A Painter Painting a Picture

Hitchhiking was a good way to travel between Boston and Montreal in the early 1970s.

The 400 miles of I-89 was one of the East Coast's most scenic highway, slanting across New Hampshire and Vermont to Lake Champlain then into Quebec.

It was a great trip from start to finish.

In August of 1971 I was heading north to meet friends in Montreal.

A Karman Ghia stopped in Lebanon and the longhair said that he needed money for gas. I gave him $5. Ace drove me from Lebanon to St. Albans with Jethro Tull on the 8-track When I got out of the car, the longhair handed me a pill. The horse choker capsule was an inch long.

"It's LSD." The hippie flashed a peace sign. His iris wavered in size. "Very strong. Take it with friends and don't look in a mirror."

"I know better than that."

Looking at your reflection was a mistake no one wanted to repeat on a trip. I had once stared at my shimmering face for hours on Orange Sunshine.

My eyes had been a single black pool greeting a stare into eternity.

"Thanks for the gas."

A gallon was 35 cents.

$5 was good for a week's driving in the VW.

I flashed him the peace sign and stood on the interstate's shoulder.

The next ride was to the border.

Canadian immigration asked for a driver's license.

The official saluted my entrance into his country.

Two hours later I was drinking beer with my New Zealand friends at the Winston Churchill Pub. My Irish friends were playing a gig off St. Catherine. Several French girls came home to Benny's apartment on Barat Street. I showed them the LSD pill.

The night was velvet with darkness. Pink Floyd was on the Denon turntable.

A bootleg release of MEDDLE.

I divided the powdered pill into section.

1/3 for the four girls.

1/3 for my three friends.

1/3 for me.

One hour passed without any effect, then Benny put on the Jefferson Airplane AFTER BATHING AT BAXTERS, then the first flash of light warbled from the corner of our eyes. The girls danced with POO NEIL. My friends held the album cover in their handstand we chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

The LP art shrank into the sub-universe of time and space.

We were wandering in a microcosmic dream.

Each layer funnier than the last.

Dawn broke early on the St. Lawrence. Stars melted into the sky and we chanted, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

One last time and then we returned home. I slept with a girl named Cheree. Her flesh was as soft as still air.

She spoke French, no English, but chanted with an Quebecoisse accent, "A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...." until the words softened to a mutter and her skin turned to feathers.

It took me a long time to come down.

Cheree was my parachute.

She provided a soft landing.

"A painter painting a picture of a painter painting a picture of a painter painting...."

I'm glad that my mind remembered Cheree's name.

My name too.

WHEELS OF FIRE by Peter Nolan Smith

In the late summer of 1971 my college friend Paul Ptrov and I hitchhiked from Boston to San Francisco. Our friends were living in the Haight. They were girls. I had had sex with one of them and sleeping with Marilyn again was enough of a reason to cross a continent, especially since neither Paul nor I had ever been farther east than the Adirondacks.

We were longhairs and caught rides fast from vans and truckers.

West of Des Moines a Dodge Super Bee stopped for us. We ran to the muscle car, expecting the driver, to patch rubber and pop a middle finger out the window. The motorhead waited instead. The engine throbbed with low intensity. I ran to the passenger side.

"Hi." Acting friendly was part of hitchhiking.

"My name's Lucky. I'm going to LA." The driver's long red hair was slicked back with Brylcream. His arms were stained with old tattoos. His jaws were grinding teeth.

"We're heading to San Francisco." I yanked open the door.

"I don't know." Paul clocked Lucky as a speed freak.

"It'll be night soon."

Paul was a math major same as me. He calculated the odds of surviving this ride.

"San Francisco is in the different direction than Los Angeles." His girlfriend was waiting for him in Milwaukee. We were stopping there on the way back from the coast.

"There's only one road here and it's heading west." I shoved Paul in the back and sat in the front.

"I'll take you as far as Winnemucca." Lucky revved the engine and broke from the shoulder in front of a piggy-backing long-hauler.

"Great." I had no idea where Winnemucca was, but Lucky's muscle-car version of the Coronet had a 440 cu in a V8 engine.

It was more than fast.

He drove 110mph from Omaha to Nevada. He had one 8-track for the stereo. We listened to BAD COMPANY probably fifteen times before he nodded at the wheel. His foot was on the gas.

I steered from the passenger seat.

"Was I out for long?" he asked west of Laramie.

"About two hours." I released the wheel.

Paul was asleep in the back.

It was better if he didn't know about my co-piloting.

"Thanks for keeping us on the road." Lucky's hands seized the steering wheel in a death grip. His foot crushed the pedal to the floor.

Wyoming became a blur.

"You want me to drive?"

"Naw, I'm good."

He stopped only for gas and Coca-Cola to wash down handfuls of bennies.

When he missed the Winnemucca turning, I said nothing.

Several hours later he

"What the fuck am I doing in Reno?" Lucky snapped out of his speed trance upon seeing the Sierras. It was a little after dawn. He passed the Biggest Little City In The World and turned south on US 395. Lucky pulled off the highway.

We got out.

The sun was bright.

"Have a good time in Frisco."

"You too."

Paul and I stood on the highway leading into the mountains.

Back in 1849 the Donner Party had eaten each other in those steep heights in the depth of winter.

Today it was nearing 100F along the Truckee River and a shiny blue 1965 Riviera stopped for us.

The passenger rolled down his window. The fifty year-old Mexican smelled of hard alcohol.

The dark-skinned driver was sweating behind the wheel.

A bottle of whiskey was held by a bleary-eyed Indian in the back. The scarred driver licked his lips and said, “My friends and I just got out of prison. I want to celebrate with them. Can you drive us to Oakland?”

"Yes." I had reservations. "The car's not hot, is it?"

"No, I bought it in Reno." He showed me the bill of sale.

"Seems okay."

Paul shook his head and called me over to him.

"Let's wait for another ride."

"It's a ride all the way to San Francisco."

"Oakland isn't San Francisco."

"Close enough." I wanted to drive the Riviera and turned to the driver. "I'll do it. Paul, get in."

"I will, but I'm not happy," murmured my college friend and he sat in the back.

"Let's go."

“Cool, but I wanna you to drive fast. I want me some pussy,” the black man said before downing a long slug of bourbon. “It’s been a long time. Maybe I’ll get me some hippie pussy.”

“Maybe you will.” I sat behind the steering wheel. The Riviera had only 2000 miles on the speedometer.

“This car isn’t stolen, is it?” Paul got into the back on the hump.

“The keys are in the ignition.”

Paul shook his head.

"You don't have any guns?" They looked the type, especially the old black git in the back.

"No, only whiskey." The Mexican smiled with two gleaming gold teeth filling a gap in his grin.

"Sure." I was a sucker for a fast car after the ride with Lucky.

"This is not a good idea." Paul was jammed in the back between the indian and the black man.

"I'm driving. How bad can it be?" I was also a Math major.

"Just don't kill us."

The gas tank was full. The highway was recently paved. I stepped on the gas.

The Riviera's nailhead V-8 produced enough power to motor up the steep Sierras.

It hit 100 without any strain.

The convicts talked wildly about their years in prison. The first bottle of whiskey was replaced by a second. I took a sip. The AC chilled the interior of the Riviera to the coolness of a summer day in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Once we topped the pass, I caught a radio station from San Francisco.

KAZU.

The DJ played HP Lovecraft's WHITE SHIP

Paul and I were into the home stretch.

The Riviera's top speed was 115.

East of the Bay the driver said he wanted to take over the rest of the way.

"I don't need some white ass long-haired chauffeur to take me home."

The whiskey was turning him mean.

"No worries." I pulled off I-80 into a service station. Paul and I got out of the car.

"You white boys ain't comin' with us?" The Chicano was wavering in his wide-legged stance.

"You're not in any condition to drive."

"Fuck you, gringo." He sat in the front seat.

"Have a good day." His epithet had negated my obligation.

The Riviera pulled out of the gas station.

“I’m glad to be out of that car.” It had been a long ride for Paul. The Indian had been feeling up the long-haired math major the entire distance, figured him for stick pussy.

"Me too."

We walked to the onramp. A sign warned against hitchhiking. ChiPs in California hated hippies.

"So we're walking to San Francisco?" Paul was wearing heavy Frye boots.

“”Maybe not.” I pointed to the Riviera back.

It had stopped half in and out of the road.

The reverse taillights lit up and the car backed into the gas station to ram the gas pumps. Both exploded and engulfed the Riviera in flames. The Chicano jumped out of the car. His two friends were struggling to open the passenger door. Paul and I ran to the driver's side and pulled out the two ex-cons. The station attendant extinguished the fire with an extinguisher. He was not happy. His two pumps were trash.

“Why you leave the car in reverse?” the driver asked with a whiskey-thick tongue.

“Me?” I stepped up to him. He might have been a convict, but I was younger by a good 30 years. “I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

A state trooper pulled into the gas station. The convict told him his side of the story and I told him mine. The cop came over after his radio call and said, “That car is stolen."

"They showed us papers for it."

"Yes, I know, but best you go unless you want to spend more time with your friends.”

“We’re going.” Peter picked up his bag and we went over to the highway. A hippie gave us a ride ten minutes later. The VW van's top speed was 60.

"Now I'm happy." Paul lit up our last joint.

"We're in California."

"And not going to jail."

"Or prison."

"Just to San Francisco."

The trip from coast to coast took us 47 hours. It could have taken a lifetime if it hadn't been for the cop.

That evening we partied with the girls. Marilyn had a guitarist boyfriend. Paul and I crashed on the floor.

The next day we wandered through the Haight.

We were three years late for theSummer of Love. Groovy was gone and after two days Marilyn hinted that we should be moving on. We were third wheels on a scooter.

Paul and I walked to the Golden Gate Bridge. It was our starting point home and we were heading North.

I stuck out my thumb.

Late or not for the Summer of Love we were still long-hairs and the road was open all the way to Alaska.

Treason Is Not Just A Word

Relations with our allies had suffered after a disastrous G7 conference in Quebec. Donald Trump complained about having to travel to Canada as a distraction from his upcoming Singapore summit with North Korean leader Kim Jong-un.

Donald threatened the EEU with tariffs and then cut short his participation to cross the globe to the Orient.

Destination Singapore.

I had been there in 1990.

Trump was meeting Kim Jong-un.

I had never shook his hand.

Dennis Rodman had visited the strongman.

He gave his lackey a signed copy of Trump's THE ART OF THE DEAL.

Donald is a friend from THE APPRENTICE show.

The NBA all-star was also in Singapore.

The Trump-Kim Jong-un meeting resulted in the cancellation of joint South Korean-US military exercise featuring B-52s as a threat against the North Korean nuclear program.

"We're saving $14 million on the exercise," claimed a Pentagon source and the Donald twittered, "Holding back the “war games” during the negotiations was my request because they are VERY EXPENSIVE and set a bad light during a good faith negotiation. Also, quite provocative. Can start up immediately if talks break down, which I hope will not happen!"

The savings will help pay for Trump's desired military parade in Washington. He loved the one in Paris and what can you say about those in North Korea.

Huge.

Supporters called for Trump to get the Nobel Peace Prize.

Within a week Kim's scientists were back at the testing labs.

Fears of H-Bombs in the air, but not from Trump.

#45 had places to go and people to see.

Last week Donald Trump boarded US 1 and flew across the Atlantic to a NATO meeting in Brussels.

Few had high hopes for trip to Europe and #45 didn't disappoint them

The warmonger long to demand that our allies increase their financial contribution to 2%, so NATO can fight across the globe.

“NATO countries must pay MORE, the United States must pay LESS. Very Unfair!”

Like the over-priced and unflyable F35 and the the Comanche helicopter and the SM-3 Block IIA missile.

No one really wanted to deal with him, so Donald looked at his shoes and then later twittered about the UK's PM Theresa May that she had been soft of Brexit.

“We can no longer completely rely on the White House,” said Heiko Maas, the German Foreign Minister and Trump responded by twittering about Angela Merkel, German PM, "“I think you are losing your culture.” The governments of May and Merkel are both threatened by nationalist, anti-immigrant political insurgencies.“

Right-wing nationalists cheered his words, but Trump was heading north to shake hands with Russia's pseudo-Czar., Vld Putin.

Trump stated that he didn't trust US Intelligence Agency and accepted Putin's claims that the Russians were not involved in tampering with the 2016 election. The only Americans who believe this statement were the Russians and Trump supporters., who brought up Benghazi and the Muslim Brotherhood and Obama being born in another country.

Trump said many questionable things in Helsinki.

They spelt out one word.

TREASON.

As defined in the Constitution “Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, either levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort with the U.S. or elsewhere.”

Trump supporters argue that we are not at war with the old USSR, but except for WW2 the Russians have never been our allies.

Then again Trump was not born in America.

Pakistan to a KGB father long ago.

Names In Baseball

In 2015 Brock Holt cracked the Red Sox record book by becoming the first Boston player to start games at seven different positions and last night he hit a cycle against the miserable Atlanta Braves, which was the first single-double, triple, and homer combo for a Bosox player in nineteen years. Even better my team stopped a seven-game losing streak, however I'm more impressed how baseball and many other sports come up with players' great names.

Enos Slaughter, Rollie Fingers, Vida Blue, Liuz Tiant, Reggie Jackson, Big Papi, Willie MaysHonus Wagner, Dewey Evans, Babe Ruth and thousands upon thousands of monikers destined to grace Little League fields, minor league parks, and MBL stadiums.

"Now up for the Reed Sox_____."

ps Pete Rose will never get into the Hall of Fame no matter how good his name is.

The Beauty of FREEBIRD

My youngest brother’s health suffered a precipitous decline in 1995. The experimental drugs had failed to stem Michael’s ruthless aliment’s advances. I received a telephone call from my older brother in Boston. I was running a nightclub in Beverly Hills. He told me the bad news. The next day I was on a plane to Logan. My family was waiting at the hospice on the South Shore. I had seen friends die of AIDS. None of that prepared for the sight of my brother. His only nourishment was a morphine drip.

I guessed his weight to be 120. His family sat by his bedside. My mother patted his hand. My sisters wet his lips. My father met the tragedy with a noble stoicism. He had done his best. Tears were for another day. My older brother read from the Bible. My youngest brother responded to none of this.

One night I entered Michael’s room and my younger brother was playing FREEBIRD on his guitar. Paddy was a kind soul, but my youngest brother was more into show tunes and disco than southern rock. I mentioned this to my brother.

“You’re right, but in his state I figure that he would hear this song and know it was me.” My youngest brother strummed his guitar and I joined his singing the song. I was more a punk than anything else, but I knew every word. FREEBIRD had been a huge hit in 1972.

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be travelling on, now,
‘Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see.
But, if I stayed here with you, girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
‘Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can’t change.

Bye, bye, its been a sweet love.
Though this feeling I can’t change.
But please don’t take it badly,
‘Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.
But, if I stayed here with you girl,
Things just couldn’t be the same.
Cause I’m as free as a bird now,
And this bird you’ll never change.
And this bird you can not change.
Lord knows, I can’t change.
Lord help me, I can’t change.

My younger brother put down his guitar and kissed his emaciated brother on the forehead. I kissed the other side. His skin was waxen. Michael had only a little further to go.

“Let’s take a photo.”

“Now?” Paddy knew how vain Michael was. It was a family trait.

“If not now, then it will be never.” Michael had hours left in his heart. I positioned my camera on the bureau. The timer ran for thirty seconds. The camera snapped a shot of Paddy and me with my baby brother between us. He died a day later. We buried him in the town cemetery. I fled the sorrow to Asia and mourned my brother at the holiest temples in the Orient.

Upon my return I developed the roll of film from Michael’s last days. I didn’t show the shot on the bed to anyone but Paddy. He shook his head.

“What? You thinking about how thin he was?” I asked taking the photo back from his hand.

“No, just thinking about how fat we were.”

I looked at the picture and laughed at the truth. Michael would have laughed someplace in the afterlife too. We were such good friends, but I’m sure that he curses us for sticking FREEBIRD in his celestial ears for the rest of eternity.

It is a lot better than FLY LIKE AN EAGLE, because that’s what I have in my head.

To hear FREEBIRD please go to this URL https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxIWDmmqZzY

THE MEANING OF PURE by Peter Nolan Smith

In the summer of 1995 my baby brother died of AIDS.

Our family buried his body in a grave south of Boston.

After the funeral I left the USA and sought solace for Michael's soul at the holy sites of Asia.

I lit candles before the Buddha in Chiang Mai.

I circumnavigated Lhasa's Jokhang Temple.

Despite a lifelong disbelief in religion this pilgrimage comforted my sense of loss.

In November I crossed the Himalayas and flew south from Kathmandu to Varanasi on the Ganges.

In the ancient city I booked a hotel room up the river from the burning ghats. Backpackers smoked ganga on the terrace. A sitarist at a nearby ashram played a raja in the starry evening.

In the steepening dusk I wandered to the smoldering crematory pyres.

Untouchables gathered bones and dumped charred remains into the Mother of India.

My brother had been buried in a grave outside of Boston.

Here life ended in ashes not dust to dust.

The monsoon season was over and the faithful washed away their sins in the Ganges.

In the morning I ate a khichri of rice, lentils, and spices. The tea was sweet. The water came from the river river.

To avoid the morning heat I read Hindu phrases from a travel guide.

Afterwards I returned to the ghats.

Scores of mourners stacked wood for the fiery funerals of their beloved ones.

There was little weeping.

The walk by the river had muddied my feet.

I went to the water's edge and washed my sandals.

The ghat fell silent.

"Mistah." A young girl in a blue sari stood before me. "You have done a bad thing. The Ganges is sacred and washing your shoes is 'varjita'."

I read the meaning of 'varjita' in the circle of accusing eyes.

A hostile murmur replaced the stillness.

The mourners were on the verge of becoming a mob.

"Kheda." My earnest apology did not penetrate the anger.

"You have to leave." The young girl shouted to a passing boatman. "My uncle will take you to safety."

"Dhan'yav'da." I hopped in the rowboat and the man pulled on the oars.

His name was Ramsi.

"You are a very silly man." Ramsi rowed to the middle of the Ganges. My disgrace had been swallowed by the convergence of several funeral processions.

"Yes, I am very silly," I explained how I had come to Varansi to purify my body.

"It is the best place in the world to cleanse your sins, but not your shoes, sir." Ramsi motioned to a broad sand bar. "The water on the opposite shore is cleaner and private. You want to go there?"

"How much?"

"Pay what you think is right, sir."

"Accha." I was okay with this deal, since he had saved me from possible harm on the ghats.

I took off my clothes and swam naked into the Ganges.

The water was fine and I got out to dry myself.

Two hundred feet upriver vulture was fighting a dog for something lying half in the eddies.

It was a dead body.

Ramsi came up to me.

"The poor don't have enough money to burn the body. They give the body to the river. A river dolphin is joining them. He will help the dead man's spirit to nirvana."

A dolphin joined the two combatant in the menage-a-trois feast.

Back at the ghats I gave Ramsi $20.

"Oh, sir, you are too good. Tonight come to my house for dinner."

There was no saying no.

Back at the hotel travelers discussed the westerner who had washed his sandals at the ghat.

I didn't give them my version of the scandal.

That evening I met Ramsi and accompanied the boatman to his one-room house. His wife was dressed in her finery. The meal was vegetarian and the water was fresh from the Ganges.

"It is holy water. I have drank it all my life and have never been sick once."

"Saubh'gya." Good luck was always good luck no matter if offered by a sinner.

I drank it and felt pure.

I hoped that my brother Michael felt the same.

Our sacred river was the Saco in Maine.

Only last summer its waters had washed over Michael and me.

It had been pure too.

And that night on the Ganges I went to sleep content.

Somewhere in the Here-Before my brother was pure.

In some ways I was too.

Thai Viagra Bribery

Candidates in the 2007 Thai election had modernized the old vote-buying tactics by giving out Viagra, since traditional gifts such as money, t-shirts, and beer have been banned by law. A PPP politician claimed to have witnessed a rival distributing the sexual aid to older voters. Viagra is readily available at most Thai pharmacies, although 300 baht price the pill out of most Thais' budget.

Still I would stay alert for heavy-breathing older men during this election season.

No Viagra-distributing politicians sought my vote, for non-Thais are disenfrancished from the electoral process, plus I'm not a big Viagra fan despite having suffered the shame of penile dysfunction at several inopportune moments.

While living in New York, I was madly in love with one woman. She was blonde, a model, smart, funny, but we were doomed to be just friends, then one wintry evening we drank ourselves past the portals of inhibition. She invited me back to her apartment. We made out on her sofa. This wasn't only about sex. I fantasized more about her as a girlfriend. Somebody to love. After ten minutes she suggested sharing a shower. We stripped naked in the bathroom and stepped under the hot water.

All systems go.

Except for one.

My penis was as flaccid as al dente spaghetti and nothing could resurrect it to a heroic hardness.

"Don't worry, this happens to all men," she told me later in bed.

I never got a second chance.

This was not a one-off occasion either and as someone once wrote, "Fear is the first time you can't get it up for the second time, but terror is the second time you can't get it up for the first time."

I became a eunuch with women.

A friend pitied my plight and repeated the blonde's statement. "It happens to everyone."

The excuse sounded no better coming from his lips, except he added, "But never with this."

A blue pill was pinched between his thumb and index finger. "Viagra."

"Viagra's for old men."

"You're closer to 70 than twenty. Next time you get the green light for consensual sex, drop it 30 minutes before getting in the taxi. You won't have softieitis. Trust me."

I thanked him and stuck the pill in my wallet.

It remained a useless bump for months.

Every woman in New York seemed privy to my failing with the blonde.

I seemed doomed to celibacy, until one night after I read THE HOLE OF HEAVEN at Joe's Pub an attractive artist offered to buy me a drink. I thought her gesture was a compliment for my literary prowess, but an hour later we were in a taxi, heading to her Soho loft. She filled my ear with whispered desires. My libido responded au natural, however the doubt created by previous debacle was spreading southward.

the taxi stopped before her loft building, I paid with a $20 and also surreptiously withdrew the linty Viagra pill. I swallowed it, as she fumbled with her keys. We had two glasses on wine on her sofa and she said, "I'm going to change into something more comfortable."

"I can hardly wait."

"Why don't you come help me?" Her hand guided me into the bedroom, where she opened a closet of lingerie. "What color do you like?"

Other men had heard the same line. I didn't care, because the Viagra had struck with an unexpected ferocity.

"Black." My second choice was red.

"It'll only be a minute." She changed into a push-up bra, g-string panties, garters, silk stocking, boa feather high heels. Her smile widened lasciviously with a glance at my trousers. "You like what you see?"

"Yes." I was no lie, except without warning blood was pounding through my temples as if I was seconds away from transforming into the Hulk. Closing my eyes barely relieved the pain and this agony was joined by a variety of other unforeseen reactions. My body shivered with a strobe of hot flashes and my heart was bodychecking against my ribs.

"Are you all right?" My hostess was genuinely concerned for I could feel my face burning with blood.

"I don't feel so good."

More like I was minutes away from a heart attack.

"Did you take a Viagra?" Her voice ran as cold as the first day of winter.

"Yes." I was in no condition to lie.

"So I don't turn you on enough?"

"Yes, but____" I never had a chance to explain about my problem with the blonde.

She shoved me out the door within five seconds.

Worst the headache would not go away and neither would the ungodly erection.

"There's nothing wrong with you." My friend Jamie Parker shook his head upon hearing my story. "You only need Viagra for women with whom you don't want to have sex."

I wasn't so sure about that, but swore never to take another and have been faithful to that vow.

Strangely the Pentagon dosed US mountain troops in Afghanistan with Viagra to help them deal with chasing the Taliban around the Afghan peaks. The test was cancelled after the religious right heard about it.

Soldiers with erections is not Christian.

And I agree.

TST CLOCKS

Most 7/11s in Thailand have a coin-operated scale outside the store. My weight differs at each one and my friend Jamie Parker has theorized that the fluctuations are due to slight difference in the intensity of the gravitational pull along the surface of the earth.

No clock seems to be running on the same time and Jamie furthered his theory by saying that time varied from place to place allowing you to time-travel simply by crossing the street.

In 2008 the Thai Ministry of Metrology ordered the entire Thai nation to function under TST Thai Standard Time, which is seven hours ahead of GMT, and all clocks would legally have to maintain the new TST. This temporal ruling wasapplied to all businesses servicing their public via computer.

The new TST was aimed at cyber-criminals such as porno surfers and under-age internet game players. Names and IDs would have to be presented at all internet cafes from now on. Failure would result in fines ranging from 100,000-200,000 baht

No one in charge could explain the origins of a rumor that the clock would be 30 minutes different from the present time.

Instructions for installing the official time on computers are posted on the Hydrographic Department's website at http://www.navy.mi.th/hydro/time

Everyone set your clocks right and nothing happened to anyone.

Just the same tick-tock as ever.

Thai School Uniforms

Memory is in details and I can remember exactly what I was wearing the day JFK was murdered in Dallas. A white shirt, sky-blue tie, navy-blue trousers, a black belt, and black shoes. Every boy in my class wore the same outfit. In fact the uniform was mandatory for each male attending Our Lady of the Foothills. No deviations were allowed by the nuns and that edict was issued to the girls in their powder-blue pleated skirts, dazzling white shirt, and dull black shoes. Mother Superior had banned shoe polish in fear that boys would gaze at the shoes' high gloss reflection to discover the hidden treasure up a girl's skirts. Our imaginations were stronger than her mandate and to this day the sight of a Catholic school girl uniform transports me across time to 1964, unfortunately school uniforms are uncommon in the USA, however the tradition remains strong in Asia.

Every nation has their specialty, however most males would agree that Thailand dominates the schoolgirl uniform race and in 2011 the Japanese Press declared that the Thai university uniforms of a short-sleeve white blouse and short black skirt was the world's sexiest student uniform.

Thailand for all its brothels and sex tourism was a very puritian country and the local media and politicians expressed their outrage about this dubious honor with the deputy education minister going as far as announcing a pogrom against sexiness in school.

Chok dee, you fool, for the girls in Thai universities are a cultural treasure admired by men all across the world, especially anyone from the USA, for many coeds are so fat that they would look better in a chador.

Long live the Thai schoolgirl uniform.

Another Wonder of the Modern World under threat from the Thailiban.

Thai Navy Seals

Few people traveling along Route 331 from Satthahip to the Isaan Plateau realize this highway was built by the US Military in the 1960s. The Friendship Highway connected the Thai Navy base with several large airfields operated by the US Air Force throughout the Viet-Nam War. Those airfields are now quiet, however Satthahip remains one of the most important naval installations in Southeast Asia and every May the Thai military host Cobra Gold, a large military exercise involving the troops of the USA, Singapore, Malaysia, and various other nations of the Pacific Rim.

While most troops practice amphibious tactics at the main base, smaller groups of high-trained troops congregate on the idyllic archipelago stretching south into the Gulf of Siam for the intensive training regime of the Thai Navy Seals, whose home base of Koh SamaeSan is located across the channel from the isolated fishing port of Ban Samaesarn.

Sensing a need for a similar strategy during the Cold War, Thailand found the Thai Navy Seals in 1953 to provide Thailand with a fast-reaction unit to defend national sovereignty as well as provide the Royal Thai Fleet with naval warfare support such as underwater demolition and coastal reconnaissance. The US Navy Seals supervised the training of these first units and to this day retain a working relationship with their Thai counterparts scouting, and quick-response missions destined to counter the threat of terrorists.

While boaters are allowed to anchor off-shore from these islands for fishing and diving, actually landing on the beaches is prohibited by the Thai Navy, although with the recent opening of the Coral Islands Museum in Ban Samaesarn tourists are guided on special tours arranged by the Thai Navy Seals. I’ve been lucky enough to accompany these guardians of the sea for the filming of an episode of the highly-popular Thai TV show THE NAVIGATOR starring Tik Jasadaporn. We dove in gin-clear waters for two hours and had lunch on the veranda of the Thai Navy Seals barracks on an island paradise.

While many of the Seals come from inland provinces far from the sea, most are happy to have discovered a love for the sea and each man is proud to follow the tradition of King Taksin, who liberate Ayutthaya through an innovative use of smaller water-borne guerrilla fighters to weaken his enemy's lines of supply and every year an undisclosed number of candidates are subjected to a rigorous regime of special naval warfare designed to test the limits of each sailors' physical and mental limits.

Those successful graduates join several elite platoons stationed along the long sea coast of Thailand, where they are further instructed by the special forces of the Australian, German, and the USA special forces, however in recent years the role of the Thai Navy Seal has evolved from a strictly military option into a marine force dedicated to protecting the sea itself.

Sailors are taught about the oceans, the sustainability of fishing stocks, and pollution in accordance with the Thai Navy's greater awareness of the world in which we live. Each Seal is an expert in preservative diving thanks to courses at the Chulaborn Research institute and cooperate with local authorities to help save marine life by clearing garbage from Pattaya Bay or setting up tether floats for diving boats in the Andaman Sea. On Koh Samaesarn the soldiers gather up thousands of plastic bottles from the beaches to help supplement their income and pass on their knowledge to the fishermen trawling the sea to promote the health of the seas.

April 17 celebrates the anniversary of the Thai Navy Seals. Both the nation and the Thai Navy salute this unit for their unceasing devotion to the sea, especially at their marine facilities at Ban Samaesarn.

To reach Ban Samesarn head south from Sukhumbit on Route 3126 past the U-tapao Airfield and turn left at the signs for Ban Samaesarn. The road will lead pass the shore into town where you drive right to the museum entrance.

Entrance 100 baht for Thai Nationals and 200 baht for Westerners.

Boat tours can be arranged at the pier under the town’s temple.