were to the side of the stage. The SONY executives in our section extolled Bob was a god. I had once thought the same as them, but I had come to see Joni Mitchell. I was no longer scared of showing my sensitive side. I applauded her every song and at the end of her performance I announced to the execs that I was leaving. "What about Bob?" One astounded promo VP asked, as if I were a heretic. "What about him?" I walked out of Bob Dylan. I'd never do that to Joni. Love her, but Bob is only Bob on his records.

No Vanilla Bottom For Ann Coulter

Ann Coulter, the infamous GOP pundit, weighs 95 pounds. The tough blonde right-winger takes insults without tears and slashes back without mercy. Her monologues are extremely politically incorrect and last January at the Buffalo Bar my friend Jamie Parker said, "I think she talks dirty in bed."

"She's a Paris Hilton wannabe."

"And I would be to, if I was a skinny blonde." Jamie's 54, skinny, and bears the scars of prison and drugs. He's not bad-looking, but he would make a scary ka-toey.

"Don't tell me that you fantisize having sex with her?" My last sexual encounter with a western woman was in 2003 and the gap had to be 2 years for Jamie.

His sheepish silence gave away his answer.

"She's really skinny the way you like women." Jamie was a self-proclaimed anarchist. He belonged to nothing and only obeyed his own laws. Ann Coulter slept at the other end of the political spectrum.

"She's skinny alright, but old too." The mother of my son weighed less than the ultra-right spokesperson. 42 kilos.

"Nothing wrong with old." We were both over 50. "And if you were back in the States you'd be fighting through the crowd to get a shot at that stick pussy."

It was my turn to be quiet.

"I'm not saying Ann Coulter is beautiful, but there's something about her that gives me wood."

"Really?" I more got the shivers.

"Looks at all these girls. You can't have a conversation with them about Eisenhower, Rousseau, or baseball." The Buffalo girls were lucky to have a 5th Grade education. "I'm not saying they're stupid, but for once I'd like to be with someone who knows more than me."

"Oh, so you only want to talk with Ann Coulter?"

"No, I want to have sex with her."

"How?"

"What you mean, how?"

"What position, where, for how long, would you kiss, wear a condom, you know specifics."

"I hadn't really thought about that."

"Well, I have."

"And what would you do?"

I leaned over and whispered in his ear. We both looked over our shoulders at the Cave, Pattaya's # 1 S and M club. Jamie shook his head and said, "You're a bad man."

"And I like it like that."

Ann Coulter would too.

NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD - Chapter 1 - A novel by Peter Nolan Smith

Six women crowded the honeymoon suite of the Coastal Motel. The buxom 'groom' waited patiently on the bed, while the brutish camerawoman glanced at the director and tapped her watch. "Lena, are you ready yet?" A bead of sweat trickled down the wiry director's spine, as she knocked on the bathroom door. "One more minute," the female lead shouted from inside the tiled room. “That’s fine as long as it’s sixty seconds.” Sherri Conti signaled the camerawoman to prepare for the money shot, acutely aware that the different segments of a movie set operated at contradicting speeds within the same time frames. The technicians were habitually fast, except they were had nothing to do, and the talent was traditionally slow, especially when they were being rushed by the producer. A director's job was to ensure the contrasting sides of the camera meshed during the actual shooting and Sherri checked the equipment for any potential miscue. Everything was in place, except for the girl in the bathroom. There was no way that Lena was suffering stage fright. The young starlet had performed sex before a camera over fifty times and had not once gone up or blown her scene. Lena was simply dropping into her persona. Sherri had undergone the identical transformation in hundreds of hotels, condos, and ranch houses over her twenty-year career in XXX films. The extra time had been worth the wait, because once Sherri had heard the word ‘action’, her body had exhibited a tangible hunger for sex and the camera never lied in an industry with no special effects. Sherri’s name had blazed on marquee lights in Times Square and her body had filled a millions of TV screens for audiences of one. A devoted fan had amassed a list of her on-screen lovers. The number ran into the thousands. The handful of stand-outs had vanished from the Valley like animals scourged into extinction. Sherri could have easily joined them, but her near-miraculous survival granted the forty-five year-old director the status of living legend. The accolades, setbacks, or sins were meaningless to Sherri, for porno was still a business and time was money and she turned to the black woman on the queen-sized bed. "Josie, give us a sound check." "You got it, boss." Big Josie Cane had worked for Sherri ten times. The ex-actress’ production company paid better than the standard daily of $500 and the director had never blindsided the actresses with bizarre requests, so Josie gladly saved her best performances for Sherri. These girl-on-girl scenes were especially easy with Lena, for the Spanish girl shone in a business where most actresses were lightbulbs. Rising off the mattress Josie spoke into the overhead boom. "Testing, one, two, three." Josie cinched the belt of the strap-on dildo, which she didn't want to slip out of place during the shoot. This was going to be one long take and she meant to make the most of it. "How clean is it?” Sherri asked the soundwoman. Even with the taped windows and heavily blanketed door the microphone picked up the wet sizzle of 18-wheelers on the rain-drenched Ventura Freeway. "Nothing I can't fix in the sound studio." The soundwoman had heard worst background noise. The battery of Soft Ks, 10Ks, and Mighty Mole lights around the room pushed the temperature into the 90s. Sherri surveyed the sheen of sweat on Josie and figured that the male audience would appreciate the glistening ebony skin. "It’s a go once the 'jig inky' is in focus." The stocky gaffer in jeans studied the bed. Not a single shadow was visible on the sheets. "Okay, we'll deal with that when Lena is in place." This scene needed to be shot and Sherri nervously pushed back her brown shag-cut hair. “Lena, that minute is up.” “Ready or not here I come.” The raven-haired actress emerged from the bathroom and struck a provocative pose before the crew. The muscles of her girlish body were taut from dance classes without any deformation by gym training. A neutral-toned blush heightened the smoothness of her olive skin. Mascara accented the Oriental cant of her green eyes and her coal-black hair was cut to mimic Cleopatra. She was more exotic than beautiful and this attribute converted into star quality. Her DVDs sold out every first run and the critics had nominated her ‘best new starlet’ for the upcoming XXX awards in Las Vegas. “Finally.” Sharon clapped her hands and the crew snapped to attention. Lena crossed the room to her off-screen lover. She was an inch shorter than Sherri and her pouting pelvis grazed the director's thigh. The older woman stiffened, wishing that she was on the bed, instead of Josie, however the director had retired from that side of the camera five years ago. "Nervous?" "Nervous? I was made for this." The younger woman glided out of reach and every woman in the room studied her nakedness. Lena wouldn't have it any other way, for she was as much an exhibitionist as a voyeur. Lena lay on the bed with her legs apart. Her character in the film was called Desiree. A runaway who had never been with a woman before. Lena had run away from her home at the age of 14 and knew every aspect of this role inside out. The gaffer adjusted the 'jig inky', as the make-up artist feathered the final touches on Lena's metamorphosis into a white trash virgin's first meeting with a bull dyke. The market for most adult entertainment was predominantly male. Lena’s audience was evenly split between men and women, despite purely lesbian content of her films. Part of her appeal had to do with Lena's youth. She was new meat. Sherri had once been Lena’s age. Her first film had been a short 8mm movie filmed in a Times Square studio. She had played a pizza girl delivering an order of pepperoni pies to a stag party. The invulnerability of her youth hadn’t lasted long in the meat grinder of adult film industry and Sherri was determined to protect Lena from such damage, but no one could survive forever without losing their soul. Lena deserved to be in real films and Sherri had a plan to get the young girl on the silver screen, but now was not the time. “Everyone set?” Sherri asked the crew. “Ready, when you are, boss lady.” The gaffer retreated from the lights and Lena's hand dropped to her shaved vagina. Soon it would be replaced by that of another woman. The old Jefferson Airplane song SALLY GOES ROUND THE ROSES popped into Sherri’s head and the chorus repeated in her mind. “Saddest thing in the whole wide world is to see your baby with another girl.” “Josie, take your position.” Filming Lena with another woman was becoming increasingly difficult, but Sherri waved the make-up woman from the bed. In the end she was a professional. “Places.” Big Josie Cane assumed the 'top' position for the classic 'cowgirl reverse' shot and the Super 8mm video camera transmitted a pixilated image of Lena speaking her lines onto the video monitor. The picture was a little fuzzy. “Sharpen it a little,” Sherri ordered the crouching camerawoman. “Got it.” The camerawoman crystallized the focus with the deftness of a safecracker. The image on the screen looked real and Sherri prayed a technical failure would halt the filming, except the words, "Lights, camera, action." transported the crew and actresses into the magic world of movie-making. While the camera wasn’t 35mm and the budget was less than $20,000, every woman in the room prayed today’s filming guiding was a magic carpet them to that most promised of Californian lands. Hollywood, and no one was refusing a chance at the big time no matter how big or small the stage. Any god or goddess would have known the truth. Not everyone gets a shot at silver screen. Only the very lucky and the very good and sometimes the very bad reached the promised land and Lena de Gama was made for that heaven. The camera never lies.