Dogs on Bongs

The US military has been fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan since 2002. Successes have been few and if anyone in the Pentagon was truthful then the architects of Operation WTF would admit to the world that there have been no successes. The initial collapse of the Taliban was not a collapse. The war-rived country faced a catastrophic winter famine and the rulers decided to fade into the woodwork rather than face the 'shock and awe' tactics of the long-distance bombers.

Mission accomplished by declared a little premature by then-President GW Bush.

Afghanistan's borders are intact. A plus, however within those lines is chaos. Corruption and mismanaged military operations have created a drug state. Heroin is the biggest export and the refined product is hitting the high schools of America as a cheap alternative to Oxycontin, Russ Limbaugh's drug of choice. Police have responded to the deluge with the Mod Squad snitches at $500 for a bust and training for drug sniffing dogs.

Police are secretive over these training practices, but the drug-sniffing hounds at airport look like junkies with $200 daily habits scratching bags for anything that will get them high.

"Woof, woof, I don't want no doggie treats. Gimme a hit. Arf Arf."

Suffolk County's District Attorney said he was disappointed by the lack of tips from the youth of his district.

The only person who can catch a junkie is a junkie. Hire ten by offering bounties. All the dope you catch, you can keep. Junkies know their stuff and they don't need to be trained like a dog.

Wake up in the morning and they're ready for work.

"Gimme gimme I want."

End of story

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Sirens of Soi 6 # 7

The rain cascaded from plastic pipes onto Soi 6. The sewers were clogged by plastic and the overflow gurgled from the gutters to flood the street with an ankle-deep puddle. Not a single farang have braved the deluge for an hour. The street was empty. Not a single girl had gone short-time. Some tried to explain the farang word 'recession' to the others. None of it made any sense. Once there were farangs and now there were not any farangs.

"Did they all die?" Nat asked under the awning of the Chic Bar. She earned enough money from the Chic Bar to take care of her family in Surin. At least until this month. All the other girls of the Chic Bar were inside, trying to stay warm. It was impossible in near-nuder clothing.

"Not die. Finish money. Farang same Thai. Mai mii daeng.' Oom explained to her co-workers. She had lived with three farangs, married one, and traveled to Germany twice. Farang men were not too different from Thai men. Two arms, two legs, and a haam or dick. Same-same only more stupid about Thai ways.

"Not have money?" Nat was a fat girl. She had big breasts. Many farangs liked her. "How farang not have money?"

"You think farang same durian tree. Every year have money. Every day have money?" Oom hitched up her super short jeans. She was cold. The rain had chilled the tropics from Pattaya. She leaned closer to her little cousin. The 18 year-old was shivering in the damp. It was only dtù-laa-kom. Winter was still two months away.

"Everyone say farang have big money." Ping was young. She was skinny. Every farang wanted to go with her. Most days she had five customers. Other days six. Today none.

"Everyone in Ban-nok think all farang rich." Oom laughed throwing back her head. "What ban-nok know about farang. Only what see on TV. And TV lie to everyone. Farang money mot. Finished."

"What we do? Farang no have money." Ping heard that the go-go bars on Walking Street were empty. If the farangs weren't coming to Walking Street or Soi 6, they weren't going anywhere.

"Work nah?" Oom motioned a cutting movement with her hand. Her parents were fighting to save their crop. Too much rain had flooded the fields. Too little rain and no rice. Too much rain and too little rice. Never good.

"I not work nah." Ping had slaved for her parents until sh was 17. The family buffalo died and her parents sent their youngest daughter to Pattaya to earn enough money for anotehr kwaii. She had given them three. They wanted one more.

"No one work nah." Oom had left the rice fields at 16. No one in her family had cut rice stalks since then. She was a star.

"Work what?" Ping was new to this life. Less than a month, but she couldn't see laboring in the hot sun. That work was for slaves or Cambodians.

"Not 7-11." Oom had worked at the franchise on Soi Buahkhao for two week.The pay was 5000/month. A farang had asked her to go home with her. She had said no. 5000 baht for one night changed her mind. She had never worked a real job since. "Now not time for work> Now time to find one farang. Tell him you love him. Tell him you never leave him. Tell him you hate Thai men."

"I do that many time." Ping had set up house with one French man, two Germans, and one Swiss. "Farang not stay now. Farang kap ban."

"Ching ching true. So you meet good farang now. You stay with him. Play good pu-ying." oom wasn't quite sure why she was telling her co-workers this. they weren't family. They were the competition. Only now times were too tough to pretend everyone was no good. She knew more than most and Ping was always good to Pai. "We help you. You help us. Maybe we lucky. One two three."

Thunder shattered the air. A lightning blot sizzled to the ground. Not far away. Thre three girls shook with fear. Each had lost a family member to fáa-lâep.

"Not be scared. Everything be good." Oom hugged her cousin. She could almost believe everything she said, except the street was empty and promised to be that way for a long time. This was not good, then again nothing was every really good on Soi 6.

Good was for someplace else.

Someplace far away from here.

Only none of them knew where.

"I buy tequila." It was the last of Oom's money. Her boyfriend was in trouble. Her family farm under threat of a flood. drinking was the only thing they could do. It had to stop raining sooner or later.

The two other girls smiled, as if the sun was coming out of the leaden sky.

Oom smiled back. She didn't feel so cold anymore.

The three were sisters.

And three sisters were stronger than two.

Every day of the week.

Obama Say What

Captain Sensible from the Damned garnered a solo hit with his pseudo-punk rap song SAY WOT and this morning President Obama must have greeted the news of his winning the Nobel Peace Prize by quoting Captain Sensible verbatim albeit sans the English accent, "Say Wot?"

I had to say the same thing.

Shock and what the fuck.

This man is fighting two wars in Asia.

Maybe not his wars, but wars no less and sloppy wars to boot.

The GOP were aghast at this award. GW Bush was never considered for such an achievement and neither were Bill Clinton or his predecessor George Bush Senior. Each of the previous presidents had to ask themselves the same question as Obama.

"Say Wot?"

Next thing you know Cat Stevens will be welcome back into the USA.

"Everyone get on the peace train."

Elect William Thompson Mayor of New York

The present mayor of New York is 68. His re-election campaign will spent nearly the same number in millions to defeat his unknown Democratic challenger William Thompson. $66 million on TV ads and campaign workers. Mayor Bloomberg likes his job so much that the majority of that money is his own. Many New Yorkers feel that the quasi-Republican deserves another term.

I do not.

New York needs a mayor of the people. Not someone looking to impress or enrich his rich friends. Of course no one will take a swing at a rich man, because everyone wants to be rich and any attack on a rich person is a blow against the dream of eternal wealth. As Louie CK joked, "No rich people ever wish they were poor."

But this city is poorer than before Bloomburg's inauguration. Most of the causes are not his fault. My main complaints are the failure to steer the concerned parties on the old World Trade Towers to replace the shattered spires and secondly the destruction of Yankee Stadium. When I returned to New York in 2008, I was shocked upon seeing two stadiums in the Bronx. One set of Yankees is one too many for the Red Sox Nation.

"They're not going to have two teams." My English friend informed me, as we turned north in the direction of Duchess County. "They're tearing down the old stadium to build a new one."

"They're tearing down the House that Ruth Built." This news was unfathomable. Even more unbelievable that the fall of the Berlin Wall. "They can't do that."

"Mayor Bloomberg helped broker the deal."

"The bastard." As much as I hate the Yankees, baseball isn't baseball without Yankee Stadium. The new version costs a week's salary for four tickets. A season's salary for four seats being home base. Fat Cat Stadium, only no one in New York was willing to see the hand-writing on the wall.

The collapse of Wall Street.

Now the seats around home plate are empty.

Normal New Yorkers banned from games by the price.

So that is why I say fuck Mayor Bloomberg. His billions can't buy me.

Even us Boston fans feel for the Yankee faithful.

Vote for William Thompson. He won't replace the old stadium and he's younger than the neo-70 year-old. Sometimes you just want to see a new face and Thompson ain't so bad. Not my type, but then not many guys are. I'm straight.

Abandon Ye Phones

As a child of the 1950s a telephone in every house was a miracle touted by our nation. My father worked for New England Telephone and our home was blessed with six phones. Only one line, but six phones including three svelte Princess phones. My older brother and I never spoke on those, but we occasionally eavesdropped on our sisters. Never our parents. Their conversation were either too serious or too boring.

My first phone in my name was for my East Village apartment. A black phone. I must have dropped it on the floor a thousand times. The abuse was acceptable. AT&T built their phones to survive an atomic blast.

Now I have an apartment in Ft. Greene.

No phone.

No intention of acquiring a land line.

My cellphone is my primary phone.

I can call my families in Thailand cheap thanks to phone cards marketed to immigrants. My friends can reach me. Few come to visit my new dwelling. Brooklyn is not the East Village. Of course the number isn't listed in the phone book. No one knows my address. Especially not my creditors. As far as they know I'm still in Thailand, languishing in a prison.

Why do they think that?

Because prior to my return to the USA I told them that I needed an extension on my exhausted credit line to avoid being sent to prison.

"We are not a bail bond service."

"But if I go to prison I can't pay my debt."

"Your debt will be there when you come out."

"Please." I begged for another five thousand dollars. The answer was no. I have never heard from them again.

Feeling safe?

A little but they're out there somewhere.

And so am I.

Scary monsters.

HEART FULL OF STONE - Yardbirds

The Yardbirds were not the Beatles. No one in the Fab Four came close to imitating the Yardbirds sound even with the help of George Martin. Garage punks hated the Beatles. I was one of them. We loved the scene in Antonioni's BLOW-UP when David Hemming goes to a concert and fight over Jeff Beck's destroyed guitar Jeff Beck. We also hated Eric Clapton. The previously catatonic audience burst into a frenzy to fight over the shattered guitar neck. David hemming, the star of the movie, wins the contest only to toss his prize away in the street as trash.

Classic.

To view the video go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9mQkFpkShg