Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Three Cowboy Jokes

# 1

How do you know when you get to Oklahoma? You smell cow shit.

How do you know when you get to Texas? You step in the cow shit.

# 2

An old cowboy sat down at the bar and ordered a drink. As he sat sipping his drink, a young woman sat down next to him. She turned to the cowboy and asked, "Are you a real cowboy?"

He replied, "Well, I've spent my whole life, breaking colts, working cows, going to rodeos, fixing fences, pulling calves, bailing hay, doctoring calves, cleaning my barn, fixing flats, working on tractors, and feeding my dogs, so I guess I am a cowboy."

She said, "I'm a lesbian. I spend my whole day thinking about women. As soon as I get up in the morning, I think about women. When I shower, I think about women. When I watch TV, I think about women. I even think about women when I eat. It seems that everything makes me think of women."

The two sat sipping in silence.

A little while later, a man sat down on the other side of the old cowboy and asked, "Are you a real cowboy?"

He replied, "I always thought I was, but I just found out I'm a lesbian."

# 3

An Arab, and American Indian, and a cowboy are sitting around a fire in the far West. The American Indian throws on a log and says, "Once we were many, now we are few."

"Once we were few and now we are many," The Arab boasts before throwing a log on the fire.

"That's only because you haven't played Cowboys and Arabs." The cowboy takes our his peacemaker and throws a log on the fire.

Slingshot Dragster 1954

The other day an old nightclub owner was denigrating the influence of Islamic thought on civilization.

"They really created nothing."

"What you mean nothing?" I didn't mention that algebra succinctly meant 'reunion of broken parts' in Arabic.

"No rockets, no telephones, no TVs."

"That's all crap."


John and I liked to argue.

"Yes, plus everything man has invented is adapted from nature."

"Nature?" John was keen to avoid a discussion about global warming.

"Yes, nature." And I was trying to stay on subject.

"The car?" John had driven a DeLorean during his Danceteria years and rightly considered the automobile as the height of Western Civilization.

"I remember your cars. They were fast."

"Pure American ingenuity." John thought girls came with hot cars. He was right, but so was I.

"The internal combustion engine is derived from fire and the natural circle provided the wheel, but I have to admit the first dragsters were a sight to behold."

"And a shock to your ears."

"A volcano is louder."

"If you're standing on one."

John had his beliefs and I had mine.

"Hot rods were the epitome of loud."

"Especially Mickey Thompson's first slingshot dragster."

John knew his cars.

"You're right about that."

Mickey Thompson had broken the 400 mph speed limit at the Bonneville Salt Flats.

He understood that all hot rods shared the same problem of producing enough traction on the rear wheels.

Mickey moved the seat behind the back axle and widened the tires.

At the time a Santa Anna hot rodder Leroy Neumeyer said to Mickey, “You know what that beast reminds me of, Mick? A slingshot. You know, the way the driver sits back there like a rock in a slingshot.”

At the inaugural 1954 NHRA Nationals Mickey Thompson and Calvin Rice met in a head-to-head slingshot dragster final.

I couldn't find any online mention of that result, but I'm sure John and I will argue about it one day. He is a master of getting the last word and I'm a good enough listener to drink the last beer.


To see the film of Mickey Thompson breaking the 400 mph speed record at Bonneville, please go to the following URL

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Soviet Hot Rods

The USSR was criticized by the West for their failure to provide consumer comforts. The grocery stores were devoid of potato chips. The TVs were Black and White. Fashion was puritanical, but Detroit reserved a special disdain for Soviet cars and with good reason.

All they spoke about was the Lada.

The # 1 selling car during the 1970s with a 1.5L VAZ-2103 I4 engine from a Fiat design.

They sold by the millions, however the factories could never keep up with demand and I always joked that the USSR never had hot rods.

I knew nothing.

Nothing about the Volga V12 Coupe.

Or the Pobeda-Sport.

The Gaz-Torpedo.

The Babich Leningrad

The 1934 GAZ A-Aero.

And so many others.

Gone forever into rust.

As Neil Young sang, "Rust never sleeps."

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Hope and Anchor Hotel/Bar - Phnom Penh

After a week's stay in Sihanoukville Nick and I were ready to take a bus to Phnom Penh. Both of us a had enough of the sea, san, and sun. Upon hearing of our departure Roland from the Angkor Arms wrote down the address of a salubrious (good-drinking) hotel in Phnom Penh.

We drank ourselves into oblivion, but made the 9am bus.

We slept all the way to the Cambodian capitol.

Three hours later we deboarded at the bus terminal near the city's central market, I searched my pockets. The scrap of paper was gone. I had probably used it as a toothpick and Nick laughed, "You can't hold onto anything."

"Do you remember the name?"

My mind was a blank after last night's 27 vodka-tonics.

Nearly 50 tuk-tuk drivers crowded around us echoing, "Where you go? Where you go?"

"No idea, thanks to genius." Nick lit up a cigarette. "Let's stay the same place as last year. You remember the name?"

"Who can take us to Mike's?" The name dropped from an old branch of the brain stem.

"Not Mike's anymore?" The youngest driver pushed his way to us. "Now Hope and Anchor."

"There's a Hope and Anchor in Islington." Nick loved pubs. He also loved bars. I shared the same affinity for a wooden counter with a cold glass in my hand.

"Hope and Anchor.

I nodded to the driver and we scrummed through the rejectees, who muttered Cambodian curses. Business was slow this time of year.

"You come to Phnom Penh before?" The tuk-tuk gracefully weaved around the market's stupa structure.

"Many times." Nick and I had avoided last year's Songkran here.

Sophie's, Martini's, Sharkey's plus an assortment of smaller establishments dedicated to the pursuit of in vino veritas.

In wine truth from Latin.

"Now many girls go home for new year." He veered onto 51 street. The public sanitation squad were still recovering from the Khmer Rouge purges and garbage lay uncollected on every corner. Vagrant families camped before vacant buildings. The pace was 100 times slower than Pattaya.

"What about Sophie's?" This bar was rated #1 sleaziest bar in the world by anyone who had been to the short-time lounge.

"Closed for the holiday." We were nearing the river.

"Closed?" Nick and I chorused in unison.

"Governor say close for religion."

"Damn." That closure blew out our first destination.

"But many other bars open. I drive you later."

"No, we're going to rent motorbikes, so after the hotel you can take us to Lucky's Bike." I was acting as tour leader, since my memory was better than Nick's battered brain cells. Not all the time, he was really strong on 80s pop hits and 70s punk classics.

The driver stopped on Quai Sisowith before a renovated colonial building.

The Hope and Anchor.

Nothing had changed since a year ago other than the bar staff.

We took two rooms. I got the better one and Nick complained, "Why you always get first choice?"

"Because you always tell me it's up to me."

25 Bucks for AC and Cable TV plus a good bed.

Beers 28 baht for drafts and 34 baht for a can of Angkor. Vodka-tonics 34 baht too. Phnom Penh is a drunk's paradise and the Hope and Anchor was a good harbor offering a storm of libations. Food was not bad either. Nick and I swear by the creamed spinach.

"Makes you regular in the morning."

The attractive girls behind the desk are most helpful in arranging travel plans and the boss, Peter, was a good man to drink with as the night nears the dawn.

But I'm not sure if it is still there.

The website is gone.

Same as Nick and I.

Wish we were back there. Ten years ago.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

In Vino Veritas or In Magna Vino Oblivio

From 1847 to her death in 1901 Queen Victoria had ruled the British Empire from Osbourne House on the Isle of Wight. Prince Albert, her consort, had designed the royal residence with the aid of Thomas Cubitt, the London architect. Once finished the Italian Renaissance palazzo on the Solent Osbourne House served as a refuge from London court life, where the family celebrated holidays and birthdays for decades.

Back in the summer of 1985 I traveled from Paris to holiday at a rundown hotel on the grounds of Osbourne House. The rooms were full and I shared a cottage with Vonelli, a CIA agent, whose cover was that he was an European art dealer.

No one believed the native Floridian, but the hotel was a special place and attracted special people. One of them was a Danish sailor married to a Saudi princess.

That spring Kurt’s Harley Street doctor's had advised the elimination of vodka from his diet and the bearded sea captain decided to take the cure on the Isle of Wight, which was the sunniest isle of Britain, while his Countessa 31 was being overhauled at the Cowes shipyard after which he planned to sail to France.

"If I can't be on the sea, then I'll drink like a man in port," slurred Kurt with wine-glazed eyes at lazy lunch on the patio.

“You know when your doctor said to stop drinking. He meant everything," suggested Vonelli.

“No, he said a little wine was okay.”

His wife shrugged and Kurt quaffed his wine.

“Plus I only drink from dawn to dusk," laughed Kurt picking up a knife. Fatima took it out of his hands and he added, "The hotel staff have been instructed to only serve me rose wine. Never the hard stuff."

“Good thing he didn’t pick the dead of winter for this regime,” Vonelli muttered, because summer days were very long this far north of the equator and the calendar was nearing the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. Vonelli was joking, because we were both drinkers.

Just not in the same league as the Viking, who never offered us a sip.

The rose was his.

And his alone.

Every day the broad-bellied sailor sat on the porch in the same kaftan like a beserker back from a raid on Byzantium.

After six bottles Kurt liked to throw knives.

His lovely Saudi wife couldn't be around all the time, but he treated her with kindness like a Norseman enslaved by a princess who had abandoned her kingdom. I admired her devotion and tried to imagine Kurt before he had surrendered his soul to drink.

"He had been one of the best-looking men in London during the 60s and great fun," recounted Vonelli.

"That was twenty years ago."

"And the last ten have been hard."

"Very hard and Fatima has stood by him every step of the way."

"Sounds like Hell."

"She gave up a lot and so did he. Kurt had been one of the best oil tanker captains. He married her and was blackballed from shipping by the Saudis."

"Like he was shipwrecked."

"She was outcast. The Saudi royals don't like their kind mixing with others, so he's lucky he wasn't murdered and so was she. "

"Lucky in love." I was jealous of their sacrifice.

Not for long.

It was a warm summer for England.

After a week his outfit smelled like an animal was trapped underneath his kaftan and we avoided Kurt throughout the lengthening days.

On the morning of the solstice I descended to the dining room for breakfast. The sun was breaking through the trees. Bird songs greeted the early dawn. The sea captain sat with his lovely Saudi Princess wife. Her words were whispers and when Fatima stopped talking he sent her away with a tender kiss.

Once she was out of the room Kurt waved me over to his table.

Five bottles were empty at his feet.

"Celebrating the summer solstice."

"No, my boat has been put into the water. It's stocked for the rest of the summer." He signaled the waitress for another glass. "Have a drink with me."

"Thanks." It was early, but it had been day for a long time and I sat down to toast his departure.

"My wife will be happy to go. She doesn't really like the sea, but I don't drink as captain. Not a drop."

"Not even rose."

"Nothing. What Vonelli say about me?"

Just that you had given up being a sea captain to fall in love with your wife."

"That's all."

"Vonelli doesn't talk much about others."

"He know how to hold his tongue. A good man. Here's to him. Here's to the sea. Everyone thinks my drinking started after the blackball, but I only ever drank on shore. I would have given up the world for Fatima and I did, but better that than to not give up anything for the one you love and loves you. We'll travel over to France down to Spain across to Ireland into the North Sea. Our children will be waiting in Copenhagen. I'll be the old Kurt. Maybe not forever, but long enough to be who I was on the sea. Winter's big seas up north and the darkness spreads across the Northlands like black lava in the winter."

"So more drinking."

Kurt shrugged and smiled, "But no more fucking kaftan. This one is shot. You want it."

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm good."

Smell bad?"

"Like a bear after an summer solstice orgy."

"That bad?"

"Maybe worse."

"I'll leave it in Cowes. The Brits will wear anything."

We celebrated the solstice with his rose reserve. Vonelli joined us. Everyone from the hotel did as well. We had a knife-throwing contest at lunch. No one got cut. By sunset all the wine was gone and we carried him to bed.

His wife thanked us and tipped the waiting staff generously.

“You’re no fun,” he said lying on his bed like a beached whale.

“He’s not wrong.” Vonelli sniffed at his jacket sleeve, as we descended to the dining room. "As Pliny the Elder said, “In vino veritas.” or more simply "In magma vino oblivio.”

In wine truth, but in more wine oblivion.

And that’s the truth.

Especially on the summer solstice for a Viking ready for the sea.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

The Ferocity of the Fat Front

Obesity is a human dietary condition, in which over-eating threatens a human with heart disease, type 2 diabetes, the failure to breathe, cancer, and osteoarthritis according to Wikipedia. Obesity is determined by Body Mass Index or BMI = kilograms in weight divided by your height in meters squared.

18.5 is considered underweight
18.5–24.9 is normal weight
25.0–29.9 qualifies as overweight

Any BMI breaking 30.0 is considered obese.

At 93 kilos and 1.80 meters tall I fit into the upper echelon of overweight.

Last night I walked into Frank's Lounge and the rattlesnake-thin bartender Lola commented, "Pete, you put on some weight in Alaska?"

"Good eye." I smiled thinking that the last thing a bartender was supposed to say was how bad you look. "I'll have a Stella with ice."

Only one and I was out the door.

It was time for regain my girlish figure. New York was due for a heat wave. Some of my bloat could be attributed to beer bloat.

No problem, however the Fat Front has actively combated any strategy to slimize America and the fast food chains, Big Farm, and for years their media flacks attacked the First Lady Obama's program to create a new concept of nutrition for the young of this country.

Michele Obama's effort was strictly triage. The fat adults have lost to the Beast. Their love of potato chips and ice cream excluded any hope of rescue, but the same way the crack epidemic died after the high attrition rates of murder and incarceration, these mor-obs or morbidly obese Americans will extinct themselves with their eating binges, creating salvation for the young.

Big Farm sees the future and their executives recognize their existence depends on new recruits.

Sugar-coated cereal is the first dose of crack food for kids. Saturday morning cartoons are financed by Big Farm. Mickey Ds and Lucky Charms drenched in Coca-Cola are slung like Casper the ghost crack to eager devotees to Fat and this week the powers of obesity hired a former Obama White House communications director to front their junk food assault on the young.

The Sensible Food Policy Coalition includes General Mills, Kellogg, PepsiCo, and Time Warner. They are buying support with millions of dollars to congressmen and TV. The US Chamber of Commerce and Viacom are also members of this cabal to fat up America's young.

The former White House comm-ad is fat. She had to defend her kind. Without more fat people her race will die, because they are incapable of sustaining their numbers by procreation. Big Food is the enemy. I know. At 29 BMI I am on the edge and I'm praying to a record heat wave.

ps Trump is a tubby and he won because tubbies voted for him.>

Death Valley Hot

A long heat wave covers the West and the weathermen are predicting that the temperature in Death Valley might hit 126 tomorrow.

The manager of the Wrangler Restaurant in Furnace Creek on Tuesday closed the establishment after the ACs went on the blink, saying, "We can’t put customers through this -- it’s just too hot.”

Hot, but on July 10, 1913 the thermometer hit 134 degree and this reading has stood over a century as the highest recorded on Earth.

GOP Flat Earthers dispute the present heat wave as proof of Global Warming.

"It's summer in the desert."

"They don't call it Death Valley for nothing."

"This is a dry heat."

For me hot is hot and at 134 in the shade it feels like the sun is ironing your skin.

My advice to those in the Southwest.

Drink liquids, don't move, and stay in the shade.

I'm doing that in New York with a lovely can of 'Gansetts.

It's New England's beer.

Monday, June 19, 2017


Overfishing in the 1940s had closed Monterey’s canneries. Gone were the bars and people immortalized by two of John Steinbeck’s Great Depression novels and the only sign of life along Ocean View Avenue were two cats fighting over a mangled fish carcass, so I wandered away from the forlorn harbor toward the Presidio.

Two young soldiers guarded the entrance to the fort. America’s long involvement in Viet-Nam War was coming to an end and they held their weapons at ease. The three of us nodded to each other, then I adjusted the straps of his bags. The ocean wasn’t far away and I hiked across the wooded peninsula to the edge of a continent. Beyond the dunes of Del Monte Beach waves surged from the deep water. A dozen surfers in wet suits rode the thick green swells like gods from Atlantis. California was Beach Boy country.

On the broad strand sunbathers basked like oiled seals and young mothers watched their children playing in the shallows. I shucked off my leather jacket and heavy Fyre boots, then barefooted across the warm sand to the Pacific Ocean, ending my cross-country trip.

As clear ripples eddied around my ankles. I fought the urge to strip off my clothes. Being one with the four elements was better suited for a more secluded spot down the coast and I retreated to the dunes. Sitting on a charred log I brushed the sand off my feet and tugged on my boots, then checked my wallet. I had only spent $60 since splitting up with my friend in Lodi four days ago and was counting on the $1500 to last the summer.

My good friend was waiting down in Encinitas, but at the speed I was traveling, San Diego was more than a month away and I picked up my bags to resume my trek around the Monterey Peninsula.

For most of the 60s ABC’s Wide World Of Sports had aired the Bing Crosby Golf tournament at Pebble Beach and

I stopped to observe a foursome of golfers approaching a pristine tee. The first three landed their shots on the fairway. The last member of the quartet sliced his drive and the ball pocked off a nearby tree. The brightly attired duffer shouted out an apology and I waved to indicate that he hadn’t come close.

17 Mile Drive was too narrow for hitchhiking and I trudged into Carmel a little past 1pm. A nondescript Mexican cantina offered a taco lunch special and I ate two at the bar. I could have easily put down a third. A San Francisco Chronicle lay on the counter.

The previous evening Cleveland baseball fans had rioted at 10 Cent Beer Night and the California police were conducting statewide raids to find the kidnapped heiress, Patti Hearst. The FBI was offering $50,000 for information leading to her capture. Anyone with information of Tania’s whereabouts was saying nothing. The surviving SLA members had gone to ground.

Sean signaled for the check. The bill came to $2.50 and I tipped the dark-skinned waitress a dollar. The pretty girl wished me, “Via con dios.”

“Muchos gracias.”

She waved good-bye through the window and I walked to the end of the block, and then turned right on the Pacific Coast Highway, where I stuck out my thumb.

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Monterey Pop Festival 1967

Fifty years ago the Monterey Pop Festival was held south of San Francisco.

"Three days of understanding. Even the cops grooved with us," sang Eric Burdon of the Animals later.

Many regarded the gathering of 60,000 counter-culture music fans to be the opening act of the famed Summer of Love.

Check out the line-up.

Friday Night

The Association The Paupers Lou Rawls Beverley Johnny Rivers Eric Burdon and The Animals Simon & Garfunkel


Canned Heat Big Brother and the Holding Company Country Joe and the Fish Al Kooper The Butterfield Blues Band The Electric Flag Quicksilver Messenger Service Steve Miller Band Moby Grape Hugh Masekela The Byrds Laura Nyro Jefferson Airplane Booker T. & the M.G.'s Otis Redding


Ravi Shankar The Blues Project Big Brother and the Holding Company The Group With No Name Buffalo Springfield (played w/ David Crosby) The Who Grateful Dead The Jimi Hendrix Experience Scott McKenzie The Mamas & the Papas The Mar-Keys

Only Ravi Shankar played longer than the allotted forty-minute set.

I was 15.

I loved the Airplane.

I traveled in the summer of 1971 to the Haight.

Four years too late.

But a hippie to the core.

Then and now.

To view THE MONTEREY POP FESTIVAL pease go to the following URL on Youtube

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Ever So Lonely

p>On a flight back to the States in 2008 the China Airlines' 747 stopped in Anchorage, Alaska. Two middle-aged men stood in line for passport control. They were wearing shorts and smiles. The older returnee from Paradise, an overweight teamster, said, "That was the best vacation of my life. I don't want it to end until I hit work on the North Slope."

"You're not going to wear warmer clothes until then," I asked viewing the snow piled atop the rugged mountains surrounding Anchorage.

"Nope and I'm thinking of going back to retire to Thailand too."


Thousands of first-timers share the same idea and I ran down the basic Rules of Engagement for a farang in Thailand. He had been warned and like most western men he'll ignore it, because no love-starved man is smarter than 23 year-old go-go girl.

"Thanks for the information, but my tee-lat is my dream."

He trundled through immigration with a song in his heart.

As the old song goes "One night in Bangkok can make a strong man stumble."

His family will regard his plans as folly as did one man's son according to America Today. His father was a successful businessman, but at 60 unable to find any US woman willing to date him. Enter a Thai dating website and the father jets to Phuket to meet the 23 year-old masseuse of his dreams. His son is dismayed by his father's naiveté, but then realized after a long-distance phone conversation. "Well, what in the hell is the alternative? An abysmal life leading to death? Or you just keep trying with... very mixed success sometimes."

"So, how much longer do you have over there?" The son ask him.

"'till I go home, if ever," he says. "I might just pay somebody to pack me up and sell my stuff."

Another man bitten by the Thailand bug.

Few are strong when faced by a life without women in the West. It's not the sex they miss it's the love for love is always easier to fake than an orgasm.

ps Anchorage was cold.

The North Slope was colder.

Shorts don't work above the Arctic Circle.

And neither do Thai go-go girls.

Zoe Leonard - photographer - quote

I knew Zoe Leonard as a young woman in the late 70s. She was young then. I was in my twenties. The East Village was a slum. We had fun together. She became a photographer.

Well known.

Political as would anyone who lost so many friends to AIDS.

Zoe became an ardent lesbian.

I remained somewhat straight.

She was not scared of saying her mind.

“I want a dyke for president. I want a person with AIDS for president and I want a fag for vice president and I want someone with no health insurance and I want someone who grew up in a place where the earth is so saturated with toxic waste that they didn’t have a choice about getting leukemia. I want a president that had an abortion at sixteen and I want a candidate who isn’t the lesser of two evils and I want a president who lost their last lover to AIDS, who still sees that in their eyes every time they lay down to rest, who held their lover in their arms and knew they were dying. I want a president with no air-conditioning, a president who has stood in line at the clinic, at the DMV, at the welfare office, and has been unemployed and laid off and sexually harassed and gaybashed and deported. I want someone who has spent the night in the tombs and had a cross burned on their lawn and survived rape. I want someone who has been in love and been hurt, who respects sex, who has made mistakes and learned from them. I want a Black woman for president. I want someone with bad teeth and an attitude, someone who has eaten that nasty hospital food, someone who crossdresses and has done drugs and been in therapy. I want someone who has committed civil disobedience. And I want to know why this isn’t possible. I want to know why we started learning somewhere down the line that a president is always a clown. Always a john and never a hooker. Always a boss and never a worker. Always a liar, always a thief, and never caught.”
― Zoe Leonard

I've only ever been arrested for civil disobedience, although te police came up with other charges.

Zoe spent two years in Alaska during the 90s.

I love these shots and more.


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.

Monday, June 12, 2017

Rehab In Juneau

I was having too good a time at the 169 in Chinatown.

Work was light and I was falling deeper into debt.

I received a phone call from Alaska offering a jewelry job.

I accepted without thinking and flew four time zones west and north to the Land of The Midnight Sun.

I should have thought over the decision.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Instead I entered into a world of twelve hour days ruled by a shrewd woman my own age.

She knew everything about selling to cruise ship right wing neo-Nazi passengers.

I knew nothing.

My every mistake was punished by a lash of her tongue.

I was in the gulag of the Alaskan summer work force and the commissar was not pleased with my performance.

I wanted out, except Juneau was not connected to the outside world by a road.

Only cruise ships, ferries, and planes.

After work I longingly stared at departing planes.

No 'zeks' or convicts were allowed to leave Juneau.

At least I'm not drinking triple gin tonics at the 169.

Not that drinking there is a bad thing.

And it's bullshit that there is too much of a good thing.

Or is there.


I hate rehab.

But I do like Steel Reserve.


I ain't no quitter.

Not in Alaska.

Where the sky is gold as the gold from the earth.

April 17, 1975 - Bangkok calling Phnom Penh

Forty-two years ago the forces of the Khmer Rouge captured Phnom Penh. Joyous crowds greeted the jungle fighters with the hope of peace. The radio operator of the Royal Cambodian Army in Sihanoukville broadcasted a last message to his compatriot in his capitol.

Lieou Phin Oum.

"Goodbye sir. See you in Phnom Penh."

The Lieutenant Colonel didn't make it back to his homeland that year and missed the forced exodus of the cities. Over a million Cambodian died under the reign of the Khmer Rouge.

Year Zero.

I was 24.

I got to Phnom Penh in 1995.

Lieou Phin Oum has passed onto a new position.

He remains honored by the front-line observers of that conflict.

"Some gave some. A few gave all."

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Miss Khmer Rouge

The Khmer Rouge sought to reincarnate the pureness of Cambodian society by wiping the slate clean in Year Zero and after the Fall of Phnom Phem the new regime exiled the country's urban population to rural re-education camps in the rice fields and jungles.

The cadre shut schools, hospitals and factories throughout Kampuchea. Buddhas were cast into the gutter and monks were executed by the thousands. Money was banished from daily life. Private property was deemed evil and Khmer Krahom considered drinking alcohol, gambling, and playing crimes deserving execution. If this severe puritanism sounds familiar, it is because the Taliban have followed a similar path in the parts of Afghanistan under their control.

Of course the Khmer Rouge were slightly more progressive with women than their Islamic counterparts.

Women were allowed one black outfit instead of a chador and veil. Hair was cut short. Make-up and jewelry were signs of foreign influence. Death was the punishment for any infraction.

And America can expect the same should the Baptist have their way.

Hell, yes. Heaven no.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Duch Choi Châ' kai Anh

In 1975 the Khmer Rouge converted the Tuol Svay Prey High School on the outskirts of Phnom Penh into the murderous Tuol Sleng or S-21 prison. An estimated 17,000 prisoners were subjected to the following code of behavior enforced by Comrade Duch and his killers.

1. You must answer accordingly to my question. Don’t turn them away.
2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts this and that you are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dare to thwart the revolution.
4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.
5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities or the essence of the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.
8. Don’t make pretext about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your secret or traitor.
9. If you don’t follow all the above rules, you shall get many many lashes of electric wire.
10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.

In 1979 the Vietnam Army ended the horror and liberated Phnom Penh. Twelve survivors exited from the three-story building. The other inmates had been buried in the killing fields. The architects of this massacre fled the reprisals of the Vietnamese in 1979 and the most notorious killer Comrade Duch sought refuge in Thailand. PolPot demoted his underling having destroyed the incriminating documents at Tuol Sleng and Duch escaped justice by becoming a teacher.

During the Khmer Rouge reign teachers had been executed without remorse.

After the murder of his wife Duch sought salvation with the Western religious fundamentalists pursuing souls in Cambodia, but his past chased him into a corner and he was arrested by the new authorities ie ex-Khmer Rouge compatriots.

A court of justice sentenced Duch to life imprisonment, but during the trial he said, "I think the Khmer Rouge would already have been demolished, but Mr Kissinger and Richard Nixon backed Lon Nol, and then the Khmer Rouge tok advantage of their mistake and victory was a golden opportunity for us."

Duch asked to be released by the tribunal, admitting his guilt.

Kissinger is walking free.

Why shouldn't he?

"Whenever I've been in Phnom Penh I've asked the older people what they think of the Khmer Rouge and their reply comes as a surprise to most westerners raising on the litany of 'never again' for the Nazis.

"It's over. We want peace. Nothing more," a taxi driver said waiting for two Dutch tourists visiting S-21.

"What about the trials?"

"We don't understand trials. All we know is that it's over." He was old enough to have lived under the Khmer Rouge as a teenager. He spoke a little French, which would have condemned him to the Killing Fields under the Khmer rouge.

"Au revoir."

I doubted that I would see him again, but later that night we shared a beer on Quay Sisowith. He laughed with all the joy that five Angkor beers can give a man who has lived long enough to wake up from a nightmare with his humor intact.

Duch Choi Ch'kai Anh

Read THE GATE by Francois Bizot.

It says it all.

Sexual Race Traitor

2000 started the new millennium. My plans for the future were short-term, so I had a good feeling for the next decade. MTV threw a New Year's Eve bash in Times Square. Most certainly drugs and drink were involved in the evening's festivities, yet no sex since I had forsworn coupling with white women in the previous century and could count the number of Caucasian females with whom I had mated during that period on less than two hands.

My first trip to the Orient infected my libido with race-traitorism desire.

Blondes disgusted me. Redheads were revolting. Freckles were an abomination.

White women were equally offended upon hearing about my circumnavigations of the globe and their eyes spat accusations of 'child molester' and 'whore-monger' any time I mentioned the word 'Pattaya'.

The first was to expected by such ethnocentric harridans and the latter was right on the mark.

I had paid for sex and more than once with different women.

Foreplay have been a discussion of price.

Our romances lasted an hour in a cheap room on Soi 6. Divorce was never an issue fro discussion. We parted friends and I was a sexy man forever unlike in America where ever-aging women sought richer and richer men to fulfill their dream of a Park Avenue apartment and a 'cottage' in the Hamptons. This greed corrupted their beauty as completely as leprosy and they ceased to appeal to my lust.

I thought I was broken, until I hit LA in 2002. My cousin Sheree and I went out with my old girlfriend, Nancy. She was working as a reader for a talent agency. Her tastes ran to bisexual masochism and I exploited her weakness with the delicacy of a East St. Louis pimp.

In the morning she sulked at the breakfast table.

"You fucked me like a Thai whore."

"So you faked your orgasm?"


"Then it must have been as good for me as it was for you."

I complimented my bad behavior by dropping $50 on the table and walking out of her Hollywood bungalow, expecting a knife in my back, but Nancy wasn't a Thai whore and I was glad that white women in America had had their sexuality ripped from this body and soul.

They are no longer a temptation.

And my wives couldn't be happier about that.


I am a little sad, but only because my next flight to Thailand is a month off.

I could use a cheap fuck in a cheaper hotel, but like I said I'm a race traitor and my heart like my cock is true.

Roger Casement Martyr

Once a Knight of the British Empire Roger Casement was led to his death before a firing squad.

His crime was treason.

He had plotted to have weapons delivered to the IRA to fight against the English during WWI.

The Germans had failed to supply the arms.

A lover sold him out to the Brits.

His friends rejected the revolutionary after the English published his Black Diaries professing his homosexuality.

He was hung dead and thrown naked into a grave to be covered with limestone.

A traitor and a queer.

In 1965 his remains were returned to Free Ireland and according to Wikipedia after a state funeral the corpse was buried with full military honors in the Republican plot in Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin. An estimated half a million people filed past his coffin. The President of Ireland, Éamon de Valera, who in his mid-eighties was the last surviving leader of the Easter Rising, defied the advice of his doctors and attended the ceremony, along with an estimated 30,000 Irish citizens.

Casement's last wish, to be buried at Murlough Bay on the North Antrim coast has yet to be fulfilled as Harold Wilson's government released the remains only on condition that they not be brought into Northern Ireland.

The BBC reported on his death. They tried to debunk his struggles against oppression in Brazil, the Congo, and Ireland. One thing remains true.

Free the world.

Roger Casement would have waned it that way.

Traitor, but only to end injustice.