Saturday, June 30, 2012

The Last Tree in the World


The right have long suspected Global Warming as a propaganda device foisted on the masses to keep them from riding SUVs. Personally I blame GW on the millions of fat people sweating too much, which I have come to realize with the recent addition of 10 kilos of winter weight, mostly of it beer bloat. If you are not part of the solution then you are part of the problem. I find myself using more toilet paper. Why?

More food.

More shit.

More toilet paper and one day the world will run out of trees.

No toilet paper is only one of the losses from Global Warming. The President of Exxon says that humans will adapt, but what about the dogs? They need those trees, so you fat fucks out there and I'm one of them.

Wipe your ass less.

118 In Kansas

Q: How do you make holy water? A: Boil the hell out of it! Q: How hot is it in Kansas? A: So hot every fat guy sweating smells like Bacon! Q: How hot is a Kansas summer? A: So hot that I saw a fire hydrant chasing a pack of dogs! Q. How do you know the toothbrush was invented in Kansas? A. If it was invented anywhere else, it would have been called a teethbrush. Q: What's the most popular pick up line in Kansas? A: Nice tooth! And that's all. folks

Hot Hot Hot

.
America east of the Rockies has been overwhelmed by a border to border heatwave in the triple digits. A massive storm knocked out power for over two million residents in the capitol and surrounding districts. There is no AC. There is no ice. It is hot and the weathermen are predicting more hot. Prominent climate-denier James Inhofe has wisely decided to maintain a vow of silence about the nationwide scorcher. His office has asked emailers the following; If you are an Oklahoma resident experiencing difficulties with a Federal Government agency or needing assistance from my office, please DO NOT email me from this page. This morning the temperature in Tulsa is a sultry 103. James Inhofe offered no phone number to contact him. I suspect that he has left Washington. Even Oklahoma is cooler than DC without AC. While Inhofe shut his jumbos, EXXON's chairman stated in a speech before ouncil on Foreign Relations that the public is 'illiterate' in science and math, plus that society will have to adapt to climate change. “It’s an engineering problem and there will be an engineering solution.” Engineering without power as in Washington was called the Dark Ages. Rex Tillerson Asshole of the Day. And even Oklahomans might agree, unless the temperature drops to 90. Hot but not as hot as a 100.

Chappaquiddick Incident


'Chappaquiddick' conjures up a nasty car accident to the American psyche older than fifty. The story of a drunken senator abandoning his lover to a watery death is unknown to Twitterites agog at Tom Cruise breaking up with his wife. The senator in question was Edward Kennedy, the heir to Camelot. The victim was Mary Jo Kopechne. The 1969 incident permanently damaged the youngest Kennedy's chances to sit in the White House, especially after he told the press.

"When I got to the car. Mary Jo wasn't there."

The famous accent said that sentence with conviction, however police divers found Mary Jo Kopechne in the overturned car. A later inquest speculated that the drowned office worker had lived for 2 hours. Ted Kennedy settled with the family and the Massachusetts voters re-elected him to office by a landslide. He was a bad boy, but he was our bad boy.

Some conspiraphiles have attributed the incident to Teddy being drugged by CIA agents, thus explaining his erratic behavior. As much as I faulted that agency for participation in the deaths of JFK and RFK, Teddy does not get a free ride from Chappaquiddick. He fucked up and fucked up big time.

Even if he was set up by the CIA too.

He should have seen it coming.

Friday, June 29, 2012

Naps of Thailand

When a Chinese general was asked about the defeat of the People's Army by the Vietnamese in 1979, he replied, "We get up at 5am and they get up at 4."

The industry of NVA seemed to have been sapped by the torrid climes farther south. Thais and Laotians are epic sleepers with an ability to find comfort in conditions better suited to a CIA rendition camp. Some farangs attributed this hyper-sleeping habit to lassitude, however their eurocnetric observations are way off mark, because most Thais wake before dawn to work in the rice fields until the heat hits treacherous temperatures. They retreat from the sun for a good meal followed by a better nap or nge'ep before hitting the fields for the long late-afternoon. This rice farming tradition has been translated to the cities where workers labor from dawn to dusk six days a week. Farangs laugh about the urban proletariat's ability to sleep within seconds of finding a comfortable position. Few westerners know the hold of total exhaustion and I often defend the Thais and other Asians' sleeping habits.

"So explain to me why bar girls sleep 20 hours at a clip," One bar-goers asked in Pattaya. Jim had been here for years. His vocabulary in Thai was limited to ordering beer and sex.

"Only can be several reasons." I'd been in the Orient 20 years. I didn't have all the answers. Just some of the right ones.

"Like what?" The bar-goer was eying his date. She seemed alert for the moment. He mustn't have paid her yet.

"First is that she's exhausted from having sex with you." Most farangs in Thailand exist on a diet of Viagra and alcohol.

"Could be." The bar-goer smiled with pride.

"Second, she could be on ja-bah and crashes after sex." His girl's fatness excluded her huffing meth. She was a healthy eater.

"No way. The cops piss-tested her at Marine Disco the other night. She came up clean."

"Well, that leaves only one other explanation and this comes from a very knowledgeable Mama-san of a go-go bar. She said the reason most of these girls sleep so much is that they're trying to escape the reality of having to have sex with a fat farang and would rather live inside a sleep world until they have enough money to rejoin other Thai people. Of course this couldn't pertain to you since you're such a sex hero."

Jim tipped the scales over 280 and his age was a 20th of Methuselah. No one had called him 'sexy' since he was in his teens and that probably had been by the parish priest. For Englishman Jim had good teeth. He had at least half the front ones.

"I'm not so sure about that." Even Jim recognized that he was no Apollo. Me neither, but I like hearing girls tell me I'm the best I ever had. It's a lie that improves with age and I sleep in peace content to accept a well-intentioned lie. Sleeping well is a talent an old man admires with age. Those damn Thais.

There is nothing like a good nap.

“No day is so bad it can't be fixed with a nap.” Carrie B Snow

Senseless At The Wheel


One of my greatest fears while living in Pattaya had been getting struck by a car blowing a redlight while I crossed Sukhumvit on my motorcycle. The three traffic lights on that major thoroughfare remain magnets for rear-end collisions, t-bones, head-on mash-ups, and any endless combination of those three involving pedestrians, cars, and motorbikes. Two afternoons ago I merged from Soi Wat Boom and slowed down to allow a woman driving a pick-up to execute a u-turn from the signal. She was speaking on her cell phone without any of her senses paying attention to those on the road with her. She missed me only because I backed away from her SUV. Giving her the finger had no effect. She was lost in conversation, probably about a family member owing money, but more likely the latest episode of her soap opera since she had a smile on her face. The female motorist proceeded up the Soi to nearly sideswipe a pole a meter from the road, then swerve into a motorcycle, knocking the drive to the ground. The woman stopped at that moment and got out of the car. She was about forty. The phone was still stuck to her ear. Several Thais and I helped the motorcycle driver to his feet. There was no blood. If he had been traveling at speed, this collision could have been fatal. The woman put down the phone and apologizes profusely to the injured party. The onlookers scowled at her, as if to say, "Where's your money?"

The man thanked me and I drove off ever more careful to avoid becoming a statistics of the Thai Road Wars. They come at you in all directions.

NOT ALL CRASHES ARE ACCIDENTS by Peter Nolan Smith


I never met Princess Diana, although a friend of a friend married her brother. Diana would have been at the wedding. I never received an invitation. No great loss, because the Princess of Wales wasn’t my type, however I viewed her death as a blow against the empire of goodness.

I arrived in London the day of her funeral. I exited from the Tube at Nottinghill Gate. People on the street walked with sorrowful steps in the direction of her Kensington Palace. Two grown men passed me in tears, as if their mother had passed away and women sobbed like they had lost their best friend. I walked to Sam Royalle's house. He was not at home. Everyone in London was observing the passage of someone whom they hoped would be queen.

Sam Royalle showed up at 5. His eyes were red.

"Are you okay?"

"I feel what you must have felt when JFK got killed."

"That bad?"

"Yes, that bad. Let's have a drink

That evening Sam and I along with thousands of the Princess' admirers laid a wreath before Kensington Palace. The wall of memorial flowers rose chest-high. The scent of dying petals buried my senses and my eyes teared with the loss. Sam was a bawling baby. We walked away with our arms over each other's shoulder

Diana had been a real princess.

The next day I left London to go on a road trip through the Loire Valley with my father. Ten days later Sam Royalle showed up in Paris. We had dinner at La Coupole with father. After putting him to bed at the Hotel Lousiane Sam and I sat at a bar across the street.

"I got a problem." The Londoner whispered across the table. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth, so only I could hear him. My survival antennae perked into life. Only the guilty talked in that manner and

"What?" It's usually better to not know what someone's problem is so you don't ever have to get involved, but Sam and I were friends.

"Some Brixton yardies suspect me of switching a bank destination for a money wire transfer," Sam explained how the yardies had an auntie working at the transfer accounts in a Scottish bank. He had arranged for another swift code for them from an off-shore account. "The money never showed up."

"And where is the money?" There were only three choices; with the yardies, Sam, or a 3rd unnamed party.

"I don't know."

It was the right answer and Sam expressed his apprehensions about returning to London in order to discuss the matter with the Brixton yardies. They were habitual murderers. He ordered us another round of drinks.

"On me."

"In that case make it a margharita with good tequila."

The waiter took our order and I suggested to Sam that he take a long vacation in Thailand.

"The food is good, the girls are friendly, and I've never seen a Brixton yardie in years that I've been traveling in Asia. Plus it's hard to get extradited from there."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"Oh, I forgot about that." I said nothing about his arranging a different destination for the wire transfer. Our drinks came to the table. We drank them swiftly. Another two rounds and I mentioned that Diana had stayed at the Ritz only two weeks before.

"That's where she left from for that fateful drive."

"Is it far?"

"No."

Sam looked around the bar, as if to see Diana's ghost.

"Something about that accident isn't right." I felt like Oliver Stone filming JFK. The French police had blamed the crash on the driver. "Henri-Paul had been drinking and maybe doing drugs, but I've driven in that condition on more than one occasion and survived without a crash."

"Twice the speed limit."

"65 mph is not fast for an expert driver."

"The newspapers said 90."

"English newspapers love sensation. I'm surprised that they didn't publish any naked photos of her corpse at the Quai de La Rapee." I had been to the Paris morgue to ID a friend. It wasn't a cheerful place.

"Stop joking." The English were loyal subjects to their nobility.

"I'm not joking and I can prove it."

"How?"

"By driving my rented car through the same street at the same speed." I had drank enough margharitas for this evening.
"I'll re-create the accident.”

“Fuck you.”

“Someone killed her.”

The whys were too numerous to count unlike the four margharitas that I had downed in the last hour, but the Londoner was true to his word. He covered the bill and tried to talk me out of my test.

"Tomorrow morning would be better."

"No way. This test needs the right conditions. Nighttime, Drinks. Speed. Tomorrow morning the quai will be jammed with traffic." I also had to drive my father to the airport in the morning.

We walked outside to my Fiat Panda. I put the key in the ignition and peeled from the curb to snake through the small streets of the Left Bank. I crossed the Seine at the Louvre and sped down Rue Du Rivoli to whip into the chaotic merry-go-round of Place de la Concorde and 90kph.

I needed to go faster.

Diana’s Mercedes had paparazzi on her tail. A score of them were on motorcycles. with strobe lights on their tail, Jodi must have told the driver. “Plus vite.”

Diana laughs. Jodi joins her.

I hit 110 and skittered onto the Quai like a billiard ball sliced with extreme English.

I don’t hear Sam’s shouting.

The entrance to the death tunnel loomed ahead. I reach it at 120 and go airborne.

The Fiat bottoms out on the road with a slight swerve, but I controlled the car.

"See I told you the accident was no accident."

"It was a heavier car."

"It was no accident." I slowed down coming out of the the Place de l’Alma underpass.

Two more cars did the same. The look on their faces told us that they had just attempted the same re-enactment. Not everyone was convinced that Diana's death was an accident. I dropped Sam at his hotel. He checked the street for Brixton yardies. The coast was clear.

"See you in the morning."

"Thanks for the ride. It's always good to have a near-death experience before bed."

"Don't mention it."

We arrange to meet in the morning after I drove my father to the airport. I parked the Panda on the street of the Hotel Louisiane. I went up to our room. My father raised his head from his pillow.

"You smell like you've been drinking." My father was no tee-totaler, but he didn't like drunks, especially those related to him.

"Just a few glasses of wine." I fell into bed wearing my clothes.

"Smells more like a vat. I hope you didn't do anything stupid."

"Nothing more than talking with a friend."

"Then good-night and see you in the morning."

I crashed without any further thought about Diana Princess of Wales.

Same and I traveled to the South. He booked a flight from Paris to Thailand. I went off to Ireland.

A town called Ballyconeeley.

Three months later the paparazzi released the last photos of Diana. She was a queen then and a queen now. I would never be as good as her. I could only try to follow her example. It was all of us could do. I took several minutes to study the prints in The Times, while eating my breakfast at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. The driver's face was aglow with excitement. I was convinced that he had been drugged like Teddy Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. By whom? I have my suspects.

They know who they are too.

That crash was no accident and I'll prove it again if anyone wants to buy the drinks.

They are expensive in Paris.

Super Hero Team Work

Pattaya's Glorious Batman Ruins

Batman disco off Sukhumvit was the one of Pattaya's hottest in the 90s. Spotlights casting batman logos arced across the night sky. The young clientele crowded the four floors. Police staged a raid on the dance club and closed the premises for drugs and under-age drinking. While the owner fought the closure in court, a mysterious fire gutted the interior to the delight of his rivals. Batman has remained shut for over a decade. It dominates the neighborhood. Few people enter the derelict building. Where Batman has fled, only pii or ghosts walk the night.

Mayor For A Night


The other day I ate a spicy catfish salad or yam pla muk foo followed by a beer. The combination sat wrong with my stomach and my sleep that night was interrupted by a disturbing dream. Somehow after a drunken night on Walking Street, I had been appointed mayor of Pattaya.

I was in the city hall. Everyone was waiting for my decisions.

I had all the power.

My first choice was to order a tub of ice water.

Clap of the hands and there it was. This was better than having three wishes from a genii. I could change anything.

My first command was to ban the police from interrupting any naked shows at the go-gos. After all I'm a firm believer in the arts.

Secondly to make up for this loss of income I directed the officers to fine the Chinese buses from rolling down the Beach Road 1000 baht easch, unless they parked at officially sanctioned areas to be served by baht buses.

Thirdly any westerners complaining about Thais would have to wear a clown suit for a day. This lesson in humility would teach them something about having a sense of humor.

Fourth ruling would be to institute frequent flier miles for bar fining go-go girls. Every 10th time you get one without having to pay the mama-san.

Fifth mandate was a complete ban wigs and sweep-overs for farangs as well as wife-beater tee shirts.

In my dream the crowd in the city hall was looking rebellious after these decisions and out right dangerous when I announced that 7/11 would have to serve free beer from 1pm-4pm every afternoon. The angry mob of 7/11 owners barged into my office to dethrone me and I woke up with my reign ended before I could build a trolley line electrified by the steroid juice monkey exercising at the gyms.

Mam asked what I was mumbling about, suspicious that I was cheating on her in my dreams.

When I explained my dream, she said I was out of my mind, but then said, "You not think of me."

"Huh?"

"Why didn't you ask for free beauty shop?"

She was right. I was only thinking about myself, but then power corrupts even the best of me and I'm far from perfect.

Headlines of Pattaya

City officials are constantly announcing clean-ups of Pattaya. Drug busts, gambling raids, crackdowns on bars, and arrests of criminal farangs have garnered the local headlines for years without progress, mostly the small timers are inspired by the truly majestic demeanor of the corrupt elite lining their pockets with kickbacks, bribes, and illegal take-overs. Decent Thais and farangs are amazed at the democracy of venality, although some critics are quick to support the system, since sin-bons or greasing the palm expedites progress. The Pattaya Mail online vainly attempts to portray Pattaya as a city in transition, however its rival pattayaone.com spares no indignity as witness by this week's headlines. They certainly paint a Hogarthian tableau ie ugly social picture. Food vendor injured in 200,000 Baht street robbery in Sattahip Four private cars belong to Police, damaged at Central Festival Pattaya Beach Confusion over suspected drugging incident at Sattahip Karaoke Bar & Motel 50,000 Baht necklace snatch in South Pattaya Singaporean suspect in 9 Million Baht car theft case, arrested by Pattaya Police 500,000 Baht theft from Australian-owned South Pattaya apartment complex 17 year old Transsexual arrested following South Pattaya theft from English Tourist Two Gay Bar employees drugged and robbed at Central Pattaya Love Motel Depressed karaoke Bar employee threatens to jump off South Pattaya apartment roof Four rented motorbikes stolen from shop in Jomtien 9 Million Baht car stolen from North Pattaya Hotel car-park 98 Million Baht Banglamung Hospital extension opened by Deputy PM 10 drug suspects caught at South Pattaya Police Checkpointd 40 “Coconut Ghosts” removed from Pattaya Beach by Police Japanese victim of Central Pattaya transsexual bag snatch 10 suspected drug users caught at North Pattaya Police Checkpoint Gun and drugs seized from suspected drug dealer in South Pattaya Not all the news is bad. Nong Nooch Gardens celebrates recent Gold Medal win at Chelsea Flower Show For the third year in a row, Nong Nooch Gardens based in Jomtien won a gold medal at the Chelsea Flower Show which took place in London between 22nd and 26th May. We revealed the win last month but on Friday Night an official press. And even more happily the police reported the recovery of that 9 million baht car of the well-loved son of the naval officer. All in a week's work for the boys in brown.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Obamacare According to the Drudge Report

Moments after the Health Care decision CNN reported on screen; BREAKING NEWS: INDIVIDUAL MANDATE STRUCK DOWN. Supreme Court finds measure unconstitutional. Fox News' intense desire to see the law failed in the vote result in yet another erroneous headline in the spirit of declaration of the 2000 presidential election to close to call. The media caught many of Barack Obama's opponents prematurely ejaculating with triumphant glee, but that happy moment was soon replaced by gagging, as they realized that a national health plan had been rammed down their throats. Glenn Beck called Chief Justice Roberts on his radio show a 'coward'. Sarah Palin tweeted the nation, "Obama said it wasn't a tax. Obama lies; freedom dies." The right is crying in their tea cup and nowhere are they crying harder than on DRUDGEREPORT Chief Justice Roberts joins left of the Court, 'It is not our role to forbid it, or pass upon its wisdom or fairness'... Dissent: 'We Cannot Rewrite the Statute to Be What It Is Not' RUSH LIMBAUGH: 'WE NOW HAVE THE BIGGEST 'TAX' INCREASE IN HISTORY OF THE WORLD' Republican governors vow to ignore Obamacare... HOUSE REPEAL VOTE SET FOR WEEK OF JULY 9... Speaker Boehner: 'Ruling underscores urgency'... MCCONNELL: 'Sold to American people on a deception' ICHAEL SAVAGE: 'ROBERTS EPILEPSY MEDICATION AFFECTS HIS COGNITION'... FLASHBACK NYT: Roberts drugs 'can have troubling side effects, mental slowing and forgetfulness' Did Justice Roberts change his vote at last minute? George Will: Conservatives' consolation prize... HURT: Defending John Roberts... CURL: Gift to Romney... How does George W. Bush feel right now? Like shit I hope. As for Dick Cheney? He doesn't have a heart. ps I called the vote the other way. Sometimes being wrong is the only way to be right.

Fuck The GOP

Bon was a bad influence on my step-son. His parents had abandoned him as a baby and his elderly grandmother was too feeble to enforce discipline on the wild child. The nine year-old had been implicated in arson, larceny, and house-breakings. No one like the boy, except for soft-hearted Fluke. A year ago Bon lit off a firecracker in a rice field. A shrapnel shard flew into his eye. His grandmother was too poor to take him to the hospital and the infected eye went drastically septic and Bon died for the sake of 1000 baht of medical care. The deposed PM Thaksin had instituted a 30-baht health coverage for the poor. Somehow Bon slipped through the system. No one in the neighborhood lifted a finger to help Bon. None of the neighbors answered my questions on the matter. To them he was a lost cause better off reincarnating to a better world. Universal Health Care exists in most developed countries, but the USA has resisted health reform as a threat to capitalism. England, Germany, and the other European nations enacted various welfare programs for the workers to stem the rising tide of revolution. President Theodore Roosevelt attempted progressive health reform in the 1912 presidential election. He was defeated by Woodrow Wilson. America resorted to guns, billyclubs, and prison to defeat the reds. The carrot was never a viable alternative. Harry Truman failed in 1949, however LBJ was able to ram through Medicare and Medicaid in the 60s to the chagrin of the AMA and insurance companies. Even Nixon sought to provide Americans with health care, but his measure was defeated by Ted Kennedy who thought the program offered to little. The senator later regretted his opposition and gave his heart and soul to the Clinton initiative, which was soundly trashed by the GOP and special interests groups, who mythified Hillary Clinton as a modern day Emma Goldman for wanting to keep Americans healthy. Few politicians on the right expected Obamacare to survive a Supreme Court judgment. Chief Justice Roberts shocked the GOP by aligning his vote with the three women and one man on the bench in favor of the moderate health care reform to cover all citizens on America, which spends the fourth highest amount per capita on coverage with horrible results in infantile deaths, life expectancy, and bankruptcies from medical bills. 15% of the US GDP is spent on health care. $2.6 trillion in 2007, because most Americans don't go to the doctor until they are really sick like poor Bon. The GOP refuses to accept this defeat. The media and radio talking heads have blamed Robert's unexpected vote on the meds to combat his epilepsy. More like the Chief Justice voted with his head, however the battle over the multi-trillion pie will continue throughout this election, since the GOP wants to fight all its losses like they weren't a loss, almost as if the South will rise again. Wisely Obama stayed out of the fray during the Supreme Court test rather than crow like his opponent about the coming of socialism. Hey, I like the color red. It goes good with black on occasion.

The Diet Of Fools


My mother thought that you weren't really sick unless there was blood. Aches, fevers, and high temperatures were normal occurrences for children and I didn't miss a day of school from 1959 to 1966, despite twice suffering from extreme cases of poison ivy. If she was in charge of Health Care in America, the budget for medical treatment would drop to zero. Last year my younger brother ignored a nagging chest pain. His wife asked him to go to the hospital. "There's nothing wrong with me." My brother was his mother's son. Several weeks later he and his family came to New York. His wife's cousin was marrying a Brahmin Hindu from Bombay. I took care of his two teenage kids while they were attending a fancy function. Later that evening he stormed into the hotel room with a large McDonald's bag in his hand.

"Damn, the food at the rehearsal dinner was uneatable. Veggies and more veggies. I'm not a cow. You think that they were trying to kill me with veggies." He pulled a double cheeseburger Happy Meal out of the bag. "Dad, you really should be careful about what you eat." His son warned in a quiet voice. "No one is going to live forever." He chomped into the burger. His kids grimaced at his resolve. They wanted him to live into their future and his diet of meat meat meat was a ticket to an early grave in their young eyes. Upon his return to Boston the chest pain worsened and he relented to his wife's pleas Being covered by a union plan he visited a hospital in Cambridge.

My dearly departed mother must have been rolling her eyes in heaven, until the doctors announced that Paddy was in immediate need of a by-pass operation.

"When?" Paddy had tickets to the Bruins-Canadians game that evening.

"Tomorrow morning?" The doctor was dead serious.

"I'll see you in the morning then." My younger brother had paid scalper's price for the seats.

"Yes, you will, but you're not going anywhere." The doctor explained to my brother that this was a life or death issue. His wife further begged him to stay overnight in the hospital. Paddy had one condition.

"I want a bacon-cheeseburger." It was a last meal request. His diet consisted of meat, fried foods, and more meat. "I want a cheeseburger. I want it now." He was acting like a little child and the nurses treated him as such. No cheeseburger and the next day Paddy went under the knife for eight hours for a quadruple bypass. Only a quintuple bypass is more extreme. The doctors discovered that his coronary system and arteries were in horrible condition. The hospital kept him in the ICU for several days and then released him to his wife.

"What about my cheeseburger?" He whined on the way home. His kids yelled at him and his wife threatened to make him walk home. He was in no shape to fight them and whimpered, "No more cheeseburgers. What kind of life will I have? Damned veggies."

His loving wife has said that Paddy has been suffering meat withdrawal. Vegetables are pushed around the plate without reaching his mouth. He has basically gone on a hunger strike and his resistance to good nutrition is endemic to most Americans, for the # 1 cause of illness in the USA is the food. People eat like pigs. Their diets of soda and fast food are taxing the health care system to the breaking point, but no one is willing to look in the mirror and see themselves as the major reason for their ill health.

Personally I eat well; vegetables, fruits, fish, olive oil, and natural foods. Steak once a month. Still I also have stopped looking in the mirror. I too am overweight and I prefer my shadow against the wall, for my weakness is drinking. Too much for my own good.

My younger brother’s brush with death taught me a lesson.

No more Pina Coladas.

Beer is the drug of choice. You are what you drink as much as you are what you eat.

And I'm willing to pay the price for that delight.

Happy Beermas.

The Touch Of The Stars


As a child of the 1960s I lived in the suburbs south of Boston. Summer nights were filled with silence; no cars, no voices, no music. Every house was a tomb and I'd steal from the house to our back yard. The grass was shorn short by constant mowing. The stubs were painful to my feet, but I'd strip off my pajamas and lie on the lawn, looking to the sky.

I was not seeking the mystery of God in the celestial night sky, but an aberration in the galactic traffic.

"Oh, UFO come take me away." Alien abduction was a better fate than suffering pubescence in the suburbs, yet no flying saucers snatched my body. I was stranded on Earth along with billions of other humans. None of us were going to the stars, for our solar system is located on the most remote edge of the Milky Way.

Think as distant from New York as Great Slave Lake.

Spaceships warp past Earth without deccelerting. Our planet isn't on the Inter-Galactic Guide. A cosmic billboard on the Moon WINE AND DINE AT EARTH' might help trade with the passing aliens, however Earthlings are stuck on the planet, especially now NASA has canceled the space program, except to make money. Wreckers are cutting Space Shuttles into scrap. Governments are short cash. Travel to the stars has been abandoned for the moment and we exist alone, despite claims to the contrary by Apollo astronaut Edgar Mitchell that UFOs regularly on this blue planet and not only the cow-mutilators of Wyoming.

His conversations with old-timers from Roswell strengthened his own experiences in Space and Edgar Mitchell is convinced that NASA and the Pentagon have been vigorously prevented the truth from reaching a public more interested in potato chips than UFOs.

"Is there life outside of Earth?"

The Colonel thinks so. although my late father considered billions spent on NASA to be a waste.

"There's nothing out there?"

No go-go bars for sure or romantic lakes or no marching bands, for.

tubas take up too much room in a spaceship, although I once saw a tuba on a Star Trek episode. The former astronaut also says that the three crafts hovering over Phoenix three years ago were not ours. They were from another planet and not Mars either. Someplace much farther away and we can't even estimate that number with our pea brains, but i no longer want to go to the stars.

I have four kids.

A two loving daughters and two busy boys. Those are my aliens, for ET are us.

Children from future.

In Heaven Above

Sir Richard Branson's spaceship THE VIRGIN ENTERPRISE will bring humans to the edge of Space. Its apogee will created a window of weightlessness. The small craft is built for two crew and six passengers, however there must be provisions for those space lovers who want a little privacy in order to become the first people to have sex in Space.

Supposedly US and Russian astronauts have had sex in space for separate research programs on how human beings might survive years in orbit. The greatest challenge to intercourse is the weightlessness. Astronauts and Cosmonauts alike have failed to achieve erections because the blood pools in their extremities. Pressurization is the key.

IN HEAVEN ABOVE is my tale of a bankrupt ex-Soviet republic threatened by a multi-national conglomerate with extinction. The triumvirate in charge of this nation turn to their mad economist to save the country and he proposed that they repair their decrepit space shuttle and hold a global lottery with the first prize to be a ticket into space to be the first man or woman to have sex. None of the studios clicked on this comedy. Maybe it wasn't funny enough, however a respected French scientific writer claims that sex in space has already been achieved by NASA and Moscow, although in deep secrecy.

NASA's Sex in Freefall program was codenamed STS-XXX and astronauts supposedly computer-tested about 23 sexual positions to divine the most viable in a conditions of no-gravity. They then used guinea pigs and reputedly videotaped the results. Censored except for those White House officials with agricultural training. NASA scientists discovered only 4 positions were possible without help from robots and high-tech equipment.

The missionary position is impossible in space.

You can push up and down when there is none in space.

IN HEAVEN ABOVE coitus galactica was a long languid session of foreplay followed by a drift to heaven among the stars.

NASA never contacted me, but I'm still waiting for the phone to ring.

Not NASA but Virgin.

"Hello, VIRGIN. We have contact."

Trash in Space


My friend Eddie Mickie weighed more than 300 pounds. He was the only fat person in Bethpage. Everyone else was thin. The year was 1971. Eddie was so heavy that his weight bend the frame of his Harley. Obsessed by space Eddie lost a third of his mass so he could take a glider flight. None of us thought much about going to Space, but Eddie explained the urgency of our departure from Earth.

"When the shit gets a foot high, you have to step a foot higher."

The shit floating in the present atmosphere would cover the earth in several meters of ash if the shit settled to Earth. Somehow all the emissions remain aloft despite of gravity as does the trash orbiting our home world. Over a half-million separate objects are hurtling through space at speeds unknown to the surface. One NASA genius went so far as to unleash thousands of little needles to facilitate the transmission of radar signals. The project was a failure.

Now the shit is not only a foot high, it's sky high too. No alien in his right mind would dare risk passage through that maze of crap, which means no one is coming to save us in 2012. At least not ET. He's staying home, if he knows what is good for him.

Thai Mai-ow NASA

President Eisenhower created NASA in 1958 with the help of Nazi scientist Werner Braun. The Free World had to be defended by Free Space. Missiles, rockets, satellites shuttles soared into orbit with the aim of exploring the heavens. Sadly funds to NASA have been cut dramatically in the 21st Century, as the GOP and America seek corporations to lead the way to the stars. This winter I visited at a ghostly Cape Kennedy. The Florida space center has become a tourist attraction. The Space Shuttles have been cannibalized for parts and the remaining two operational vehicles have been delivered to aerospace museums. Russia retains control of the International Space Station and the only access to this platform is from Russia. China has rocketed manned exploration into low orbit. America has turned its back on Eisenhower's dream, although NASA claims that they are preparing a large booster rocket for colonization of the moon and a grand voyage to Mars in the near to distant future. Without a viable space craft NASA no longer receives the respect of the world and yesterday Thailand government delayed any decision on a NASA HQ at the country's U-Tapao air base. Opponents suspected that the operation center for weather surveillance was actually a beard for covert intelligence missions and thusly a threat to Thai sovereignty, while the PM supported the flights on the grounds of improved meteorological data to map the progress of typhoons and monsoons. Earthbound NASA is small. In Space it is a giant. Its budget is nothing in comparison to the bank bailouts, then again what isn't peanuts next to that disaster. cartoon comes from 2bangkok.com From Arun, June 14, 2012 The caption title reads: The U.S. requested to use U-tapao Airport. Here it comes..! Giant bird.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

The Nana Hotel

Directly across from Bangkok's Nana Plaza is the eternal Nana Hotel. This caravansary has been servicing the happy ending needs of travelers since the 60s. I first stayed there in 1991. Nothing much has changed in that time. Men check in with women half their age. The desk clerks smiled without asking for IDs. They know most of the girls by name. Love, lust, happiness, laughter, happy endings, showers, sex ad infinitum.

Certainly a lot more fun than the Hotel Oriental.

And the food isn't bad either.

NANA HOTEL BANGKOK 1960

4 Nana Tai, Sukhumvit Rd, Bangkok, Thailand

Room rates are reasonable, considering what you save on taxis.

Triple 1,690
Superior
SGL./DBL. 1,690
Deluxe
SGL./DBL. 1,890
Triple 2,290
Suite
SGL./DBL. 2,390
Triple 2,790/3,290
Babycot

A Deluge Of Kathoeys

The mere mention of Bangkok's Nana Plaza at a New York dinner table peaked the interest of men and narrowed women's opinion of me. To the former I was a Don Juan and the latter regarded me as Gary Glitter come to life. To be honest I can't recall ever barfining a go-go girl out of the notorious three-story sex complex on Sukhumvit Road Soi across from the ever-popular Nana Hotel. I was more into Patpong in the 90s and by the 00s, Nana Plaza was too mercenary for my tastes. The other night the Old Roue and I finished dinner at La Monita, a trendy Mexican restaurant. A meal with Coronas for two came to 1200 baht or nearly $40 or the price of a bar fine in Nana Plaza. It was early and the Old Roue suggested that we retire to a ground-floor bar at the wicked entrepot. "We can watch the changing of the guard." I was glad to get out of La Monita. The clientele was too farangs for my taste. At heart I am a race traitor. The Old Roue snaked through the parking lots and hotel garages and sidewalks to Soi Nana on his motorcycle. His nine year here has etched the short-cuts of Bangkok into his brain like a sailor's tattoo. He parked next to a cart selling sum tam. The owner nodded to the Old Roue. They had a long-term relationship. We entered the complex with flecks on rain dotting the pavement. The central cars had been moved back from the portal to provide access for fire engines. Nana Plaza and fire trap are almost synonymous, but the stars have favored the patrons and workers of the go go bars. If a fire starts there, it will only because the property is more profitable than the sex trade and Nana Plaza might have a larger GDP than Belgium. The two of us sat at the first bar. We were the only farangs in sight. It was about 7. Post time at the go go bars was around 8. "This is better than TV." The Old Roue ordered us beer. The doors to the go go bars were open. The lights were full blast to allow the bar staff to stock beer, ice, and liquor. Mama-sans stood at the door awaiting their flocks. A few early arrivals wandered into the plaza and wai-ed the Buddha blessing their entrance. They laid flowers on the altar and proceeded to their respective place of employ. "I like the transition." Five minutes before the place had been empty. Nana was coming to life with hundreds of succubii seeking farangs. "Newcomers are the first to arrive." The Old Roue had regarded this ritual thousands of times. The spectacle never tired for him. He discreetly pointed to three older and dumpy farangs in shorts. "They've left mother at home for the first time in decades to have s sex vacation with their friends. I make them for social workers or garbage men." "I see them more as English railroad workers." The sweep-overs of these forty year-olds laid odds on my being right, except they passed us speaking an unknown foreign language. "Serbs." The Old Roue wrinkled his nose. "Momma's boys to the man." "Better this than becoming sex predators." "Little danger of that from these boys. Look at how they walk." The Old Roue was right. He was 65 and I was 60. The trio shuffled with apprehension. The two of us could have beaten any of them in a 25 yard dash. "Ah, the first beautiful girl of the night." "Wrong." Old Roue shook his head. "Check the way she's hurrying and fussing with her hair. That's a kathoey. Big hands too meaning big feet." "Meaning big shoes." I picked up my camera. The ladyboy would have stopped traffic on 5th Avenue for blocks. Her heels were five-inch spikes. The dress revealed a goddess body. Long curls serpented down a slim back. I recognized her from a ladyboy website. Her name was Areeya. "No photos. Not here." Old Roue admonished my absent-minded behavior. "I know, I know." Nana Plaza had rules. We observed the influx of wasted and aged farangs. Hope and despair mingled in their eyes. I ordered another beer. Girls showed up in clumps, but they were outnumbered by kathoeys. "Where are all the girls?" "It's a Tuesday night. Most of the best girls have been barfined for the week. They're sleeping with some old git, but they'll desert him on Thursday night. It gets busy then." The Old Roue was right and I started to count the ratio between females and ladyboys. It was about 50/50 and I mentioned the numbers to the Old Roue. "It's all the same thing in the end. Farangs come here to answer a dream. Ladyboy or go-go girl. It's a young body and makes them feel immortal at the gates of mortality." The two of us turned our backs on the show. A fat heavyweight was fighting a well-muscled boxer on TV. The butterball had to weigh over 350. His reach prevented any offense from his opponent. We made a 20 baht bet with the cute bartender. She lost and actually paid me. I gave it right back. 20 baht wasn't what it used to be, but she could buy a coconut with it. The stream of late-comers faltered and music blasted from the scores of bars lining the Nana Plaza. "You feel like a go go?" I said no. It was time to call it a night. Tuesday night. Maybe on Friday night it would be different. I am not scared of kathoeys.

Erotic Hot Dog Contest


Several years ago America lost the Little League World series to Taiwan, Japan, and the Dominican Republic. NBA All-Stars were second-rate in the World Championships, however the USA was shocked by Takeru Kobayashi beating scores of heavyweight Yanks at Coney Island’s fabled hot dog eating contest and the diminutive Asian clung to his title like Michael Jordan and the Bulls, culminating with his 2006 feat, 53 3/4 frankfurters in 12 minutes. Thankfully an equally thin Joey Chestnut of San Jose, California regained the title with a record downing of 59 1/2 hot dogs and the world. This year the competition is open to all-comers, but the other night in Pattaya my good friend, Jamie Parker declared that he was planning a hot dog competition to rival the Coney Island ritual.

"These skinny guys psyche out the fat boys.” Jamie Parker declared at The Tiger A Go Go above Walking Street. The go-go girls were serving hot dogs to his patrons, mostly mor-obs or morbidly obese retirees from the USA. They loved free food and Jamie had a solid connection for cheap hot dogs from Cambodia. “I saw the gook take his first title. All these fat guys were puking hot dogs, while Takeru calmly sucked down weiners. His stomach didn’t get any bigger and the audience had no idea where they were going.”

“Very impressive.” I had watch the same TV show and tried to imitate the Jap's style only managing three in a minute with the result that my stomach felt like three pigs were rooting for truffles. Cambodia isn't known for the quality of its meat. “We should hold a contest here.”

“Who in Pattaya wants to watch fat guys eat hot dogs?”

“Other fat guys.”

“There’s enough of them here.” Jamie was gaining back a little weight after his Ice episode with a go go dancer. He hadn't seen Ort in a long time. Neither of us mentioned her name. “No, better would be to hold an erotic hot dog eating contest. Remember how Kenny at Living Dolls had the girls fellate banana.”

“And how they carved them into penises with their teeth.” The British manager had revitalized showtime on Walking Street with his gift for the perverse.

“Sheer artistry.” Jamie also had a fine aesthetic for the erotic arts. “But I’ve always thought nothing was sexier than a girl eating a hot dog at a baseball game. Struggling to keep the relish and mustard from falling down her chest.”

“You do?” My extensive research into porno websites had never turned up this fetish.

“A lot of men do, but don’t realize it.”

“Really? I thought they were more burger fans.” Girls don’t like sloppy.

“Doesn’t matter what they are. We can host a combined erotic hot dog eating contest with a hot dog championship. We could pack the bar with guys and also video the event for sale on the Internet.”

“I don’t know.” The Internet was starved for content, but a hot dog eating sports channel seemed a little eclectic.

“We’ll hold it at 12 noon Eastern Standard Time for the stockbrokers getting ready for lunch. Once a week. Different girls and you can vote online.” Jamie was breathing fast.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, I just got a glimpse of the future.” He could see the money rolling into his PayPal account.

“And?”

“Better I leave it in my head, because the idea would become ruined by commercialism. All dreams are.” He settled down and drank his beer. “Maybe next year the world will be ready for it.”

And we will be waiting, because hot dogs are sexy.

With mustard.

Never trust a man who puts ketchup of his hot dog - James Steele.

Listen To Jessie


There are too many fat people in America. Our 330 million outweigh the 1.3 billion of China and throw in Mongolia to help balance the scale.

None of these obese Americans take responsibility for their fatness.

My sister-in-law claimed, “It’s in my genes.”

Her mother was skinny. I blame her plumpitude on what's in her refrigerator. Her daughter suffered from the same affliction. She has aspirations to appear on Broadway. Her voice belongs to an angel, however big girl roles are few and far between on the Great White Way.

Several years ago my father, who is at least a good seventy pounds overweight, admonished my niece at a Thanksgiving dinner, "You'll never get anywhere in theater as long as you're fat."

My brother rightfully demanded an apology.

My father refused to offer his 'sorry'.

"I was only telling the truth."

My father has Alzheimer's disease. His manner can be abusive. People don't like to hear the truth. My brother demanded that my father leave his house. His daughter was in tears. My father's car was trapped behind parked cars. He drove across the lawn in a fit of anger. I laughed when I heard the story from my sister. I had seen my father say the same thing in Yellowstone Park.

"It's not funny."

"I guess not." I love my niece,, but more truthfully the only way obese people can handle their disease is by following the words of the immortal Jesse Ventura. “Every fat person says it’s not their fault, that they have gland trouble. You know which gland? The saliva gland. They can’t push away from the table.”

The then Minnesota governor took a lot of heat for this statement, but never have truer words been spoken about obesity, although the real reason Americans are fat is because the food industry makes fucked-up food.

4000 brands of potato chips for a start.

Free the fat people.

Run Jesse Run

2012 for President.

Fat Is The New Thin

The contagion of obesity has struck over 35% of Americans and the FDA has taken drastic steps to help the obese reduce weight by approving Belviq by Arena Pharmaceutical, whose clinical tests show that patients can lose up to 5% of the body mass with the negative threat of tumors along with the side effects of depression, migraine and memory lapses without any real knowledge of the damage to the heart. 5% mean that 350 pound behemoth will shed about 16 pounds to a slimmer 334. Much ado about nothing. America has become fat for a number of reasons; greed for food to prove your worth, advertisement promoting eating shit, processed food from corporations, high-fructose corn syrup with growth hormones, cars instead of feet, TV, the suburbs, soda, chips, fast food, no exercise, video games, and lastly the infectious aspect of obesity. If we're thinner than the people surrounding us, then we think that we can eat what we want, because we'll never be as fat as them. Wrong, you fucking brain-dead zombie! Obesity is a disease caused by that kind of thinking. You are what you eat. Check out the food in the refrigerator. Read the labels, which isn't easy in Thailand. If the label contains high-fructose corn syrup chuck it in the bin. All processed foods are low in nutrients requiring massive amounts to sustain life. Toss them in the trash. Stop watching TV and surf the internet for porno. At least masturbation is exercise, you mashed potato fatso. Sorry, but seeing the FDA approve a drug to reduce weight by 5% is ridiculous. A beer belly doesn't get there in a day and it doesn't go away in one either. There is no miracle cure. Only the truth of 'you are what you eat'. Remember the first to go in the zombie apocalypse are the slow movers.

Burning Season

Baptists ministers are adept at preaching fire and brimstone. Colorado Springs residents are getting a taste of Hell on Earth at an enormous fire burns out of control along Route 24. Police have evacuated the city and the governor has admitted that the city is at the mercy of the nature. "There is nothing firefighters could do when you get this kind of weather." Gov John Hickenlooper said at a press conference. "The bottom line is we're just going to have to work through this — all of us. We just flew over the fires. ... It was like looking at a military invasion." The heat and wind are stretching the limits of firefighters' endurance. Homes are torched by flash floods of flames. "This is a firestorm of epic proportions," said Colorado Springs Fire Chief Richard Brown to the Denver Post, which has reported another blaze near Boulder. And late-June is the start of the fire season with hundreds of hottest temperature records falling daily across the nation. July could be a monster month for hot. Kansas smolders in the 100s. Rain is a distant memory. Bible Belters are on their knees praying for a break from the heat wave, as corn crops withered under the relentless sun. This will get worst before it gets any better, but at least James Inhofe of Oklahoma won't try and refute global warming with his state hot enough to cook back on a sun-heated frying pan. The temperature this morning in Sri Racha Thailand is a cool 81. This afternoon will be in the 90s. Better here than Witchita.

Paving Over Paradise

My first visit to Bangkok was in 1990. I stayed at the Malaysia Hotel on Soi Duplei, once the 60s haunt of the infamous backpacker murderer Charles Sobhraj. The trees were bordered by sylvan compounds and I played basketball at the military school next to the Lumpini Muay-Thai stadium. Patpong was a twenty-minute walk through small sois. The city retained the charm of its past, although nothing like the Bangkok of the 1950s.

Prominent farangs and Thais drove a 1958 Ford Fairlane. Opposing traffic raffic was the occasional tuk-tuk and trolley. The Hotel Royalle had an unobstructed view of the river. A beer on the veranda was 10 baht. The waitress wai-ed with a smile. Most people traveled by the klong ferries. Kids swam off the docks and the water was drinkable. Klong Toey was the after-night destination for Thais and ex-pats. The infamous Mosquito Bar featuring dim-lighting  First and foremost among the Klong Toey bars was the notorious 2nd floor Mosquito Bar on Kasemrat Road. According to old-timeers this dive's seedy decor was camouflaged by a stygian darkness dispelled by the occasional flicker of a match. The gloom suited the female dok-thongs, since their age in the dim illumination was indecipherable to the drunken patrons. The beers were reputably cold and no one ever got killed in the frequent chair-throwing fights. Equally disreputable was The Venus Bar, which the late David Musserie claimed was Thailand's seminal go-go bar serviced by Klong Toey slum girls. When asked about bar fines, he laughed with his ample belly jiggling like Jello under electro-shock. "I think it was 10 baht. The Venus was paradise, because it was only for locals. We knew each other. Sort of CHEERS for the wicked and the little angels, until they got mad and then it was every man for himself running for the door."
Hundreds of bars are packed in Nana. I can't say I like drinking in any of them.

If only I had a way-back machine.

Wouldn't it be nice?

For further information on these bars please go the following URL http://snesejler.dk/bill77.htm

The Power of Pussy

The band BONGWATER recorded a great song THE POWER OF PUSSY in 1990. I couldn't find the lyrics online, but I bow to the beauty of a woman's honeypot. I never feel less like a man than when I'm within a woman to paraphrase a line from Wim Wender's KINGS OF THE ROAD. I worship women even more than beer, but I was surprised to hear that women in the UK are cosmetically altering their vagina to achieve a trim labia look.

The $5000 female circumcision of what some women consider excess flesh or beef hangers in the parlance of British lager louts. The labioplasty is also combined with a permanent defoliage of the pubic hair as a look of a Lolita for women of all ages. As many as two-thousand operations were performed last year. Numbers of patients in the USA are unknown.

Some UK doctors promoted the operation thusly;

"Essentially this is just about removing a bit of loose flesh, leaving behind an elegant-looking labia with minimum scarring. The procedure won't interfere with sexual function. These women desire a labioplasty for a number of reasons - some find it uncomfortable to ride a bike for instance, but for the majority it is aesthetic, that's true. Lads' mags are looked at by girlfriends, and make them think more about the way they look. We live in times where we are much more open about our bodies - and changing them - and labioplasty is simply a part of this."

I can only shake my head.

I had no choice about my own infantile circumcision. I miss my foreskin. And I love the natural look on a woman.

Groovy Thailand

The world was a groovy place before the Vietnam War. Thailand was cool. To see how cool go to this URL for 2bangkok.com http://2bangkok.com/2bangkok-1969-1969bangkoktraveller.html Or Check out Kwuan Tai Duew Luk Phen YOU SHOULD DIE BY BULLETS from Thailand on youtubes http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&feature=endscreen&v=bISD9hQQ4Wg or Louis Kennedy - Poo Yai Lee on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofrbj6bwTZs&feature=relmfu

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Unschlocking the Schlong

German courts have banned circumcision of older boys on the grounds that the traditional cutting off of the male foreskin causes the child bodily harm. In babies the healing process takes up to 10 days, but for older boys the scar will remain for months. Jews and Muslims angrily protested such a judgment as an attack on religious freedom. I was circumcised at birth. My parents were told that the procedure was painless and my penis would be cleaner than someone with a foreskin. I had no choice in this matter. The doctor sliced off my foreskin and that was that. As a boy we heard the following joke. A surgeon retires from his long career as a specialistin circumcision. Throughtout his career he has saved hundreds of foreskins as mementos and now wishes to turn them into a souvenir. He takes his specimens to a leathersmith and asks him to make something out of them. A week later the surgeon returns and the leathersmith presents him with a wallet. "All those foreskins and you only made me a wallet?" exclaims the surgeon. The leathersmith replies, "Yes, but if you stroke it, it becomes a briefcase." None of us who were circumcised found any humor in the joke, because circumcision takes away more than a snip of skin. The total area of skin removed from the penis is about the size of a 3" X 5" index card and with this loss of elasticity the skin becomes taut thereby shortening the penis by a 1/2 inch. Not much doctors say to guarantee cleanliness, except in coitus the phantom nerves of my absent foreskin ask me, "Why?" The origins of circumcision lay in ancient times. Some scholars of antiquity consider it a rite of passage or religious sacrifice pointing to Egyptian hieroglyphics, although the man in the image looks more like he is being punished for a crime, since his hands are restrained by another man. In the Victorian era English doctors prescribed the the theory that circumcision would prevent masturbation in young boys. I have disproved that hypothesis thousands of times as a boy and a man without the pleasure of that extra length or sensitive flesh. My foreskin is gone. The operation was performed at Boston Lying-In for Women. It did not accompany me home. I doubt it was buried with respect. In fact it might have been used for cosmetics. Years ago at the Bangkok-Pattaya hospital I looked into the possibility of a foreskin reconstruction. The Thai doctors shook their heads. They were good at transforming men into women or re-attached penis cut off my angry wives, however there was no procedure for replacing my foreskin. There is no unschlocking the schlong. And that is the final cut.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Joyous Lake 1975


The Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music on Max Yasgur's 600-acre dairy farm near the hamlet of White Lake in the town of Bethel, New York has impacted American music culture for over forty years. Richie Havens opened the festival and Jimi Hendrix closed the concert with a fiery set of psychedelic finesse. A half million freaks, heads, and hippies attended the outdoor show. Millions more have said that they were in spirit. I was one of them, for that August weekend I was stuck washing dishes and walloping pots in the kitchen of the Tara Hotel in Braintree, Mass. 17 years old and trapped in a meaningless job listening to the newscast over a radio. I thought that I must have done something horribly bad in a previous lifetime to have been punished so severely in the present.

Few of us knew that the summer of love was history. Teens grew their hair longer. We smoked more pot. I dropped LSD. The anti-war movement expanded into the middle-class. Woodstock was our two-syllable nirvana. Everyone wanted a piece.

In the Spring of 1975 AK was studying keyboards at Berkeley School of Music and I was teaching school at South Boston. He received a phone call from Rockford. We had met the previous summer north of San Diego. The three of us had shared an acid trip on Moonlight Beach. The Pacific roared with motorcycle waves and a seal had spoken to us in a trance. There was a girl with blonde hair. She had big breasts. It was a nude beach. None of us wore a thing. After we came down Alan announced that he was heading north to San Francisco. I would have joined him, if AK hadn't talked me into returning to Boston.

"We have no money."

Rockford had hit the road with $10, the blonde, and a guitar.

He stayed a year.

During the phone conversation Rockford explained that the Haight was overrun by junkies, speed freaks, and scammers.

"A very uncool place, but Nona said that Woodstock was cool."

He invited us for a visit.

The next weekend AK and I drove west from Boston in his Firebird. 4 hours to Woodstock. Rockford's house was a renovated chicken coop by Tannery Brook. Nona was exotic with long black hair and a Balinese legong dancer's body. She spoke with a New Jersey accent. A nasal grate forgiven by her beauty. We smoked hash and then walked down the wooded side street to the Joyous Lake. Joe Cocker was playing at the small bar crowded with hippie die-hards and free spirited women.

Cocker had just emerged from a de-tox clinic. His friends refused him the right to drink, while guzzling beer. The Sheffield singer's voice retained its gritty tone and the audience hit the dance floor. I met a full-breasted brunette from the town. Her dress revealed her tits down the the nipples.

"You want to come to my place?" She ground hips against my cock.

"Love to." Hippie girl, pot, sex. It might be six years after Woodstock, but this was my Aquarius moment. The Summer of Love might be over, but the Season of Lust was in full swing winter, spring, summer, and fall.

I had sex with Dora three times that night.

"You gotta go." She shook me awake.

Her body was a little bigger than I remembered. And she was a little older. I didn't care. I wanted more.

"Why?" I was ready to move into her small apartment overlooking Main Street.

"Because my old man is coming back tonight." She threw my jeans and tee-shirt on the bed. "He's a biker."

"I'm going." Bikers were trouble and angry bikers even more trouble. I dressed like as fast as Clark Kent turning into Superman. Ten minutes later I was back at Rockford's place. AK and he were playing African thumb piano. Nona was swaying to the rhythmic plinking. They laughed at my story. I didn't think that it was that funny and later I saw Dora on the back of a Harley.

Her old man was a tattooed bear.

I visited Woodstock a couple more times over that summer.

AK and I dropped acid in July. We rocked out in the chicken shack. I played kazoo, Rockford strummed his guitar, and AK plunked out notes on his kalimba. Nona our muse was the dancing tambourine girl.

We wanted her, as did every man in Woodstock. Nona was Rockford's for the moment. AK and I hated him for that possession. Neither of us were proud of that envy.

That autumn Rockford and Nona moved back to the coast. Neither AK nor I returned to Woodstock in the following years. I ran into Nona in Bali in 1993. Rockford lives in Iowa. I saw him in 2009. . AK teaches school in Jupiter Beach, Fla. We see each other at least once a year.

This past Labor Weekend I passed through Woodstock on the way to the deep Catskills. The Joyous Lake was now the Not Fade Away. The hippies were in their 60s. I walked over to Dora's old apartment and knocked on the door. No one answered and I went downstairs to the Garden Cafe.

"Does a Dora live upstairs."

"No." The long-hair teenager answered while smearing butter on a bagel. It was morning. "But a lot of guys ask the same question. She must have been something."

"She was."

And so were the rest of us from that Woodstock generation, for the Age of Aquarius keeps on shining with the Earth pointing at that constellation for the next 2000 years.

Rock on, Dora.

The name means golden and my memory of that night glows like treasure.

Valley Of Pot


August 1972 was five years past San Francisco's Summer of Love. A college friend from Crane's Beach and I had hitchhiked from Boston to the West Coast in 45 hours. A mutual girlfriend, Marilyn, was hostessing topless at a Barbary Coast strip club. 3 months' tips paid a year's tuition.

After a few hugs and kisses, the 19 year-old nursing student gave us the address of a crash pad. She had little time for us. Her boyfriend was a biker, the VP of the Skulls. It was obvious that Marilyn wasn't fucking either of us this trip and the biker warned us to fuck off. Rico was actually nice about it. Marilyn said that she would see us in September.

Peter and I aimlessly wandered around the city; the defunct Haight-Ashbury, idyllic Golden Gate Park, and the fleshpots of the Barbary Coast. The hippies had been replaced by junkies and queers. Peter was a botany major and wanted to see the redwoods. I called Marilyn to say 'goodbye'. The biker answered and said, "Like she said see you in September, but if you see me, it will be in hell."

"Not me, but I'll be fucking Marilyn in September. Fuck you."

It was a brave challenge over a phone, but I didn't feel safe until a pick-up gave us a ride across the Golden gate Bridge over to Sausalito. We traveled up Route 101 through the wine counties to the redwood forest. We slept surrounded by arboreal giants more ancient than Rome. The next day we reached Arcata in the early morning. A hippie coming south warned us against hitchhiking further north on 101.

"Rednecks and no rides. Could take you a week to reach Oregon."

His adverse advice was accompanied by the paranoia aftermath of the shared joint. Peter and I headed inland through the Trinity Alps. 299 wound through steep-sloped valleys fortresses by wilderness evergreens. Willow Creek to Burnt Ranch to Big Bar to Junction City and finally Weaverville.

The town was miles from anywhere. An unspoken prosperity had enlivened the previously moribund Gold Rush town. The cars were new and the diners filled with hungry customers, mostly long-haired men in buckskins and tea shades. The waitress was a moonchild. Her smile promised a good time.

"Pot growers." Peter whispered with admiration. We had financed this trip by the sale of two pounds of Jamaica Red. The town smelled of weed.

"This is the ideal place to grow pot." He looked at the steep hills surrounding the town.

Several heads turned our direction.

The townies were used to being discreet. I shrugged an apology. Outside of the street Peter and I discussed pooling our money to set up a marijuana plantation. $500 could grow into $1000. Next year maybe $100,000. I almost walked back inside the diner to ask the dealers for a job, but a roar of motorcycles shattered the town's serenity.

A pack of Harleys rolled up to the diner. The hippie bon vivants greeted the leathered bikers as long-lost brothers. They looked like heavier versions of Rico. Only five years ago the Hell's Angels had killed off the Age of Aquarius with the murder at Altamont Speedway during the Rolling Stones' SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL. Weed growers and bikers glared at Peter and me with hostility.

I lifted my hand to indicate that we were leaving.

No one bothered to watch us go.

Peter and I tried out hands at dealing back in Boston. I was no good at it. Peter paid for his tuition and the following summer went out to San Francisco with Marilyn to work as a bartender in the strip club. Neither of them returned to college in the fall. I heard about them from other friends. They were living north of the Bay Area.

His one year of botany made him the Einstein of the marijuana growers. Several of his future strains were mentioned in HIGH TIMES magazine.

And I couldn't have been prouder.

At least one of us had gotten to live the dream.

Microsoft Team 1978

There were still hippies in 1978. Find Bill Gates. Clue; He's wearing glasses. The kicker on this photo is WOULD YOU HAVE INVESTED IN THIS COMPANY IN 1978 If you had, you are richer than Croesus.

Where Have All The Flower Children Gone?

I was last in San Francisco in 1974. I stopped there en route to Bangkok. My cousin lived in a Nob Hill Mansion, which was light years away from the crash pad at which I had slept back then. Ty drove me around the Haight and Golden Gate park. I felt like Hippie Van Winkle. Where did all the flower children go? Up into the country.

The Undead Of Maine

Emergency officials in Maine have taken part in a training exercise in preparation for a zombie apocalypse. This comes just weeks after the federal government publicly denied the existence of zombies. Last weekend the City of Bangor, Maine staged a zombie outbreak for the benefit of EMS and police. Homeland Security officials insisted that the fake emergency required the same treatment as a normal virus infection or toxic spill, but adding zombies to the drill interested people who normally wouldn't have been interested in the event. ie wannabe zombies. The US Center for Disease Control has refuted any and all claims about the existence of the undead, then again 78% of Americans believe in a man-god in a toga. Zombies or God. I don't believe in either, but if zombies do exist then I hope that they are the slow-moving zombies. I'm in no shape to outrun the fast undead like those in RESIDENT EVIL.

London National Health In The ER

The BBC has reported that a London NHS hospital trust has been warned by the Tory Health Minister about bankruptcy over some $100 million in debts, which had been incurred by a private finance initiative. The interest on the debt has risen quickly with delinquency and the right wing of the government is pushing hard for a settlement of the money owed to the banks. Of course the banks received over 500 billion pounds sterling in 2008 to bail them out. And they do nothing but steal money from the taxpayers and the NHS. And make people want to be rich like them. First they come for your health care.

Abject Poverty

The Industrial revolution bestowed great wealth on capitalists in the United Kingdom, but the accumulation of wealth resulted in up to one third of the British labor force living in abject poverty. Enfranchised voters reacted to this gulf between rich and poor by voting in large numbers for the Labor Party in 1906 and the Liberal Party laid out numerous welfare reforms to counterbalance the growing political unrest that threatened the British ruling class with the possibility of a communist uprising. Health care, education, retirement benefits, housing benefits, and labor laws stemmed the tide of the Left and in 1945 the Labor Party promised the British people the benefits of a benign cradle to grave existence. Almost seventy years later the system has come under attack by the present austerity policies of the Tory Party and PM David Cameron has vigorously assailed various entitlements sacred to the working classes such middle-class, family pay-outs, rises in university fees, military budgets, and most recently the withdrawal of housing payments to under-25s. According to the BBC the Prime Minister has argued that the present system promotes a "something for nothing" culture of entitlement to regain support from the more extreme members of his party, who have become disenchanted with the PM's plea for Compassionate Conservatism. One wit once wrote that the difference between a conservative and a progressive was that if a man is drowning twenty feet from shore that a progressive with throw out thirty feet of line and walk away, while a conservative will toss out ten feet and tell the drowning man to swim the other ten feet. Tony Blair's Labor Party would have publicized the thirty feet of line without actually helping the drowning man and David Cameron's more radical followers would be in favor of turning their back on the drowning hand figuring that he had gotten himself into that problem and he should know how to get out of it. Mind you none of them feel that way about the failing banks whose zombie economics ruined the monetary system with overwhelming debts ladened on the back of the taxpayers. Welfare in some cases is a good thing. Hundreds of billions were given to the City. The Tory's George Osbourne has figured that the government can save two billion sterling by scrapping the housing benefits to nearly five million under-25s. While I agree that doling out money rarely leads to the betterment of people's lives. Curtailing essentials is simply cruel. All for the benefit of not so much the rich as the banks' casino crack habit. Jobs for the young would solve much of the problem, but the Financial Times has accused the press of fabricating the crisis by tweaking the numbers by including university students as unemployed to radicalize the situation, however I've met many graduates from top level schools who have discovered the only jobs awaiting them are either low-paid service placements or non-paying internships which smacks of slavery ie working for nothing, although slaves were at least fed by their masters. Numbers can lie. The media can lie even better with numbers as seen by the callous consideration of the Financial Times. The Mirror blamed youth unemployment on spending cuts and austerity, but I fault the banks and their unwillingness to spend the wealth cloud which has been accumulated over the last three decades. Unfortunately the youth of today has been placated by Facebook, video games, and dreams of instant riches from a TV show foisting mediocre talents of a world sadly missing the Rolling Stones, Sex Pistols, or KLF, the dance band who burned a million pounds as a comment against commercialism. Regrets they have a few, but the young of now will have more as the Tories seek a new way of looking at things and that view is called abject poverty.

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Pattaya Manifesto

Pattaya has metamorphorsized from a neglected backwater to a premier destination for lager louts around the world. The green coconut farms have been replaced by sardine-can condos, traffic jams on 2nd Road, and the bars are filled with assholes. There were always assholes here, but not in these numbers

Nowadays I hang out with Thais drinking bee or drink where I'm the only asshole at the bar.

Sam Royalle thinks the city has worsened and has proposed a manifesto to rectify the situation.

Firstly UK government should stop issuing passports to UK citizens to they can't travel anywhere. Other Euro nations should follow suit.

Secondly a world wide ban on travel would be good for the environment. Everyone stays in the country they are in as from today perfect answer to the world's problems. Only travel allowed is on wooden ships.

Most farangs would have to leave Thailand. Sam figures that he could run a lao khao or rice whiskey factory. In absence of other farangs Pattaya city council would enforce certain rules.

Paying a bar fine becomes illegal, all bar girls get a minimum government wage of 20k a month as long as they sleep with us. Beer is free. All pussies must be shaved, virgins must be initiated by a farang, all girls over 25 must be 3 holers, complaining is a capital offence, toilet paper and bum sprays are banned instead we each have our own arse licker / cleaner that lives in the bathroom.

I mentioned to him that this seemed a little misognistic.

"I don't know what that word means, but it's banned from my vision of Babylon on Earth."

He looked at me with an evangelical beam in his eyes.

Babylon on Earth.

One man's vision.

So far away from reality, but only a gas crisis away in the future.

The Word Is Choke

I'm a Red Sox fan. Back in the 20th Century we lost in the 7th Game of the World Series to The Cardinals in 1949, the Cardinals again in 1967, the Reds in 1975 and the Mets in 1986. The Yankees denied us glory on numerous occasions, although none worse than Bucky Dent's homer off Mike Torrez in the 1978 playoffs. We have won two World Series in this century, but that long tradition of losing the big game has been etched into my marrow, so that I can commiserate with England fans. Last night England lost on penalty kicks to Italy. I knew as soon as Ashley Young approached the mark that he was going to blast the ball. It soared off his foot and hit the bleeding cross bar. The I-ties scored on their next attempt and their goalie blocked an easy shot by the next kicker. Game over. Hearts broken across England, which hasn't won a big international match since its World Cup victory in 1966. Forty-six years of losing. I know how it feels, but at least the Red Sox Nation could blame its losing streak on the Babe Ruth curse. The English can only fault its team and the name of the curse is THE CHOKE or Bill Buckner. That was the biggest choke in Red Sox history, then again the English don't give a shit about baseball and no one in the Red Sox Nation cares if the Brits lose for another forty-six years. Not one.

Gay Pride Day

Yesterday millions of Americans celebrated Gay Pride Day across the country. New York City was the epicenter of the festivities, but the police presence on the streets reminded gays and lesbians and people of color that freedom can be given and freedom can be taken away. "No amount of disco music, nor number of scantily clad boys can render the juxtaposition of this completely commercialized Pride event within the corralling barricades of a police state "gay." Jorge Socarres posted on Facebook and further excoriated the NYPD by writing, "NYC cops are so stupid - their barricades are creating dangerous bottleneck situations around huge, wide open closed off spaces - for no practical except control. Madrid takes in 2 million people for Pride, and nowhere do you see a barricade - the city becomes one great, unbroken celebration. Leave it to people who've survived fascism to know how to stay free." The Gay Pride Parade has always been a spectacular out event, but the holiday commemorates the Stonewall Riots of 1969 during which the gay clientele of a Mafia bar resisted a police raid on a Christopher Street dance club in the early hours of June 28. Four undercover officers shouted, "Police! We're taking the place!" There were about 200 men in the bar. They obeyed the cops for a half-hour before realizing that they had numbers on their side. A handcuffed bull dyke fought four cops singlehandedly, as they forced her into the paddy wagon. All hell broke loose in the next minutes with police cars getting their tires slashed and officers retreating under the hail of hurled bricks and coins. The drag queens fought the hardest. They had old scores to settle with the men in blue. Gays chased the cops for blocks. The streets were theirs. Gay power came alive those nights and nothing the police, the church, the government, the right, the bible-belters, and all those against gays, lesbians, and drag queens have failed to put the Genie back in the bottle, although that doesn't keep them from trying. Gay Power. Now more than ever. Enjoy, but never forget.

The Bite of Barking Dogs


Thai dogs like to bark. They bark all night and no one says a word. The little chow across the street once yapped for 17 hours non-stop, until its voice gave out like a raspy 50 year-old Gitane smoker.

Thai dog’ favorite targets are those unfortunate rubbish divers eking out a living in search of recyclable bottles, paper, and treasure. Mop and Demo on my soi don’t give these green warriors a minute’s rest and Yai, their owner, says, “They not like kam-moi.”

She had trained the two dogs to regard strangers as thieves and most other Thais are equally adept at training their dogs to bark at most anything and second after thieves has to be bicycles.

And no one can tell me why the chase bikes, not cars, rarely motorcycles, but the bikers bring out the shark in canines around the world.

Snapping at my heels, snarling with menace, the dogs really enjoy themselves with their owners saying, “Don’t worry, they don’t bite.” or “Mai huang, ma mai gatt.”

Easy for them to say. “Dog only bark.”

Research revealed that dogs typically chase cars due to a varied reasons.

1.) Territory

This I understand from Mop and Demo, but not from street dogs, unless they consider every place their territory.

2) Curiosity

Arf arf I wonder if i can get this stupid farang to fall off his bike.

3) Fun

Bicyclists are easier to chase than motorcycles. Arf arf arf. Maybe we can get him to fall off his bike.

4) Hunting.

Practice for when civilization collapses and dogs rule the world again.

5.) Mean.

Some dogs are like their owners. Mean. They both scare me.

6) Training

Go fetch the bicyclist.

7.) Pack mentality

Big dog is doing it. Small dog want to do too.

9.) Revenge

I wasn’t the one that kicked you.

So some dogs chase you barking. Not biting. Others run inside the gate. Nah nah na na nah. Cowards trail at a distance. Someone has kicked them good for chasing a bike and they’ve almost learned their lesson. Circlers will drive you crazy as will those jumping out of the bushes.

“Where the hell Cujo come from?”

My defense tactic revolves around lifting my legs or else gutturally snapping out, ”Hah.”

This guttural shout catches them off guard for a second, which is more than enough time to speed away faster.

My Thai neighbor thinks this is funny.

“No dog bark at me. Maybe Thai dog not like farang.”

She’s joking, but only a little.

Remember Thai Rak Thai.

Even dogs.

Jaws Ha-Ha

Aawut and friends were fishing in the middle of deep sea.

After a long day of fishing, Aawut felt like going to swim, so he took off his clothes and get himself ready to dive in the sea. But as he jumped off the boat, he noticed a large shark swimming nearby. With hesitation, Aawut asked the shark, "hey...do you shark eat people?"

"Ah..no," the shark replied, "I'm a strict vegeterian."

Hearing what the shark said, Aawut felt relieved, so he jumped into the sea.

"But..how can you shark talk in human tongue?," Aawut suddenly asked the shark as he wondered about the fact in his mind.

"Yeah," the shark replied "I am just wondering about the same thing, what kind of tofu talks?"