YELLOW TEETH 2008

Written Dec 31, 2011

I have been arrested several times in my life.

Age 12 for vandalizing an abandoned missile base overlooking Boston Harbor

Age 21 for driving over a bed of flowers at a girl's college in Newton.

Age 25 for running an after-hour club in Manhattan.

Age 31 in Paris for grafitting the British Embassy wall. The gendarmes thought my poem was an IRA protest against the Crown, instead of drunken verses to my girlfriend, who worked on Rue St. Honore opposite the rear entrance of the embassy.

None of these crimes were prosecuted to the fullest. My violent streak never came to the attention of the police. My drug deals were strictly small-time. I avoided contact with the Mafia. They were as dangerous as the Hell's Angels, Hamburg pimps, Colombian cocaine dealers, and conniving transvestites.

My mother had warned me about these people.

"If you see trouble coming, walk the other way."

I was near-sighted, so trouble found me long before I noticed its approach.

Luckily my Uncle Carmine explained his wayward nephews the Golden Rule.

"Only break one law at a time."

His advice stood me well. I avoided any serious consequences with the law for twenty-two years. No one's lucky streak can challenged the odds forever. In January 2008, I returned to Central Pattaya after a pleasant seafood lunch with my steady girlfriend in Jomtien.

It was a good life.

I was living alone in the most wicked town on the planet. My website featuring counterfeit Ferrari clothing and assorted F1 merchandise was # 1 in the Google search engines. I earn good money. Not a fortune. Good money. I had shipped a big order of McLaren driver suits to Germany from the Pattaya Post Office. Another week of good sales and I would be out of debt, then I could get my yellow teeth whitened to a brilliant white.

I entered my estate off Soi Bongkot and parked my motorscooter before my rented house. Another month and the mango tree would bear fruit. Everyone in the neighborhood awaited the harvest with lip-smacking anticipation.

A mini-van stopped behind me. At first, I thought it was my brother-in-law coming for a beer and I wondered why he had brought so many friends.

Except it wasn't Pi-Wot. I identified them in a second. They were the Bangkok Cyber Crime Unit come to arrest me for copyright infringement. The oldest officer in a black suit presented a search warrant. The other cops were undercover in jeans, tee-shirts, and sneakers or nork kreang baep. I was wearing sandals. Running was not an option. I knew this day might be coming. I had not thought it was coming today. ing. I hadn’t thought it would be today. I opened the gate to my house, then the door to my office.

They politely took off their shoes and entered my office. Twenty F1 shirts lay in plastic bags on the floor. They seized the merchandise and the ranking officer asked, "Where’s the rest of it?"

"That's it." Business had been traditionally slow after the holidays.

A computer geek from Ferrari sat at my computer. He wanted the codes to my site. Refusal was out of the question. Cooperation was rewarded with leniency, but tonight I would be spending the evening in a monkey house. Their tight cells were SRO.

"Can I go outside?" My presence wasn’t needed for the dismantling of f1 shopping.net. The long-haired geek knew his business. His fingers swept over my keyboard like a tsunami. F1 shopping net was gone.

The commander nodded and two cops accompanied into the garden. I hyperventilated, as a series of prospective scenarios played in my head. Most of them finished in jail.

One of the younger cops told me to calm down, "Jai yen. Jai yen."

"That's easy for you to say." I had seen MIDNIGHT EXPRESS more than once.

He wasn't being arrested in a foreign country.

"No big problem. Maybe 2000 baht." He explained the fine would be about $60. "We take you Bangkok. You pay bail and then go home. Mai pen lai." 

An American detective from Quantico Ltd. was supervising the operation. His company had been looking for me a long time. Rusty was a Yale graduate. His online persona had emailed my website that his mother wouldn't allow his use of her credit card. I had accepted a Western Union wire to my real name. I had posted him the merchandise, but had written phony addresses on the envelopes, thinking that might protect me from an investigation

At least it was a comfort that my ex-wife hadn't sold me out to the tam-luau.

How they had tracked me back to Soi Sawan was unimportant. Rusty also said it wasn't such a big deal, "Not the first time. Next time you go to jail."

"Message well taken." I had been trying to quit for ages. "I don't want to go to jail."

Jail in Thailand is a bare floor with thirty-plus other misfortunates.

"You won't." Rusty had arrested scores of counterfeiters.

"You seem like a smart person. Why are you doing this?" I hated snitches.

"Why did you do this?" Rusty was in his thirties. His Thai was impeccable.

"So I could stay in Thailand." The other employment opportunities were either a low-paying teaching job or illegally running a bar.

"We all do what we have to do." But I was never a snitch.

The old lady on the street came up to me. I paid Yai to clean my house and take care of my daughter, Angie. She knew about my business. No foreigner was allowed to work in the Land of Smiles. One crime. Counterfeit F1. She had received perfume for Christmas. Third crime. Trust someone.The police had questioned her about me several times. She had never said a word to me. Her neighbor for years. Thailand had been a fascist monarchy since 1935. Its police had studied the ways of the Gestapo. I forgave Yai, since the Thai police’s nickname was ‘tam luat, which sounded like ‘make blood’. I forgave Yai. What else could she do?

"I tell police you good man."

"Thanks." Her testimony was the best a woman in her position could do for a farang.

"These police not same Pattaya. Honest. Not worry."

"Sure." I always worried when people tell me not to worry, but the police never cuffed me or confiscated my telephone. The older officer in charge asked in good English if I had any drugs or guns in the house. I told him the truth.

”No guns. Two marijuana joints.”

"Ganga no problem. Get rid of it."

He sent me into the house and I flushed the two joints down the toilet.

When I came out, he asked, "You want beer?"

"Yeah." It couldn't hurt and I reached into my pocket.

"Mai, mai." He waved his hand in the air and leaned forward. "I talk with everyone and they say you good man. I will take care of you. I not like other farang."

He glanced at Rusty and his employers, Ferrari reps from Italy and the head officer asked if I wanted some beer.

”A Leo.” The lager was Thailand’s most popular brew.

”Big bottle?”

”Big.”

I reached for my wallet. He waved away my attempt to pay and send off an underling for the beer, telling him also to get some gai thot or friend chicken. The old lady had said that these police were honest, but this arrest was unlike any that I had seen on Sophon Cable or read in the Bangkok Post.

I was not in cuffs. I had my phone. I sat in the shade of my mango tree. I drank beer. I called my wife up- country with her family. She said, “Not worry.”

I had called two friends also in my business to warn them. They were also puzzled by my good treatment. When they had been arrested for fraud, one had fled the country and the other, a cripple, had been imprisoned in the Monkey House. His Thai lawyer had arranged bail in less than a day. I expected the same treatment or worse. I had no money for bail. I was thinking MIDNIGHT EXPRESS, the 1978 prison movie based on Billy Hayes, incarceration in a Turkish prison for drug trafficking.

After two hours of checking my computer and packing the illegal merchandise, they transported me to Bangkok in an air-conditioned mini-van.

Halfway to the Sathon Police Station on the highway, they stopped for food and bought a bag filled with a McDonald’s Happy Meal accompanied by another Beer. Still not cuffed. Phone in hand. This was not my last meal and I realized how fortunate I was to have been arrested by Federal police.

A Thai friend in Bangkok met me at the police station. Khim worked as a chauffeur. He explained the process and said, “This small problem. You get bail. Go home."

Strangely everyone was very polite to me. All the other arrestees were led by chain into an ever- crowded cell. My holding cell was an office with AC and a TV with my choice of DVDs. I didn’t feel like watching anything, as I was reading Peter Hopkirk's THE GREAT GAME.

Later TV crews showed up to film me. The commanding officer for copyright infringement pointed to a pile of two-thousand shirt. "This farang was caught with 4 million baht and 2000 shirts."

"No, khun tam pit." I whispered under my breath. He had made a mistake. I pointed to a single bag down the corridor. "Those are these."

"These?" Someone had properly not briefed him.

"Yes, 20 shirts. Nothing more."

He waved to the TV crew to shut off the camera. End of interview.

The arresting officers laughed at their boss.

I sat in an AC office watching TV. Movie of my choice. INSIDE MAN. Real criminals getaway. I was fingerprinted and filled out an arrest form. When the cops announced bail of 50k or $1000.. I said I didn't have it. That was the truth.

"40k?"

"Mai mee, kap." Speaking polite Thai helps in situations like this.

"30?" There was no way they were dropping to 20 or 25.

30 it was. A little less than $1000.

Khim and I said, "Yet mah." or motherfucker.

We were short the bail. I had 15 k in the bank and Khim had 500. Nu couldn't sell a motorcycle until tomorrow. The monkey house loomed as a probability, instead of a possibility. No beds, no blankets, cheap rice twice a day, and lots of mosquitoes. The worst of Bangkok in Bangkok.

I made another phone one call. The Old Roue lived in on Soi Nana. I knew Alan from New York. I asked for 20K. He had 15K. Khim drove over to Soi 4 and picked it up. Without the Old Roue I would have been in the MonkeyHouse for who knows how long. I called him to say thanks every few days and also let him know I'm still broke.

"No problem man, I’ll get it when you get it." Khim went to fetch the money.

The whole process from raid to release had taken seven hours with a two-hour trip to Bangkok thrown into the program. The Fed cops had me sign an affidavit confirming no one had asked for a ‘sin bon’ or bribe.

After the money was paid, they cut me loose. Khim spent 200 baht on 5 bottles of Khang. I drank three of them myself.

I fell to sleep happy that I had not spent any time in the 'monkey house'. No chairs, no fans, and lots of mosquitoes as a prelude to the Bangkok Hilton, the Koong Toey jail.

I appeared on national TV that night. Channel 5. The Army station.  The police had said, “Not worry. Not many people watch Channel 5."

Everyone on my soi saw the newscast.

Several Thai friends said I looked handsome. They couldn't care less that I was arrested. It's something that happens.

Everyone was astounded by this revelation of how much money I had. "You have 4 million baht."

My old lady who cleaned my house knew the truth. I was broke and wished I had the 4 million baht. I could get a job at the local school teaching English and make about $300/month. 10,000 baht. 300/baht a day is a big comedown from 3000 baht a day. My wife still loved me.

This story is far from over, since the cops said it would be at least 6-10 weeks until I go to court.

Another day in paradise has gotten a little less paradisaical, but it's always better to be free.

Bastille Day / Palm Beach 2008

Most Americans have an unfavorable attitude toward the French. This antipathy is based on the abuse most US tourists have suffered from dismissive Paris waiters in the dead of August. Few realize that these garcons are rude to their own countrymen as well as any estrangers. That is not to say that the French don't subscribe to a haughty self-esteem.

As a Belge friend joked, "How does Frenchman kill himself? By lifting a pistol six inches over his head and shooting his superiority complex."

It's even funnier when told in French to the French.

Are the French 'surrender monkeys' or 'froggies'?

>After the horrors of World War I the French High Command decided during the Fall Of France that surrender would better serve the nation. The Gauls have a special way of treating unwanted tourist. They soon learned that the Germans were not tourists.

Cracher sur le plat or spit on the plate is the best revenge for the weak over the strong and despite that I will defend the French, because they are loyal to those people who they love, as I had learned after working at Paris nightclubs in the 80s. My friends from that period are still my friends. All the French I have met around the world are my friends too. They are funny, warm, and generous. Nasty too, but not like the Germans.

So today in Palm Beach I raised a glass of wine with my good friend Lisa Rohan and we toasted the French, "Vive la France."

in vino revolutio

Also it's a little known fact that twelve days earlier the Marquis de Sade had set the stage for the storming of le Bastille by shouting from his cell, "Ils tuerent les prisonniers." so maybe sado-masochists should celebrate his part in the revolution. I certainly do.

>Vive de Sade and Serge Gainsbourg too.

Erotic Hot Dog Contest - 2008

Several years ago America lost the Little League World series to Taiwan, Japan, and the Dominican Republic. NBA All-Stars were second-rate in the World Championships, however the USA was shocked by Takeru Kobayashi beating scores of heavyweight Yanks at Coney Island’s fabled hot dog eating contest and the diminutive Asian clung to his title like Michael Jordan and the Bulls, culminating with his 2006 feat, 53 3/4 frankfurters in 12 minutes.

Thankfully in 2008 an equally thin Joey Chestnut of San Jose, California regained the title with a record downing of 59 1/2 hot dogs and the world. This year the competition was open to all-comers and on the 4th of July I was sitting at Pattaya's Pigpen A Go-Go with Jamie Parker.

The New Yorker expat hadn't seen Ort in a long time and he had gained back a little weight since his Ice episode with the lithe go-go dancer. Neither of us mentioned her name, but she was still on his mind, even when he said, “This morning on TV I saw that Jap hot dog eater win his another title at Nathan's. All these fat American contestants upchucked hot dogs, while the damned foreigner calmly sucked down weiners like he was from Dusseldorf. Even weirder, his stomach showed no sign of expansion and the audience had no idea where they were going.”

“Very impressive.” I had watched the same TV show and attempted to imitate the Jap's style, only managing three in a minute. My stomach had yet to recover from the effort and I asked the bar owner, "Who here do you think would win?"

Jamie looked around the bar. His skinny farang clientele liked the fat dancers wobbling around the steel poles. I didn't understand the attraction.

"Ei-Yet." He pointed to the the ancient forty-kilo cashier. "I've seen her eat non-stop for hours."

"It's a Thai genetic trait. They eat as if there's not tomorrow." My wife was a very healthy eater. Mam could eat with the best of them.

More than me any day.

“Who in Pattaya wants to watch skinny farangs eat hot dogs?”

“Fat farangs looking for a free meal.”

Bars offering free food floated balloons and Pattaya's free food crowd were called balloon chasers.

“There’s enough of them here.”

"No, but there would be more if you held an erotic hot dog eating contest including bar girls. Remember how Kenny at Living Dolls had the girls fellate banana.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

“We’ll hold it at 12 noon Eastern Standard Time for the stockbrokers getting ready for lunch. Once a week. Different girls and you can vote online.” Jamie was breathing fast. "We make tee-shirts of the winner and then hold contests between different bars. Then it's on to TV. I'll be the Chuck Barris of Hot Dog Eating contests."

Jamie weaved on his stool.

“Are you all right?”

"No."

I signaled Ei-Yet for a glass of water. The forty year-old ex-stripper and I went back years. We had both seen countless farangs keel over at bars. The water came in seconds and Jamie sucked it down

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

“And?”

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

Jamie was right.

We will be waiting, because eating hot dogs are sexy.

With mustard. p>"Never ketchup, for as my grandfather said, "Never trust a man who puts ketchup on his hot dog."

Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18

Much more to come.

FEAR ITSELF

Here's another false alert. This story circulated in 1999 without any confirmation. It's making the rounds again. We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Hoaxes are not hoaxes if they accomplish their purpose.

IF YOU BELIEVE THIS THEN YOU ARE IN LINE FOR SOME NIGERIAN TELE-MARKETING

This was written by a guy from KVLY-TV in Fargo, North Dakota.

This is something that happened to us on the way back from vacation last week. At first I didn't think much of it until now. The reason we were a little suspicious is we had been riding in a jeep all day with 100 degree temps and we stopped at a truck stop for something to drink.

When I was leaving, a young girl followed me out and asked what kind of cologne I was wearing.

Well, after 7 hours in the car sweating, I don' t think you could tell
if I was or was not wearing any cologne. We just got in the jeep and said no thanks. Then it was about 3 weeks ago, I was at a service station in Birmingham getting gas. It was about 9:30 pm. I was approached by 2 Men and 2 women in a car. The man that was driving asked me 'What kind of perfume do you wear?"

I was a bit confused and I asked him 'Why?'

He said, 'We are selling some name brand perfumes, at cheap prices.

I said I had no money. He then reached out of the car and handed me paper that was laminated; it had many perfumes on it. I looked quickly at it and gave it back. I said, have no money. He said it is OK, we take check, cash, or credit cards.

Then the people in the car began to laugh. I just got in my car and said no thanks. Then I received this e-mail yesterday and it sent chills up my spine. Please read this. It is no joke. Here is the e-mail I was sent: Dear Friends: I know not all of you are women that I am sending this to, but am hoping you will share this with your wives, daughters, mothers, sisters, etc. Our world seems to be getting crazier b y the day. Pipe bombs in mail boxes and sickos in parking lots with perfume. Be careful. I was approached yesterday afternoon around 5:30 PM in the Wal-Mart parking lot by two men asking what kind of perfume I was wearing. Then they asked if I'd like to sample some fabulous scent they were willing to sell me at very reasonable rate. I probably would have agreed had I not received an e-mail warning of a 'Wanna smell this neat perfume?' scam.

The men continued to stand between parked cars, I guess to wait for someone else to hit on. I stopped a lady going towards them, pointing at them and told her about how I was sent an e-mail at work about
someone walking up to you at the malls or in parking lots and asking you to SNIFF PERFUME that they are selling at a cheap price or at least compare to which one you like best. THIS IS NOT PERFUME... IT IS ETHER!

When you sniff it, you'll pass out. They'll take your wallet, your valuables and heaven knows what else. If it were not for this email, I probably would have sniffed the 'perfume' but thanks to the generosity of an emailing friend, I was spared whatever might have happened to me. I wanted to do the same for you. PLEASE PASS THIS ALONG TO ALL YOUR WOMEN FRIENDS AND PLEASE BE ALERT AND BE AWARE. IF YOU ARE A MAN AND RECEIVE THIS, PASS IT ON TO YOUR WOMEN FRIENDS. Ladies, this happened to me yesterday and I didn't smell the perfume either, thanks to this email. This is true. Believe me, I know. I was over by Big Lots in the parking lot at lunch time when I was
approached. So either day or night, it does not matter. There were 3 guys together when I was approached. I called the police when I got back to my desk. Like the email says above, LET EVERYONE KNOW ABOUT THIS - YOUR FRIENDS, FAMILY, CO-WORKERS, whomever. It helped me. The first thing that popped into my head was this e-mail warning. MAKE SURE YOUR DAUGHTERS KNOW!

AN XMAS EVE TALE 2008

In 2008 the holiday sales plummeted to near-zero in New York's Diamond District 47th Street. The Greater Depression had robbed the middle-class of their imagined wealth and jewelry purchases had been sacrificed to pay mortgages and credit card bills. America as a nation continued to suffer from the banking debacle, the collapse of the car industry, and the two wars in Asia. Thankfully Richie Boy had rich clients and two days before Christmas we toasted our survival at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central with his wife.

"Well, we squeaked out another year.”

The three of us clinked glasses and a platter of freshly shucked shellfish arrived at our table. The wine was Austrian and the oysters had been harvested in New England. His wife was happy with both.

“A million-dollar ruby sale, a couple of rich guys buying big items, and a few lucky sales off the street.” I had sold an Italian suite of pearls and sapphires to a Swiss couple and the ruby to a woman from Boca Raton.

“We were lucky.”

“And we showed up to work every day.

“90% of success is showing up on time.”

“Or not too late.”

The next day was Christmas Eve. I arrived at the diamond exchange fifteen minutes after the opening time of 9:30 . Tardiness was my one perk after working there for twenty years.

"Morning, Manny."

"What are you so happy about?" Richie Boy's father came to work on time.

"The end of another holiday selling season."

"Bah." Richie Boy’s father shared none of our positivity. Operational costs and bills from his son arrived faster than our profit, but Richie Boy deserved every c-note.

Without him the firm would be another dark window on 47th street.

"Did you see this?" Manny brandished the print-out of the bill from the Oyster Bar. He must have had my work wife check the credit card expenditures. Deisy shrugged innocently. She was just following orders.

"No."

The dinner had been Richie Boy's treat. He walked into the store and his father asked the same question.

"Yes, I signed for it."

“$4 for an oyster? They sell them at Doc’s for $1 at Happy Hour.” Doc’s was his local bar on 34th Street.

“Happy hour ends at 7 and we were here until 7:30. And only two of them were $4. Willapas as big as your palm.” Richie Boy had been disgusted by the size. “The goy loved them.”

“Almost as much as the clams casino. Oysters wrapped in bacon.”

"A dozen oysters was $20?” Manny hated spending money on luxuries.

“Maybe more.”

“And you had to have them?”

“We were celebrating getting through another Christmas,” answered Richie Boy.

“Now is it not the time for celebrating.”

“We saved the firm.”

“By luck. Maybe next year we won’t be so lucky.”

“Why are you so miserable?” Richie Boy wasn’t allowing his father to ruin his holiday. He was heading up to Vermont and then off to St. Bart’s with his wife for the New Year’s. Richie Boy had a good life and his father ruined every success with a bucket of Grinch.

“I’m not miserable. I’m running a business.” Manny reviewed our sales, as if each was a dead loss. He pointed a finger at me. “You should have got more profit for the jewelry suite.”

“I’ll take $20,000 on a $50,000 sale any day.” The commission would pay for a flight to Thailand to see my kids.

“Big hero. I would have let them walk” He thought that I should have hit them for 70K.

"Better something than nothing."

Richie Boy and I sat at our desks and ignored Manny's gloom, as the old man schlepped every dealer to the last minute. He chided my co-workers for every supposed fault. I told Richie to give us our bonuses before his departure to Vermont, otherwise his father would divine some way to stiff us.

“I’m out of my here at 2:30.” Richie Boy distributed our pay and Xmas bonuses. He had wanted to give me a G. Manny cut it down to $800. I thanked them both. The previous year Manny had given me nothing.

“Manny, let them go home early. They’re goys and have family.” Richie Boy cared about us, although not enough to stick around to insure an early Christmas Eve closing. He had a long drive in front of him and was eager to leave behind the grumblings of his old man.

“I’ll let them go at 7.” The exchange closed at that hour from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve.

“Funny.”

Only Manny wasn’t joking about his remake of Dicken’s classic Xmas tale. Everyone wanted to go home, but he was Scrooge and I was his Bob Cratchit.

“Manny, could you at least let Deisy go home early? She has a baby and needs to go to church,” I pleaded between muttered curses.

“She’ll go home at the normal hour.”

And we sat there for another two hours without a single customer entering the store, so I went out and bought some beers to drink. I didn’t offer Manny a sip. He kept his head down and crunched numbers on his ancient accounting machine.

“Fucking mean old shit.”

And I started pulling the back showcases.

“It’s not seven yet.” Manny tapped his watch.

“Then buy a new watch. The computer says 5. My watch says 5. My phone says 5. The clock in the back says 5 and you had the landlord retime it five minutes slow to get another few minutes of shopping time. We’re closing.”

“Since when did you become my boss?”

“I’m not the boss. I’m a goy and we celebrate Christmas.”

“You’re a non-believer.” Manny remembered my many rants against the Church.

“Not today. Deisy start pulling.” My work wife didn't move. She obeyed who paid her.

“Deisy, don’t do anything.”

“Manny, give it up. We’re going home.”

“Why don’t you go home and don’t come back?”

“I can’t, because Richie Boy asked me to look after you.”

“I don’t need anyone looking after me.”

"Really?" All his friends were dead and his girlfriend lived in Miami.

"I have my work."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Yes. I come to work, so you can come late. I come to work to manage my son's spending more than we make. Without me there'd be no work, so we are staying to the last minute."

"Not today." I opened the jewelry case and loaded the necklace and rings into a tray.

"I can't believe it. My name's on the wall, but no one listens to me."

"Like I said 'not today'."

Deisy joined me. She had a young daughter. Her family was coming over for dinner.

"Fine, pretend I'm not here."

"Will do."

After closing the safe Deisy left for New Jersey. I got my coat and wished my longtime boss a good holiday.

“That wasn’t right, you closing.”

"Yeah, but what's done is done."

Outside shoppers were heading home for the holiday. They had families and friends waiting for them. My wife and kids were on the other side of the world and I asked, “You feel like a drink?”

"Why not."Manny got up from his papers and I handed him his coat. It was cold outside.

“Down the street?”

“Anywhere as long as they had wine and maybe some oysters, but no $4 oysters” He didn't stay mad at me long.

“Sounds good to me.” I was still pissed at the old git, but Manny wasn’t that different from me and neither is everyone else. We all have a little bit of the Grinch in us this time of year, for as Manny likes to say, “There is no season for giving.”

"Your treat?"

"When wasn't it?" We left the exchange.

"Always the same, my man," I answered, because while Manny might have been Scrooge, he was my Scrooge and my Bob Cratchit was his.

At least for Xmas Eve.

Palm Beach Massage - 2008

Not many people have my phone number. Friends, family, my wife and mia noi, so I was surprised to see a Thai phone # appear on the LCD. At first I thought it might be the bangkok cyber-crime police wondering whether I wanted to work for them as a spy, then I recognized the # as belonging to Jamie Parker.

"Where are you?" I asked wishing I was wherever he was rather than the quiet streets of Palm Beach.

"Soi 6 and having a good time. Any go-gos where you at?"

"One named Rachel's. $20 for a three minute lap dance." About the price of a short-time visit to the upstairs chambers of any Soi 6 establishment.

"Any skinny girls?" Jamie was privy to my predilection for skin and bones.

"I wouldn't know." I hadn't enough money to visit the West Palm go-go bar and bicycling in that area was potentially offering your possessions and life to the various gangbangers dominating the nightlife of West Palm Beach.

"What are you doing for money?"

Three months ago my faux F1 business was providing my family with more money than the average Thai banker and allowing me to live like a duke in Pattaya. Now I was mansion sitting for $50/day. Main duty consisted of walking a scarred rescue Airedale named Cujo.

"Not much."

"How you like to make some money?

"Love to." I answered cautious since Jamie Parker loved to take risks with other people's freedom, but at this point I really was dying to return to Pattaya and any other city in Thailand as long as they had cold beer. "What you have in mind?"

"How about opening a massage parlor on Palm Beach. One girl, one guy, and a ladyboy for anyone in-between? I know the rents are expensive, but I'm sure you could recoup any expenses within the first week."

Jamie was right about that. Cars would be double-parked on Worth Avenue and most of them Bentleys. Sex in Palm Beach is mostly extra-marital with surgical-enhanced blondes. Only one problem.

"I think it would be hard getting the licenses." The Palm Beach cops would be difficult too. "This isn't Thailand."

"Hey, I've been to Florida." He had spent two months in Dade County jail for vagrancy in 1978. The charges stemming from his falling asleep in a movie theater. "You have to admit you'd clean up if you opened a massage parlor in Palm Beach."

"Better to have an escort service. These rich people like to be discreet."

"The trio are already in New York. You want them to come down. Maybe they could stay with you at that mansion."

"I'll let you know." I hung up before I could think about too much, for while Jamie's plan was a sure-fire way of making money, it was also guaranteed to place me in jail and Florida jails are no fun in the summer time. Still Palm Beach Massage has a nice ring to it.

Especially in florid Florida neon.

Oh so Palm Beach.

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Our Lady of Palm Beach MIA 2008

In the summer of 2008 I took care of an eight year-old Airedale in Palm Beach after my departure from Thailand. The owners had rescued her from a shelter. Pom Pom was a little crazy. She liked to growl at people and loved biting little manicured dogs. My friend Lisa thought Pom Pom was a frat dog raised by drunken frat boys abandoned after graduation from university, but judging from the scars on her head and tattered ears my vote was for a fight dog from a Riviera Beach crack house. Either way I kept Pom Pom around dogs or children or any other living creatures. I know she gets a little lonely with me as her only companion, however better than her mauling a Palm Beach heiress' poodle.

We walk on the beach. It's safer than the dog park in West Palm Beach.

No cars.

No dogs.

A few grey heron.

Our walk passed Donald Trump's Mar-O-Lago. The resort was deserted for the summer. All the cabanas were padlocked and the plastic flotsam gathered at the high tide mark without any beach boys raking the sand clean.

As we returned from our jaunt, I spotted a derelict woman scurrying from the bushes of Trump's estate. It was obvious her previous night's resting place had been in the bushes. Pom Pom's bark frightened her. Dogs were never too friendly with the homeless.

I yanked on Pom Pom's leash and shouted to the woman, "Hey."

She looked over her shoulder with eyes glazed by a long series of bad choices and she hurried toward wooden steps. Federal law allows access to the beach up to the high-tide mark, but every path was marked with NO TRESPASSING signs.

Trespassers were not allowed on property.

I was the exception.

"Don't go." I had $2 in my swimming trunks.

The old woman lifted her plastic bags to her chest like she feared Pom Pom might tear them from her grasp.

"I have some money for you."

These words stalled her flight and she turned around warily to face me from a distance of thirty feet. "That dog bite?"

"Probably." Pom Pom had snapped at me the other night. She wanted some of my hamburger. I didn't give her any. "But don't worry, you don't have to come here to get the money."

I placed the $2 under a shell.

"Thanks." She put down her bags. "I saw you the ther day. I thought you might call the cops on me. I don't like sleeping in the rough, but sleeping in the country jails ain't no picnic either. You don't look like you'd know anything about that."

"You're right." My last time in jail was in Bangkok three months ago and the Thai police had processed my papers in an air-conditioned office. "How long you been on the island?"

"Since the beginning of the low season," she spoke with a lisp. Her front teeth were stumps. "Not many rich people around, so I buy a week of food and live in the bushes. Gets a little scary at night with snakes and insects, but safer than the shelters. They're no bargain either."

"You speak with any of the rich people?"

"Damn, no." She shook her medusa nest of grey hair. "They don't give a shit for people like me haunting their lawns. And damn they're plenty enough ghosts hanging around these houses as it is."

"Ghosts?" I wondered about ghosts after the living room couch had moved a week earlier.

"Oh, yeah, plenty of ghosts from men shooting their cheating wives and women poisoning their husbands. Wandering the lawns like they 're looking for lost gold bracelet. Sometimes I check where they walk to see if there is some gold, but they don't even leave a footprint. Rich people are just as stingy dead as alive."

"My friends are okay."

"Yeah, try asking them for a million." She eyed Pom Pom, as if the dog read her mind. "They treat that dog better than they treat people. So you be careful of those ghosts."

"Where you headed?"

"Someplace the sun don't shine so hard and where the dogs are not too big." She snatched the money and wandered into the underbrush. She was gone and we resumed our walk. Pom Pom moaned and I patted her head. She was a good dog. A little crazy, but then again so is everyone these days.

Times Asshole - John Tierney of the NY Times

Fourteen years ago John Tierney, a right-wing pundit, had been hired by the NY TIMES to attract readership from the Fox News suburbs. I had been angered at the Times publishing this head-in-the-sand Op-Ed piece. The Grand Old Lady had dropped her knickers for the SUV mass-suicidists of America. I hadn't written a rebuttal back then, but I'm Irish and we like to strike later, because as a tribe of poets our clan have vengeful memories running back and forth through the millenia and there's nothing better than to strike when your enemy never knew you.

My retorts shall in CAPs

SUMMER VACATION 2008 by John Tierney

For most of the year, it is the duty of the press to scour the known universe looking for ways to ruin your day. The more fear, guilt or angst a news story induces, the better. But with August upon us, perhaps you're in the mood for a break, so I've rounded up a list of ten things not to worry about on your vacation.

I AGREE WITH HIS ACCUSATIONS OF THE FEAR-MONGERING PRESS

Now, I can't guarantee you that any of these worries is groundless, because I can't guarantee you that anything is absolutely safe, including the act of reading a newspaper. With enough money, an enterprising researcher could surely identify a chemical in newsprint or keyboards that is dangerously carcinogenic for any rat that reads a trillion science columns every day.

WHILE NEWSPAPERS CONTAIN HARMFUL INKS, READING THEM IS ONLY DANGEROUS IF YOU BELIEVE ALL THE LIES. What I can guarantee is that I wouldn't spend a nanosecond of my vacation worrying about any of these 10 things:

1. Killer hot dogs. What is it about frankfurters? There was the nitrite scare. Then the grilling-creates-carcinogens alarm. And then, when those menaces ebbed, the weenie warriors fell back on that old reliable villain: saturated fat.

I LOVE HOT DOGS FROM THE GRILL, HOWEVER WE USED TO THINK THAT THE MEAT PACKERS JUST DROPPED WHOLE COWS IN A MANGLER AND POOPED EVERYTHING OF THE COW OTHER THAN THE MOO INTO THE SKINS. But now even saturated fat isn't looking so bad, thanks to a rigorous experiment in Israel reported this month. The people on a low-carb, unrestricted-calorie diet consumed more saturated fat than another group forced to cut back on both fat and calories, but those fatophiles lost more weight and ended up with a better cholesterol profile. And this was just the latest in a series of studies contradicting the medical establishment's predictions about saturated fat. THE RED ANTS OF THAILAND WITH EAT ALMOST ANYTHING. MY WIFE BOUGHT CORN OIL. SHE SPILLED SOME ON THE COUNTER. THE ANTS AVOIDED THE SATURATED FAT BY INCHES. MY WIFE WANTED TO THROW IT OUT. I STOPPED HER AND USED IT AS INSECT DETERRENT.

2. Your car's planet-destroying A/C. No matter how guilty you feel about your carbon footprint, you don't have to swelter on the highway to the beach. After doing tests at 65 miles per hour, the mileage experts at edmunds.com report that the aerodynamic drag from opening the windows cancels out any fuel savings from turning off the air-conditioner.

I AGREE WITH HIS STATEMENT, BUT ROADS DESTROY AND CARS KILL. THE AC ISN'T REALLY AN ISSUE SINCE POLLUTION FROM THE MANUFACTURE OF A CAR OR SUV OR MANLY PICK-UP ( I LIKE THE OLD FORD 150 ) OUTSTRIPS ALL HARM COMING FROM THE EXHAUST PIPE.

3. Forbidden fruits from afar. Do you dare to eat a kiwi? Sure, because more "food miles" do not equal more greenhouse emissions. Food from other countries is often produced and shipped much more efficiently than domestic food, particularly if the local producers are hauling their wares around in small trucks. One study showed that apples shipped from New Zealand to Britain had a smaller carbon footprint than apples grown and sold in Britain.

AND THESE FRUITS TASTE ALL THE SAME ALTHOUGH MASS-SUICIDISTS DON'T EAT VEGETABLE OR FRUIT.

4. Carcinogenic cellphones. Some prominent brain surgeons made news on Larry King's show this year with their fears of cellphones, thereby establishing once and for all that epidemiology is not brain surgery — it's more complicated.

ONCE MORE THE REAL HARM FROM THESE DEVICES ARE THEIR MANUFACTURE, DISPOSAL AND THE ABILITY OF GOVERNMENTS AND CORPORATION TO DEEP-MINED THROUGH SEAMS OF YOUR LIFE. SHUT OFF YOUR PHONE AND YOU WILL BE FREE.

As my colleague Tara Parker-Pope has noted, there is no known biological mechanism for the phones' non-ionizing radiation to cause cancer, and epidemiological studies have failed to find consistent links between cancer and cellphones.

THE HARM FROM CELLPHONES IS THEIR ADDICTIVE COUNTER-REALITY AND USSERS INABILITY TO RECOGNIZE THEIR DISCONNECT FROM HUMANITY.

It's always possible today's worried doctors will be vindicated, but I'd bet they'll be remembered more like the promoters of the old cancer-from-power-lines menace — or like James Thurber's grandmother, who covered up her wall outlets to stop electricity from leaking.

Driving while talking on a phone is a definite risk, but you're better off worrying about other cars rather than cancer.

5. Evil plastic bags. Take it from the Environmental Protection Agency : paper bags are not better for the environment than plastic bags. If anything, the evidence from life-cycle analyses favors plastic bags. They require much less energy — and greenhouse emissions — to manufacture, ship and recycle. They generate less air and water pollution. And they take up much less space in landfills;

PLASTIC IS JUST THE TRASH FROM THE PRODUCTION OF OIL. THESE DIABOLICAL CORPORATIONS HIRE MIT CHEM GRADS TO PROMOTE TOXIC FOREVER PLASTIC AS A BOON TO SOCIETY. THE LARGEST HUMAN EDIFICE USED TO THE STATEN ISLAND LANDFILL. IT HAS BEEN CLOSED FOR YEARS, YET METHANE CLOUDS SEEP FROM THE MOUNTAIN. BBUT FUCK IT NEW JERFSEY AND STATEN ISLAND ARE USED TO POLLUTION, SHIT WHEN WE WERE KIDS IN THE 50S WE RAN THROUGH THE DDT FOG.

6. Toxic plastic bottles. For years panels of experts repeatedly approved the use of bisphenol-a, or BPA, which is used in polycarbonate bottles and many other plastic products. Yes, it could be harmful if given in huge doses to rodents, but so can the natural chemicals in countless foods we eat every day. Dose makes the poison.

But this year, after a campaign by a few researchers and activists, one U.S. government panel expressed some concern about BPA in baby bottles. Panic ensued. Even though there was zero evidence of harm to humans, Wal-Mart pulled BPA-containing products from its shelves, and politicians began talking about BPA bans. Some experts fear product recalls that could make this the most expensive health scare in history.

Nalgene has already announced that it will take BPA out of its wonderfully sturdy water bottles. Given the publicity, the company probably had no choice. But my old blue-capped Nalgene bottle, the one with BPA that survived glaciers, jungles and deserts, is still sitting right next to me, filled with drinking water. If they ever try recalling it, they'll have to pry it from my cold dead fingers. THERE IS NO CLEAN RAIN WATER LEFT ON EARTH. YOUR DEAD FINGERS MIGHT BE COMING FASTER THAN JOHN TIERNEY THOUGHT.

7. Deadly sharks. Throughout the world last year, there was a grand total of one fatal shark attack (in the South Pacific), according to the International Shark Attack File at the University of Florida.

LAST YEAR SHARKS ATTACKED TWENTY-SEVEN SWIMMERS AND SURFERS IN USA WATERS. NONE OF DRY LAND.

8. The Arctic's missing ice. The meltdown in the Arctic last summer was bad enough, but this spring there was worse news. A majority of experts expected even more melting this year, and some scientists created a media sensation by predicting that even the North Pole would be ice-free by the end of summer.

So far, though, there's more ice than at this time last summer, and most experts are no longer expecting a new record. You can still fret about long-term trends in the Arctic, but you can set aside one worry: This summer it looks as if Santa can still have his drinks on the rocks.

SANTA'S NORTH POLE MIGHT BE ICE-FREE BY THE END OF THIS DECADE. GET READY FOR SOME SERIOUS SURF.

9. The universe's missing mass. Even if the fate of the universe — steady expansion or cataclysmic collapse — depends on the amount of dark matter that is out there somewhere, you can rest assured that no one blames you for losing it. And most experts doubt this collapse will occur during your vacation.

THE PENULTIMATE LEAST OF MY WORRIES.

10. Unmarked wormholes. Could your vacation be interrupted by a sudden plunge into a wormhole? From my limited analysis of space-time theory and the movie "Jumper," I would have to say that the possibility cannot be eliminated. I would also concede that if the wormhole led to an alternate universe, there's a good chance your luggage would be lost in transit.

WHAT ME WORRY? JOHN TIERNEY SERVES THE RULING CLASS.

But I still wouldn't worry about it, In an alternate universe, you might not have to spend the rest of the year fretting about either dark matter or sickly rodents. You might even be able to buy one of those Nalgene bottles.

SOME LAST WORDS TO JOHN TIERNEY AND NY TIMES

"POG MO THOIN."

Yai Chang In Pattaya

Back in the day elephants nightly wandered the streets of Pattaya to cool off and cadge sugar cane donations to enrich their under-paid mahouts from Isaan. Yai walked down Moo 9 a few nights a week. The scrawny mahout said Yai's age was about 40.

A little younger than me.

I always had something for Yai, sometimes a quart of Chang beer, but he only had eyes for my two mango trees, especially as they flowered and bore fruit. When the mangoes reached harvest, I pointed to the top of the tree. "Those are yours."

The top of the trees were covered with red ants supping on the running sap and red ants are no one's friends.

Yai regarded Nok the mahout holding the ear hook and then me. We nodded 'go for it'.

Yai and I became closer friends year after year.

At the Buffalo Bar I bought Yai Chang.

Once a drunken Brit gave him a whiskey coke. Yai spit it out along with a snout of snort, covering the lager lout in pachyderm phlegm. Yai, the mahout and I laughed along with the girls of the Buffalo Bar.

In 2008 I moved away from Pattaya to the rice fields of Bannok, but occasionally visited the city of the Gulf of Siam to see old friends and speak my native tongues.

One night in 2011 I strolled down 2nd Road and everyone coming in the opposite direction looked over my head and I turned around to face Yai and Nok.

Elephants walk with a quiet unbeknownst to humans.

They both smiled at me and Yai slipped his trunk around my chest. I got scared, but Yai hugged me with the gentleness of a friend. We drank three beers at a near-by beer bar and he trumpeted his good-bye with an echoing bleat.

I'm 67 now. Yai is probably still around the Last Babylon. One day I'll go back and find out. It's what old friends do. See each other.

GIve Peace A Chance - 2008

Back in the last century Richie Boy, Ronnie D, and I were surfing in the Hamptons. The day ended with beers on the beach. A fire from driftwood warmed our bones and we rehashed old stories, as the sun sank over the salt marsh. Richie Boy's girlfriend asked us to pose for a picture. We stood together in our wetsuits. They took 10 pounds off our waists.

Dawn said, "One-two-three." and clicked a photo.

"Stop that." A man shouted from the hightide line. He was British and older than us. The man walked with a sickly woman. "We don't want any photos taken."

"No one taking photos of a loser like you." I yelled back and Richie Boy started laughing, "You idiot, that's Paul McCartney."

"Asshole." I muttered about myself under my breath, as the old Beatle waddled down the beach. Te woman was his wife. He didn't care about his photo but hers. I was the asshole. He wasn't even in Dawn's photo. I was never a McCartney fan, but that he stood by his wife I admired. Later in the autumn the Fab Paul showed his true colors by playing John Lennon's GIVE PEACE A CHANCE at a show in Tel Aviv. Maybe some of the Zionists will listen, although I think IMAGINE is much more effective a song.

Peace on Mars.