Black Plague 2040

Traffic on Sukhumvit, rising food prices, gas nearing 40 baht a liter. economy out of control or a simple result of global over-population. I favor the latter, since I can recall parking anywhere i wanted in the 1970s.

Old timers in Pattaya tell on parking on Beach Road.

No motorcycle rental mafia.

Some scientists predict things will get worse. 9 billion people by the year 2050. 9 billion and all of them wanting to go to 7/11. Sorry, but they won't be there. Nothing will be, because the world can't provide for 9 billion people.

So will the black death take away those unwanted billions.

Only the weak, but what if everyone was weak.

Say the entire world food chain collapsed. People starved. No more slurpies. No more sum tam. Then the black plague might have some luck. Not that this massive culling will effect gas prices or traffic.

Only means they'll be place to park again on the Beach road and fewer plastic bags on the beach.

Check out the movie CHILDREN OF MAN

No more babies in the future.

None at all.

Chilling.

Bo Diddley RIP

"Is that one or three Ds?"

I put in an extra L, but I'm sure that Bo Diddley, born Otha Ellas Bates ( no relations to the Bates of PYSCHO fame ) would forgive my misspelling, after all he rode one rift into history.

WHO DO YOU LOVE, MONA, ROAD RUNNER et al are based on 'three stroke/rest/two stroke' according to the NY Times obit, but they never were monotonous. Not even played one after the other. Especially MONA, which made me want to love any girl bearing that name to this date.

I couldn't find a single Mona in Thailand and don't recollect ever dating one prior to my departure from the USA.

Mona, who do you love?

Once more according to the NY Times 'Mona' was a 45-year-old stripper at the Flame Club in Detroit. Bo's glasses were not for looks, if he was writing songs for women that old, then again times were different back in the 50s. Strippers were a rarity. Mona's too and Bo as well. The Flame Club was the creme de la creme in burlesque. Nothing like it today.

"Oh Bo Diddley!"

At least he wrote songs for stripping and for that I shall always honor his name by playing Quicksilver Messenger Service's version of WHO DO YOU LOVE at least once a week.

Not that any stripper could dance to it, but then I'm not in stripper land anymore.

Last Orders on Tube

The English like to drink. Beer courses in their veins in the general direction of Mayhem Station and London Transit decided this year to ban alcohol on the Tube. Yesterday was the last day of Beermas and thousands of the faithful celebrated the end of underground drinking with an impromptu party.

Six stations were closed by the police, as the anti-Taliban forces got a little rough with the coppers or 'filth' and transit workers. Several trains were also put out of service before midnight tolled in the new sobriety.

One punter said according to the BBC, "Like the rush hour only fun."

The new edict comes from the new mayor, despite his being a known boozer, but who also suggested last night's event. Hey. So he's a fuck-up. At least he's not Red.

17 arrests for the party were about normal for a London evening in the Tube recounted most famously by the Jam's DOWN THE TUBE STATION AT MIDNIGHT where thugs throw the singer a beating.

The party named the Last Orders will be well remembered by revelers and those stupid enough to have gotten on the tube that evening.

Happy Beermas and Anarchy in the UK.

Elect the N-Word

Jamie Parker called from Pattaya last night. I was already in bed. He was getting up from a night of drinking. There's a twelve hour difference between Palm Beach and there. He's already in the future.

"How goes the hunt for a 90-year-old heiress?" Jamie dreams of my marriage to an wealthy dowager with three weeks to live.

"Haven't met on yet." The wizened widowers strolled around the local supermarket loaded with diamonds. None of them look my way. They're more interested in the young valets. I couldn't blame them.

"Well, you better get working on it. You've been gone 5 weeks and already the girls at the Buffalo are forgetting your name."

"No great loss." I hadn't short-timed with any since Big Head was fired for sassing the diminutive mama-san with the crow's voice ie Sandy.

"I see that Hillary is going to quit finally."

"That's not what she said in her speech the other night."

"I read on the internet that she's been threatened with an ambassadorship to Zimbabwe unless she backs Obama."

"She has a point. More votes than Obama."

"Doesn't matter. The system doesn't work that way and it's time we elect an n-word." Jamie was living in Thailand. You can't say the n-word in America without getting people upset or riled up about n-words. "First back came over in the 1500s. That's almost 500 years, but no one would be considering Obama if it wasn't for OJ."

"OJ." I was getting the feeling that Jamie hadn't slept last night, meaning he was back with his go-go dancer. She liked Ice. "You aren't with Ort, are you?"

"No, she went to Singapore. Calls saying she missing me and that when she comes back we'll have a big party. I miss her too, but she's too dangerous for a man my age."

I knew full well what he meant about the ice-driven go-go dancer.

"So what's your OJ angle?"

"You see OJ's trial proved that even a black man. A black man guilty of murdering his wife and her lover can buy justice in America. Same as a guilty white person. That was a big a step for equality as the March to Selma and white people had to realize they couldn't lynch blacks anymore."

"OJ to Obama. I get it." I didn't, but hoped to change the subject by asking, "Who you voting for?"

"Don't know yet."

"You're not voting for the Old Guy?"

"No way. He's too old and his wife looks like one of those Palm Beach bitches you're trying to marry."

I had seen plenty of Cindy McCain clones in Bentleys over the past week. Blonde with their face drawn tighter than a snare drum. I'll be happy to end up with one of them and so would my wife and mistress, both of whom had given the green light to any profitable philandering as long as some of the money falls their way.

"I'm voting for Obama." This even though he had not come up for the legalization of marijuana consumption. "His speech the other evening was good. Not great and he ripped off Martin Luther King and several other orators, but he plays basketball and you know how much I like basketball."

"You better not play any."

"I won't." No one exercises at the playground on Palm Drive.

"Listen I gotta go. I tell all the girls on Soi 6 you're coming back."

"Thanks."

"And your mistress is getting big I guess."

"Eight months pregnant. If it's a boy I'm naming him O'Bama Smith."

"A good Irish name. See yah."

My contact with the other side of the planet was over. I turned on NPR, the public news radio. There was no mention of Hillary abandoning her forlorn campaign. The gum-bumpers were merely blathered about Obama's chances against the old white guy saying McCain will be playing the military card any chance he gets.

After all it was his plane that was struck by a missile on the flight deck of the USS Forrestal. 134 dead, but he got away. Someone was talking about McCain's partying too. Hell, it was the 60s and so what if he collaborated with the North Vietnamese. A man has to live.

If he comes out for legalization of cocaine, then I'll consider switching my vote, but for now it's the N-word all the way. Barack Obama 2008.

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Chinese Cocaine Deficit Disorder

As I mentioned I'm going back to the USA. It is my homeland.

I care about apple pie especially since no one can make it like my mother.

I also believe in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, which is why I live in Thailand.

The life is good under the mango tree in my front yard. I'm free to say whatever I want, because no one understands what I say. And I can pursue happiness without anyone saying, "No."

With the exception of my wife.

I'm going back to see family and friends. It's been two years. My visit is already being called 'the return of the prodigal son, uncle, friend, or reprobate'.

My people know me well. Another reason I'm returning is to find some work. Nothing to serious. A quick score which will both help America and finance my pursuit of more happiness in SE Asia.

It has come to my attention that the USA has piled up a tremendous trade deficit with China. Billions and billions. And the Chinese don't want to buy anything from us. the situation reminds me of the British before the Opium Wars. The Celestial Kingdom had no use for anything from Manchester or London, while the teabags couldn't live without a 'cuppa'. Some bright Limey tai-pans decided to deal opium to the Chinese. Its popularity was instantaneous. End of trade problems and China was thrown into the gutter.

I have shaken hands with GW Bush's father and intend of meeting the president this next month. I saw how he grabbed the Chinese Prime Minster on his last visit. He wanted to talk trade. The Commie wanted to hear nothing about buying baseball bats, since they are made in China.

My proposal will call for the legalization of cocaine everywhere in the world but white suburbs. That way we can declare the 'war on drugs' won and start dealing blow to the Chinese.

Should only take a year before the trade balance is back to zero.

I know it's a radical idea, but if i get the contract, then I'm franchising Carlos Blow Emporiums.

1-800-blowjob

If MacDonalds can sell crap, I don't see why I can't deal zoot.

Long live Tony Montana.

Dos and Don't for Beijing Olympics

Pattaya's a great town for freedom of the human spirit. You can do almost anything you want without incurring the attention of the police as long as you misbehave in a discreet manner.

Example; I came out of my cul-de-sac onto Soi Bongkot. It was a little past dawn. A mini-van was stopped on the road and the driver was examining damage from a motorscooter hitting his vehicle. the guilty party was a karaoke boy with a poofed-up haircut. He was drunk and his passenger, a bookend rent-boy, was holding a bottle of whiskey. The police drove by and didn't stop, obviously en route to a more pressing encounter with lawbreakers.

Freedom as opposed to China, which hoisted the Land of No flag this week with a list of 57 Dos and Don'ts for the Beijing Olympics published in Chinese, although applicable for gwai-lo or foreigners too.

Beermas has been suspended with the ban on public or private drunkenness. No serial killings allowed thanks to the prohibition of guns. Masturbation will be difficult without pornography and no drugs nowhere, except on the playing fields.

Passports must be on your possession at all times, especially when you're asleep, since the dormant mind is most prone to bad thoughts.

Spontaneous public demonstrations will be suppressed by the police, so watch out for victory celebrating fans to get water-cannoned by grim-faced security agents. Any mention of Tibet will be met with instant downgrade of your flight home to chains and mouth clamp, which will make the 'no spitting' rule much easier to enforce.

Other don'ts are eating while you walk, which should help most American tourists lose weight, queue cutting, a favorite fun sport for the Chinese, who think it's alright to cut in front of foreigners since you really should be in China in the first place and the classic staring at a westerner. This visual phenomena will be difficult for the Chinese who have never really seen really fat Americans.

They may be one billion, but don't weigh as much as 300,000,000 Americans. USA USA USA.

Prostitution is also under interdiction for the Olympics, except for the economic whoring to Nike, Coca-Cola, and McDonalds.

Over 80,000 police will be enforcing the 57 flavors of No throughout the Olympics. Unfortunately I can't find the full list. I'm not going, but if I had the money to go, then I would head to Pattaya. Watching the synchronized swimming with ladyboys has to be more fun than being in the Land of Doctor No.

Oh, yes, one more thing, spitting is the national sport of China and hawking is its national mating song.

Isn't the national anthem KUNG FU FIGHTING?

OLIVER BOOTH by David Desmond

I'm not sure it's good to write reviews after drinking two beers. Heineken 16 oz. Not much else to do in the full heat of a broiling Palm Beach afternoon, except drink and porno surf.



OLIVER BOOTH on Lingua Strada is a 2nd self-published novel by the nephew of Donald Trump. Most vanity press publications are exercises in bad grammar and point A to B plot lines, however as a Palm Beach native David Desmond has obviously saved his funny juice for this book, since on Google his name appears as a neuro-headshrinker and we are well aware of how funny pyschologists are at a party.

No one playing God is funny.

Bible.

Not one punch line.

OLIVER BOOTH explores a ne-er-do-well's vain attempts striving to status climb his way to success via a failing interior decorating shop off Worth Avenue. A kiss of death address as I learned bicycling down Palm Beach's vein of commerce, although I'm telling everyone I meet here that I'm opening about a massage parlor in Worth Alley with three Thais; one boy, one girl, and one ka-toey. I'm sure David Desmond would enjoy a soapie.

So would his protagonist OLIVER BOOTH.

See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Desmond

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