Thai National Anthem or Phleng Chat Thai

Thai Anthem
I haven’t been to the movies in ages, but like a baseball game in the States the cinemas play the Thai National Anthem before any feature film.



Here are the words.

Bring them with you to sing in English

Probably get arrested for lese majeste.

Thailand is the unity of Thai blood and body,
The whole country belongs to the Thai people,
Maintaining thus far for the Thai,
All Thais intend to unite together,
Thais love peace, but do not fear to fight,
They will never let anyone threaten their independence,
They will sacrifice every drop of their blood to contribute to the nation,
Will serve their country with pride and prestige-full of victory.
Chai Yo (Cheers)
I like the sacrifice every drop of their blood part

Dictator Somoza of Nicaragua had his people donate blood every year and sold it to the USA. Needless to say he pocketed the profit.

Now that’s patriotism.

One other comment of national anthems.

Very few people know that Zimbabwe’s national anthem is BIG BAD LEROY BROWN or that THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER comes from an old English drinking song.

The ANACREONTIC SONG

1
To ANACREON in Heav’n, where he sat in full Glee,
A few Sons of Harmony sent a Petition,
That He their Inspirer and Patron wou’d be;
When this Answer arriv’d from the JOLLY OLD GRECIAN
“Voice, Fiddle, and Flute,
“No longer be mute,
“I’ll lend you my Name and inspire you to boot,
“And, besides, I’ll instruct you like me, to intwine
“The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS’s Vine.

2
The news through OLYMPUS immediately flew;
When OLD THUNDER pretended to give himself Airs_
If these Mortals are suffer’d their Scheme to pursue,
The Devil a Goddess will stay above Stairs.
“Hark! already they cry,
“In Transports of Joy
“Away to the Sons of ANACREON we’ll fly,
“And there, with good Fellows, we’ll learn to intwine
“The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS’S Vine.

3
“The YELLOW-HAIR’D GOD and his nine fusty Maids
“From HELICON’S Banks will incontinent flee,
“IDALIA will boast but of tenantless Shades,
“And the bi-forked Hill a mere Desart will be
“My Thunder, no fear on’t,
“Shall soon do it’s Errand,
“And, dam’me! I’ll swinge the Ringleaders I warrant,
“I’ll trim the young Dogs, for thus daring to twine
“The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS’S Vine.

4
APOLLO rose up; and said, “Pr’ythee ne’er quarrel,
“Good King of the Gods with my Vot’ries below:
“Your Thunder is useless_then, shewing his Laurel,
Cry’d. “Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
“Then over each Head
“My Laurels I’ll spread
“So my Sons from your Crackers no Mischief shall dread,
“Whilst snug in their Club-Room, they Jovially twine
“The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS’S Vine.

5
Next MOMUS got up, with his risible Phiz,
And swore with APOLLO he’d cheerfull join_
“The full Tide of Harmony still shall be his,
“But the Song, and the Catch, & the Laugh shall bemine
“Then, JOVE, be not jealous
Of these honest Fellows,
Cry’d JOVE, “We relent, since the Truth you now tell us;
“And swear, by OLD STYX, that they long shall entwine
“The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS’S Vine.

6
Ye Sons of ANACREON, then, join Hand in Hand;
Preserve Unanimity, Friendship, and Love!
‘Tis your’s to support what’s so happily plann’d;
You’ve the Sanction of Gods, and the FIAT of JOVE.
While thus we agree
Our Toast let it be.
May our Club flourish happy, united and free!
And long may the Sons of ANACREON intwine
The Myrtle of VENUS with BACCHUS’S Vine.
——————————————————————————–
sic evitabile fulmen roughly translates to “this repels thunderbolts” (It was a common
Roman belief that laurel provided protection from lightning.)
fusty = close or stuffy, old-fashioned, of stale wine
phiz = facial expression
risible = pertaining to laughter
swinge = beat, flog, or chastise

I tried to sing it, but it’s even harder than THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER which is why I only sing LOUIE LOUIE at bars.

26 Hours Door to Door

I left Fort Greene Wednesday morning at 10:30. The A-train took me to JFK. Air-rail to Delta's Terminal # 3. A 777 over the NorthLands to Tokyo. 2 hours of waiting in Narita. Another 7 Hours to Bangkok and then a 2 hours taxi ride to Sriracha.

Home to see little Fenway and his mother.

His birthday was yesterday.

Happy Birthday Fenway.

Top 50 Foods from CNN

Americans are not renown for their adventurous palate. Most of the country survives on fast food; morning, noon, and night with potato chips in between meals washed down my corn-syrup thickened sodas. Hamburgers and fries are this nation's favorite food, but America's # 1 was only # 6 on the cnngo.com ie CNN's online life site.

Pop corn at 50 was beat out by America's fastest fast good potato chips.

The only times I eat chips is out of someone else's bag. it's the only time that they taste good.

Ketchup scores even higher.

No mention of hot dogs, fried clams, Italian sandwiches, hummus or apple pie.

Today I had a croissant for breakfast, a cheeseburger and root beer for lunch, cherries and melon in the afternoon, and I'm looking at pulled BBQ pork, brown rice, and string beans for dinner washed down by hard cider.

Tomorrow I flying west to Thailand. 25 hours of airplane food and then I'll order # 1 on the list.

Poo massaman curry - curried crab

Nothing better unless you're hungry than anything tastes good.

Even potato chips.

Here's the rest of the list from www.cnngo.com


50. Buttered popcorn, United States

49. Masala dosa, India - crispy, rice-batter crepe encases a spicy mix of mashed potato, which is then dipped in coconut chutney, pickles, tomato-and-lentil-based sauces and other condiments

48. Potato chips, United States

47. Seafood paella, Spain

46. Som tam, Thailand - pound garlic and chilies with a mortar and pestle. Toss in tamarind juice, fish sauce, peanuts, dried shrimp, tomatoes, lime juice, sugar cane paste, string beans and a handful of grated green papaya.

45. Chicken rice, Singapore - steamed or boiled chicken is served atop fragrant oily rice, with sliced cucumber as the token vegetable

44. Poutine, Canada - French fries smothered in cheese curds and brown gravy

43. Tacos, Mexico

42. Buttered toast with Marmite, Britain

41. Stinky tofu, Southeast Asia

40. Marzipan, Germany

39. Ketchup, United States

38. French toast, Hong Kong

37. Chicken parm, Australia

36. Texas barbecue pork, United States

35. Chili crab, Singapore

34. Maple syrup, Canada

33. Fish ‘n’ chips, Britain

32. Ankimo, Japan - a chunk of monkfish liver with a little grated daikon on the side

31. Parma ham, Italy

30. Goi cuon (summer roll), Vietnam

29. Ohmi-gyu beef steak, Japan

28. Pho, Vietnam - a broth, fresh rice noodles, a few herbs and usually chicken or beef

27. Montreal-style smoked meat, Canada

26. Fajitas, Mexico

25. Butter garlic crab, India

24. Champ, Ireland - mashed potato with spring onions, butter, salt and pepper

23. Lasagna, Italy
.
22. Brownie and vanilla ice cream, global

21. Croissant, France

20. Arepas, Venezuela - a corn-dough patty topped with cheese, shredded chicken, crisped pork skin, perico, beef, tomato, avocado

19. Nam tok moo, Thailand - grilled pork combined with lemon juice, green onions, chili, mint sprigs, fish sauce and toasted rice

18. Kebab, Iran

17. Lobster, global

16. Egg tart, Hong Kong

15. Kalua pig, United States

14. Donuts, United States

13. Corn on the cob, global

12. Shepherd’s pie, Britain

11. Rendang, Indonesia - beef slowly simmered with coconut milk and a mixture of lemongrass, galangal, garlic, turmeric, ginger and chilies

10. Chicken muamba, Gabon - chicken, hot chili, garlic, tomato, pepper, salt, okra and palm butter

9. Ice cream, United States

8. Tom yum goong, Thailand - soup with shrimp, mushrooms, tomatoes, lemongrass, galangal and kaffir lime leaves in coconut milk and cream.

7. Penang Assam Laksa, Malaysia - Poached, flaked mackerel, tamarind, chili, mint, lemongrass, onion, pineapple in a broth

6. Hamburger, Germany

5. Peking duck, China

4. Sushi, Japan

3. Chocolate, Mexico

2. Neapolitan pizza, Italy

1. Massaman curry, Thailand

Remember it's CNN's list not mine.

Nothing Better Than Pizza

Back in 1995 I left the USA after the death of my younger brother. My plan was to visit the holiest places in Asia to expiate Michael's sins. I was a non-believer, but felt this pilgrimage would help his soul on the other side.

By late August I was residing in old Yunnanese city of Lijiang in Southern China for a month. My hotel room had a view of the Jade Snow Dragon Mountain farther up the valley. Most travelers came to see the old stone city with its traditional Naxhi influences and then head off to hike the Tiger Leaping Gorge on the Yangtze River. I skipped the tramp down the swollen gorge. It was rainy season and the footing was treacherous on the dirt paths. Returning backpackers reveled each other with the legend of a lone Israeli hiker who fell from the trail and broke his leg. His cries for help were drowned out by the rushing rapids. He died of starvation within 20 feet of the trail. It sounded like a myth to me, since the nationality, sex, age, and year changed with each telling. Still I refused many offers from passing tourist to join their trek.

I was happy in Lijiang. The food was good, the city had cold beer, and I was friendly with two Frenchmen laying fiber optic cables between Lijiang and Dali, another tourist destination to the south. We bicycled up to the Snow Jade Dragon Mountain to see the ski slope. 20 miles up an ascending road with the wind in our faces. The mountain to the right. Clouds wrapped its snowy peaks. The ski slope ended up being a sled run. Skiing in Yunnan was a lie, but that came as no surprise, since the Chinese adapted many western trends to their culture without any knowledge of that field.

The Frenchmen and I rode dirt trails back to Lijiang. We passed through small villages and abandoned monasteries. Our conversation turned to food. Lijiang fare was consisted mostly of noodles and rice. Michel extolled the oysters of his native Normandy, while Jacques praised the bouillabaisse of his hometown, Nice. I backed Lobster Newburg from Durgin Park in Boston. I had been eating at that Haymarket dinery for almost 50 years.

"Oysters, bouillabaisse, Lobster Newburg." Jacques spat on the ground. "China has none of that."

"Something more simple like a baguette and cheese." Michel licked at his lips with a watery tongue.

"There's no cheese in China or baguettes, but there is a pizza shop in Kathmandu."

"Kathmandu? That is thousands of miles away." Jacques frowned at this choice. "We will not be going that way."

"But I will and I'll write to tell you all about it, because there is no better food in the world than pizza."

"Peut-etre." Michel wasn't accepting this as fact, but Jacques agreed, "J'adore le pizza."

A month later I bid fare-well to the Frenchmen. They were stuck in Lijiang for a half-year.

"Write us about the pizza. We will be waiting."

I waved good-bye from the bus and traveled north to Chengdu, where I caught a flight to Tibet. I stayed in Lhasa two months. I lit candles at temples, circled the Jokhang every day counter-clockwise and clockwise, and spoke with rinoches, reincarnated monks. I told them about my brother. They said that they would pray for Michael. I wrote a letter to the Frenchman telling them that the food in Lhasa was even worst than that of Lijiang. Burnt hairy yak meat and rancid butter tea loaded with salt.

"I'm heading to Kathmandu for pizza." My visa for China was at an end.

I hitchhiked across the sere high plains to the rim of the Himalayas. I ate nothing on the road. The inns were covered by dusty flies. Even the beer looked dangerous. The snowy peaks stretched from east to west without a break. The altitude was 17,000. Higher than any mountain in Europe. By evening I passed through customs and booked a cheap room in a cheap hotel. The dining room was appalling and I drank beer from the bottle.

In the morning caught a mini-van bound for Kathmandu. I refused all food. Pizza was on my mind. We reached Nepal's capitol within 5 hours. I checked into the Yeti Hotel. The cheapest room was $20. I asked about the pizza. The desk clerk gave me directions and I hired a rickshaw to drag me to Fire and Ice on Tridavi Mag.

The restaurant was located in a new building not far from the Royal Palace. The clientele was divided between Nepalis and homesick westerners. The menu offered l'Americano with pepperoni. I order a small with a beer. It was Chinese. The waiter brought a glass filled with ice. I wasn't scared of amoebae. I had survived yak meat in Tibet. The pizza came with a knife and fork. I stared at the plate for several seconds.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" The waiter asked, as if he had seen my expression of disappointment on other pizza lovers.

"Nothing at all." The sauce resembled ketchup, the bread was nan, and the cheese resembled clouts of yogurt. The pepperoni was sweating on the heated pizza. I lowered my head to the plate. It smelled like pizza and I picked up a piece. My first bite told the truth. It was pizza in Nepal and there wasn't any better pizza within several thousand miles. I wrote the Frenchmen the same, declaring, "I love pizza."

And the pizza in Kathmandu certainly tasted better than yak meat, then again anything tastes good when you're hungry.

Three days later I was stricken with giardia. My intestines had been poisoned by bacteria. The source of infection couldn't have been the pizza and I accused the ice. It was the usual suspect in the Orient. I suffered an assortment of unpleasant effects for a week: diarrhea, abdominal cramps, nausea, loss of appetite, passage of gas from more than one orifice, and horrible weakness. My planned trip to Annapurna was delayed by the illness. The hotel staff was very helpful. They dealt with giardia on a daily basis and knew of one cure.

Tea and toast was my diet for 7 days.

Once I was better, I put myself on the scales at the hotel.

175 pounds.

I had lost nearly 15 pounds.

And my first real meal was pizza l'Americano.

Beer.

No ice.

Nothing better than pizza.

THE KING'S LAST SONG - Geoff Ryman

Six years ago a Thai actress suggested to Cambodian reporters that Angkor Wat had been constructed by her ancestral countrymen. The Cambodians responded to her jingoistic theory by torching the Thai embassy and burning a great number of Thai-owned businesses in Phnom Penh to the ground. No one was hurt according to official reports and the embassy was re-built at the expense of the Chinese community. They were the only ones making money.

Worldwide people are sensitive about their national border, traditions, and heritages.

Like the Americans with the Golden Arches.

The Cambodians were rightfully angered by the actress' comments, since Angkor Wat was irrefutably commissioned by Jayavarman, the Buddhist Khmer king, who transformed the caste system of Cam way Cambodians socially themselves and in Geoff Ryman’s novel THE KING’S LAST SONG, the author skillfully married the past with the present for better and worse.

Many western novels written about foreign lands are the tale of a stranger cut loose from his culture but triumphing because he knows how to shoot a gun or call the right phone number. THE LAST KING’S SONG backed away from the formula and interwined a diverse chorus of Cambodian voices such as the ancient king and his wives with a mad French archaeologist to create a symphony of past and present.The dominant voice is that of Map a mad ex-Khmer Rouge madman who murdered the family of a young tourist guide during the Khmer Rouge regime.

Everything read true to the eyes.

Angkor Wat now and then.

The Khmer Rouge stole many of the heads from the temples to finance their civil war. Not all the treasures are gone.

In this tale a UN archaeologist Luc Andrade discovers a Sanskrit book written on gold leaves. The words written by Jayavarman. Things of value don’t last long in the right hands in Cambodia. A theft. A kidnapping. Betrayal. Salvation but not for everyone. The unfolding of mysteries lost to time and the consciousness of a nation willing to forget the horrors of the near past if it protects the glory of history.

The plot remains well-hidden and no one really important dies in the end other than those you expect to deserve it. Although even they get away with a little bit of murder, because that’s the real way of the world.

THE KING’S LAST SONG is the perfect traveler’s companion other than it only took me a day to read it the other day for the second time and I enjoyed as much as the first time I turned its pages.

Better Dead Than Alive

Back in September of 2007 I was coming home from visiting Mint in Jomtien Beach. Our affair had lasted almost a year and showed no signs of losing steam. She had her place and I had mine. We rarely slept together. Mint said it was because I was in love with my ex-wife. I told her no.

"Then why you no sleep with me?" Mint was 21 and loving. My ex-wife hadn't touched me in years.

"I don't know."

"You only want me for sex."

"No, not only sex." Mint was beautiful. Just seeing her naked body acted like a natural Viagra.

"Then you have other lady." Mint was jealous.

"No, only you." Pattaya was an easy place to satisfy a man's libido. Mint offered me something else, but I wasn't willing to ask what at this point. I bid her good-night and headed back to Sai 3.

I normally avoided the main roads of Pattaya. Too many cars. Too many angry farang and Thai drivers. The traffic over the hull was slow-moving and I decided to overtake an SUV on my Yamaha Neuvo. The road was clear except for a single bike. I was pulling into my lane when this bike swerved to the right. His bike clipped my handle bar and the front tire wobbled to wrench the handlebars out of my grip. I wasn't going fast, but tumbled to the pavement in a heap. Luckily there was no oncoming cars or trucks and I rose to my feet thinking, "That wasn't so bad."

The other motorcyclist had fled the scene of the accident.

A common occurrence in Pattaya.

I glanced down at my right arm. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. It was blood red. I lifted the sleeve up my arm. Red was gushing from a jagged wound six inches long. I could see bone. I tested my hand. Everything was working and there was little pain.

A motorcycle taxi driver stopped to help lift up my bike. He said that I should go to the hospital. I agreed and took a small beach towel from the boot of my scooter. I wrapped it around my arm and drove to the Buffalo Bar. Uwan, who rented cars, was sitting on one of his trucks. The balding Isaan native looked at the bloody towel and said, "U-bàt hàyt."

"Yes, an accident."

"And other driver?"

I told him a 30 words or less version of the accident complete with a visual reenactment of the other motorcyclist fleeing the scene at full speed. U-wan laughed, as I unwrapped the towel. The fat Thai smiled with a grimace upon seeing the nasty slice on my arm. The blood was still flowing, although less than before.

“Na-gliat.”

I could see muscle. He was right. It was ugly.

“Where to?" Uwan asked, wrapping another towel around my arm.

“Pattaya-Bangkok?” The Sukhumvit hospital was the first choice of most farangs.

“Paeng.”

"Hospital?" Uwan asked, wrapping another towel around my arm.

“Pattaya-Bangkok?” The Sukhumvit hospital was the first choice of most farangs.

“Paeng.” Very expensive for Thais.

"Where go?"

"Banglamung mai paeng."

"Okay." Not expensive sounded good to me.

Uwan drove his truck to Banglamung Hospital. He wasn't in a hurry. Uwan was sure that I wasn't dying too.

Upon arrival the young nurses escorted me into the emergency ward. Saturday night had yet to begin. A doctor examined the gash.

“No tendons are cut. That’s good.”

An hour later I was out the door. The bill was 1150 baht. Uwan helped me to the car, as the usual weekend mayhem flowed into the hospital. Saturday was going to be a busy night. I stopped at the Buffalo for two beers with Pook. She’s 18 and a lesbian. Uwan said, “She make good nurse.”

I agreed but went home alone to lick my wounds and quiet a suspicion. Before leaving for home, I asked Uwan, “You think my ex-wife might have had someone crash into me for my insurance policy?”

It was worth a million baht.

“No, if she wanted you dead, someone hit you with pick-up. Dead for sure.”

“That’s what I thought too.” My ex-wife might not love me, but I was the father of our daughter.

I must be getting old, if I thought someone would want to kill me for a million baht.

I called Mint and asked her if I could come over to see her.

"You stay night."

"Yes." I would explain about the crash later.

"Please hurry, I want drink beer."

I got back on my bike and drove back to Jomtien.

This time on the back roads.

After all a million baht is $30,000. A lot of money anywhere in the world.

Never No Hotter

Hottest temperature ever recorded on the surface of this planet was 57.8 °C (136 °F) at Al 'Aziziyah, Libya on September 9, 1922

Having been in 117 F, I can't imagine how much hotter is 136 F.

Damn hot.