Brooklyn's Finest - Movie

Antoine Fuqua portrays his Brooklyn as a commune of drug dealing brothers and free-gunning cops. A scary city where people get shot all the time and it is that type of city. My friend Vladmar's cousin was murdered two blocks away from my present residence in Fort Greene. Capped by a local thug. For what no one knows. Not the police. Not Vladmar. A couple was robbed in front of our brownstone. Police don't know nothing. In BROOKLYN'S FINEST the police are stretched thin by bad pay and ruthless leaders.

"A cop is worth more dead than alive." Ethan Hawke shouted during a poker game with fellow officers. The night ends with a fist fight.

Don Cheadle, the black undercover cop, gets blown away by a white cop, as he avenges a friend's death.

No one is clean.

Only Richard Gere's character has some dignity. He puts in his time. "Keep walking through it." He advises another cop.

It's all bad.

Brooklyn.

I don't know shit about it.

Antoine Fuqua does.

BROOKLYN FINEST some bad shit.

Bed-Stuy Goodbye

Cities are considered dangerous by vast majority of Americans. They used to be right in New York. A wrong turn off I-95 could have led to a car jacking in the Bronx. A mistimed joke could have earned a stranger a baseball bat beating in Howard Beach and a walk down East 4th Street was asking for trouble. Times Square was off-limits for law-abiding citizens, the 1978 Black-Out resulted in widespread looting in the outer boroughs, and drug wars of the 80s broadened the swathes of no-go zones.

Rudolph Giuliani instituted a city-wide crackdown on squiggy-wipers washing dirty windshields and the mayor claimed credit for cleaning up the city, although the real reason for the decrease in crime was rooted in the exhaustion of the criminals. They were simply too tired to continue that lifestyle. Suburbanites are still frightened by the legends of murder, rape, and theft, but New York City ain't what is once was.

Two nights ago I was drinking wine at a house party in the West Village. I arrived early and left late. A good six hours of drinking wine. My stumble down Bleecker brought me to the West 4th subway station. A taxi to Fort Greene was $20-plus. A subway $2.25. My watch said 2am. The ride to my stop took 30 minutes. I opted for cheap and descended to the C-Train platform. My train came into the station and I sat in the near-empty car.

Within seconds I was asleep.

The train lurched to a stop several stations past Lafayette. The doors opened to let out one passenger. The other riders were young. I asked hurriedly the name of the station. I had never heard of it, but jumped out of the train, as the doors closed.

I rubbed my face and then checked my pockets. Wallet, phone, watch, keys, money, and glasses in my possession. 30 years ago I would have woken to discover my clothes razored from my body. Naked to the wind. 2010 nothing was gone. Maybe I was just lucky, but I don't think so. Nee york ain't what it was and neither is Bed-Stuy.

Ain't no one DO OR DIE that night and to be truthful I'm glad it was 2010 and not 1978.

Lord Ventnor RIP

The Times Obit

Bob Souter, a unique enthusiast of life and imagination, passed away in tranquility on the 1st of March 2010, aged 69 years. Husband of Annie, father of Anthony, Nathalie, Florence, grandfather of Alexander, brother to Noel. On this day and forever; his family and friends wish him eternal peace and express their gratitude for all the wonderful and happy experiences they have shared together with him.

I wrote the following.

Bob was the light of the Isle of Wight. An impish genius with great hair. Lord Ventnor. That was his alias for me during my sojourn at Osbourne House in the mid-80s. The island's foremost guide for the Tennyson Walk who embellished the perambulation with facts, which were more entertaining than true. He shall be missed by friends and family.

Norwegian Retirement Plan

My kids are young. I have no pension, so I will be working until I'm at least 75. After that I'm going to Norway and robbing a bank. Several if necessary. As many as it takes before the police arrest me and the courts sentence me to life imprisonment in one of their IKEA-furnished cell. I don't need the flat screen TV. Only a computer and a lot of herring. The later has to be good for your health, plus I have no interest in being rehabilitated for release. A lifer.

I can only be so lucky.

It's the only retirement plan left to outlaws.

Beat By The Old Age Truck

New York's newspapers reported that this January was the warmest January on record, but I can't recall a single day since early December with the temperature out of the 30s. Yesterday the thermometer hit 45 and I picked up the telephone to call Shannon.

"You want to shot some ball at deKalb." The playground was three blocks away from my apartment. Shannon was willing to meet at 3 and I pulled on my sneakers and shorts. Black. My basketball needed air. I wasn't putting any in the ball. The depressurized rock stole any better player's dribble. As i was leaving my landlord's wife shook her head.

"You have coverage?" She has asked the same question when I went sledding in Ft. Greene Park.

"No." My only health plan was wine followed by a hit of cocaine. It was a miracle combo, although no protection against a twisted ankle or a popped knee. "I'm just shooting the ball. No games."

"Right." Katie's dismissive comment was for the good of my kids. I had to stay healthy. At least until I'm 77 when Angie will be 26 and Fenway 21. Outside the air was cool. Not cold. I ran on the sidewalk. I'll never be fast again. Passers-by checked out my dribbling. That skill was not my forte. Defense. That's my game. Stopping the scorer. I entered the park. The baskets were occupied in the full-court by young teenagers. The ones against the fence were dominated by kids, except for the last one, where a lanky 6-4 black teenager practiced set shoots. His release was smooth. He most certainly had game and I asked, if he minded my shooting with him.

"You want to play one-on-one?" He was eager to play anyone. His eyes shined with a competitive urge.

"Let me loose up a little." Shannon would show up soon and I took a bunch of shots. My aim was off and the ball felt funny in my hands. It wasn't going to get any better, so I said, "Hit or miss for ball."

He hit from the free-throw line. All net. The next possession he glided to the hoop for a lay-up. I was already sucking wind. 2-0. The following attack was a grinding attack in the paint. His shot went off the backboard and in. 3-0. Shannon came into the park and stretched watching us. I scored 3 points in a game to 11. This kid was good. He beat Shannon 11-4. His name was Shea like the old Mets baseball park. Second game 11-3. Shea beat me up inside and I fell over twice, blown out of my socks by his move to the hole. If I wasn't 57, this would be humiliating instead of simply embarrassing. Shannon went down 11-6. Shea was getting tired. I got a 3-0 lead and didn't score another point. My lungs were red-lining for oxygen and Shea hadn't even broken a sweat. The successive games had a toll on Shea and Shannon had him 9-8. Two more baskets and he could say in the future that he beat this teenage phenom. Shea didn't let him get any.

We spoke to Shea. He was a 16 year-old sophomore starting center for the local high school. His team had lost in the play-offs this weekend. He wasn't happy about his play.

"Truthfully I haven't played against anyone better than you in all my years."

"Thanks." No one ever wanted to tell Shea that. He was that good.

Shannon and I teamed up for a 2-on-2. We lost 15-6. I scored no points. My hang-over was not a factor. My legs were too old for this game. I didn't really deserve to be on the court with Shea or Shannon, but I wasn't sitting out this season. All I needed to do waas practice my outside shot. The only time my body will really hurt is when I'm not playing. Old age is only in my head. My heart is still 15. If not younger.

Red Rouge Si-Dang

March 12. Si-dang Day in Bangkok for Thaksin supporters seeking justice for their deposed leader. 20,000 monks are reportedly spearheading the rally against the government. The police are monitoring the internet to discover the strategy of the protesters and the army remain on high alert after seven bombs were detonated at banks around the capitol. My son's mother Mam has expressed her support for a change in leadership. Most Thais from the North and Northeast favor the return of Thaksin. His populist policies paved roads and his loan programs gave farmers low-interest money. The power elite are scared of his appeal to the masses.

I am not for Thaksin or the old school. Red or Yellow Shirts. Both are only interested in lining their pockets same as the senators and representatives of the US Congress. The rich only care about staying rich and the poor want to be rich too, so the poor will never attack the rich, because then they would never become rich.

Of course there are only three ways of becoming rich.

Birth.

Marriage.

Theft.

Behind every successful man is a woman and behind every great wealth a crime.

Red or Yellow.

The crimes are against the people.

My color is blue.

Just like my eyes, because I'm a farang and anything I think doesn't really matter to Thais.

"You not understand way Thai."

I've heard those words countless times during my 20 years of visiting and living in Thailand.

"Life is the same everywhere. You get up in the morning. You work. You eat. if you're lucky you have a few laughs, make love to your wife, and go to sleep in a clean bed. If you're unlucky you wake up with a hang-over, have no money to eat, and your wife yells at you all day.'

Same everywhere in the world.

My color is blue.

Canine Menage a Trois

Canine love on my old soi in Pattaya.

Arf Arf Arf.