Exterminate Exterminate

Doctor Who's arch-enemies, the Daleks, have been retired by the BBC. Their continual failure to achieve their mission of ultimate extermination downgraded the threat of the extraterrestial mutants. The studio hasn't announced any plans for the retired aliens, but this year my landlord AP set up a mobile AC unit in my apartment for my birthday.

It was a warm week and I had had a hard time sleeping that evening and my restlessness had nothing to do with the four beers I had as a nightcap.

The problem was that the smooth white Royal Sovereign Colling Unit resembled the plasma-spewing hate-fill war machine of the Daleks shorn of the hemispherical protuberances and killing appendages against the Daleks.

My sleep was disturbed by memories of the mutants' croaking cry.

"Make no attempt to capture them, they are to be exterminated, you understand, exterminated."

I woke each time to glare at the Royal Sovereign Colling Unit.

The temperature in my room was 73F.

It seemed to be doing its job and I fell back asleep with one eye open and a long scarf on the bedpost. It always worked for Doctor Who and he was ever-victorious.

I will not be exterminated.

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.

Anita Pallenberg You Bet I Would

Why are bad girls so delightful?

Get that time machine running.

Not her as much as me.

The Aging Of Beauty

"Would you want your daughter to marry a Rolling Stone?"

Most parents would have answered 'no', however many of their daughters yearned to be seduced by a member of the Rolling Stones.

Few succeeded as well as Anita Pallenberg, an Italian actress/model, who had romances with Brian Jones and Keith Richards, plus a short affair with Mick Jagger.

The elegant blonde beauty had a wicked side and according to Tony Sanchez's account of his time as Richards's bodyguard and drug dealer, "Pallenburg was obsessed with black magic and began to carry a string of garlic with her everywhere — even to bed — to ward off vampires. She also had a strange mysterious old shaker for holy water which she used for some of her rituals. Her ceremonies became increasingly secret, and she warned me never to interrupt her when she was working on a spell."

Heroin was her sacrament.

Mick Jagger said that Pallenberg "nearly killed me"

Anita lived hard, but survived many others, although mostly as Keith Richard's Portrait of Dorian Grey.

Time hasn't been kind to her beauty.

Time isn't on everyone's side, but as long as you can draw breath, Life is a thing of wonder.

Especially when you look like Keith Richards.

Yesterday Gone Tomorrow

Back in 2010 my friends left Raspberry Island off Acadia in Maine en route to Millbrook, New York. They experienced a long delay at the Maine Turnpike's Kittery toll booth.

"That's to be expected there and then." It was the weekend and everyone was heading north or south.

"I was still hell," said my friend.

"More purgatory than hell."

I didn't tell him about the back road to avoid the turnpike the chokepoint, but when I later mentioned this travel tidbit to my Uncle Russ said, "You know they're planning on tearing down Memorial Bridge."

"What for?" The through-truss lift bridge has been spanning the Piscataqua River for almost 100 years old.

"Cost about as much for a new bridge as repair that one."

"You know that is hooey." I had heard the same crap about the Big Dig in Boston. $17 billion to get 20,000 commuters to their jobs 5 minutes faster. Paying them a million dollars each would have been cheaper.

"New Hampshire seems willing to foot the whole bill. No federal funding either, since the Memorial Bridge is almost listed on the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

"Probably put up a bridge without any style."

"That's what it looks like."

"Who's surprised?"

I hung up the phone and opened a can of beer.

Another sad day for the past, but then there are too many of them to mention.

96 Days And Counting

The GOP and Democrats have found their candidates for the 2016 Presidential Election.

Donald Trump has won the hearts and minds of white voters who recognize that they have been left behind in the New America.

Hillary Clinton scored big with women wanting to see a woman in the Oval Office.

I can vote for neither candidate.

Donald Trump has a KKK pedigree through his father.

The frontman for the TV Reality Show THE APPRENTICE has the geo-political savvy of most white Americans, although he has traveled to his golf course in Scotland and his wives have come from the Czech Republic, Slovenia, and the USA. A man in his position only has one way to see the world which is through his wives.

Especially the latest.

Melania

She is almost as beautiful as a Thai Ladyboy.

But not ladyboy Karn.

Hillary Clinton is certainly more knowledgeable and talented than her GOP opponent.

She has been Secretary of State and a US Senator.

Unfortunately her close ties to the banks and a vote for the Iraq War exclude her from the ranks of progressives.

Plus those pant suits are so pastel Chairman Mao.

I don't mind how she eats a hot dog. I don't like mustard on my pant suits either. Hillary also has been known to knock back wine and harder liquor.

Donald Trump has no history of drinking and I don't trust any other who isn't a Muslim who doesn't drink.

Hillary would be more appealing as a bull dyke.

I would love to see her steal Melania from Donald.

But that might have already happened in the past.

After all they are such good friends.

Bill's certainly isn't dressed for the occasion or else Donald is over-dressed.

Probably a little of both.

Chek Bin Carpe Diem

Several years ago Fabo and I were sitting at the garden bar of the Welkom Inn on Soi 3. I hadn't seen the Belgian oil explorer in a year. Both of us had suffered exile from Pattaya. His place of banishment was the North Sea. I was stuck in New York. We were equally glad to be away from either. He greeted me with a hug and the bargirls on the patio regarded us with neglect. We were old-timers in the Last Babylon and gesture with disgust. They only liked straight men. Newcomers to Thailand spent money like bankers on a cocaine binge.

"Papa." Fabo thought that we resembled each other.

"My son." I didn't see the likeness.

I drank San Miquel. It was made in the Philippines. Heineken was my pseudo-fils' beverage of preference. He was 31. I had been in Brussels at the age of 36 in 1988. A Walloon girl had taken me home to her parents. They had made breakfast for us in the morning. Her mother was glad that I was white.

She wasn't Fabo's mother, but he liked to think that she was.

"Good to see you>"

"Welcome back home." Fabo's skin was tanned from the sun's reflection off the sea.He had been three months without a drink. We ordered beers. The time was noon. Loso was playing on the radio. He told me about his stay on the oil rig in three seconds, "No fun. No beer. No girls."

"New York. Cold beer. No girls." Six syllables to his seven. The economy of age.

"One plus. Two negatives." Fabo had once shown a photo of his mother. The skinny punk girl with wide eyes looked familiar, but not too familiar.

"Now we're here." His nose had been mashed by too many accidents, but his eyes were arctic blue. Mine were high Nordic steel.

"Paradise."

"You mean sa-wan," said Prueng said the Thai word for heaven. "You want go short time?"

"Sorry. No can do. I have a wife."

"Your wife not here." She was an angel with soft hair and small breasts, but I was blind to her allure.

"I know, but I love her." I had no choice, but to be true and I ordered another beer.

"Same as you love your wife." Preung's girlfriend worked at a big hotel. They were saving money to pay for her penis operation.

200,000 baht to change from a woman to a man.

I gave her 200. Fabo handed over a 500-baht note.

"Thank you."

"It's for a good cause."

"What mean 'cause'?"

"Good for your wife."

"Good for me too."

Preung went to take up her position at the door of the Welkom. She had a long way to go to hit 200,000 baht.

"Ah, ouais, paradise." Fabo didn't mention his wife or her German lover. Saying SS Tommy's name was unlucky everywhere in the world.

"You can say that again." The heat of May gave any human a thirst."

"Here is paradise and all paradises are close to the equator.

"The equator?" I had heard his hypothesis on more than one occasion. My one attempt to explain it to Mam had met with her contempt. She had little patience for 'tawh-lay' or bullshit. All women say the same about men.

"Only 1200 miles south of here."

"I know." I had crossed the equator in the jungles of Sumatra.

"The relative speed of the earth's rotation sends more blood to your head."

"It doesn't depend on speed, but the reformulazation of the theory of gravity." Fabo recognized his conjecture was full-on mad or 'bah mak' as say the Thais and we argued about acceleration measured in m/s2, air resistance, and the downward weight force.

We were happy to sit at a bar far from the North Sea and New York.

The afternoon stretched east. We watched the men run the gauntlet before the entrance of the Welkom Inn's bar, where the interior was perpetually night and the ancient mama-san played any song from any year. The male clientele liked 1977. No matter what the nationality everyone knew the words.

Around 5pm we were surprised by the arrival of four Mid-Eastern men.

Jeans.

White shirts.

No robes.

Normally Arabs frequented the smoking bars at the end of Walking Street.

"Egyptian." Fabo sniffed the air. Strong tobacco.

"Kuwaiti."

I bet Fabo 500 baht on their country of origin.

They bar-fined Preung and a few other girls.

Everyone was happy.

A half-hour later they exited from the bar and bought a bottle of Sky Whiskey before departing for Beach Road. They had paid for the short-time in Thai baht, but had tipped Preung in another currency.

Preung waved good-bye to the Arabs.

"Where were they from?" I asked her.

"Bahrain."

Fabo and I had both lost, but Preung flourished a handful of banknotes. The colors were strange.

Not dollar green or the green, blue, red, and purple of Thai currency.

Her co-workers cheered her order for more whiskey.

Five minutes later she brought two glasses of whiskey-coke to the bar. We were too polite to say no. Preung slapped the foreign money on the bar. It was a big pile and each bill had a lot of zeros.

They were Zaire Francs.

Fabo had worked oil platforms in the Congo and sat frozen on his seat. Someone had to pop Preung's balloon, as she reached for the free drink bell. There were about 33 people with the range of its peal.

"Drinks for everyone."

"Don't."

"Why not? I happy. I want everyone happy. Same me."

"Because." I read the finance section of the Herald Tribune and studied currencies.

"How much worth?"

An exchange rate came to my head.

“62 baht per million.”

Preung was holding ten million.

The buffalo herd for her father was kidnapped by disappointment. Her girlfriend stayed a woman. A 600 baht tip for a short-time wasn't bad, but no trip to paradise. Preung was Thai. Happiness came and went fast and her hand dropped from the rope hanging off the bell

"I not win. I not lose. It was nice rich one minute. You want go short-time?"

"No."

"Your wife still not here."

"She's in my head and in my heart."

"Kee-neo."Preung was accusing me of being cheap, but Fabo seized the chance. "I'll go with you."

He had been at sea three months. No fun, no beer, no women, and I was one hour late for Mam.

"Just think of it as another 1000 baht closer to 200,000." His arm encircled Preung's waist. She was no longer an heiress, but a common girl from Isaan with a good heart and smooth skin. Fabo paid the bill and they strolled to room 101. It was the closest.

"Bonne nuit, papa."

"A vous aussi, mon fils." From behind Fabo did look like me.

Only me from thirty.

Not young, but younger and therefore rich, because youth was always worth billions in both dollars and baht.

But never Zaire Francs.

ps Preung means bee in Thai.

But this Preung never stung.