There’ll Always be an England - 2010

"Will there always be an England?"

The England of today is not that of 1940.

No country is what it was seventy years ago and some of those countries aren't countries anymore like the USA.

Yesterday I was drinking beer with two friends in Nah-Jomtien. Over the hill was Pattaya, the Last Babylon. We drank on the soi. Leo beer. $1.50 for a big bottle. Richard had provided a big pot of mussels scrapped from the bay at low tide. His wife had steamed at the local eatery. It was one big family on Soi 7. There was enough for everyone. Mark was complaining about how England had changed from the time of his parents, as he sucked down the hoi. His rotten teeth were a tribute to those times. Cigarettes and beer and the Sex Pistols. Neither of them had been punks like me.

"No one rioted back then."

"That's because they were fighting the Nazis. War is nothing but a big riot." Richard, who lived off the gleaming from the sea, had fought for the South African army in Namibia. Long patrols through the desert tracking rebels struggling against apartheid. "Those thugs in Tottenham were rioting, because they hate the rich."

"And right they should. The banks fucked up and the government expect the poor to pay for it." Mark was retired on a pension from HM postal service. He would have starve on his pension in Surrey. In Thailand the redhead had a loving wife, a cheap apartment, and enough pocket money for food and beer.

"The middle class more like it." Richard taught in Saudi Arabia. Three months on. One month in Jomtien. He had fallen down in the shower last night. Tape covered the scar.

"There's no middle class in the UK. We're all slaves for the rich." Mark was serious.

"More like the Queen."

"There is no future in England." I quote from the Pistols' GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

"Britons will never ever be slaves." Richard came from good English stock. His grandparents had emigrated to the Cape Colony after the Boer War. He was proud of his heritage.

"Doesn't that line come from RULE BRITANNIA?" I was familiar with the national anthems of England, France, Thailand, and Canada. I could hum them all.

"I think it goes “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves”." Mark sang the words off-key.

"There'll always be an England." Richard raised his glass. We toasted the Spectred Isle and I muttered Free Northern Ireland under my breath, while Mark and Richard dueted Vera Lynn's popular 1940 song. They were in good voice.

My introduction to England had been in 1978. I had been living with the blonde model from Buffalo in a studio next to the Chelsea football pitch on Fulham Road. Quiet except for football days. Everyone was English then. Proud of the puttering cars, Stalinist wages, polluted skies, and double-decker buses. I felt like it had always been 1984 in the UK and tht was six years before Orwell's prediction.

“And England’s dreaming.”

The Sex Pistols tried to their best.

They had the only # 1 chart buster to never be played on the BBC.

That England doesn't exist anymore either.

Chicken curry had outpaced fish and chips as the #1 English meal and even more pointedly by year’s end Mohammad will be the most popular name for newborns in the UK.

Mohammad beating out Jack?

Whatever happened to Percy?

Maybe it all went to shit when Tiny Tim sang THERE’LL ALWAYS BE AN ENGLAND at the Isles of Wight in 1970, then again integration is the ultimate price of imperialism. You go, conquer, leave, and bring a little bit back with you.

Not just the curries.

Of course there’ll always be one place that’s always England and that’s the Falklands.

THERE’LL ALWAYS BE AN ENGLAND

I give you a toast, ladies and gentlemen.
May this fair dear land we love so well
In dignity and freedom dwell.
Though worlds may change and go awry
While there is still one voice to cry
There’ll always be an England
While there’s a country lane,
Wherever there’s a cottage small
Beside a field of grain.
There’ll always be an England
While there’s a busy street,
Wherever there’s a turning wheel,
A million marching feet.
Red, white and blue; what does it mean to you?
Surely you’re proud, shout it aloud,
“Britons, awake!”
The Empire too, we can depend on you.
Freedom remains. These are the chains
Nothing can break.
There’ll always be an England,
And England shall be free
If England means as much to you
As England means to me.
And to me.
Half my blood is English. The other half Irish. They are at civil war, but one thing in my heart remains true.

Free Northern Ireland.

addendum 2025 Nine years ago is a lot of time. I hacve not set foot in neither Thailand or the UK in three years. A serious sickness stranded this wild colonial boy to New York and Montauk. I have no idea what happened to Mark or Richard. The UK Tories elected an Indian man after a disastrous term with a woman. In my mind I see me traveling the world again. Maybe in the winter. The UK, Paris, Kenya, Thailand.Nothing is certain, but there will always be an Ireland.

Winchester Gun Club - Jomtien -2007

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.

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. 

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.

Jamie Parker called Sunday.

"I'll buy you a few beers at the Winchester."

"It's open?"

"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.

Her accident.

My bill.

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.

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.

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.

"Good, huh?"

"Black as a witches heart."

"And it's only 3pm." Transylvanian blood ran in his family and the New Yorker tried never to see the light of day.

"How are the ribs?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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.

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."

"You have a good crowd." More than two farangs was a success this low season.

"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."

"You expecting a big high season?"

"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."

Bald overweight single men in Britain have sex with another person once a decade. Married ones even less.

"Which is why the internet is loaded with spam for Cialis and porno."

"Sex for the home bound."

"And also fighting off baldness."

"Too late for me and here who cares." Thai girls were notoriously forgiving of a male partners' physical flaws and social faults.

"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.

Jamie later called from the Winchester and said he was on his way to getting supremely drunk.

"It-chaa?"

"More than a little jealous." I was sober, but next time at the Winchester I would take advantage of the eternal night.

If only to celebrate Beermas.

WINCHESTER GUN CLUB - Soi Wat Boon near Jomtien Beach Road.

Hours early to late

2008 Stunner

After New Year’s Day of 2008 my 'wife' packed the car with Angie, Champoo, and her fat sister for the return drive to Chai-nat. Her week stay for Xmas had been torture. My every word was met with visible disdain. She told my daughter that I was a worthless drunk. My restraint had been tested to the limit. My young daughter and I celebrated her birthday together. Angie refused to choose sides and cried getting in the car. I hugged my daughter and said, "I’ll see you soon." Chai-nat was a five-hour bus ride from Pattaya. My online site for selling fake F1 merchandise required daily attention, but I had come to Thailand to be with Angie and not flog second-grade copies to racing fanatics. “You take care?” Angie’s mom spoke little to no English. Thais are the French of the Orient and even the lowest caste have a very high opinion of themselves and their country. The former factory worker considered farangs ‘so-kapok’ and we were only one step above Arabs. “I’ll be fine.” I kissed my daughter good-bye. Her mother and I had not been intimate since before her birth. Our sole connection was our daughter and she had said on more than one occasion that Angie wasn’t mine. Her ex-boyfriend had disappeared weeks ago. Pi-et was no magician and the main prop for his vanishing act had been a bus north. Chai-nat lay in the same direction. Murder constantly paced the corridors of my mind and accordingly we maintained a defensive distance. The Toyota backed out of the driveway. Angie waved from the backseat. She had my mother’s smile, crooked teeth and all. I swallowed a lump and went inside my rented house to open a can of beer. It was twenty-three minutes short of noon. I thought about calling Angie’s mom to come back, but my words had lost their magic. They had a full tank of gas and 2500 baht, which was more than enough to last two days, then again if I had learned one thing in Thailand, “It’s never enough.” The beer tasted strong on an empty stomach. I was once more being deserted to my own devices in Pattaya. I turned the TV onto Fox News. Bill O’Reilly was praising GW Bush for saving America after 9/11. As I got up for another beer, my mobile phone vibrated on the coffee table. The volume of the ringing was turned down to avoid to avoid unwanted phone calls. My wife suspected the worst and a woman was never wrong about a man. I answered the phone It was Mint. 22 years old, thin as a runway model, and convinced that I could never love her. “Is she gone?” “Back to Chai-nat.” “And her ‘feend’.” The Thai word for lover sounded very much like friend. I had discovered my wife sitting on Pi-et’s lap. She had said that they were just friends in Thai. I had chosen to accept the lie for the sake of my daughter. “Yes.” “We have to talk.” “About what?” Mint and I had been lovers for over a year, but we had never spent a night in bed together. Our encounters were pure afternoon or early evening. “I tell you when I see you.” She shared an apartment on Jomtien Beach with a gay friend. Glai was very jealous of our relationship. The hustler liked it better when I had been a customer. Mint felt the opposite. “Can’t you tell me now?” I hated mysteries. “No. Not now. I see you. I tell you.” If it can’t be said over the phone, then it wasn’t about money. She wasn’t shy about asking for money, but neither was Mint greedy, despite having two kids. They cost money. I gave what I gave. It also was never enough. Mint probably had another boyfriend to bankroll her life. She was an ace at pretending desire. Her faithful clientele from her years on Soi 6 and the Mona Lisa Massage in Bangkok were legion. She juggled her time with us like a crap shooter hoping for the best roll. I drove the back roads to Jomtien. Pattaya attracted thousands of long-timers. Coconut plantations were giving way to holiday villas. The vanishing wetlands behind Jomtien Beach put a good distance between my house and Mint’s apartment, diminishing the possibility of my wife and Mint running into each other. I hated confrontations. By the time I reached Thraprassit Road, the sun had burnt through the morning haze. The cold front had slunk down from Siberia. Thai beachgoers reveling in the sea. Russians waddled out of 7/11 with ice creams. It was a too nice a day to hear goodbye twice. I turned off the Beach Road and rolled up to her semi-abandoned apartment building. The Doors’ ’THE END’ played in my head like this scene was the beginning of APOCALYPSE II. Mint sat on a stool in front of the building. She was wearing a loose dress. A bottle of beer was on the table weigh two glasses. “You want drink?” She averted looking in my eyes. “Yes.” Beer protected me from everything. She poured beer into the two glasses. Neither of us took a sip. Mint had her hands folded on her lap. I sat down and asked, “What is it?” “I’m pregnant.” She lifted do-it-yourself pregnancy test. Two red lines indicated mint was carrying another life. I had thought the recent weight gain had come from beer. “Pregnant?” I was old enough to be Mint’s father, who’s actually two years younger than me. Angie had been a surprise. This neared a shock. “Yes. Two months. It is yours.” “Mine.” Two months ago had been Loy Krathong. I distinctly recalled a long afternoon in bed. The math worked out to 1+1=3. “I not go with other man.” She had been faithful to me. I was the same to her. “I know.” I wasn’t brought up to accuse a woman of entrapment. It wasn’t like I was the pick of the crop. “Chai.” Her morning sickness and expanding belly should have been signs of impending fatherhood. I was too absorbed in my problems to notice the obvious. “A baby.” Walking away from a woman was easy in Thailand. Marriages dissolved like sugar in the rain. Men were free to come and go as the wind. Women were glad to see them go too. Mint was well aware of her position. Pattaya was the Last Babylon. It was every man for himself. The father of her two children had left her penniless at 18. Her beauty had saved them from starvation. I lifted her head with two fingers. Tears dotted the corners. She had been here before, but not with me. “Two months pregnant?” “Chai.” She was expecting a repeat of bad luck. “What you want to do?” “I want have baby.” Mint wanted to make me happier. She was too crazy to do that all the time, but she had heard the sadness in my voice, as I told her about Angie’s mother singing the name of the father to Pi-et. The Thai authorities would never reverse that signature. Mint wanted to have the baby. She wanted it to be mine. “Baby girl be cute.” “That’s the truth.” Looks were the least of our problems. “How do you know it’s a girl?” She certainly had not done an ultra-sound. >”Old lady see my neck and say if blood move up and down sure to be girl.” Mint indicated a pulsing vein on her neck. “Old lady say maybe I have two.” “Twins?” 30 seconds was not enough time to digest the first news let alone the second. “Not sure. What you want do?” There was only one choice. Abortion was out of the question. It was illegal and while I accepted the freedom of choice for a woman, I was old-fashioned enough to regard every life as sacred. “If it’s a boy, can I chose the name?” I was a 55 year-old American living in Thailand. Going back to the States was not in the books. “Yes. What about your wife?” “We were never married.” Her numerous betrayal had cancelled that event. “I not want be mia noi.” Her smile was half-hearted. The second wife or mia noi usually ends up standing in the rain outside the house of her child’s father. Thai TV soaps loved that scene. “You won’t be a mia noi.” I couldn’t guarantee how her countrymen would view her, but Angie and her mother were living up-country. They weren’t coming back. My cash flow was threatened by the global slow-down. The big house in Pattaya was an unnecessary expense. Two families were an obligation for a real man. Jomtien had the beach. Mint and I could live small. “You and me will be one.” “I not want much.” Not much sounded good today. Much would be spoken later, because kids cost money. “Only me.” I felt good saying it. Believing it was not as easy, but Mint held my hand and said, “Only you, me, and babies.” And I wouldn’t have it any other way. You never do when there’s only one choice. For better. Never worst. ps my son Fenway was born in July. So much for the old lady’s prediction.

Pig Snout a la Thai

Several years ago my Thai cousin and I stopped by the Jomtien tha-lat. My sister-in-law ran a food stall inside the open-air market. On my last visit Yai had been selling chickens. Now it was pig and Khim said, "We eat from tail to nose. Everything, but the oink."

On display were heads, tails, feet, innards et al.

"I have never eaten the jamook-moo. Ears and feet yes."

"Feet are good, but hoo are chewy. Nose more chewy than ear. Soup from snout a-loi."

My sister-in-law waved for us to sit down behind the counter. We obeyed Yai and the two of us planted at a table. Plates of feet, crispy ear, and a snout were placed on the table. I ordered three bottles of Lao beer.

Several other food merchants stood by to observe a 'farang' reaction to the food.

I had once been fooled into eating pig ear to cure my stuttering once.

I knew how to make a good show.

Khim's and my teeth wrestled with the tough ears. Better if we were hyenas or goat whose chompers can gnaw through beer cans. The feet offered easier prey and tasty, after the hair had been braised off the trotters cooked in a soy sauce. Our lips smacked with every rice.

Yai chopped up the snout and dropped the morsels in a wok adding scallions, soy sauce, and garlics.

We finished the beer and I ordered three more bottles. We were soon ten at a small table, chewing on the nostrils where there is only skin and gelatinously textured tissue. These are the chewy, crispy bits that taste like candy to some meat lovers. It definitely didn't taste of chicken. My wife and daughter showed up and I ordered another plate. Everyone was happy, because the Thais only love food more than having fun.

Dying Solo Ala Pattaya

Back in 2007 a local Pattaya paper reported on a desolate death as follows;

Residents of Nongprue municipality, near Pattaya, reported to the police that a man had sighed his last next to a wooden bench in a built-up area. Arriving at the scene, police found the corpse of Mr Jamreon Racha, aged 55 and originally from Nacho Paton province, wearing only underpants and flip-flops. Mrs Thaweeporn, who owns a house near to the expiration spot, said Mr Jamroen had been a homeless vagrant for many years but did sometimes bed down in her residence. Her son informed her that the guy was lying on the ground and was seemingly devoid of life. The investigation covered that Mr Jamroen’s only interest was drinking whiskey – a lot! Police surmise that this habit directly or indirectly was the cause of his demise, but there would be a check on the cause of mortality at Banglamung mortuary.

I like their pontificatit thousands of farangs shared Mr Jamroen’s predilection for the bottle. It was the only thing he could trust and whiskey held his hand till the end like the American poet Dylan Thomas who ODed from alcohol at the White Horse Tavern.

Thomas departed from the bar after a last shot of whiskey. The 39 year-old poet staggered outside to collapse on the sidewalk later and later die at St. Vincent's Hospital. This macabre coda to his life has famousized the White Horse tavern forever.

"Do not go gently into the night."

I doubt Mr. Jamreon Racha's bench in Pattaya will ever gain such notoriety, but what do I know?

Nothing.

OLD COOT

Last summer a boat driver came over to our table at the Full Moon Bar in Jomtien. Tip liked to drink. The young Cambodian smiled at me and said something to Mam.

I really didn't understand what, but her reaction translated the meaning.

Tip smiled at me again like I was an old fool.

That may be true, but I'm only a fool for my friends.

I picked up a knife and said to Mam, 'This boy is going to have a problem."

"No problem." She knew my temper.

"No problem."

I envisioned standing up behind the young man to slip the blade between his ribs.

At my age old fools don't fight young men.

Mam was hoping that I did nothing stupid and I didn't do anything stupid other than put down the knife and ordered another beer. Mam and I crossed the street to drink in front of our apartment building. It was a smart move and Tip was smart too, because he saw the murder in my eyes.

Old guys can be like that and Chas Mover sent a joke that's very appropriate.

THE OLD COOT

An old prospector shuffled into town leading an old tired mule.

The old man headed straight for the only saloon to clear his parched throat.

He tied his old mule to the hitch rail. As he stood there, brushing some of the dust from his face and clothes, a young gunslinger stepped out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

The young gunslinger looked at the old man and laughed, saying, "Hey old man, have you ever danced?"

The old man looked up at the gunslinger and said, "No, I never did dance...

"Never really wanted to."

A crowd had gathered as the gunslinger grinned and said,”Well, you old fool, you're gonna dance now," and started shooting at the old man's feet.

The old prospector --not wanting to get a toe blown off-- started hopping around like a flea on a hot skillet. Everybody was laughing, fit to be tied.

When his last bullet had been fired, the young gunslinger, still laughing, holstered his gun and turned around to go back into the saloon.

The old man turned to his pack mule, pulled out a double-barreled shotgun, and cocked both hammers. The loud clicks carried clearly through the desert air. The crowd stopped laughing immediately. The young gunslinger heard the sounds too, and he turned around very slowly.

The silence was almost deafening. The crowd watched as the young gunman stared at the old timer and the large gaping holes of those twin barrels.

The barrels of the shotgun never wavered in the old man's hands, as he quietly said,

"Son, have you ever licked a mule's ass?"

The gunslinger swallowed hard and said, "No sir..... But... I've always wanted to."

There are a few lessons for us all here:
Never be arrogant.
Don't waste ammunition.
Whiskey makes you think you're smarter than you are.
Always, always make sure you know who has the power.
Don't mess with old men; they didn't get old by being stupid.

Fenway's First Beer

back in 2011 my son Fenway and I were sitting with his mother at the Blue Moon Bar in Jomtien. Mam said that she wanted to check on the laundry. Fenway watched her across the soi. He gave me a smile and picked up my glass of icy Leo beer.

"Chim dai, Dhim mai dai," I warned him that he could taste the beer, but not drink it.

Fenway took a quick sip.

A bigger smile.

Footsteps on the concrete soi.

My son knew them well.

His mother was coming. I sipped from my Leo.

It was cold.

Mam looked at us.

We said nothing.

Like father.

Queen For A Day

Back in the late 50s American audience were captivated by the tales of woe told by desperate housewives on the TV show QUEEN FOR A DAY.Each of the three participants had several minutes to recount their hard times to the host Jack Bailey and the winner for the most sorrowful tribulation was decided by the applause-meter, after which the music POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCE was played as the tearful contestant was bestowed with a crown and gifts. It was horrible to watch these women degrade themselves before the camera, but these tough times are reviving the show for millions of families around the world. Last month Fenway, his mother, and I visited our old soi in Jomtien. It was a grey day and the sea was too rough for swimming, so we drank at the Blue Moon cafe with the owner. There were few farangs on the soi, partially because it was low monsoon season, but mostly since everyone in the West is tapped out of funds. "Mai mii farang. Mai mii taeng." Moon was complaining about the lack of business and then asked, "You know Richard?" "Of course." Richard was teaching in Saudi Arabia; four months on and one month off. "His girlfriend Dah, she have cancer." "Oh." Richard had broken up with Dah two years ago and I sensed the direction of this conversation, for the Thais are experts at telling the classic sick buffalo story, where the family needs money to save the beloved buffalo. These unhappy endings are the harvest of a bad education, poverty, and no social network coupled with knowing that farangs have been an easy touch over the years. "I give Dah 13,000 baht to go hospital. She never give back." Moon continued her mournful story. "My husband he die last month. I have young baby." "I don't have any money." My finances were devoted to Fenway and my daughter Angie. "Yes, but maybe you could ask Richard to help me?" Moon wasn't talking about a sick buffalo. She was worried about her family same as me and Mam. Fenway's mom looked at me, as if to say 'law ke kuhn' or up to you. "I can email him and see what he says." I could only try, but I knew what he would say. I sent the email explaining the situation and several weeks later I received this response. "I also sent Da a whole lot of cash. Everything I bought her she sold! Moto Sai, washing machines, TVs et al. I spent over 1,5 million Baht on her over the years. First noticed the bump in her breast a few years ago, but she refused to go to the hospital (Me not want to know she said). Finally had to give up and move on. Sorry it took so long to reply. Haven't the urge to return to Thailand soon. So many old friends have died it tells a story in its own right." I had to write back to Moon that she was on her own. Same as everyone else in this new world. There are no more Queens for a Day.

58 and Gaining Ground on a 100 - 2018

Yesterday I celebrated my 58th Birthday with my nearly 2 year-old son Fenway Smith and his lovely mother Mam Pechdee. The location was the Full Moon Bar on Jomtien Soi 12. Beer beer and more beer. Mam decided to drink a little lo khao daeng or red rice whiskey. The local medicinal alcohol medicine reacted a little too strongly in her lithe body and she won the most drunk of our family, although I came a close second. Fenway was the designated baby. Cold sober to the bone. Best Wishes to friends, fiends, and family.

Tristam Dequatremare photoshopped by head onto Richard Burton's body in the promotional photo for the film THE NIGHT OF THE IGUANA.

Susan Lyons was even sexier in BABY DOLL.