tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87582537333372668272024-03-19T01:48:30.902-07:00mangozeenView of the good, the bad, and the in-between from Pattaya and beyondMANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.comBlogger7229125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-61225740629522166402024-03-18T12:23:00.000-07:002024-03-18T12:23:46.538-07:00Pneumatic Tubes <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8TaIEimusJ_fBG8HOYd3VjcNeTr67XNedTKklvTOAF1duaAfmDbdaeIeKIzegskTSQSo6Gz281SN3fJsiep4RL6-0CTNgk2b_gFcutQUZ9JLsnaDNaOMIXvDUy1bLdoJz1fsxxzVgWdWUlZTj-ac-x905CDlUJhh7e9Rg17GkaJLTf2xFb1VJiGBrzLJ/s578/2406502382_b342b77082_b.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8TaIEimusJ_fBG8HOYd3VjcNeTr67XNedTKklvTOAF1duaAfmDbdaeIeKIzegskTSQSo6Gz281SN3fJsiep4RL6-0CTNgk2b_gFcutQUZ9JLsnaDNaOMIXvDUy1bLdoJz1fsxxzVgWdWUlZTj-ac-x905CDlUJhh7e9Rg17GkaJLTf2xFb1VJiGBrzLJ/s320/2406502382_b342b77082_b.jpg"/></a></div>
“WHEN A YOUNG MAN IN Manhattan writes a letter to his girl in Brooklyn, the love letter gets blown to her through a pneumatic tube–pfft–just like that.” — E.B. White, ‘Here Is New York’.
The pneumatic tube system was once an essential part of New York life. Cylinders containing letters, packages, or at least in one case a live cat, were shot through tubes by air pressure, at a rate of 35 mph, and these tubes ran all over New York.Though the tubes were officially retired in 2016, as of 1998 the New York's main library was still installing new systems. And though no one gets to use them anymore, you can still see the antique pipes in the NY Humanities and Social Sciences Library.
I loved going to the Rose Room's desk and submitting requests magically transported to the subterranean stacks beneath the library containing over four million books. I sat on a bench waiting for my request to be posted on the iconic arrival. Scholarship for the masses.
Earlier this year I was accepted as a research scholar at The Lionel Pincus and Princess Firyal Map Division. As a child I haunted the attic of my grandmother's house in Westbrook Maine. Thousands of National Geographics. I visited hundreds of faraway lands, dreaming of see them in the flesh. I have been blessed to have seen the world then and now. Oh, the glory of studyingMANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-88220273775377808192024-03-18T11:53:00.000-07:002024-03-18T16:36:45.800-07:00Winchester Gun Club - Jomtien -2007<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHi5Kp0aNQ-gvHk4zI5XEoR3oDWRPmvVVXX1bfbm-hakC2Hg0ByjCXGX8zEGpCfK2_C20YDbNlYZEx2N-NpLKn09BI3jJttBMS-OdfjI23v_7mlXkXM1iXOLmSpd0GihEqnjdqH2Hx2d6ZwAxjKuWU4dfugLZtFIWPUeaCXJ5E6kdvgYsnkNUHWIacw/s225/download-1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHi5Kp0aNQ-gvHk4zI5XEoR3oDWRPmvVVXX1bfbm-hakC2Hg0ByjCXGX8zEGpCfK2_C20YDbNlYZEx2N-NpLKn09BI3jJttBMS-OdfjI23v_7mlXkXM1iXOLmSpd0GihEqnjdqH2Hx2d6ZwAxjKuWU4dfugLZtFIWPUeaCXJ5E6kdvgYsnkNUHWIacw/s320/download-1.jpg"/></a></div><p>For the last months of 2007 the facade of the old Beggar's Arms in Jomtien had been undergoing renovation. The venerable Jomtien institution had been closed for the better part of a year. Someone had dropped money to resurrect the short-time bar under the guise of the Winchester Club on Soi Wat Boon.
<p>
I used to go to the Manhattan Gun Club on West 20th Street every Monday with my Dutch uncle, Howie Hermann. I worked in his diamond exchange. Guns were part of the business as were the thieves, who made them necessary. I never fired once in anger, but Howie and I popped off hundreds of rounds each week. I like 9mms best. Soft trigger and little recoil.
<p>
Strangely many of Pattaya's elephant camps have shooting ranges and the pachyderms were freaked by the daily gunfire, figuring one day a Chinese or American tourist might go safari-hunting frenzy. For some reason I suspected that the new owners weren't installing a basement shooting range and suspected that the 'gun club' was a euphemism for activities pursued within the confines of the second-floor bedrooms.
<p>
Jamie Parker called Sunday.
<p>"I'll buy you a few beers at the Winchester."
<p>
"It's open?"
<p>
"Yes, and they have a free buffet with ribs." Jamie knew I was a little short for cash this month and that I also had a weakness for ribs. I told my wife I was going out to get the oil changed on my bike. She rolled her eyes in disbelief, but didn't ask too many questions, since I had paid for repairs to the car.
<p>
Her accident.
<p>My bill.
<p>
Sunday traffic had become infuriating with the influx of Bangkok weekenders in a rush to get everywhere fast and I avoided the congestion on the back road through the wetlands, reaching the Winchester within ten minutes. About thirty bikes were parked in the dirt lot.
<p>
The door was plastered with a Thai-language anti-gun sticker and a long sentence saying that shirts were required for all male customers. No tank-tops. Nothing puts me off drinking beer more than seeing some old geezers' saggy tits.
<p>
I stepped inside the bar. It was dark as midnight, except for around the bar. Girls in dresses lurked in the shadows. My eyes adjusted to the murk, yet I couldn't make out their faces. The men with them seemed pleased by this lighting arrangement, since dim lighting cuts both ways. A hand touched my shoulder. Jamie.
<p>
"Good, huh?"
<p>
"Black as a witches heart."
<p>
"And it's only 3pm." Transylvanian blood ran in his family and the New Yorker tried never to see the light of day.
<p>
"How are the ribs?"
<p>
"Good." He signaled two beers and offered a rib. It was tender and free. I went into the pool room to load up a plate. Back at the table Jamie and I talked about baseball. He was a Yankee fan and as a New Englander I hated the Bronx Bombers as much as a Tottenham Hot Spurs fanatic despised Chelsea. Our discussion was getting heated and Jamie said, "Good thing there's a 'no guns' sign on the door."
<p>
"Not like the old days." Red Sox Nation believed more in fistfights than shootings. "When I first came to Thailand the hotels and bars had signs forbidding landmines, grenades, dynamite, dogs, and durians."
<p>
"A sensible policy, especially about durians." Most farangs ran at the smell of an over-ripe durian and the stench clung to the walls too. "Smells like old baby diapers."
<p>
"I like a little durian." The Indonesians say 'when durian comes down, the skirts go up', referring to its aphrodisiacal powers. Probably a myth, since my wife never reacts amorously after eating the foul-smelling fruit.
<p>
"You can have it." Jamie was eying the girls closest to us. He was a single man with money and time on his hands. I was married with a kid and bills for school. Another beer was as far as I was going to get today, but Jamie disappeared upstairs for a test run of the new facilities.
<p>
Sean loomed out of the darkness. The Elfin Aussie was proudly wearing a Winchester Gun Club shirt and explained that he had branched out of his visa service on Soi Buakhao to become the CEO of the Winchester Club. "In other words I get to shut the door at night."
<p>
"You have a good crowd." More than two farangs was a success this low season.
<p>
"They come from everywhere. Businessmen on the way home to Ban Amphur. Golfers. Husbands seeking someplace secluded without having to get involved with a 'mia-noi'. And this is August."
<p>
"You expecting a big high season?"
<p>
"High season for 2006-7 was shit. Punters had no money and they didn't come here this summer either, but you can't tell me that they can stand a year away from here. I mean the UK is brutal for men our age."
<p>
Bald overweight single men in Britain have sex with another person once a decade. Married ones even less.
<p>
"Which is why the internet is loaded with spam for Cialis and porno."
<p>
"Sex for the home bound."
<p>
"And also fighting off baldness."
<p>
"Too late for me and here who cares." Thai girls were notoriously forgiving of a male partners' physical flaws and social faults.
<p>
"No one." My wife was equally blind to my age. I drank another beer and then pissed off for home, where my wife sniffed the tobacco on my shirt. She made no comment, but thought the worst. I could expect nothing else.
<p>
Jamie later called from the Winchester and said he was on his way to getting supremely drunk.
<p>
"It-chaa?"
<p>
"More than a little jealous." I was sober, but next time at the Winchester I would take advantage of the eternal night.
<p>
If only to celebrate Beermas.
<p>
WINCHESTER GUN CLUB - Soi Wat Boon near Jomtien Beach Road.
<p>
Hours early to late
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-13796191884610447802024-03-17T21:30:00.000-07:002024-03-18T16:29:14.882-07:00Plastic Plastic Everywhere 2011 <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVOEjuUBDSol9UnnpnB_7M2YEZXF6bjGRj4-i6OGFFKLYUXR9CK1a6GyKWp7NTGHSKvllM1NKw-wOGl60q5uA5cgxBd_P0O6wgZ6NFkb938rgPG8eLu5mVUNQNtWXxlrNmY4gmnmLiLcEBRjZgjOcnBwQQt_5dEBWk1L2uvNO_QnMtPBBE4pYi8Ab5YTU/s2048/jomtien.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJVOEjuUBDSol9UnnpnB_7M2YEZXF6bjGRj4-i6OGFFKLYUXR9CK1a6GyKWp7NTGHSKvllM1NKw-wOGl60q5uA5cgxBd_P0O6wgZ6NFkb938rgPG8eLu5mVUNQNtWXxlrNmY4gmnmLiLcEBRjZgjOcnBwQQt_5dEBWk1L2uvNO_QnMtPBBE4pYi8Ab5YTU/s320/jomtien.JPG"/></a></div><p>Over forty years ago Jomtien Beach was a hidden paradise. The drive from Bangkok took 4-6 hours depending on the tides. The Sukhumvit road was flooded twice daily by the coming and going of the sea. The Old Roué of the Orient tells on swimming at dawn with a lovely Thai girl.
<p>
<br />"Fish leapt from the water. It was clean as gin."
<p>
<p>Thirty years of tourist expansion have not been kind to the Gulf of Siam.
<p>Two days ago I had arrived in Thailand and taxied south from Bangkok to Jomtien, where my wife lived with my son, Fenway. I sat with my friends on the narrow strand of beach. The beer was cold and
the islands on the horizon hovered over the sea like UFOs from Eden. The wind was gentle and holiday makers from Ban Nok frolicked in the shallow water. For many it was their first time seeing the sea. None of them noticed the thousands of plastic bags floating on the surface like desiccated jellyfish. The shoreline was a solid bunker of plastic trash.
<p>
<p>I spent five minutes picking up flotsam. Mostly plastics bags. Within ten minutes the beach was clean.
<p>"I don't know why you bother. Everyday. Next high tide and the trash is back." An overweight British lager lout had witnessed my Sisyphean efforts on the beach before.
<p>"I don't care about then. I care about now," I took off my glasses. My myopia Xed out the plastic in the water, but the Brit was right. The next high tide deposited another harvest of trash.
<p>Once more mostly plastic bags.
<p>Thais blame the sea-borne garbage on fishermen. They are mostly Cambodian. No one likes to blame themselves, since the real source of the plastics are 7/11s and food stalls shops along the beach. The person leave their trash on the beach, as if they city of Pattaya is paying someone to haul it to a landfill on the Moon.
<p>
<p>The city depended on the sea.
<p>
<br />"Remember in THE GRADUATE," said my friend Richard, who was teaching in Saudi Arabia. No bars. No booze. No women. No porno. The South African's sole form of entertainment was watching old movies. "The man saying the future was plastics."
<p>"He was a prophet." Mark an Aussie mate detested my crusade against plastic, viewing my work as demeaning for a foreigner. He also hated the plastic. "Some Swede invented plastic bags in the early 60s. They didn't hit the UK until the 80s."
<p>"Fish was wrapped in newspaper. Sometimes the skin would bear the headlines."
<p>"Teenage packers at the supermarket check-out specialized in sorting the right shaped food into the bags." Mark was almost as old as me. The 60s were a different time from today.
<p>"The Thais used banana leaves." I remember buying khao surrounded by a leaf. The cook had added spices. The rice was delicious.
<p>"Now the stores give plastic bags for everything." Mark pointed to a passing Thai beachvendor carrying a plastic bag of fried bananas.
<p>"A pack of gum or cigarettes." Richard loved his cigarettes.
<br />
<br />"The Chinese pharmacist on Pattaya Tai says her customers think she is being kee-neo or cheap, if she doesn't give them a plastic bag. Food candy or chips. They want them no matter the size of the purchase."
<p/>"It's free." Mark traveled from free food bar to free for bar. His UK pension shrank with every crisis back home.
<p>"Whenever I refuse them, the clerk regards me as if I were pian or weird."
<p>The Thais are no different from farangs, who regard my trash discipline as that of a crazy man. "Young people think that is choice or old-fashioned."
<p>"Young people regard us as dinosaurs. "
<p>"And they're not wrong." Fifty-nine years old, however my aversion to plastic bags was spreading across the globe. Bhutan was the first nation to ban the eyesores. Ireland and France placed a surcharge on the bags. 90% reduction of bags entering the garbage centers in those countries. The petro-chemical companies have lost 25% of their global reach due to bans and restrictions. The USA has been slow to buck the plastic mania as Big Oil rules the nation.
<p>"Africa is covered in plastic bags filled with shit. It's called the poor man's toilet." Richard had recently visited his family in SA. He considers nowhere his home.
<p/>"Nice image. Shit and plastic. The future is plastic shit." Mark ordered three beers for the beach boy. "Mai sow tung plastic."
<p>The Thai beach boy brought the beers in a plastic bag, saying he only had two hands.
<p>They were cold.
<p/>Later that evening I mentioned the ban of plastic to Fenway's mom. She thought that I was crazy.
<p>"Not have plastic bag. Have what? Banana? You choie."
<p>Thais throw plastic out the window and expect the trash to blow away with the wind.
<p>Breaking this addiction to ease will take years.
<p>Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific. Remote and idyllic, yet millions of plastic bags wash up on the tropical beaches every day.
<p>I don't mean to lecture.
<p>I hated sermons.
<p>And I don't mind picking up plastic bags.
<p>Keeps me limber.
<p>But one day I'd like to see none of the beach.
<p>No, actually I'd like to see them never.
<p>Cause that's the way of the new modern world, no matter what the the Rich want.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-47216226988023945852024-03-17T12:47:00.000-07:002024-03-17T17:39:39.349-07:00Twins of Ireland<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgddR5NGiImn43oKYzARcFXD8DCaGAfqYMTNoO50jpwWkw3eufT_44JMjBQr20n4meQ_JvY9iV9FxjX645NvLtSFIOybCA-i3fETBaxsuWmjHIQo7aWhGU0hr0iFkEn55uwwqp70F18e0/s1600/twins2.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgddR5NGiImn43oKYzARcFXD8DCaGAfqYMTNoO50jpwWkw3eufT_44JMjBQr20n4meQ_JvY9iV9FxjX645NvLtSFIOybCA-i3fETBaxsuWmjHIQo7aWhGU0hr0iFkEn55uwwqp70F18e0/s320/twins2.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523656204666101730" /></a><br />
Last year my older brother was my # 2 friend. My best friend was my father. The native of Maine was 89. His address was an Alzheimer hospice south of Boston. Once a month I took the Fung Wah bus to South Station and then the commuter train to Norwood. It was a ten-minute walk to his rest home. Throughout the summer his condition deteriorated to the point where he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there. My brothers and sisters warned that he didn't recognize him and last September I approached the re-designed doctor's house with a heavy heart.
He greeted me by name. My sisters saw him 2-4 times a week. My father has no idea who they were and I asked him, "Why can't you recognizes them?"
<p>"Because they don't look like they used to?"
<p>"And I do?" At 58 I had my teeth and hair, but the reflection in the mirror was not me.
<p>"No, you look like a stranger too, but something about you reminds me about your mother, so I think of Angie and then you." He shuddered at the connection. We were never friends until my mother's passage from this world in 1996. I talked a lot. She spoke more. In some ways we were the same person for him.
<p>"You remember your son Frank?" His memory was dim as a winter candle.
<p>"My # 1 son. You two were Irish twins." My mother had dressed her two oldest sons alike since I stopped wearing baby clothes. Frank and I fought over everything, but she also loved that people thought we were twins.
<p>"We weren't really Irish twins." The term pertained to children born within a year. My older brother and I were separated by 13 months. Actually 59 days. He was born on April 1. I arrived the morning of May 29.
<p>"60 days were a week back then." He was talking about the 1950s. TV was black and white. Eisenhower was the president. America was the top world power. My father pointed to the clock on his desk. Time meant nothing to most to Alzheimer patients.
"You were never on time." On time for him meant to the second.
<p>"I was never really late." My punctuality ran 15-30 minutes behind the clock, although I had achieved perfect attendance throughout five grades in grammar school. My mother had saved those awards. I have the one from 5th Grade.
<p>"Only once and once was more than enough."
"That's an old story." My father was talking about the time that I had stayed over my girlfriend's house well past midnight. Her mother was not on the premise. We were alone. The radio had been playing THE VELVET UNDERGROUND. We came close to losing our souls to ROCK AND ROLL.
"If it was so old I would have forgotten it."
"Forty years is a long time." Janet had been wearing her cheerleader outfit. It was football season.
"Forty-five years to be exact." My father had been an electrical engineer. He had studied at MIT. Numbers and math were his expertise.
"To be exact you're right on the money." The year was 1967. I was 15.
<p>Janet's mother came home at 1:30. I had left through the backdoor with my clothes in hand. I dressed in the backyard and watched the lights go out in Janet's house. There was no yelling. I waited for a minute to see if Janet came to her bedroom window, but she was a cheerleader and not Juliet and the only breaking light was a harvest moon.
My neighborhood in the Blue Hills was a good four-mile walk. Bus stopped running at 9. The houses were dark. Everyone was asleep. I heard a car coming from the opposite direction. It was my Uncle Dave. The Olds stopped at the curb.
"You want a ride home?" He had been coming from the VFW bar. Uncle Dave had served in the Pacific. Three years on a destroyer.
"No, I'll walk it." I was in no rush to get home.
"Your mother and father know where you are?" Uncle Dave was a good man. He made no judgment of other people's kids, even if they were family.
"Sort of?" It was a teenage answer.
"I was a teenager once. Your dad's going to be pissed at you, if you haven't called. You sure, you don't want me to drive you home?"
"I'm good." I thought about sleeping in the woods. It wasn't that cold, but that would make it even worse. "Thanks for the offer."
The Olds drove off in the direction of Quincy. Uncle Dave would be home in five minutes. I figured that I had another hour to go.
I was wrong.
My father pulled up to me at the crossroads before the parish church. He flung open the door of the Delta 88. It hit me in the thigh.
"Where have you been?" He demanded with a voice that I had never heard from him.
"At a girl's house." I hadn't told my parents about Janet. My mother wanted me to be a priest.
"At a girl's house." My father knew what that meant. He had six kids. "You have any idea about what your mother thought happened to you?"
<p>"None." I hadn't been worrying about my mother or father or school, while lying next to Janet's hot flesh.
<p>His right hand left the steering wheel in the blink of an eye. I never felt his wrist smack my face.
"I didn't want to do that." Tears were wetting his eyes. "I thought something bad happened to you."
"Nothing bad happened, Dad." I rubbed my face. He had never hit me before. I tasted metal in my teeth. All of them were intact.
"Next time call and let us know where you are."
"Yes, sir."
"Let's go home. I'll handle your mother." He sighed with regret.
The next morning my eyes were shadowed with black and blue. My mother was horrified as was my father. Janet cried upon seeing my face. She said that she loved me. In some ways I felt like she had become Juliet, although I was no Romeo. My father and I maintained a cautious distance throughout the remainder of my teenage years.
Hitting me had scared him and at the nursing home I held his hand. I had kids now and said, "I understand why you did what you did that night."
"What night?" The memory had sunk back into the fog.
"Drove me home in the dark. You were always a good father." I kissed his bald head, as my older brother walked into the room. My father looked at him with doubting eyes. "It's Frank, your oldest son."
"That's not Frank. He didn't look like that."
My brother was wearing a suit and I thought maybe that threw off my father. I stood next to Frank.
"See the resemblance."
"We're were Irish twins," My brother took off his glasses.
"You two were never Irish twins, except for your mother."
"It was good enough for her, Dad." She had loved her children with all her heart. My father too.
"Then it's good enough for me, whoever you are." He offered a hand to us both. We spoke about Irish twins three times in succession without his retaining a single word. His mind had been swept clean of the good and the bad and I was lucky enough to possess a memory of both good and bad for him. My mother wouldn't have it any other way.
I was her Irish twin and that was good enough for my father too.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-37547556663307648182024-03-17T08:54:00.000-07:002024-03-17T17:38:01.403-07:00Erin Go Gay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSb46-5qUYrjOABOnCNpVCWuyYPPBopuHb6s0tah29yTbnBl4IQHdBuHIni2lIvJVenfslmFtixVbgmQOLBttpyKeJJVQIaY9dfLlj588qSNJeMXsOF5E7wM6tSxqVsqmWQg2CAepsFo/s1600/Leprechaun3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtSb46-5qUYrjOABOnCNpVCWuyYPPBopuHb6s0tah29yTbnBl4IQHdBuHIni2lIvJVenfslmFtixVbgmQOLBttpyKeJJVQIaY9dfLlj588qSNJeMXsOF5E7wM6tSxqVsqmWQg2CAepsFo/s320/Leprechaun3.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>Aristotle wrote in his histories that the Celtic warriors preferred homosexuality to heterosexual joining. The practice of man with man abounded amongst the Gauls and men ere deeply upset by the refusal of Romans to join them in gay orgies or one-one-ones. The Holy Roman Church quelled this freedom in favor of establishing their pedophiliac destiny over the souls of the Hibernian Isles.
<p>Homosexuals and lesbians were put to the torch, whipped, exiled, imprisoned, and forcibly converted to heterosexuality by the wicked priests and lay brothers and nuns, however this weekend the Free State of Ireland overwhelmingly voted to legalize the union between men and men and women and women. The Church vowed to fight the law, but the new Pope doesn't have a dog in this fight.
<p>Francis wants a new rock on which to form the new church and that foundation does not include sexual prejudice or the criminalization of woman's right to govern her own body.
<P>Despite having received an outstanding education from the Sisters or St. Jospeh, the Xaverian Brothers, and the Jesuits, my devotion to atheism prays for the eventual destruction of the Holy Roman Church and an end to its two-thousand year old reign of terror.
<p>In the meanwhile Sunday was a good day to be Irish.
<p>Free to be who we want to be forever.
<p>Saoirse go bragh.
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MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-10259454131161319922024-03-17T08:02:00.000-07:002024-03-17T17:36:16.132-07:00Zroom Ferrari Zroom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<p>My mother deteriorated rapidly in her bed at MGH. She was in the final stages of her battle with cancer. It was not a pretty fight, but her beauty remained intact to the end. On Christmas Eve my mother held my hand and said, "I'm so happy I made Christmas."</p>
<p>"Me too." I thought about John Wayne at the end of THE SEARCHERS and forced back my tears.</p>
<p>"You've been everywhere in the world. You've never been to Ireland. I'm leaving you a little money. I want you to go to Ireland and find a girl like your aunts or sisters to marry. Will you do that for me?" Her grip tightened to crack my knuckles. She knew her own strength to the measure. Her grandmother had fled the Aran Isles as a girl of twelve. Nana never went back home. The one boat trip was enough for her.</p>
<p>"Yes, I will." There was no refusing here, despite the incestuous nature of her last demand from her second son.</p>
<p>"You're a good boy." She released my hand with a sigh. "Help me with the medicine."</p>
<p>By medicine my mother meant her morphine drip. I hit her up good. Her tender eyes rolled into heaven and I kissed her forehead. Three weeks later she passed from this life. No one in my family contested her will and six months later I received enough money to survive four months in Ireland. My good friend Camp had arranged a rental in the far west of Galway beneath the Seven Pins of the Connemarra. The renovated school house belonged to the Guinness family. They made beer. </p>
<p>"So it has to be grand?" I had read about the nearest town. Clifden had fifteen pubs. The guide books said nothing about women.</p>
<p>"It's the Guinness'. How grand couldn't it be?" Camp was English. He lived north of New York in a valley dedicated to the pleasures of the wealthy. I trusted his taste, even if the Brit had never been to Ballyconeeley. Camp was an interior designer. Straight, but still an interior designer. They knew style.</p>
<p>The cottage was rented until the end of the summer and I sublet my apartment at the beginning of September. My boss at the diamond exchange wished me luck with my wife hunt. </p>
<p>"May you make your mother happy." Manny was a mother's boy. We all are in the end.</p>
<p>"I'm doing this for her. I doubt there will be any women." Most Irish women like women everywhere else left their hicktowns for big cities and the guide book had indicated that a small village could get more hickster than Ballyconeeley. It was renown for its cows.</p>
<p>"Better you than me." The seventy year-old jeweler was in the first stages of divorcing his second wife. "I'm done with women. But you're still a young man."</p>
<p>"43." My father had six kids at this age. I had none.</p>
<p>"43. I would cut off your right ball to be 43 again." Manny slipped me a c-note. "Save it until you have a girl to take out to dinner. A yard has to go a long way with a girl from the sticks."</p>
<p>The flight to Dublin was six hours. I found myself a cheap bed and breakfast on the other side of the Penny Bridge. I phoned Lord Guinness to pick up the keys for the house in the West. A taxi took me out to LOdge Park. The red-headed driver was impressed by my destination.</p>
<p>"I helped pay for this with all the Arthurs I bought." The gravel driveway led through a quiet park to a large Georgian mansion with a nearby Victorian shed housing a steam museum. The only word for the estate was grand.</p>
<p>"Arthurs?" My ear was adjusted to the accent.</p>
<p>"Pints of Guinness. The founder's name was Arthur."</p>
<p>"Right." I stored this tidbit of local lore for use at a later time and tipped the driver<br />
His house was a palace complete with medieval tapestries and 16th Century paintings. Selling beer was a good business and I thought to myself, "If the cottage is a hundredth of this barrack, then I will be living in the lap of luxury."</p>
<p>Lord Guinness greeted me and we drank a glass of an excellent St. Emillion to seal our verbal agreement. After my paying the rent for three months in total the white-haired aristocrat drove me back to Dublin in a gray Ferrari from the 60s. The 250 GTE hit 120 mph on the rainy motorway. The windshield wipers worked over-time. A mansion and an Italian sports car were good omen for the cottage in the West.</p>
<p>"I love this car, but I'm getting too old to drive it."Nearing Dublin he slowed down to 60.</p>
<p>"I know what you mean." Getting in was easy. Getting out required a man-servant.</p>
<p>We stopped at the Shelbourne Hotel for drinks. My landlord was greeted by several of the men at the bar. He ordered the finest whiskey at the bar. My rent money paid for both rounds. It was an early night for both of us. He dropped me at my bed and breakfast and I bid him fare-well. </p>
<p>"Enjoy yourself. My friends have spend many summers in that house."</p>
<p>"You don't live there."</p>
<p>"No, I live at the family house."</p>
<p>Oh." I entered the B and B thinking how bad could it be. The man had a Ferrari.</p>
<p>The next morning I rode the train to Galway. A bus brought me to Clifden. A taxi finished off the journey and the female driver asked, "So you'll be staying at the schoolhouse?"</p>
<p>"Yes, you know it." I had great expectations.</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, it's a fine building." She was in her 40s. Her brogue was thick than a slab of breakfast toast. The turn indicator presaged our entering a dirt track. The uneven surface would have broken the axel of the 250 GTE. "This is it."</p>
<p>"I guess it is." I got out of the car and shivered in my light jacket.</p>
<p>The lawn was overrun by thistles and the tufts of grass wavering in a wet wind. The whitewashed house was devoid of any modern design or ancient practicality. The tall walls stood facing the west. The Atlantic lay beyond the field. The color blue matched the shreds of sky visible through the tattered clouds.</p>
<p>"You'll be wanting to wear a few more sweaters in the house. Cold comfort." She joined my shiver. "I went to school here. The teacher lived in the upstairs. Some people say the house is haunted. What do they know. You have a good day now?"</p>
<p>She drove away in the direction of Clifden. I stood and examined my home for the next three months. It was not a mansion. Part of the roof was in need of repair. A neglected graveyard lay in a bog dominated by a burnt church. The wan sun slipped into a cloud bank and the rain beat on the hard dirt. I ran inside the house. The woman had been right, It was colder within the old schoolhouse than outside. The decor of the sitting room affected the height of simplicity and the furniture might have been rummaged from the local dump. The telephone worked and there was pile of peat by the fireplace. I lit it several chunks and spotted a nearly empty bottle of whiskey on the desk.</p>
<p>I felt no heat from the fire and smoke was curling out of the fireplace to form a low fogbank in the sitting room.</p>
<p>It was no mansion. The Ferrari was back in Dublin. My fingers were losing feeling from the cold and I poured two measures of Paddy into a fruit glass grimy with fingerprints. I downed the fiery antithesis of Jamison's Malted Whiskey in one go. My body shook with displeasure.</p>
<p>"Cheap whiskey."</p>
<p>All and all it wasn't bad, because this was where my mother wanted me to be and wherever she was in the afterlife, she knew that I had obeyed the first part of her wish.</p>
<p>Getting to Ireland was easy.</p>
<p>Meeting a girl like my sisters or aunts.</p>
<p>That was the hard part.</p>
<p>There was only one way to make it easy and I finished off the bottle. It went down same as before and I wouldn't have expected anything different from a house without a Ferarri.</p>
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-89950483072528103192024-03-17T06:15:00.000-07:002024-03-17T11:46:21.687-07:00DIRTY OLD TOWN by the Pogues 2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgZ2bnoMNvn8Y2szcyVyDUBiadUERINeJP0LNJVrVNsfeoaNjxAFaR_v5uzKl2TbTU469_XvkOjLAW-l9rBvBdOwfCTyKF7exd9zO5uOYTaYdIXIOvqRyrYiCRON5UzoWFMABMv3gQ8g/s1600-h/pogues.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgZ2bnoMNvn8Y2szcyVyDUBiadUERINeJP0LNJVrVNsfeoaNjxAFaR_v5uzKl2TbTU469_XvkOjLAW-l9rBvBdOwfCTyKF7exd9zO5uOYTaYdIXIOvqRyrYiCRON5UzoWFMABMv3gQ8g/s320/pogues.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314146047288098338" /><p>Several hundred bands will parade up 5th Avenue in New York in honor of St. Padraic. Not one of them will play DIRTY OLD TOWN. I love the Pogues and what about Spider's teeth. real stumps they are.
<p>So for a good lift go to this URL
<p><https://youtu.be/s11BuatTuXk?si=fkBC-j8NhcvbR173
<p>And if you don't like it, Go hifreann leat!MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-10574312444720820232024-03-17T03:35:00.000-07:002024-03-17T17:35:47.815-07:00My Loved Nana<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzu3SREyByzz7Y5BoV5dkgcS24Brg2Go_rlVRwflz8Rg_C8JIeQvykVcJsxrF_fdXq2Dolm_aJsi_sE-FDa6hsawraz8UdCJ8e8uByw-kLPXSDz0rjx6gr5SHfpqsIhaaJqRKWNxZli0/s1600/10653380_356017914565099_648167965775183407_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzu3SREyByzz7Y5BoV5dkgcS24Brg2Go_rlVRwflz8Rg_C8JIeQvykVcJsxrF_fdXq2Dolm_aJsi_sE-FDa6hsawraz8UdCJ8e8uByw-kLPXSDz0rjx6gr5SHfpqsIhaaJqRKWNxZli0/s320/10653380_356017914565099_648167965775183407_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>My Nana came off the boat from Ireland at the age of 14.
<p>She broke her heel coming down the gangway.
<p>Somehow everything turned out all right in that Year of the Crow.
<p>The native of the West refused to pinpoint the date.
<p>We thought the Year of the Crow had something to do with Chinese Astrology.
<p>Nana loved us more than the moon and the stars.
<p>All of the thirteen cousins.
<p>We were her family.
<p>We still are.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-11426494704751955752024-03-17T02:44:00.000-07:002024-03-17T06:08:55.305-07:00ERIN GO BALI 1990<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-YoFqGaUDPuoqFENiDA6xKTctRlrerAGLSDwiBrIWEUM0NAjcAmOJd8L0fDluzfKMcGSk2v9scdxRiBPqSGvS_6s2LwYxcZ2yZCKyqWw9EhIJaqFqqSLy80b-BxFC6sop_t6muzOrTQ/s1600-h/1231850994HhYjG8c.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-YoFqGaUDPuoqFENiDA6xKTctRlrerAGLSDwiBrIWEUM0NAjcAmOJd8L0fDluzfKMcGSk2v9scdxRiBPqSGvS_6s2LwYxcZ2yZCKyqWw9EhIJaqFqqSLy80b-BxFC6sop_t6muzOrTQ/s320/1231850994HhYjG8c.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314142197216633922" /></a></p>
<p>My first trip to Bali was in 1990. Kuta Beach was the island's most popular tourist destination for sea, sun, and fun. Being a pseudo-intellectual I opted for Ubud, an idyllic village of Legong dancers, ornate temples, and quiet evenings.</p>
<p>I rented a small house surrounded by verdant rice paddies. My room overlooked a ravine at the bottom of which the stream served the village's bathing needs. Ketut the house boy served breakfast and instant coffee in the morning. I wrote on a Brother Electric Typewriter. At night croaking frogs vanquished the gamelan music from the temple at the top of Monkey Forest Road. There was no phone service with the outside world and traveler’s checks were the sole form of international money transfers.</p>
<p>At night I listened to the BBC World News on a Sony World Radio and read tattered used books. Dragonflies buzzed through the room and the stars tolerated no earthly rival. I loved Ubud and stayed in the town for months.
<p>Nearing March 17th I suggested to several westerners or ‘mistahs’ that we should staged a St. Patrick’s Day parade. None of them had Hibernian roots. My Balinese friends were enthused at the idea of celebrating being Irish by drinking beer.</p>
<p>"And we wear green." </p>
<p>My house servant Ketut shook his head.</p>
<p>“Can not wear green. This unlucky color.”</p>
<p>“Unlucky.” He had used the Bahasa word ‘blog’. I had never heard it before.</p>
<p>"Yes, my uncle he have green car have many accidents.” </p>
<p>"Green is good luck in Ireland and Ireland is the European Bali."</p>
<p>"Ireland tidak Bali. No green and you not wear green too." Tuut was adamant about this edict, but said, "We drink beer and make music."</p>
<p>"That is good luck?"</p>
<p>"Drink beer always good luck."</p>
<p>Especially if a 'mistah' paid for it.</p>
<p>I didn't argue with tradition and adjusted St. Patrick's Day in accordance with local customs.</p>
<p>On March 17th Ketut, his friend, and I drank beer at the Cafe Bali. They brought drums. I sang Irish ballads on British oppression and at sunset we marched down Monkey Forest Road with me singing BY THE RISING OF THE MOON. I adlibbed the words.
<p>Ketut said it was a sweet song.</p>
<p>“By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon, the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon."
<p>Other Balinese joined the march. N one wore green. We trooped back to the Cafe Bali and switched from beer to 'arak', a strong palm wine. It wasn't as strong as Jamison's Whiskey, but it was a good drink for the first St. Patrick's Day in Ubud and I told Tuut, "Maybe one day you will wear green."</p>
<p>"Maybe a long time away from today."</p>
<p>"But not as far as never. Semoga Beruntung." </p>
<p>I thought that meant good luck and replied, "Go n-éirí an bóthar leat!"</p>
<p>At least I thought I said that.
<p>Everyone clinked beer glasses.</p>
<p>And I told myself that maybe one day I'll get the Balinese to wear green.</p>
<p>It's a color close to my heart.</p>
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-43448241545463797022024-03-17T00:30:00.000-07:002024-03-17T17:32:18.430-07:00Roger Casement Martyr<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjnWU1veu_1TgKvfzvjKhWACwt4GNJNsPyldMRwU0CLWHYBlMoAziZqTp8hx_Ckjm7dL9FadyczdDVECi4IY4nHo1qib_gIcD9B-ISVyvDlHRbPjMg-jnz8SwJQra1goDiTIHuHh8uqg/s1600/_71332471_beingledtothegallows.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrjnWU1veu_1TgKvfzvjKhWACwt4GNJNsPyldMRwU0CLWHYBlMoAziZqTp8hx_Ckjm7dL9FadyczdDVECi4IY4nHo1qib_gIcD9B-ISVyvDlHRbPjMg-jnz8SwJQra1goDiTIHuHh8uqg/s320/_71332471_beingledtothegallows.jpg"></a></p>
<p>Once a Knight of the British Empire Roger Casement was led to his death before a firing squad.</p>
<p>His crime was treason.</p>
<p>He had plotted to have weapons delivered to the IRA to fight against the English during WWI.</p>
<p>The Germans had failed to supply the arms.</p>
<p>A lover sold him out to the Brits.</p>
<p>His friends rejected the revolutionary after the English published his Black Diaries professing his homosexuality.</p>
<p>He was hung dead and thrown naked into a grave to be covered with limestone.</p>
<p>A traitor and a queer.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The BBC reported on his death. They tried to debunk his struggles against oppression in Brazil, the Congo, and Ireland. One thing remains true.</p>
<p>Free the world.</p>
<p>Roger Casement would have waned it that way.</p>
<p>Traitor, but only to end injustice.
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-56755286202215062722024-03-16T23:00:00.000-07:002024-03-17T17:31:46.605-07:00A MOTHER'S LAST WISH by Peter Nolan Smith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<p>After Christmas 1997 my mother entered the final stages of her battle with cancer. These last rounds were not a pretty site, but her beauty remained intact to the end. Several days after the New Year my mother held my hand and said, "I'm so happy I made Christmas."
<p>"Me too." I thought about John Wayne at the end of THE SEARCHERS and forced back my tears.
<p>"You've been everywhere in the world. You've never been to Ireland. I'm leaving you a little money. I want you to go to Ireland and find a girl like your aunts or sisters to marry. Will you do that for me?" Her grip tightened to crack my knuckles. She knew her own strength to the measure. Her grandmother had fled the Aran Isles as a girl of twelve. Nana never went back home. The one boat trip was enough for her.
<p>"Yes, I will." There was no refusing here, despite the incestuous nature of her last wish for her second son.
<p>"You're a good boy." She released my hand with a sigh. "Help me with the medicine."
<p>By medicine my mother meant her morphine drip. I hit her up good. Her tender eyes rolled into heaven and I kissed her forehead. Three weeks later she passed from this life. No one in my family contested her will and in August I received enough money to survive four months in Ireland. I had a new computer and the germ of an idea I wanted to nurture into a gem of a book. The west coast of Ireland
<p>
My good friend Camp arranged a rental in the far west of Galway beneath the Seven Pins of the Connemarra.
<p>
"That would be great." My Nana came from that part of the West. "What kind of house?"
<p>
"It belongs to a very aristocratic family."
<p>
"So it has to be grand?"
<p>
<p>"How grand couldn't it be?" Camp was English. He lived north of New York in a valley dedicated to the pleasures of the wealthy. I trusted his taste, even if the Brit had never been to Ballyconeeley. Camp was an interior designer. Straight, but still an interior designer. They had style. "Are you in or are you out?"
<p>
"Count me in." I had read about the nearest town. Clifden had fifteen pubs. The guide books mentioned nothing about women.
<p>
"One more thing. Buy yourself some Wellingtons."
<p>
"Wellingtons?" I knew that the Irish-born Duke had defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. "Are they cookies?"
<p>
"Nope, rubber boots. You'll be needing them."
<p>
"I'll keep that in mind."
<p>
"Good luck with your writing and with your finding a bride."
<p>
"Thanks." I'd be happy with one out of two.
<p>
<p>At summer's end I sublet my apartment and my boss at the diamond exchange wished me luck with my wife hunt.
<p>"May you make your mother happy." Manny was a mother's boy. We all are in the end.
<p>"I'm doing this for her. I doubt there will be any women." Most Irish women like women everywhere else left their hicktowns for big cities and the guide book had indicated that a small village could get more hickster than Ballyconeeley, which was renown for its cows and windy moors.
<p>"Better you than me." The seventy year-old jeweler was in the first stages of divorcing his second wife. "I'm done with women. But you're still a young man."
<p>"43." My father had six kids at this age. I had none.
<p>"43. I would cut off your right ball to be 43 again." Manny slipped me a c-note. "Save it until you find a girl to take out to dinner. A yard has to go a long way with a girl from the sticks."
<p>
"Thanks." I stuck the hundred dollars deep in my wallet. It had to be good luck.
<p>The next days's flight to Dublin took six hours. Customs and immigration went quickly and I caught a taxi from the airport into the city. The sky was crowded with low clouds trailing veils of rain. There was little threat of sun.
<p>
"Ah, so this is your first time to Ireland?"
<p>
"Yes."
<p>
"Well, get used to the weather. It's either raining, just rained, or about to rain. You got a good pair of shoes?"
<p>
"Yes." Heavy boots and also green Wellingtons."The driver recommended a cheap bed and breakfast on the other side of the Penny Bridge. The room was clean with a window overlooking an alley of brick walls. I didn't bother to unpack my bag and went to the front desk to I phoned my new landlord.
<p>
"So you made the flight over here okay."
<p>
"Yes, sir." I was respectful to my betters and elders.
<p>
"Why don't you come out here to pick up the keys for the house in the West. The taxi driver will know the way."
<p>
"I'll leave now."
<p>
I pulled on my cap and buttoned I caught a taxi outside on the street. The drive on the motorway was a short one. Upon arrival at the landlord's address the red-headed driver whistled in appreciation. The gravel driveway led through a quiet park to a large Georgian mansion with a nearby Victorian shed housing a steam museum. The only word for the estate was grand.
<p>
"What's this man do?" He impressed by my destination.
<p>
"I think he sells beer."
<p>
"A lot of beers from the looks of it. Me and mine must have helped pay for this with all the Arthurs I bought."
<p>"Arthurs?" My ear was adjusting to the accent.
<p>"Pints. The founder of brewery name was Arthur."
<p>"So you know the family?" I had never met them.
<p>
"There's only the one, but I only know them from the glass in my hand. Good beer. Good people."
<p>
"Right." I stored this tidbit of local lore for use at a later time and tipped the driver.
<p>
He drove off and I walked up to the front door." Selling beer was a good business and I thought to myself, "If the cottage is a hundredth of this barrack, then I will be living in the lap of luxury."
<p>
The door opened before I had a chance to ring the bell.
<p>
"Welcome." A silver-haired gentleman greeted me with a handshake and ushered me inside the house. "See you had no trouble find the place."
<p>
"None at all, sir." It was a palace complete with medieval tapestries and 16th Century paintings. I tried not to stare. This much wealth was usually reserved for museums.
<p>
"Call me Robert." He was tall and slender. His clothing suggested a life of grace.
<p>
"Yes, sir." Shaking off my place in the world was not easy, despite Robert's bonhomie.
<p>
The two of us sat in the kitchen and conducted the business of exchanging money and keys. The big room was colder than the outside. We drank a glass of an excellent St. Emillion to seal our verbal agreement.
<p>
"You'll find the house easy enough. It's the first one on the right before Ballyconneely. There's peat for the fireplace, but I suggest getting a hot water bottle for bed. Houses out that way are not centrally heated like back in the States."
<p>
"Thanks for the advice." A light rain pattered against the lead window. I was glad to have my cap.
<p>
"One more thing. The phone is on, but only for incoming calls. You want to use it for calls?"
<p>
"No." I knew no one in Ireland and international calls were expensive.
<p>
"Okay, smart thing. You're writing a book, so I hear?"
<p>
"Yes." It was about a black pimp in Hamburg. The subject matter seemed out of place in this house and I closed the subject by saying, "A quiet place without any interference from the modern world should be great for writing."
<p>
"The old schoolhouse is quiet."
<p>
"Glad to hear it." I also wasn't telling him about my mother's last wish.
<p>
"Let me drive you back to Dublin. We can go for a drink at the Shelbourne. It's the best bar in town."
<p>
"I'd like that."
<p>
Robert's ride was a gray Ferrari from the 60s. The 250 GTE hit 120 mph on the rainy motorway. The windshield wipers worked over-time. A mansion and an Italian sports car were good omen for the cottage in the West.</p>
<p>"I love this car, but I'm getting too old to drive it." Nearing Dublin he slowed down to 60.
<p>"I know what you mean." Getting in was easy. Getting out required a man-servant.
<p>We stopped at the hotel on Stephen's Green for drinks. In the bar my landlord was greeted by several of the men. He ordered the finest whiskey at the bar. My rent money paid for both rounds. It was an early night for both of us. He dropped me at my bed and breakfast and I bid him fare-well.
<p>"Enjoy yourself. My friends have spend many summers in that house."
<p>"You don't stay there?"
<p>"Oh no, we stay at the family house."
<p>Oh." I entered the B and B thinking how bad could the guest house be. The man had a Ferrari.
<p>The next morning I rode the train to Galway. A bus brought me to Clifden. The town was small, but five bars crowded the main square. The rain fell with ease. A taxi was at the curb. A beer could wait.I got in the back.
<p>
"Where you going?" The fortyish woman's accent was thick than a slab of breakfast toast. Her face was worn from hard work. Gold glinted on her left hand. Her married status eliminated the driver from my list of eligible.
<p>
"The old school house in Ballyconeely."
<p>
"Right, it is." She stepped on the gas and we traveled down a two-laner too narrow for the passage of two cars. The sea was to the right on occasion and small farms rolled over the small inland hills. To the north mountains fought for my attention. Their summits were blunted by clouds. Not a single person was working the fields. They belonged to the cows.
<p>
"Here we are." We were passing the ruins of a church.
<p>
"There?" My great expectations diminished to utter disappointment. I had been scammed by his Lordship.
<p>
"No, that's the old Protestant church. It burned down unexpectedly in 1920. Stayed burned too. The schoolhouse is that one."
<p>"Oh." A squat white house lay across a gully from the ghostly church.
<p>"Ah, yes, it's a fine building." The turn indicator presaged our entering a dirt track. The uneven surface would have broken the axel of the 250 GTE. "This is it."
<p>"I guess it is." I got out of the car and shivered in my light jacket.
<p>The lawn was overrun by thistles and the tufts of grass wavering in a wet wind. The whitewashed house was devoid of any modern design or ancient practicality. The tall walls stood facing the west. The Atlantic lay beyond the field. The color blue matched the shreds of sky visible through the tattered clouds.
<p>"You'll be wanting to wear a few more sweaters in the house. It's cold inside." She joined my shiver. "I went to school here. The teacher lived in the upstairs. Some people say the house is haunted. What do they know. You have a good day now?"
<p>
"Thanks."
<p>
"You need a ride, call me. The name's Peg."
<p>
"I will." I watched, as she drove away in the direction of Clifden, then turned to examine my home for the next three months.
<p>
The old schoolhouse was not a mansion. Part of the roof was in need of repair. A neglected graveyard lay in the bog separating the schoolhouse and the burnt church. The wan sun slipped into a cloud bank and the rain beat on the hard dirt. I ran inside the house. Peg had been right, It was colder within the old schoolhouse than outside.
<p>
The simple decor of sitting room reflected its use as a summer house and the well-used furniture have been rummaged from the local dump. I lifted the phone. There was a connection. I blew in my hands and bent over to pile peat in the small fireplace. The prehistoric carbon lit fast and generated a soft heat, although smoke was curling into the room. Something was wrong with the flue. The old schoolhouse was no mansion. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey was on the desk.
<p>
The view out the window was bleak. The wet grass gave way to savage gorse. The sky was descending to the earth. No houses were in sight. Finding a woman here was going to be a challenge.
<p>
I poured two measures of Paddy into a fruit glass grimy with fingerprints. I downed the fiery antithesis of Jamison's Malted Whiskey in one go. My body shook with displeasure.
<p>"Cheap whiskey."
<p>
I had a second glass and sat by the fire. The glow within matching the glow from the peat.
<p>All and all the old schoolhouse wasn't bad, because this was where my mother wanted me to be and wherever she was in the afterlife, she knew that I had obeyed the first part of her wish.
<p>Getting to Ireland was easy.
<p>Meeting a girl like my sisters or aunt was the hard part.
<p>There was only one way to make it easy and I finished off the bottle. It went down a little smoother than before and I wouldn't have expected anything different from the old schoolhouse.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-29125265771307842992024-03-16T22:55:00.000-07:002024-03-17T05:48:49.604-07:00The Far West Of Ireland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<p>
My grandmother came from County Mayo. Her last name was Walsh. Nana sailed to Boston at the age of fourteen. That ocean voyage was so traumatic that she never returned to Ireland, even though my mother and her sisters often offered to fly Nana to Shannon.
<p>
"I don't want to travel on that sea again."
<p>"Planes don't float on the sea. They fly in the sky," explained my mother.
<p>"I know that, but once over the ocean is fine enough for me."
<p>
She had a way with words and thanks to her blood that I was granted Irish citizenship under the 'born abroad' program. My cousin Oil Can also has his passport.
<p>
Members of my family have traveled to the Republic. I stayed in Ballyconneeley for over four months. It was the coldest autumn of my life.
<p>
Most recently I served as unofficial writer in residence at a diplomatic posting smack in the center of Europe. Madame l'Ambassador introduced me to the visiting dignitaries as her Irish artist. One British minister was suspicious of my origins and asked, "In what part of Ireland do they speak with that accent?"
<p>
"The Far West." My Irish passport in my pocket was proof of my claim.
<p>
"Which is?" He wanted the name of the town.
<p>
"Boston."
<p>
"That's in America."
<p>
"Only for those that aren't Irish. For the rest of us there it's the Fada An tIarthar and we celebrate St. Patrick's on the same day as the redcoats evacuated the city for good. It's the best of days."
<p>The British minister said nothing, but Madame l"Ambassador stood up for me.
"He's only Half-Irish, but his accent in 100% Far West." We are longtime friends. She had been to Boston with me. It's a lovely town on the water.
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRB5ZZWMBPjgJsBUzRcRxAN5yG9UqOKLMfjPz4-34rWKlkd3OZjk5I0dfsumKNt61G7m3hWM9sftQfMrzqMiOR-d7Ger4n5qRzvs6TBRlQdbRfoXo4Oi6Nm2vspOndrCgXgS5n6EYXjUtL/s1600/boston46.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRB5ZZWMBPjgJsBUzRcRxAN5yG9UqOKLMfjPz4-34rWKlkd3OZjk5I0dfsumKNt61G7m3hWM9sftQfMrzqMiOR-d7Ger4n5qRzvs6TBRlQdbRfoXo4Oi6Nm2vspOndrCgXgS5n6EYXjUtL/s320/boston46.JPG" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a></div>MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-86357715210044765732024-03-16T21:30:00.002-07:002024-03-17T17:37:26.918-07:00The Far West Of Ireland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<p>My grandmother came from County Mayo. Her last name was Walsh. Nana sailed to Boston at the age of fourteen. That ocean voyage was so traumatic that she never returned to Ireland. My mother and her sisters often offered to fly Nana to Shannon. </p>
<p>"I don't want to see that sea again. Once is fine. Twice is for dying." </p>
<p>She had a way with words and thanks to her blood I was granted Irish citizenship under the 'born abroad' program. My cousin Oil Can also has his passport.</p>
<p>Members of my family have traveled to the Republic.
<p>In 1995 I stayed in Ballyconneeley for over four months.
<p>Those four months were was the coldest autumn of my life.</p>
<p>In 2011 I had been living as unofficial writer in residence at a diplomatic posting smack in the center of Europe. Madame l'Ambassador introduced me to the visiting dignitaries as her Irish artist. One British minister was suspicious of my origins and asked, "In what part of Ireland do they speak with that accent?"</p>
<p>"The Far West of Eire." My Irish passport in my pocket was proof of my claim.</p>
<p>"Which is?" He wanted the name of the town.</p>
<p>"Boston."</p>
<p>"That's in America."</p>
<p>"Only for those that aren't Irish. For the rest of us there it's the Fada An tIarthar." </p>
<p>"He's only Half-Irish, but his accent in 100% Far West." Madame l"Ambassador stood up for me. We are longtime friends. She had been to Boston with me. It's a lovely town on the water.
<p>And a true city of Ireland.</p>
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-39059105067092256582024-03-16T21:30:00.001-07:002024-03-17T05:50:11.407-07:00Sheelah Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCQa4TsdIwHkjXnK0PeU-N7-v4dFagZ5dkTOS3NYBgmT3oxsA0GwBHAFKQ-wiWTOYLlr2Wl20__vJ7-tt9RwkEnoP4oI7e4jM6cIoTecfzjaWSqLrSe0oQRLIwATNEupSiZSI5rP0o9Do/s640/Hill-of-Tara-640x640.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCQa4TsdIwHkjXnK0PeU-N7-v4dFagZ5dkTOS3NYBgmT3oxsA0GwBHAFKQ-wiWTOYLlr2Wl20__vJ7-tt9RwkEnoP4oI7e4jM6cIoTecfzjaWSqLrSe0oQRLIwATNEupSiZSI5rP0o9Do/s320/Hill-of-Tara-640x640.jpg"/></a></div><p>
<p>The Hill of Tara has been a Celtic religious burial site since before the Pyramids of Giza.
<p>The two Neolithic circular mounds within the Raith Na Riogh enclosure are adorned the image of Sheela Na Gig, a naked woman holding open a giant vagina.
<p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Esg1-pLG4_4OOCD1TL0cywnKARD4Gel4PK2Si9dcI-ac73P9KARWLU19wZg_lAUQo91j0UowCo_sjXIMeKNjvf-ZxR0-z0HbpdQC4lnMvzI8p71SjWiMgzLllxOsJXHn5oADxgwRtb9Q/s1080/Cailleach-House-Halloween.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="1080" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Esg1-pLG4_4OOCD1TL0cywnKARD4Gel4PK2Si9dcI-ac73P9KARWLU19wZg_lAUQo91j0UowCo_sjXIMeKNjvf-ZxR0-z0HbpdQC4lnMvzI8p71SjWiMgzLllxOsJXHn5oADxgwRtb9Q/s320/Cailleach-House-Halloween.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>The Catholic Church demonized the ancient icon as a symbol for pagan lust and sin. The unholy priests claimed Sheela was St. Padraic's wife. Fuck them, because thousands of the erotic carvings throughout Europe survived two-thousand years of Christian persecution of women and pagans. These female forms were revered as protection against evil spirits, because according to Wikipedia believers regarded the vulva as the primordial gate, the mysterious divide between nonlife and life.
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<p>Modern feminists rejected the concept that Sheela-Na-Gig was a Celtic goddess. Many connect her with a mythic wanton hag. Even the devil or diabhal was scared by the hag, but the Irish can drink beauty into a stone.<br>
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-k1rL5bm0wfkfRf14XgjVbHDSH3XCzKH6tV8Oc6TZlWdpWksIl9tqIcSbFU2aiwkfh0FOALpq8aOMqqflqQtY9M7r37eq4k6QZlSkPiv2twjHqcHGL3SV80RMhgnUovvbiZEERxpRiav/s600/the-cailleach-rachel-patterson.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-k1rL5bm0wfkfRf14XgjVbHDSH3XCzKH6tV8Oc6TZlWdpWksIl9tqIcSbFU2aiwkfh0FOALpq8aOMqqflqQtY9M7r37eq4k6QZlSkPiv2twjHqcHGL3SV80RMhgnUovvbiZEERxpRiav/s320/the-cailleach-rachel-patterson.png"/></a></div>
<p>Cailleach, who was blind in one eye like Odin or Bridgit of Clare.
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRu1LFQYB_9idc3ZywjIo-yOq9kDcI06DYbqjp0G-qmbkYiC_cBNcx65UlfFzMHj6qAyKfE5CkFjrqZe1EKEFAEs_9ycRPrF03XY9I4bPWVBgBk3ioCxwn39FoWTTYV2APM48Z0SJyleca/s1223/800px-La_Fontaine_-_Tales_and_Novels_in_verse_-_v2_p130.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1223" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRu1LFQYB_9idc3ZywjIo-yOq9kDcI06DYbqjp0G-qmbkYiC_cBNcx65UlfFzMHj6qAyKfE5CkFjrqZe1EKEFAEs_9ycRPrF03XY9I4bPWVBgBk3ioCxwn39FoWTTYV2APM48Z0SJyleca/s320/800px-La_Fontaine_-_Tales_and_Novels_in_verse_-_v2_p130.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>Mircea Eliade in THE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF RELIGION wrote that the old woman was unsuccessful with her advances. One man was drunk enough to say, "Cad e an fuck."<br>
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpsjkTAwZ89siP4Us6wQ1C2JOiVw41Ys6XRRj8InXxEFzGs10iqnpr_nG3NayvqnAZFdfuYtILbqN_Cddc0ydRER9m-x73vmIP9p33wfXyOlp_HoDyNwxA_-ZkfJdXGzp8hELi1_5k6-h/s2048/img_3265.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpsjkTAwZ89siP4Us6wQ1C2JOiVw41Ys6XRRj8InXxEFzGs10iqnpr_nG3NayvqnAZFdfuYtILbqN_Cddc0ydRER9m-x73vmIP9p33wfXyOlp_HoDyNwxA_-ZkfJdXGzp8hELi1_5k6-h/s320/img_3265.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>Paddy woke next to a beautiful woman. Cailleach granted him royalty under her aegis.
<p>Such are the things of legends.
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDgjhl1E9p7d0VVDosqrTsAz9shcZHRMszGWC0-wuMYCMkSgA0hjZQCRrdXwORQMg3U_oTyrO_qSPmXZPKj_wG5TrnpYRTOG6Qy-fZsev5JbzDknHb_c3vw1N-Bg7RFOtsO-k5elvwChD/s1500/Cailleach_1500-56a6dfaf3df78cf77290a561.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDgjhl1E9p7d0VVDosqrTsAz9shcZHRMszGWC0-wuMYCMkSgA0hjZQCRrdXwORQMg3U_oTyrO_qSPmXZPKj_wG5TrnpYRTOG6Qy-fZsev5JbzDknHb_c3vw1N-Bg7RFOtsO-k5elvwChD/s320/Cailleach_1500-56a6dfaf3df78cf77290a561.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>As are all stories ghosted by time.
<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_4BWW2vqpIzGwiBlq7J5u6OYnBUWa84YCQdGcSGlQshMxBWcf2en0VDFhXlvvwxJYdTpw_eJ6LEuzsLJ70YUuEBEqJwbAiwDwjD95F_9wJXGrf_YMDYNSDSfx-l3dI3V5kPgYRmnehVj/s400/Irish_Never_Drunk_White_Shirt.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_4BWW2vqpIzGwiBlq7J5u6OYnBUWa84YCQdGcSGlQshMxBWcf2en0VDFhXlvvwxJYdTpw_eJ6LEuzsLJ70YUuEBEqJwbAiwDwjD95F_9wJXGrf_YMDYNSDSfx-l3dI3V5kPgYRmnehVj/s320/Irish_Never_Drunk_White_Shirt.jpg"/></a></div>MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-84014875476876218322024-03-16T21:30:00.000-07:002024-03-17T05:45:24.416-07:00The Irish Are Coming 2011<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifInxnH1ToWVLXJDTPJVPp-3C0aDoMRNABoZOlhclRfLJrSAuTpo2JdojigH1anjIIHcV968nJ1N0t7HHu-dyMCjulOOGBDExjbTS77Iku6jfZskgE_Uhx6FLvs8lJtZnOqI95KoG5Zvw/s1600/P1010756.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifInxnH1ToWVLXJDTPJVPp-3C0aDoMRNABoZOlhclRfLJrSAuTpo2JdojigH1anjIIHcV968nJ1N0t7HHu-dyMCjulOOGBDExjbTS77Iku6jfZskgE_Uhx6FLvs8lJtZnOqI95KoG5Zvw/s320/P1010756.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585082210335751538" /></a>
<p>After a month visiting my family in Thailand I returned to New York in 2011. On March 17 I extended invitations to a drinking Craic around the East Village for St. Patrick's Day.
<p>
"I’m back. Happy St. Patrick’s Day," I anounced at the 169 Bar. To most od my friends, however my good friend Jocko Weyland, skateboarder/urbanologist, had begged off joining us with the following words.
<p>"Thanks for the invitation. I’m honored, but I want to hibernate a bit and stay away from the sauce. Too much sauce in Tucson!"
<p>
My response was swift, because hibernating during the high holy holiday of hibernian inebreations was a heresy and I told Jocko, "Go dtachta na péisteoga do thóin bheagmhaitheasach."
<p>"What the fuck does that mean?"
<p>"May the worms choke your worthless butt. But no worries. Tuesday evening I had a practice run in the East Village and I woke in a coma yesterday."
<p>"Too much sauce."
<p>"Too much everything."
<p>
Tonight is St. Padraic Eve. I'm beer-hungry.
<p>
Drinking with two comrades-in-arms.
<p>
Happy St. Patrick’s Day to ye all.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-32893067020619087702024-03-16T21:00:00.002-07:002024-03-17T11:58:58.745-07:00A Long Lost Letter of The Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSeGSEcZbhyphenhyphenqIBZj6rkJBdJsVGVBxOM28jU6PYgyISlA-R5b-sDzLCPda9HlfdPOroV6EV9Uux5M2QoXcyuVV_HH-FG5kMkd6JEsJiWXxE0KnRFb11vQueniguQTr1HTcXNktI788RoMb/s1479/ballyconeeley+fast+eddie+7.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1479" data-original-width="992" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSeGSEcZbhyphenhyphenqIBZj6rkJBdJsVGVBxOM28jU6PYgyISlA-R5b-sDzLCPda9HlfdPOroV6EV9Uux5M2QoXcyuVV_HH-FG5kMkd6JEsJiWXxE0KnRFb11vQueniguQTr1HTcXNktI788RoMb/s320/ballyconeeley+fast+eddie+7.JPG"/></a></div>
<p>In the Autumn of 1997 Ty Spaulding and I resided in a roughly renovated schoolhouse west of Galway. The Atlantic Ocean was a five-minute walk away. The waves pounded the shore. Summer was gone for good.
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSJNE94Jp4pVu8DkhMYN849y9F3F_WIieNaEeWrILWiSJUEbpON5uvQQvjij-waU3MPsR_JVsidWSbjKIuDd1M5npTWEVAZrQ-xoYh3mpm4QB-p9e6uzFflEQP_sYrPR161XczApodF4O/s2048/the+pins+64.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSJNE94Jp4pVu8DkhMYN849y9F3F_WIieNaEeWrILWiSJUEbpON5uvQQvjij-waU3MPsR_JVsidWSbjKIuDd1M5npTWEVAZrQ-xoYh3mpm4QB-p9e6uzFflEQP_sYrPR161XczApodF4O/s320/the+pins+64.JPG"/></a></div>
<p>
We were surrounded by rain-swept bogs, fog-wreathed mountains, and the damp beneath our feet. Fall was the season of rain in the Connemarra, but sometimes there wasa glorious sun. The house phone only accepted in-coming calls. We wrote letters to our friends.
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidcMM8C-q86PnVMrCh2meLQxhBXWbwxqnHzV6PVp2PDYqWikiztAFOOObTWrbb6Sh-BVmjqNJ9nviBOCYVpP5xF-kIqxZzPUKi6NtSM1TpAlPl_ez39MYC6VSGHBk9dY0E9-aWQblv1D9U/s1280/irish+letter+to+jocko+028.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidcMM8C-q86PnVMrCh2meLQxhBXWbwxqnHzV6PVp2PDYqWikiztAFOOObTWrbb6Sh-BVmjqNJ9nviBOCYVpP5xF-kIqxZzPUKi6NtSM1TpAlPl_ez39MYC6VSGHBk9dY0E9-aWQblv1D9U/s320/irish+letter+to+jocko+028.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>Here is one to Jocko Weyland.
<p>EPISTLE FROM BALLYCONEELEY
<p>Yeah, This town has been a little strange, a view shared with Todd aka TY SPAULDING. September was fine. October grew grim. November the rains struck with sodden ferocity.
<p>The first day in town (Ballyconeeley) I went to the village pub expectng pipe whistles and sitting around a peat brick fire. Instead the brooding huddle of EU-subsidized cow farming bacholers greeted my entrance with a squinty stare. I offered a round and settled back to listening to the brogue, thinking, "This is the language of my people."
<p>A shove interrupted my reverie and a gnome with a tam covering a Brillo-pad sweep-over demanded, "Whacha lookin' at?"
<p>I answered honestly, "The wall."
<p>We both gazed at the wall. It was blank. Nothing special, but the dwarf shouted, "Well, I'll be troubling yer not to look at that bit of wall. It's mine."
<p>"That wall?"
<p>It was no different than any other wall in the pub. The barkeep told 'Mikie' to shut his hole
<p>After that night the locals shunned me.
<p>Didn't matter, I walked around the bogs with my Wellingtons. Todd had a bad back. He spent most of the day on the telephone with his future wife. Laurie was a dream he told me all the time. I agree, because Ty's wife swam with me in the East River on my 50th Birthday Day. The blonde beauty wore a sarong from a restuarant table cloth.
<p>Ty and Laurie are still happily married.
<p>Of course the reason for going to Ireland was my mother's deathbed wish.
<p>"Meet someone like your aunts or sisters."
<p>This sounded very incestuous to me, but the only women in Ballyconeeley fourteen year-old girls six-months pregnant, matrons waiting for their hard-working husbands to retire from slavery in the UK, and two lesbians in Cliften.
<p>One night I was drinking with Mikie at the pub. An attractive plus-18 brunette was tending the Guinness stick. Mikie called her over and asked, "Does my American friend stand a chance with you?"
<p>"Noe at all."
<p>Mikie was quick with his advice.
<p>"Go back to your beer and keep your eyes off my wall."
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fRnE_N8HibpLW9WU9RhsYE7G4EegsCZ4gtWuR2x4Fs2DrfrKznzj5U04eZtwJC55D9RqApNzH_I_OUwcPpRfFoRqLtla24KW2JE4tdZ8Nu2jvvLNBM84dpFI7hCXj4tc5D3hsOlo_A8-/s604/the+throne+12.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fRnE_N8HibpLW9WU9RhsYE7G4EegsCZ4gtWuR2x4Fs2DrfrKznzj5U04eZtwJC55D9RqApNzH_I_OUwcPpRfFoRqLtla24KW2JE4tdZ8Nu2jvvLNBM84dpFI7hCXj4tc5D3hsOlo_A8-/s320/the+throne+12.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-20930374626155500182024-03-16T21:00:00.001-07:002024-03-17T06:01:30.178-07:00Best Guinness in Pattaya 2008<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZkqn4FsJ1iYqQNtPHkTLUBoSU1sO8hTPS-yTHvcfVNnlcetYMOSO0KUpm11_rOR17tir7Y1FVdIyVI7q8BfHCytwCzVrBtwGCkzV9BD7UYos1kf46X7y3MLipb1VrhURd0-cdHMORsDt/s1600-h/maggiebillboard%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZkqn4FsJ1iYqQNtPHkTLUBoSU1sO8hTPS-yTHvcfVNnlcetYMOSO0KUpm11_rOR17tir7Y1FVdIyVI7q8BfHCytwCzVrBtwGCkzV9BD7UYos1kf46X7y3MLipb1VrhURd0-cdHMORsDt/s320/maggiebillboard%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299493009180919906" /></a><p>Only a few more hours remain for St. Padraic's Day in Pattaya. I'm only starting the day here.
<p>With a Guinness.
<p> But if I were in Pattaya, I'd be where I celebrated last March 17.
<p>In honor of beer, because my apostasy to the Christian faith is well-known. My adherence to the Beerastian religion answers many mysteries of life in a mug of beer. While home-sudsing is acceptable for these spiritual explorations, I can plumb the depths of my emptiness best at temples of public libation and one of my preferred pilgrimage sites is Maggie May’s on Soi Chaiyapoon.<br /><p>“Drink Guinness it’s good for you.”
<p>The perfect greeting for a man of my devotion.
<p>The Guinness at 150 baht is the cheapest and best in Pattaya and Tony the patron prides himself in keeping the pipes clean. Last year when his supplier provided a batch of spunky Guinness, Tony returned the kegs rather than sell the suspect beer to the punters. No philistine that man.<br /><p>Asahi is only 85 Baht at happy hour. The AC is kicking in like a corpse just out of the freezer is breathing down your neck. The crowd noshes on curry pasties and stale peanuts. The TVs can cover all betting interests on sports. Conversations revolve around the arcane aspects of sports and rehashing adventures with your idiot friends. The only girls are the affable barmaids and the occasional girlfriend. Some guys like to have a witness to their drinking. The CD player accepts all form of music and no one really cares if the girls are the DJs.
<p>Hey, living this long in Pattaya we have all come to love boy bands. Maggie May’s Soi Chayaphun off Soi Buakhao.<br /><p>I haven’t a clue what time it opens or closes, but Happy Hour is 5-6pm.<br /><p>Another bonus is the wooden jockey at the entrance and even better MAGGIE MAY is a great Rod Stewart song.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-82767379696538678192024-03-16T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-17T05:50:51.097-07:00Happy Padraic’s Day 1997<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQAMM0bDfz7M92EWMFXUf-7_jLF4i6PKhdMwOtoarHAfEK5ektXO104jtSURepk08afRZSqWrPuVFEjDLOuVvBtTfaT0xuk40R9U-bYTrNzEVQn4iuO9r_qj_LR5MoyYRhaHx7c8PlA0/s1600/ireland.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQAMM0bDfz7M92EWMFXUf-7_jLF4i6PKhdMwOtoarHAfEK5ektXO104jtSURepk08afRZSqWrPuVFEjDLOuVvBtTfaT0xuk40R9U-bYTrNzEVQn4iuO9r_qj_LR5MoyYRhaHx7c8PlA0/s320/ireland.JPG"></a></div>
<p>Shot at the Stone Throne of Ballyconneeley 1997.
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-23344579129467883952024-03-16T11:42:00.000-07:002024-03-16T12:23:17.906-07:00Jesus' Tomb
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbB43clA1teyMh_rmBE4xWclQ__wYjWCUd0HmUXvUL768Z-MkkYPO9pOJ1Bw2yR_CxGxhA6RHApk15HLDhpVrkRsS9V0w4dFgGhfTFH923cBFRz_o0BVEwVWKhtD3o7KBxUX8JOpRDVk/s1600/360_jesus_tomb_0116.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbB43clA1teyMh_rmBE4xWclQ__wYjWCUd0HmUXvUL768Z-MkkYPO9pOJ1Bw2yR_CxGxhA6RHApk15HLDhpVrkRsS9V0w4dFgGhfTFH923cBFRz_o0BVEwVWKhtD3o7KBxUX8JOpRDVk/s320/360_jesus_tomb_0116.jpg" /></a>
<p>"What is Jerusalem worth?" the knight at the end of KINGDOM OF GOD asks Saladin, the leader of the Muslim army. </p>
<p>"Nothing." Saladin answered and walked away, then turns and says, "Everything."</p>
<p>For centuries faith has determined the worth of Jerusalem for the Jews, Christians, and Muslims.
<p>As an atheist I think they all believe what they believe to be true, but several years ago James Cameron, director of THE TERMINATOR series had declared his discovery of Jesus' tomb in Talpiot.
<p>His DNA evidence attests to the veracity of his findings along with the suggestion that Jesus might have sired a son named Judah. </p>
<p>Holy Jesus conspiracy freaks!</p>
<p>While an intransigent non-believer,I ascribe to the theory laid out in Nikos Kazantzakis’ novel THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST purporting that Jesus and Magdalene fled Judea for India. VS Naipul’s TRAVELS AMONGST THE BELIEVERS mentioned a tomb of Jesus in northern India. Supposedly the messiah lived to the ripe age of 124. The wounds never healed in his hands and feet.</p>
<p>I have a question for James Cameron.
<p>"What is Jesus' Tomb worth?"
<p>Everything or nothing or something in between?
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-13762741235751752392024-03-15T21:30:00.000-07:002024-03-16T19:42:16.931-07:00The Outrage of Christ<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNK4qsSEi2vCUuF0hzlhKDYD7kkH1IWvi9FFcCwl-9YVo1NbY8q6cDlZ4e6RW_7LrWCAK3i3mqBkPpyJw70MEEIE8QNEHE_K6BK0fyjBIyGioMG9kECBANSvqiHMtbabiofEBeVW-nJRU/s1600/The_Last_Temptation_of_Christ_37433_Medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="251" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNK4qsSEi2vCUuF0hzlhKDYD7kkH1IWvi9FFcCwl-9YVo1NbY8q6cDlZ4e6RW_7LrWCAK3i3mqBkPpyJw70MEEIE8QNEHE_K6BK0fyjBIyGioMG9kECBANSvqiHMtbabiofEBeVW-nJRU/s320/The_Last_Temptation_of_Christ_37433_Medium.jpg" /></a></div>
<p>THE LAST TEMPTATION by Nikos Kazantzakis was a revelation for a young boy living on the South Shore of Boston in the early 1960s. I found the book in our town library next to his successful novel ZORBA THE GREEK. Reading the blurb on the dust cover I was shocked to discover that Kazantzakis had written this book to argue the innate weakness of the flesh in the Son of God. Books like this were generally banned in Boston. The lack of due date stamps within the front cover revealed that the book had never been read by anyone in my town. I stuck it under my arm and walked to the check-out counter.</p>
<p>"This book has been here over seven years." The librarian examined THE LAST TEMPTATION, as if she had never seen it before. She opened the pages to the publishing date. "Came out in 1960."</p>
<p>"Maybe it was in hiding." I was a weekly visitor to the library. The librarian was familiar with my reading habits. She allowed me to take out adult books without question. "ZORBA THE GREEK had been very popular. Any time someone makes a movie from a book, people come into the library to read it. Afterward I have to hear how the book was better or the movie was better."</p>
<p>"THE TEN COMMANDMENTS was better than the book." I had seen the Bible epic at the South Shore Drive-In with my parents. I had yet to tell them that I was a non-believer. Such an admission would have earned me the belt and not on the palm of the hand.</p>
<p>"That's almost sacrilegious." She frowned from behind her desk, then laughed, "I was kidding. I liked THE TEN COMMANDMENTS better too. Let me know how this book is."</p>
<p>I took THE LAST TEMPTATION home and read the entire novel over the weekend. My older brother grabbed it out of my hands and asked if it was a dirty book. </p>
<p>"No." Kazantzakis offered an intoxication more heady than sex.</p>
<p>The author had contradicted the very teachings of the Church. Jesus was a man. He succumbed to the pleasure of Mary Magdalene. The devil tore at his soul. The Messiah lived in India after survived the crucifixion and escaped to India. He had awoken from that dream to find himself nailed to the cross. His suggestions created a Fifth Testament complimenting my juvenile atheism.</p>
<p>My version was simple.</p>
<p>Jesus had been crucified on the cross. The Romans declared him dead, but he was in a coma. After the earthquake opened his tomb, the apostles discovered him alive and declared him the Son of God. Jesus believed them until Thomas returned from India. He pointed to the scars in Jesus' feet and hands and told his friend that if they did this once, then they will do it again. Jesus hadn't come back from the dead to be re-crucified and he fled to India with Thomas, his mother, and Mary Magdalene.</p>
<p>My version was also heresy, until I read in VS Naipul's AMONGST THE BELIEVERS that a tomb exists in Northern India containing the body of a holy man from Judea. Yuz Asaf or Issar had been a healer and lived to the age of 127. Muslims in Kashmir revered the tomb as the final resting place of Mary. Carved footprints on Yuz Araf's gravestone bore wounds in the feet. </p>
<p>More heresy.</p>
<p>In 1988 Martin Scorcese released THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST. The movie had been banned in the Philippines and Singapore and a Paris cinema had been firebombed by Christian extremists, injuring thirteen spectators in the attack. The same number of people at the Last Dinner.</p>
<p>Christians are very sensitive about any questioning of the divinity of Jesus or blasphemous exploitation of his image.</p>
<p>The controversial photo PISS CHRIST earned Richard Serrano a hailstorm of outrage for its use of urine. He received hate mail and death threats. His grants were withdrawn, despite counter-protests for the freedom of speech as guaranteed by the American Constitution. The work was thoroughly trashed by Christian Fundamentalists in France that Spring and they have mounted a similar campaign against a Paris theater for showing a play in which a portrait of Jesus is covered in shit at the end of the play.</p>
<p>Outrage.</p>
<p>As an atheist I refrain from attacking anyone's religion.</p>
<p>If belief in a mythical god makes the believers happy, so be it, but if they try to change the way I think, then I'll resist the bible-thumpers and jihadists every step of the way.</p>
<p>And here's how;</p>
<p>Why did Jesus cross the road?</p>
<p>Because he was nailed to the chicken!</p>
<p>Yes, if there is a Hell, we're all going to go there.</p>
<p>I think that comes from a Curtis Mayfield song.</p>
<p>If there is a hell, we're all going to go.</p>
<p>And I found the address in THE LAST TEMPTATION OF CHRIST.</p>
<P>IT'S IN THE STATE OF MICHIGAN.
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-9385845784624018062024-03-15T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-16T19:45:16.987-07:00Burn Bible Burn 2011<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfN_-BW_26pPjQ6FzT4iYJP2biG8NAHwaGlRTu2t6aX-JavY3TuJCUWpL9KP-uMgcq3uDeUy96wtP3GOa72KEMIG6rMs7IFQXR6s6cp3ASaabPVDAC1aDM96dMc6cpR3JKr9SVuDoCV4/s1600/Vereshchagin-Blowing_from_Guns_in_British_India.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfN_-BW_26pPjQ6FzT4iYJP2biG8NAHwaGlRTu2t6aX-JavY3TuJCUWpL9KP-uMgcq3uDeUy96wtP3GOa72KEMIG6rMs7IFQXR6s6cp3ASaabPVDAC1aDM96dMc6cpR3JKr9SVuDoCV4/s320/Vereshchagin-Blowing_from_Guns_in_British_India.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591102566112848050" /></a>
<p>The sun never set on the British Empire in the 19th Century. Queen Victoria was its supreme leader. Britannia ruled the waves and her army brought order to the savage lands of Africa and Asia. The native were expected to reward their Christina overlords with natural resources and human labor. India was the crown jewel of the empire, although the subcontinent was in truth ruled by the East India Company. Its agents exacted taxes and revenue behind the bayonets of 40,000 redcoats and 200,000 sepoy soldiers.
<p>In 1856 the Governor-General was not satisfied with the native levees' contribution to the Empire and decided that the Indian soldiers were bound by their honor to serve at overseas post such as Burma or China. This order broke caste for many sepoys and the policies of slow promotions and Christian preaching in the ranks created great dissent in the encampments. Lord Dalhousie and his officers addressed the complaints with an iron fist. Their contempt for the sepoys blinded them to the serious of rumors about the cartridges of the Enfield rifles being greased with cow or pig fat, the Hindus considered the cow sacred and the Muslims regarded pig as haram. The British officers couldn't have given a fig for these religious restraints.
<p>On February 26,1857 the 19th Bengal Native Infantry refused an order to load the new Enfields. A month later Mangal Pandey of the 34th BNI attacked his commanding officer. Other troops refused to arrest the offender. He was hung for mutiny along with the regiment's Jemadar. The sepoys broke into open rebellion in April. Within a week northern India was in flames and the British were besieged by hordes angered by religious outrages.
<p>The British Raj triumphed thanks to the gallantry of their soldiers, Sikh compatriots, and Afghan raiders from beyond the Frontier. Captured mutineers were subjected to the Mughal punishment of being blown from a cannon. Lord Dalhousie had departed from India in March. Queen Victoria awarded him a pension and the instigator of the Sepoy Rebellion died peacefully in his own bed.
<p>Christians have a tendency to ignore the beliefs of other religions. Most think that only Jesus believers end up in heaven and after 9/11 disdain for Muslims has been an national obsession for Americans. Our nation is fighting two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Both have been winding down under the leadership of Barack Obama. The 'surges', bribery payments, assassination squads, and drone attacks have weakened the leadership of the Taliban, but Afghanistan has been a death trap for armies; the Birish in the 19th Century and the Russians in the late-20th Century.
<p>"I am ready to sacrifice everything in completing the unfinished agenda of our noble jihad... until there is no bloodshed in Afghanistan and Islam becomes a way of life for our people." Mohammed Omar is committed to the struggle and last month his fight gained steam thanks to the burning on two-hundred Korans by a Florida backwater Bible preacher.
<p>The Dove Outreach Center declared the Koran guilty of crime against humanity and their gun-carrying evangelistic leader set fire to the kerosene-soaked Korans.
<p>"They actually burned quite well.”
<p>Mr. Jones' work was appreciated by his fifty member congregation and the preacher posted a video of the bonfire on Youtubes. Only 1300 people viewed the tape, but the internet has shrunk the world and yesterday Afghanis revenged the blasphemy by storming a UN compound in the Mazar-i-Sharif and killing 12 foreigners, mostly Nepali soldiers.
<p>“We don’t feel responsible for that.” Mr. Jones was quick to point out to Agence France-Presse.
<p>It is not illegal in the USA to burn the Koran. It is also not illegal to burn the Bible. I always throw the ones that I find in hotel rooms into a field. It's not theft. The Gideon Organization provides them to each hotel room in America. Even in the Mustang brothels in Nevada and nothing burns better than a Bible from a whorehouse.
<p>Only one way to find out.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-42317223282605830672024-03-15T14:33:00.000-07:002024-03-17T15:40:12.794-07:00Stasi East Berlin 1982<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87_SNDDgqVDUk5qv2f3l15QS2o1ayPXsPZb3zoo-wjI_7Qf3wyrJxOAABqgKjPPFaqaaejTfRX1IG-YKrb_SU1l7-OKykoVD5qxAFtWbeGk-_3aiyMCskD-yGfix3NGH1K0pBxm-L9QdfY6XEv6iqCzzl-MKKWo9-lrJ_1PWqS7qd_kkwe-NTE5h6tIgN/s2001/IMG_1552.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="2001" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg87_SNDDgqVDUk5qv2f3l15QS2o1ayPXsPZb3zoo-wjI_7Qf3wyrJxOAABqgKjPPFaqaaejTfRX1IG-YKrb_SU1l7-OKykoVD5qxAFtWbeGk-_3aiyMCskD-yGfix3NGH1K0pBxm-L9QdfY6XEv6iqCzzl-MKKWo9-lrJ_1PWqS7qd_kkwe-NTE5h6tIgN/s320/IMG_1552.jpeg"/></a></div><p>In the autumn of 1982 the BSir's DJ Henri Flesh and I jetted from Hamburg to Berlin's Tempelhof aerport to see our friends from Helen Wheels play at a concert halle. We checked into a four-star hotel and toured the city. Of course the wall at Branderburg Gate anda viewing from a raised platform of the Wall's death zone.
<p>After the fall of the Thousand Year Reich, Stalin approved the Red Army's plunder of the Soviet zone, rippling the economy of the DDR, while the Marshall Plan spurred the growthof the Bundesrepublik. Millions fled the East, mostly through Berlin.In 1961 Erik Honneker the DDR's commmunist leader, instructed the army to erect a wall to stop the loss of workers. Many attempted to flee, few succeeded, and hundreds were shot by the security forces.
<p>A long walk back to the Kurfurstdamm revealed the Porsche's resurrection from Hitler's Gottdammerung to a sparlking weltstadt offering the wealth of the Free World; Mercedes, Hugo Boss fashion, chocolate and the delights of the KaDeWe shopping mecca. The only sign of the War was the ruins of Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. That night after the concert we partied at the infamous Dzungel. Sex, drugs, dancing, as if no one expected to lived till tomorrow.
<p>
We slept from dawn till 11. A quick swim at our elegant Hotel. No fruhstuck of hard bread and cheese. Only black coffee. Then a taxi to Checkpoint Charlie, the legendary crossing from West Berlin to East Berlin.
<p>
A burly DDR female border guard processed our passports. Her stocky build looked like she had been training for the 1984 Olympics as a men's shot putter. Henri whispered that she loved her, as we exchanged twenty-five BundesRepublik marks into East German currency. He was into big women.
<p>The Parisian said nothing. As direct descendants of the Gestapo the Stasi were well known for their lack of humor. Their informants numbered in the hundreds of thousands and reported on friends and families. The headquarters in Licthenberg held the worn clothing of thousands of suspected anti-communists to aid specially trained dogs to run potential escapees from the DDR escapees. All in numbered and IDed glass jars.
<p>Clearing the checkpoint the differences between the two Berlins was immediately apparent from the wastelands between bulletpocked bukdings and the lack of parked cars. The desolation resembled the devastated Lower East Side of the 1970s. At least no buildings were on flames like the East Village.
<p>MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-59193194740285405512024-03-13T14:13:00.000-07:002024-03-13T15:55:23.409-07:00Skateboarding Pattaya 2006<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwHVJu_8001Sn6rA3iQD5pyRYCSZMqPn63JwUdd96OWN5fmG1HERKApJiLphQHhiK1-jv6BZ-4Q0qQAdROgGSKJkSElxr86HauBELRTzV0gHpsIKa1WBL_9LwuYOADwu-LKd84t6qBVz-jr9-Yh3JUyv8hctdquFLRnk-AYavWmxHBbjh2eksnhETqMmM/s498/FB_IMG_1708361036887.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwHVJu_8001Sn6rA3iQD5pyRYCSZMqPn63JwUdd96OWN5fmG1HERKApJiLphQHhiK1-jv6BZ-4Q0qQAdROgGSKJkSElxr86HauBELRTzV0gHpsIKa1WBL_9LwuYOADwu-LKd84t6qBVz-jr9-Yh3JUyv8hctdquFLRnk-AYavWmxHBbjh2eksnhETqMmM/s320/FB_IMG_1708361036887.jpg"/></a></div><P>Back in 2006 while living through another hot season in Pattaya, I watched the 2006 Winter Olympics from Torino Italy. After viewing the downhill and fantasized about snow mountains and skiing, then spotted my skateboard.
<p>
Skateboard, Pattaya Hill, road, downhill on asphalt.
<p>
I told Angie's mom about my plan and she frowned, even after I showed her my helmet. My daughter Angie was three. She said she thought it was going to be fun.
<p>
We got into the car and drove to the top of Pattaya Hill. It was not so high, only three hundred feet above the beach. We parked and I survey the road. Very steep. I told my wife to drive behind me to insure I don't get run over by traffic. I rejected her discouragement and kicked off my flipflops. Nothing athletic works wearing flipflops.
<p>
I pushed off and picked up speed fast. Faster and faster. The board wobbled wildly. Death wobble. I crouched to stabilize the erratic side-to-siding.
<p>
Too late.
<p>
I leapt off the skateboard and face-planted on the pavement. My wife stopped the chair and came to my side. My daughter cried seeing the blood seeping from various scraps.
<p>
"Khan sabaii."
<p>
I lied, seeing my little toe had been uplifted from the flesh. Skateboarding barefoot sucksMANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-63011034228064477602024-03-12T21:30:00.001-07:002024-03-13T16:00:35.328-07:00NO FOOL LIKE AN OLD FOOL by Peter Nolan Smith<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxL4_rV1lhpZX4vNXaBedkowhx4d8FkTMKI7MTSpT-lU131BLKVmE93T7FcnL60zw3Hi42jqG11gIWNxKqgDR4rcHnd83MPZZdVeirHtNcWS_crp9BSH7b0bHgu5Vnya_LrkA2VMz_v4/s1600/skateboard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCxL4_rV1lhpZX4vNXaBedkowhx4d8FkTMKI7MTSpT-lU131BLKVmE93T7FcnL60zw3Hi42jqG11gIWNxKqgDR4rcHnd83MPZZdVeirHtNcWS_crp9BSH7b0bHgu5Vnya_LrkA2VMz_v4/s320/skateboard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518321456814137762" /></a><br />
<p>Outside the Pattaya Tai Big C Shopping Center there was a skateboard club. Some Thai kids tested out tricks on rails and ramps. Some were good. I tried a few moves to be surprised by an unintentional wheelie by putting too much weight on my back foot. The Thai kids applauded my move and I handed back the skateboard, happy not to have taken a fall.</p>
<p>Making contact with hard objects can be quite painful, since I was closet to 80 than 20.</p>
<p>But I started thinking. “I’m not that old. I can still grind.”</p>
<p>Royal Garden had a few boards; 600 baht and 4000 baht.</p>
<p>I bought the cheap version and practiced on my street. My daughter liked being pushed on the skateboard. It was harmless fun, until one day I was watching the Winter Olympics. It’s been years since I skied and I thought skateboarding down a hill might satisfy my downhill needs.</p>
<p>I mentioned to my ex-wife that I wanted to skateboard down Jomtien Hill.</p>
<p>She asked, “How old are you? I know the answer. Do you?”</p>
<p>“It’ll be fine. I’ll wear a helmet and go in the new park. You’ll ride behind me so no one will run me over.” Thais have a finely honed disregard for pedestrians and it’s always open season on fallen farangs.</p>
<p>“Bah.” She thought I was crazy, but realized it was my own life. “Som nam nah.”</p>
<p>We drove over to the new park and I got out of the car. The road was smooth. The high speed descent might rival the thrill of skiing. I wore a helmet for protection and flip-flops on my feet.</p>
<p>Sneakers would have been a better idea, but I wasn't planning on creaking the speed limit.
<p>“Sure you want do this?” My wife wouldn’t think me any worse for backing out.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m fine.” I signaled I was ready. My daughter was in the car too.</p>
<p>I got on the board and pushed off. </p>
<p>I picked up speed.</p>
<p>I was soon rolling at 20 kph, then 30.</p>
<p>I was out of control and deboarded in a panic.
<P>My flip-flops failed the test of hitting the ground running.</p>
<p>Two steps and face plant.</p>
<p>My helmet thunked the pavement and my shoulder crumbled under the weight of a man's middle-aged body. I got up slowly. Nothing was broken, but my cellphone was squashed in my pocket.
<p>3500 baht down the hole.
<p>I had plenty of cuts and bruises and blood seeped from open wounds.</p>
<p> My daughter cried thinking that I had really hurt myself.</p>
<p>In fact Angie was right and for the next two weeks I felt like John Gotti’s Mafia collection agency had beaten me with a baseball bat.</p>
<p>Pain was a way of letting your body was not yet dead.</p>
<p>Then remind you of your age by not letting you heal quickly.</p>
<p>Snow was definitely softer than the street.
<p>Everyone in Pattaya upon hearing this story asked the same thing, “How old are you?”</p>
<p>I think I’m 25 but act 15 sometimes.</p>
<p>My friend Jocko Weyland was a well-known skateboarder. He wrote a history of the sport THE ANSWER IS NEVER. Jocko considered my effort commendable.</p>
<p>“Dude.”</p>
<p>So I was a dude to one person in the world.</p>
<p>Better than none, although three months after the crash I’m still sleeping on my right side and the skateboard is gathering a fine veneer of dust.</p>
<p>“How old?”</p>
<p>VERY OLD, but still young at heart. In other words stupid too.</p>
MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8758253733337266827.post-91104420409467975682024-03-12T21:30:00.000-07:002024-03-13T15:59:43.184-07:00The Now World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaxdhBvBxB3PXTmLoczTQR0b7-9AQN6A46B4faDDm3WY10VWBo_xM5wyEKUjvhRohk45UqPM-mtaQv52lrPJJiXq88jyC3f0Tuf1zaBsc1FZdl8L-5B98skKKuQUug5pI3m1cKXGgaIQ/s1600/295502_10151733192409276_529299897_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkaxdhBvBxB3PXTmLoczTQR0b7-9AQN6A46B4faDDm3WY10VWBo_xM5wyEKUjvhRohk45UqPM-mtaQv52lrPJJiXq88jyC3f0Tuf1zaBsc1FZdl8L-5B98skKKuQUug5pI3m1cKXGgaIQ/s320/295502_10151733192409276_529299897_n.jpg" /></a></div>
Skateboarding never gets old.MANGOZEEN BLOGGERhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04910916449468416866noreply@blogger.com0