Mr. Fred is doing his homework. I am determined that this so-called blog be read. It is in keeping with my temperament: work but no money. Just "read" is fine, put all my stuff here, fiction, poetry, photographs, free!! after all, content is dead: eyes rule the roost.
Soon there may be changes; maybe a dedicated web site; maybe songs, songs that you never heard, songs that no one has the rights to; maybe poetry pod-casts; almost certainly spiteful, bitter re-hashes of some of my less enjoyable legal experiences; maybe some information about Thai law, if there is such a thing; write about what you know, unfortunately I know a lot about getting older; about being depressed, too; maybe it's time for me to break my silence about the greatest secret of the Twentieth Century; "hate poetry," with a parental advisory; step on a few toes (I read that you can't write if you are afraid of hurting people's feelings).
Might be fun. Care to join me?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Black Robed Devils
From a new series:
The Judge: Number Four
Every day I listen to
a hundred lawyers spouting lies,
I know, I was a lawyer too,
and worshiped at my clients’ feet,
or checks, or cash, or once a car,
and worth it too, I was, he got
two years to five; should have got twenty,
Rolls Royce Corniche, beautiful,
I have it still, drive to the beach,
when I’m not busy giving years
to people who are innocent.
The Judge: Number Four
Every day I listen to
a hundred lawyers spouting lies,
I know, I was a lawyer too,
and worshiped at my clients’ feet,
or checks, or cash, or once a car,
and worth it too, I was, he got
two years to five; should have got twenty,
Rolls Royce Corniche, beautiful,
I have it still, drive to the beach,
when I’m not busy giving years
to people who are innocent.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Workin' in a Coal Mine
This shit is rough, man. On the one hand, they still haven’t paid me, that’s three months and counting; on the other hand, this entire week I was virtually alone in the office (the occasional student research assistant) with nothing to do but work on my novel and write poetry, surf the Internet, be entertaining on this space right here, and eat delicious lunches for fifty cents each. The wild part is that I am actually employed at a high status job with a (local scale) very nice income. I’m almost sure they’ll pay me eventually, almost.
Good Luck for Mr. Fred
Would you buy a used car from this man? The monk, I mean.
This family is prosperous, they flew the monk in from Ubon Ratchatani to tell fortunes for Chinese New Years. I gave him all my info, date, time, year, longitude, latitude, dietary restrictions, and he went to work with a really dog-eared dream book. His style was to make a big number grid from all the variables and then add the sides and come up with two numbers for general quality of luck and the fine points out in the middle somewhere.
I got a twelve-by-twelve, which made everyone very happy. He said that I am always lucky, which is true, but my luck goes through the roof after my birthday. He told me that my father was healthy and happy without knowing if he was even alive, I'm not sure how he did that one, probably asked someone in Thai first.
It seems like the Chinese Astrology animals are a little different in Thailand. In China, I am a rat, year of the rat; in Thailand I am a big snake (they have a little snake too). This made everyone very happy as well.
My Late, Lamented Dash
I miss my Honda Dash. I didn’t realize it at the time, last May, June and July, that it was quite the rarity in Thailand, maybe everywhere. I’ve never seen another one.
Honda now makes a four-stroke manual clutch Nova, 125 cc, but it looks like a pig. Standard swing arm rear suspension. Ho-hum.
The Dash was really fast, amazing for a 100 cc bike. Super loud little two-stroke. Everything was set up to go fast; it got about the same mileage as a NASCAR Hemi, it had a really trick mono-shock rear, oversize double caliper disk brakes, the gears were close ratio to zip you up to top speed, probably sixty-five or so, maybe a little more, the speedo was broke.
It had little problems, so I sold it. If I had known that it was such a rarity, I’d have kept it and hung it on a wall. I probably could have put it up on the hooks myself.
Honda now makes a four-stroke manual clutch Nova, 125 cc, but it looks like a pig. Standard swing arm rear suspension. Ho-hum.
The Dash was really fast, amazing for a 100 cc bike. Super loud little two-stroke. Everything was set up to go fast; it got about the same mileage as a NASCAR Hemi, it had a really trick mono-shock rear, oversize double caliper disk brakes, the gears were close ratio to zip you up to top speed, probably sixty-five or so, maybe a little more, the speedo was broke.
It had little problems, so I sold it. If I had known that it was such a rarity, I’d have kept it and hung it on a wall. I probably could have put it up on the hooks myself.
Monday, February 25, 2008
The Tiara
How'd you like to wear this for a tiara? My own rule of thumb is: don't put anything on the dashboard that you wouldn't want sticking out of your forehead; and don't put anything on the rear deck that you wouldn't want to hit you in the back of the head at a high rate of speed.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Most Dangerous Man in America
Anyone could tell you that I am a calm and peaceful man; I am love. But enough is enough. Mother Teresa would shoot this guy.
No one seems to be interested, though, and he hums along on his merry way, raising hell. What’s the matter America? Lose your guts all of a sudden? Is your powder loathe to burn? Knives loathe to cut? Run out of poison?
A certain man is “running for President” again. The quotes represent the inherent foolishness of calling it a run for the Presidency. It’s really the same old self aggrandizing mischief, it’s happened twice before. It, he, cursed us with eight years of unremitting chaos, international embarrassment, and death (buried; blown up; and otherwise). The blood of everyone killed in Iraq is on his hands. He has as much chance of winning as does Professor Irwin Cory, the “World’s Leading Authority,” and the Professor is dead.
Even bad words fail me, I believe that this is the first time. To do justice to this man it would take all of my forbidden vocabulary, plus the soaring obscene hyperbole of the French, the wonderfully degrading religious metaphors of the Italians, and the personal, hate-drenched viciousness of the Spaniards.
For good Mr. Obama, may he live forever, I hope that he wins, people have already worked out firing positions, distance and windage. But no one seems to care about this seventy-four year old certain man. Again, people will support him and people will vote for him, people who in their willful, active rejection of reality make Don Quixote look like a Certified Public Accountant.
The vomitous horror that is this creature is about to paste on that stupid, crooked grin and begin again to throw monkey-wrenches over his shoulder like bridal bouquets, never giving a thought to whom or what he may hit, what old lady he might kill, what important machine he might stop. No, he does not care, not our pretentious, world-saving friend, lights! camera! make up! I’m baaaaaccck!
Bad things happen every day, and yet day after day nothing bad happens to this certain man. That nothing has happened to him as yet is proof of the failings of the human character. Who will take up the challenge?*
*of course, I only mean things like hitting him with a pie; publishing real or photo-shopped pictures of him committing unnatural acts with a purple assed baboon; flooding his every personal appearance with crowds who just stand and laugh loudly and hysterically; joining the [redacted] party and heckling everyone at the meetings loudly and obscenely; ordering anchovy and kimchee pizzas to be delivered to their campaign locations, if there are any; calling in to CNN pretending to be a tornado victim and then shouting “[redacted] sucks!” Machine calling every telephone number in America and playing a tape that says, “this is Anonymous; if you vote for [redacted] we will know. We know where you live; we know where your children go to school. We do not forgive. We do not forget. This is Anonymous.” All you meditators out there, maybe if a couple of thousand of you meditated at the same time you could get his heart to burst into flames. Whatever. Americans are creative people. I leave it to you.
No one seems to be interested, though, and he hums along on his merry way, raising hell. What’s the matter America? Lose your guts all of a sudden? Is your powder loathe to burn? Knives loathe to cut? Run out of poison?
A certain man is “running for President” again. The quotes represent the inherent foolishness of calling it a run for the Presidency. It’s really the same old self aggrandizing mischief, it’s happened twice before. It, he, cursed us with eight years of unremitting chaos, international embarrassment, and death (buried; blown up; and otherwise). The blood of everyone killed in Iraq is on his hands. He has as much chance of winning as does Professor Irwin Cory, the “World’s Leading Authority,” and the Professor is dead.
Even bad words fail me, I believe that this is the first time. To do justice to this man it would take all of my forbidden vocabulary, plus the soaring obscene hyperbole of the French, the wonderfully degrading religious metaphors of the Italians, and the personal, hate-drenched viciousness of the Spaniards.
For good Mr. Obama, may he live forever, I hope that he wins, people have already worked out firing positions, distance and windage. But no one seems to care about this seventy-four year old certain man. Again, people will support him and people will vote for him, people who in their willful, active rejection of reality make Don Quixote look like a Certified Public Accountant.
The vomitous horror that is this creature is about to paste on that stupid, crooked grin and begin again to throw monkey-wrenches over his shoulder like bridal bouquets, never giving a thought to whom or what he may hit, what old lady he might kill, what important machine he might stop. No, he does not care, not our pretentious, world-saving friend, lights! camera! make up! I’m baaaaaccck!
Bad things happen every day, and yet day after day nothing bad happens to this certain man. That nothing has happened to him as yet is proof of the failings of the human character. Who will take up the challenge?*
*of course, I only mean things like hitting him with a pie; publishing real or photo-shopped pictures of him committing unnatural acts with a purple assed baboon; flooding his every personal appearance with crowds who just stand and laugh loudly and hysterically; joining the [redacted] party and heckling everyone at the meetings loudly and obscenely; ordering anchovy and kimchee pizzas to be delivered to their campaign locations, if there are any; calling in to CNN pretending to be a tornado victim and then shouting “[redacted] sucks!” Machine calling every telephone number in America and playing a tape that says, “this is Anonymous; if you vote for [redacted] we will know. We know where you live; we know where your children go to school. We do not forgive. We do not forget. This is Anonymous.” All you meditators out there, maybe if a couple of thousand of you meditated at the same time you could get his heart to burst into flames. Whatever. Americans are creative people. I leave it to you.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Mr. Fred, No Nazi, He
Perhaps I should again clarify that Colonel Rudel was an unreconstructed Nazi until the peaceful, prosperous end of his life. Mr. Fred got no truck with that. Heroes come from losing sides too.
Check him out: pilotenbunker.de/stuka/rudel/rudel
His totals are even more amazing than I have described. Oh, and I feel bad about all of the guys he killed, they didn't ask for it, they just got it, and I feel bad about everybody else who got it in that war too, including all the soldiers and all the civies and all the, well everybody, Japanese Soldiers flamed out in some cave, old ladies in Leningrad eating wallpaper, any soldier who had to fight in way sub-zero weather, all of the English soldiers and poor dead Blitztoten, American bomber pilots and every other kind, sailors, more than twice as many sailors died at Guadalcanal than Marines, Japanese civies in the boiling river trying to get away from the firestorm, Chinese victims of medical experiments, not to mention Nanking, the whole lot of them.
Check him out: pilotenbunker.de/stuka/rudel/rudel
His totals are even more amazing than I have described. Oh, and I feel bad about all of the guys he killed, they didn't ask for it, they just got it, and I feel bad about everybody else who got it in that war too, including all the soldiers and all the civies and all the, well everybody, Japanese Soldiers flamed out in some cave, old ladies in Leningrad eating wallpaper, any soldier who had to fight in way sub-zero weather, all of the English soldiers and poor dead Blitztoten, American bomber pilots and every other kind, sailors, more than twice as many sailors died at Guadalcanal than Marines, Japanese civies in the boiling river trying to get away from the firestorm, Chinese victims of medical experiments, not to mention Nanking, the whole lot of them.
Who Got Hurt This Time?
Again last night with the "bang," and the vehicle tear-assing away. A pistol this time, no doubt about it. Firearms are a way different wave form than fireworks or such like. Fireworks are more expansive, like a bell curve; firearms have a very sharp attack and then decay quickly, the highest point is very near the left margin, then it falls off in a descending curve.
You could hear the little smash almost simultaneous with the shot, I'd say someone fired into a wooden door. There was a little shouting first, a man and a woman, as usual. Guess which one popped the cap? We all know the answer to that one. About four a.m.
You could hear the little smash almost simultaneous with the shot, I'd say someone fired into a wooden door. There was a little shouting first, a man and a woman, as usual. Guess which one popped the cap? We all know the answer to that one. About four a.m.
Friday, February 22, 2008
John McCain: Mediocre Ground Attack Pilot
John McCain was a pilot in the Vietnam war, blah, blah, blah, prisoner, etc. He was in on some hairy shit, like the time on the Oriskany when one plane accidentally fired a missile into another one while a bunch of them were getting ready to take off. That was a party. McCain was in another one of the planes. As the fire spread, more missiles cooked off and it was like the fourth of July.
So, what do you think . . . hero?
John McCain was a ground attack pilot, he flew the A-4, a dedicated ground attack plane. Let's take a look at that.
As constant readers know, one of my heroes is Hans Rudel, the greatest ground attack pilot in history, never to be exceeded, equaled, or even approached. During a four year gig he personally destroyed over five hundred Russian tanks; way over five hundred trucks; and one battleship.
Let's hold that up to the light. Each tank had a crew of three or four, let's be conservative and say that the five hundred tanks represents one thousand dead Russians. The trucks? Each one a drive team of two; some definitely packed with soldiers. Let's say, again, conservatively, average two dead per truck. The battleship was manned and broke in half and sank very quickly, couldn't have been less than five hundred dead sailors. He shot down some bombers too. He personally, like he shot them in the head, killed at the very least two thousand, five hundred Russians. The total is certainly much higher. Besides this heroic total, he also did some heroic things, like land behind the lines to rescue downed pilots. He was shot down at least six times himself.
Point Number One: If they had captured him and tortured him, would you hold it against them?
Point Number Two: Ground attack pilots are mass murderers. They look for high value targets and they blow them up, along with anyone in the neighborhood. In Russia the civilians were mostly gone; in Vietnam they mostly lived at the high value targets.
Just flying twenty or thirty ground attack missions, while living the good life on an aircraft carrier, and finally getting shot down and made prisoner, that doesn't make you a hero. Some of it was difficult, but none of it was heroic. And then there's the murder part.
So, what do you think . . . hero?
John McCain was a ground attack pilot, he flew the A-4, a dedicated ground attack plane. Let's take a look at that.
As constant readers know, one of my heroes is Hans Rudel, the greatest ground attack pilot in history, never to be exceeded, equaled, or even approached. During a four year gig he personally destroyed over five hundred Russian tanks; way over five hundred trucks; and one battleship.
Let's hold that up to the light. Each tank had a crew of three or four, let's be conservative and say that the five hundred tanks represents one thousand dead Russians. The trucks? Each one a drive team of two; some definitely packed with soldiers. Let's say, again, conservatively, average two dead per truck. The battleship was manned and broke in half and sank very quickly, couldn't have been less than five hundred dead sailors. He shot down some bombers too. He personally, like he shot them in the head, killed at the very least two thousand, five hundred Russians. The total is certainly much higher. Besides this heroic total, he also did some heroic things, like land behind the lines to rescue downed pilots. He was shot down at least six times himself.
Point Number One: If they had captured him and tortured him, would you hold it against them?
Point Number Two: Ground attack pilots are mass murderers. They look for high value targets and they blow them up, along with anyone in the neighborhood. In Russia the civilians were mostly gone; in Vietnam they mostly lived at the high value targets.
Just flying twenty or thirty ground attack missions, while living the good life on an aircraft carrier, and finally getting shot down and made prisoner, that doesn't make you a hero. Some of it was difficult, but none of it was heroic. And then there's the murder part.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The Chance Meeting
1.
Cheerfulness I manufacture
Like a Chinese factory,
Manufacture toys for you,
Your exact specifications,
Anything you want or need.
You are just so wonderful!
Your happiness, my validation!
I love you, I find you so
Important! You, not me;
I’m here for just one purpose,
Different altogether.
2.
I size you up and think:
What does this lovely person need?
To help them on their way,
This lonely, lonely day,
To help you if I may,
To surely find your way,
Through this cold, impersonal world.
3.
The elevator ride is long,
The building tall, and just we two,
Our suits are pressed; our ties are straight,
But you are nervous, I can see,
A heavy case, and a lap-top.
“You look great,” I smile and say,
“They will love you,” and it’s true,
“They will want what you will offer,
Give ‘em hell,” I’ve said my piece.
4.
Smiling now at one another,
“Thanks!” you say, now quite relaxed.
Your burden eased by my good cheer,
And I’m content, my burden too
Is lifted, burden that I carry,
Somehow lightened now as well,
My fellowship has helped us both,
And I am happy.
Cheerfulness I manufacture
Like a Chinese factory,
Manufacture toys for you,
Your exact specifications,
Anything you want or need.
You are just so wonderful!
Your happiness, my validation!
I love you, I find you so
Important! You, not me;
I’m here for just one purpose,
Different altogether.
2.
I size you up and think:
What does this lovely person need?
To help them on their way,
This lonely, lonely day,
To help you if I may,
To surely find your way,
Through this cold, impersonal world.
3.
The elevator ride is long,
The building tall, and just we two,
Our suits are pressed; our ties are straight,
But you are nervous, I can see,
A heavy case, and a lap-top.
“You look great,” I smile and say,
“They will love you,” and it’s true,
“They will want what you will offer,
Give ‘em hell,” I’ve said my piece.
4.
Smiling now at one another,
“Thanks!” you say, now quite relaxed.
Your burden eased by my good cheer,
And I’m content, my burden too
Is lifted, burden that I carry,
Somehow lightened now as well,
My fellowship has helped us both,
And I am happy.
Aloha
No, it's not Hawaii, but it's tropical. This was taken from a Karaoke party barge floating in a reservoir lake in Thailand. That straight line over there is the dam; on the other side is a considerable amount of thin air. The food was good too.
The Ejaculation
Catholic ejaculations are little prayers that you can say real fast and repeat a thousand times per hour. When I was a boy they all had indulgences listed next to them in the prayer book, like, "Jesus, have mercy on my soul. (10 days)" That meant just saying it once would get you released from Purgatory ten days early, in time for Sunday dinner in Heaven. Reading this poem should get your Purgatory time cut by a few months. No extra charge.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph-
Have mercy on us.
Joseph, whose faith was the greatest.
Quiet, he kept his own counsel,
doing meaningful work, productive,
accepting his fate with neither complaint nor self aggrandizement.
Jesus,
Odds are, much more faith of others in him
than faith of his in anything at all,
talking down to fools like us, not down to us like we were fools,
the rest of us.
Thank you Jesus: have mercy on us.
Mary,
Everflowing font of mercy,
Mother of god, have mercy,
Have mercy on us sinners,
intercede on our behalf, we misguided.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph-
Have mercy on our souls.
Jesus-
Son of god and son of woman,
Suckled of tits and of the Holy Ghost.
Faith, it’s just a mystery, surrender.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Have mercy on us.
The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost:
May the Holy Ghost have mercy on us,
have mercy on our souls,
I must check my Catechism, does one pray to the Holy Ghost?
Mary, mother of god, in heaven now, body and soul,
Jesus, whose love saved us,
Father, who so loved the world,
Holy Ghost, a mystery,
for some christians, not all.
Mary, mother of god,
Joseph, “busy hands the devil’s mousetrap,” his legacy,
hero of the working man,
Saint,
not father of,
rather, dad of god, Jesus.
Jesus have mercy on my soul,
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
watch over me,
protect me from harm,
save my soul,
my immortal soul.
Jesus, more than man, but man,
Jesus, lots of good ideas, I’ll give you that,
Son of god, have mercy on us,
Lamb of god, blood of the lamb,
Mary, most pure,
Although . . . but faith bears skepticism poorly.
Joseph,
Most sympathetic figure in this play,
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Have mercy on us sinners,
Have mercy on our souls.
February 18, 2008
Jesus, Mary and Joseph-
Have mercy on us.
Joseph, whose faith was the greatest.
Quiet, he kept his own counsel,
doing meaningful work, productive,
accepting his fate with neither complaint nor self aggrandizement.
Jesus,
Odds are, much more faith of others in him
than faith of his in anything at all,
talking down to fools like us, not down to us like we were fools,
the rest of us.
Thank you Jesus: have mercy on us.
Mary,
Everflowing font of mercy,
Mother of god, have mercy,
Have mercy on us sinners,
intercede on our behalf, we misguided.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph-
Have mercy on our souls.
Jesus-
Son of god and son of woman,
Suckled of tits and of the Holy Ghost.
Faith, it’s just a mystery, surrender.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Have mercy on us.
The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost:
May the Holy Ghost have mercy on us,
have mercy on our souls,
I must check my Catechism, does one pray to the Holy Ghost?
Mary, mother of god, in heaven now, body and soul,
Jesus, whose love saved us,
Father, who so loved the world,
Holy Ghost, a mystery,
for some christians, not all.
Mary, mother of god,
Joseph, “busy hands the devil’s mousetrap,” his legacy,
hero of the working man,
Saint,
not father of,
rather, dad of god, Jesus.
Jesus have mercy on my soul,
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
watch over me,
protect me from harm,
save my soul,
my immortal soul.
Jesus, more than man, but man,
Jesus, lots of good ideas, I’ll give you that,
Son of god, have mercy on us,
Lamb of god, blood of the lamb,
Mary, most pure,
Although . . . but faith bears skepticism poorly.
Joseph,
Most sympathetic figure in this play,
Jesus, Mary and Joseph,
Have mercy on us sinners,
Have mercy on our souls.
February 18, 2008
Cool Movie Alert
Add this to the list of favorite movies. I just watched it for the third time, few weeks in between. It’s all over nuts, Normanology, fire up the blowtorch, we’ smoking baby. Classy too, stars Edward Burns and “Sir” Ben Kingsley, plus some ripe scientist babe with a big rack, directed by Peter Hyams. You never heard of it.
“A Sound of Thunder: 2045,” a slightly unwieldy and not too descriptive title. It’s got dinosaurs, sure, lots of movies got dinosaurs, but this one also has giant mandrills, baboons, but big as subway cars, with lots of screen time, and huge lizard-bats, and it’s all hell-comes-to-Chicago, which is like coal to Newcastle, with pseudo-modern Photo-Shop futuristicisms, time travel gone wrong. When was the last time you saw a ninety-five minute movie with ninety-five minutes of fun? And at the end, our hero E. Burns even brings all the dead folks back to life!
You wouldn’t like it.
“A Sound of Thunder: 2045,” a slightly unwieldy and not too descriptive title. It’s got dinosaurs, sure, lots of movies got dinosaurs, but this one also has giant mandrills, baboons, but big as subway cars, with lots of screen time, and huge lizard-bats, and it’s all hell-comes-to-Chicago, which is like coal to Newcastle, with pseudo-modern Photo-Shop futuristicisms, time travel gone wrong. When was the last time you saw a ninety-five minute movie with ninety-five minutes of fun? And at the end, our hero E. Burns even brings all the dead folks back to life!
You wouldn’t like it.
Clarification of a Rumor
The other mysterious robed figure is the husband in the pictured family unit. There was some speculation that it was my Thai family. Thai women are safe from me. I'm just here to be helpful, much like Dr. Albert Schweitzer, or Mother Teresa.
Incidentally, we graduated 40,000 students last week, you read that right, forty-thousand. Total enrollment at two campuses in Bangkok and twenty one elsewhere in Thailand is 650,000.
And, someone made me where a suit jacket with padded shoulders under the robe; I'm not so chunky. That was more than slightly hot, I don't know what they were thinking, probably just screwing with the Farang.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Wednesday, February 20, 2551
Greetings from the future. Today's offerings are especially entertaining, and there are three, so don't miss a thing.
Song of the Seventies
Watch, I can write cheerful stuff if I feel like it:
Law and order, said the man
Whose words had long since shown us that
Truth was anathema to his lips.
Stiffer penalties, said the man
Who had it all and wanted more,
His end, like his life, to be desired.
Tits and ass: was once the sum
Of porn, but after ‘69
The game was over, porn had won.
Drugs were once so innocent,
A little grass and maybe more,
Speed showed us where the fun ended.
Of a sudden there were no
More flowers, no more colored lights,
But only darkness, thick, spreading.
Some enjoyed freedom so new,
And over-joyed; they suffered then
A most terrible cleansing.
What else then was left for us,
Except to turn our eyes to god,
To start again the same old search.
A tent show was a tent show then,
To trick the rubes out of a dollar,
With no thought of voting power.
We drove around in super cars,
With super names, but in the end
The gas was too expensive.
The Sixties get all of the press,
But finally, may the truth be told,
The Seventies were just the best.
Harsher drug laws then were passed,
So harsh that juries said, “hell no,”
It was as thought they made drugs legal.
Vietnam, though now our friend,
Had only recently then passed
From horror to indifference.
No more Hippies, no more war,
We could finally concentrate
On just forgetting; getting high.
The Sixties were heaven, also hell,
Fast cars, the draft, and fire fights,
Coming or going, we had no clue.
And babies, cleaver little shits,
The Seventies, lots of us had them,
Don’t judge us harshly, little shits.
February 18, 2008
Law and order, said the man
Whose words had long since shown us that
Truth was anathema to his lips.
Stiffer penalties, said the man
Who had it all and wanted more,
His end, like his life, to be desired.
Tits and ass: was once the sum
Of porn, but after ‘69
The game was over, porn had won.
Drugs were once so innocent,
A little grass and maybe more,
Speed showed us where the fun ended.
Of a sudden there were no
More flowers, no more colored lights,
But only darkness, thick, spreading.
Some enjoyed freedom so new,
And over-joyed; they suffered then
A most terrible cleansing.
What else then was left for us,
Except to turn our eyes to god,
To start again the same old search.
A tent show was a tent show then,
To trick the rubes out of a dollar,
With no thought of voting power.
We drove around in super cars,
With super names, but in the end
The gas was too expensive.
The Sixties get all of the press,
But finally, may the truth be told,
The Seventies were just the best.
Harsher drug laws then were passed,
So harsh that juries said, “hell no,”
It was as thought they made drugs legal.
Vietnam, though now our friend,
Had only recently then passed
From horror to indifference.
No more Hippies, no more war,
We could finally concentrate
On just forgetting; getting high.
The Sixties were heaven, also hell,
Fast cars, the draft, and fire fights,
Coming or going, we had no clue.
And babies, cleaver little shits,
The Seventies, lots of us had them,
Don’t judge us harshly, little shits.
February 18, 2008
Driving School
This picture already exibits fun of the first order, but you haven't seen anything until it rains and number two is holding an umbrella while number one drives with her left hand holding the tip of the umbrella down in the wind and number three holds a cell phone up to number one's ear, with all of them laughing and poking each other.
There's Something Out There
People do the damndest things in movies, things that we can plainly see will get them killed, or worse. Remember that movie, “Don’t Go in the Basement?” Sure enough, someone went in the basement. I guess we had an advantage, we knew the title.
I saw another one yesterday, “The Tomb,” an Italian-German-Mexican production on a “Thailand Home Video Only” VCD, 45B, bad Thai dub and all. Ok, they were academics so they had to go in the tomb in the first place, and the mere presence of skeletons chained to the wall or lying in niches shouldn’t discourage academics, that’s their business after all. The weird Mexican chick guide would have been a red flag to some people, a stripper getting long in the tooth, does an act with a snake, somehow she knows where this undiscovered tomb is, my bullshit detector would go off.
The first girl student to disappear in the tomb would have been another cue to skidoo, but that’s me. And for me, finding the guy student with his eyes gouged out, that one would have sent me back to the big city for sure. For some reason they stayed in their camp that night, and for some completely unfathomable reason, the next day, after the guy has gone from blind but alive to looking like a shriveled up baseball-glove overnight, they decide that the thing to do is go back into the tomb. That’s them; I wouldn’t do it. Predictably, supernatural ultra-violence ensues.
But are we really so smart? Would we really survive what does these movie people in? I’m not so sure anymore.
Last year I was in a small, brand spanking new hotel in a small northern town and I got a lesson in real life. This was an unfamiliar hotel, I was alone, it was virtually deserted, there were a few monthly tenants and just me, maybe one more, as overnighters. It was kind of bizarre too, lots of strange twists and turns to the halls, lots of those unexpected Thai changes in level, little steps, my room was around a tight corner and down three steps. After I had performed my ablutions and turned down the blankets I heard a noise, and what a noise it was.
It was like simultaneous screams, hysterical laughter, aggressive dogs, ripping metal, and heavy industry all at once. And it was loud, too, booming through all of the deserted corridors of this new hotel, and more than a few seconds long, time to put your head up and listen for a while. The highly paid professionals who make the scary sounds for Hollywood movies have fallen well short of the horror of this sound, I can tell you, and I’ve seen a lot of those movies.
I just finished my drink, turned out the light, climbed into bed and went to sleep. And the next morning I woke up fine. I never found out what the noise was. I heard it again the next night, and it was really a puzzlement, I wondered at it, what could it be? But I ignored it, and I survived.
So go rent “The Swamp Creatures,” and when they’re walking in the swamp and they hear the obvious sound of the foe, and one of them says, “do you think it could be the Swamp Creatures?” Don’t feel so superior. We’d probably say the same thing.
I saw another one yesterday, “The Tomb,” an Italian-German-Mexican production on a “Thailand Home Video Only” VCD, 45B, bad Thai dub and all. Ok, they were academics so they had to go in the tomb in the first place, and the mere presence of skeletons chained to the wall or lying in niches shouldn’t discourage academics, that’s their business after all. The weird Mexican chick guide would have been a red flag to some people, a stripper getting long in the tooth, does an act with a snake, somehow she knows where this undiscovered tomb is, my bullshit detector would go off.
The first girl student to disappear in the tomb would have been another cue to skidoo, but that’s me. And for me, finding the guy student with his eyes gouged out, that one would have sent me back to the big city for sure. For some reason they stayed in their camp that night, and for some completely unfathomable reason, the next day, after the guy has gone from blind but alive to looking like a shriveled up baseball-glove overnight, they decide that the thing to do is go back into the tomb. That’s them; I wouldn’t do it. Predictably, supernatural ultra-violence ensues.
But are we really so smart? Would we really survive what does these movie people in? I’m not so sure anymore.
Last year I was in a small, brand spanking new hotel in a small northern town and I got a lesson in real life. This was an unfamiliar hotel, I was alone, it was virtually deserted, there were a few monthly tenants and just me, maybe one more, as overnighters. It was kind of bizarre too, lots of strange twists and turns to the halls, lots of those unexpected Thai changes in level, little steps, my room was around a tight corner and down three steps. After I had performed my ablutions and turned down the blankets I heard a noise, and what a noise it was.
It was like simultaneous screams, hysterical laughter, aggressive dogs, ripping metal, and heavy industry all at once. And it was loud, too, booming through all of the deserted corridors of this new hotel, and more than a few seconds long, time to put your head up and listen for a while. The highly paid professionals who make the scary sounds for Hollywood movies have fallen well short of the horror of this sound, I can tell you, and I’ve seen a lot of those movies.
I just finished my drink, turned out the light, climbed into bed and went to sleep. And the next morning I woke up fine. I never found out what the noise was. I heard it again the next night, and it was really a puzzlement, I wondered at it, what could it be? But I ignored it, and I survived.
So go rent “The Swamp Creatures,” and when they’re walking in the swamp and they hear the obvious sound of the foe, and one of them says, “do you think it could be the Swamp Creatures?” Don’t feel so superior. We’d probably say the same thing.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Saturday, February 16, 2008
This is a long one; if you feel like skipping it there's more exciting new stuff below it.
War.
I.
Hans looks better with half a head, the fat fuck,
Blown up in a ditch, now it’s a ditch,
Once it was a field,
Poor Hans, only one eye gazing now,
The other reduced to atoms flying,
Along with half his head, and bits of me,
To fertilize the soil of the Ukraine.
II.
Yuki, do you think that we
Gave them any pause at all,
With our Banzai! bits and bravura charges?
Before, that is, they blew us all to shit,
And were they at all impressed,
That we could take such heavy losses,
And keep fighting, from our cave redoubts?
Before, that is, they poured in the gasoline,
And set us all on fire.
Were they impressed at all with our courageous screams?
III.
But fire, only fire claimed my life,
I never saw or heard an explosion,
But fire, fire came to me,
And chased me from my house into,
More fire! and even then some more!
Fire everywhere! The river was on fire!
And oh! so hot, and nowhere to go!
The fire blazed me to infinity, in Dresden, Tokyo and elsewhere.
IV.
I walked so calmly to a square,
Was given something new to wear,
Was taken then to waiting trains,
Uncomfortable, but thinking then again,
It would not be so very long,
They needed me, I was so strong,
My labor they would wish to use,
And I understood, after all that travel
We would need a cleansing shower,
Oh! What a cruel surprise,
The cries of the mothers, and the children, especially.
V.
It seems like there’s a rhythm to,
A terrible rhythm to dying
Of hunger, you can see it coming,
Feel it rising from your feet,
Feel yourself getting weaker, losing interest,
What an unreal feeling, for so long
I took for granted all of that food,
All of that glorious food, so delicious,
Now it is a dream of avarice,
But at least I’m not alone,
It’s nice to have company when you die.
VI.
Where is this place?
I remember flying, very strange,
Water! I’m in the water!
There’s the ship, so close, pulling away,
If only I could move, I can’t move!
Dark again, there was a flash,
And noise, it’s all so quiet now,
Swimming, I should be swimming,
But I can’t move.
VII.
Whose was the fucking bright idea,
To put men into fragile boats
And send them half-assed underwater,
As though we would be safe, our watery briar patch,
It took them no time at all to find us,
We show up clearly now on screens,
No protection from the charges,
Boy, you should get a load of those,
Should feel them, getting closer,
And finally, just water.
VIII.
Once we were all spit and polish,
We carried our ration of rifle rounds, not too many,
No desire to promote profligate shooting at nothing,
Our uniforms were just that: uniform,
No camouflage, all Field Green, good boots, and we ate three times a day,
We had our Mausers, and an MG-34 for every ten or twelve men,
Some storm groups, with Schmeissers, we all got coffee,
By the end we all wore something different,
Some had beards, most had two weapons,
Lots of camo, cheap boots, no more coffee,
Captured weapons, we liked the PPSh-40’s,
With the seventy round magazines,
We had the new, cheaper, MG-42’s, one to every two or three of us,
They sure came in handy, so many people to kill, month after month,
Everyone wore MG ammo belts around their necks,
Giant satchels of all the grenades we could find,
Schmeissers and back up Schmeissers from dead friends,
In case of jams, just throw the first one away,
No more mail, little food but what we could steal,
Amazing, really, that we could go on at all, year after year,
And now they tell us to forget!
IX.
All the training, and I worked
So very hard, and for so long,
I studied so, and passed my tests,
And finally my chance arrived,
I got my wish, my dream assignment,
Flyin’ Lightnings, chasin’ Japs,
I never saw one though, and now
It looks as though I never will,
My gas gauge now is down to fumes,
I lost my flight some time ago,
And now only the blue Pacific, aptly named,
It’s so pacific, and so blue,
And beautiful, the last thing that I’ll ever see,
Most likely.
X.
General Winter,
Nothing to burn, nowhere to hide,
Aren’t our Generals supposed to plan for these things?
The hobnails in our boots just make it worse.
XI.
Men dig shallow foxholes in the beginning of a war,
It’s human nature, digging is hard work,
As the war progresses, the holes get deeper until,
If possible, and time permitting, they’re eight feet deep,
With a niche cut in the bottom,
To hide in, hide from shrapnel flying straight down.
XII.
We left our jump off points, just before dawn,
We killed some guys easy, moved ahead, made a checkpoint,
Sun now up, we walked with the tanks, taking increasing fire,
Then, caught in the open, they let loose on us, us and the tanks,
The tanks got picked off by twos, and we fared even worse,
Our only cover, burning tanks and shell holes,
A thousand tubes and we were zeroed,
It was quite a mess, I could have told you,
Had I lived.
XIII.
It sounds so simple, “take the hill,”
Cover fire, suppression fire, artillery preparation,
Company advance in skirmish lines,
Fire and maneuver, textbook stuff,
Taking fire, though, not the hill, pinned down now,
Nambu’s, mortars, company MG’s,
Field guns, where are they hiding field guns?
Retire, regroup, not retreat, try again,
Leave no one behind, maybe just a little while,
They’re dead anyway.
War.
I.
Hans looks better with half a head, the fat fuck,
Blown up in a ditch, now it’s a ditch,
Once it was a field,
Poor Hans, only one eye gazing now,
The other reduced to atoms flying,
Along with half his head, and bits of me,
To fertilize the soil of the Ukraine.
II.
Yuki, do you think that we
Gave them any pause at all,
With our Banzai! bits and bravura charges?
Before, that is, they blew us all to shit,
And were they at all impressed,
That we could take such heavy losses,
And keep fighting, from our cave redoubts?
Before, that is, they poured in the gasoline,
And set us all on fire.
Were they impressed at all with our courageous screams?
III.
But fire, only fire claimed my life,
I never saw or heard an explosion,
But fire, fire came to me,
And chased me from my house into,
More fire! and even then some more!
Fire everywhere! The river was on fire!
And oh! so hot, and nowhere to go!
The fire blazed me to infinity, in Dresden, Tokyo and elsewhere.
IV.
I walked so calmly to a square,
Was given something new to wear,
Was taken then to waiting trains,
Uncomfortable, but thinking then again,
It would not be so very long,
They needed me, I was so strong,
My labor they would wish to use,
And I understood, after all that travel
We would need a cleansing shower,
Oh! What a cruel surprise,
The cries of the mothers, and the children, especially.
V.
It seems like there’s a rhythm to,
A terrible rhythm to dying
Of hunger, you can see it coming,
Feel it rising from your feet,
Feel yourself getting weaker, losing interest,
What an unreal feeling, for so long
I took for granted all of that food,
All of that glorious food, so delicious,
Now it is a dream of avarice,
But at least I’m not alone,
It’s nice to have company when you die.
VI.
Where is this place?
I remember flying, very strange,
Water! I’m in the water!
There’s the ship, so close, pulling away,
If only I could move, I can’t move!
Dark again, there was a flash,
And noise, it’s all so quiet now,
Swimming, I should be swimming,
But I can’t move.
VII.
Whose was the fucking bright idea,
To put men into fragile boats
And send them half-assed underwater,
As though we would be safe, our watery briar patch,
It took them no time at all to find us,
We show up clearly now on screens,
No protection from the charges,
Boy, you should get a load of those,
Should feel them, getting closer,
And finally, just water.
VIII.
Once we were all spit and polish,
We carried our ration of rifle rounds, not too many,
No desire to promote profligate shooting at nothing,
Our uniforms were just that: uniform,
No camouflage, all Field Green, good boots, and we ate three times a day,
We had our Mausers, and an MG-34 for every ten or twelve men,
Some storm groups, with Schmeissers, we all got coffee,
By the end we all wore something different,
Some had beards, most had two weapons,
Lots of camo, cheap boots, no more coffee,
Captured weapons, we liked the PPSh-40’s,
With the seventy round magazines,
We had the new, cheaper, MG-42’s, one to every two or three of us,
They sure came in handy, so many people to kill, month after month,
Everyone wore MG ammo belts around their necks,
Giant satchels of all the grenades we could find,
Schmeissers and back up Schmeissers from dead friends,
In case of jams, just throw the first one away,
No more mail, little food but what we could steal,
Amazing, really, that we could go on at all, year after year,
And now they tell us to forget!
IX.
All the training, and I worked
So very hard, and for so long,
I studied so, and passed my tests,
And finally my chance arrived,
I got my wish, my dream assignment,
Flyin’ Lightnings, chasin’ Japs,
I never saw one though, and now
It looks as though I never will,
My gas gauge now is down to fumes,
I lost my flight some time ago,
And now only the blue Pacific, aptly named,
It’s so pacific, and so blue,
And beautiful, the last thing that I’ll ever see,
Most likely.
X.
General Winter,
Nothing to burn, nowhere to hide,
Aren’t our Generals supposed to plan for these things?
The hobnails in our boots just make it worse.
XI.
Men dig shallow foxholes in the beginning of a war,
It’s human nature, digging is hard work,
As the war progresses, the holes get deeper until,
If possible, and time permitting, they’re eight feet deep,
With a niche cut in the bottom,
To hide in, hide from shrapnel flying straight down.
XII.
We left our jump off points, just before dawn,
We killed some guys easy, moved ahead, made a checkpoint,
Sun now up, we walked with the tanks, taking increasing fire,
Then, caught in the open, they let loose on us, us and the tanks,
The tanks got picked off by twos, and we fared even worse,
Our only cover, burning tanks and shell holes,
A thousand tubes and we were zeroed,
It was quite a mess, I could have told you,
Had I lived.
XIII.
It sounds so simple, “take the hill,”
Cover fire, suppression fire, artillery preparation,
Company advance in skirmish lines,
Fire and maneuver, textbook stuff,
Taking fire, though, not the hill, pinned down now,
Nambu’s, mortars, company MG’s,
Field guns, where are they hiding field guns?
Retire, regroup, not retreat, try again,
Leave no one behind, maybe just a little while,
They’re dead anyway.
Someone Left the Cake Out in the Rain
This is a one-of-a-kind, folks. The idea of one guy, he got the money together too. It's up in Chiang Rai. See what you're missing?
Go in the Basement, it's Ok
People do the damndest things in movies, things that we can plainly see will get them killed, or worse. Remember that movie, “Don’t Go in the Basement?” Sure enough, someone went in the basement. I guess we had an advantage, we knew the title.
I saw another one yesterday, “The Tomb,” an Italian-German-Mexican production on a “Thailand Home Video Only” VCD, 45B, bad Thai dub and all. Ok, they were academics so they had to go in the tomb in the first place, and the mere presence of skeletons chained to the wall or lying in niches shouldn’t discourage academics, that’s their business after all. The weird Mexican chick guide would have been a red flag to some people, a stripper getting long in the tooth, does an act with a snake, somehow she knows where this undiscovered tomb is, my bullshit detector would go off.
The first girl student to disappear in the tomb would have been another cue to skidoo, but that’s me. And for me, finding the guy student with his eyes gouged out, that one would have sent me back to the big city for sure. For some reason they stayed in their camp that night, and for some completely unfathomable reason, the next day, after the guy has gone from blind but alive to looking like a shriveled up baseball-glove overnight, they decide that the thing to do is go back into the tomb. That’s them; I wouldn’t do it. Predictably, supernatural ultra-violence ensues.
But are we really so smart? Would we really survive what does these movie people in? I’m not so sure anymore.
Last year I was in a small, brand spanking new hotel in a small northern town and I got a lesson in real life. This was an unfamiliar hotel, I was alone, it was virtually deserted, there were a few monthly tenants and just me, maybe one more, as overnighters. It was kind of bizarre too, lots of strange twists and turns to the halls, lots of those unexpected Thai changes in level, little steps, my room was around a tight corner and down three steps. After I had performed my ablutions and turned down the blankets I heard a noise, and what a noise it was.
It was like simultaneous screams, hysterical laughter, aggressive dogs, ripping metal, and heavy industry all at once. And it was loud, too, booming through all of the deserted corridors of this new hotel, and more than a few seconds long, time to put your head up and listen for a while. The highly paid professionals who make the scary sounds for Hollywood movies have fallen well short of the horror of this sound, I can tell you, and I’ve seen a lot of those movies.
I just finished my drink, turned out the light, climbed into bed and went to sleep. And the next morning I woke up fine. I never found out what the noise was. I heard it again the next night, and it was really a puzzlement, I wondered at it, what could it be? But I ignored it, and I survived.
So go rent “The Swamp Creatures,” and when they’re walking in the swamp and they hear the obvious sound of the foe, and one of them says, “do you think it could be the Swamp Creatures?” Don’t feel so superior. We’d probably say the same thing.
I saw another one yesterday, “The Tomb,” an Italian-German-Mexican production on a “Thailand Home Video Only” VCD, 45B, bad Thai dub and all. Ok, they were academics so they had to go in the tomb in the first place, and the mere presence of skeletons chained to the wall or lying in niches shouldn’t discourage academics, that’s their business after all. The weird Mexican chick guide would have been a red flag to some people, a stripper getting long in the tooth, does an act with a snake, somehow she knows where this undiscovered tomb is, my bullshit detector would go off.
The first girl student to disappear in the tomb would have been another cue to skidoo, but that’s me. And for me, finding the guy student with his eyes gouged out, that one would have sent me back to the big city for sure. For some reason they stayed in their camp that night, and for some completely unfathomable reason, the next day, after the guy has gone from blind but alive to looking like a shriveled up baseball-glove overnight, they decide that the thing to do is go back into the tomb. That’s them; I wouldn’t do it. Predictably, supernatural ultra-violence ensues.
But are we really so smart? Would we really survive what does these movie people in? I’m not so sure anymore.
Last year I was in a small, brand spanking new hotel in a small northern town and I got a lesson in real life. This was an unfamiliar hotel, I was alone, it was virtually deserted, there were a few monthly tenants and just me, maybe one more, as overnighters. It was kind of bizarre too, lots of strange twists and turns to the halls, lots of those unexpected Thai changes in level, little steps, my room was around a tight corner and down three steps. After I had performed my ablutions and turned down the blankets I heard a noise, and what a noise it was.
It was like simultaneous screams, hysterical laughter, aggressive dogs, ripping metal, and heavy industry all at once. And it was loud, too, booming through all of the deserted corridors of this new hotel, and more than a few seconds long, time to put your head up and listen for a while. The highly paid professionals who make the scary sounds for Hollywood movies have fallen well short of the horror of this sound, I can tell you, and I’ve seen a lot of those movies.
I just finished my drink, turned out the light, climbed into bed and went to sleep. And the next morning I woke up fine. I never found out what the noise was. I heard it again the next night, and it was really a puzzlement, I wondered at it, what could it be? But I ignored it, and I survived.
So go rent “The Swamp Creatures,” and when they’re walking in the swamp and they hear the obvious sound of the foe, and one of them says, “do you think it could be the Swamp Creatures?” Don’t feel so superior. We’d probably say the same thing.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Still No Hotmail
All of the computers that I have been on for over a week now have not been able to connect to the Hotmail server. Not gmail either. Sorry for the silence.
In Memoriam
Yesterday I had one of those glorious lone-Farang-at-an-Untra-Thai-event experiences. A couple of ajan buddies asked me if I wanted to go with them to "the palace" to show respect for the late Princess (the sister of the King). "Yes," I said.
It wasn't at the current palace, but rather at the historic Royal Complex called Wat Pra Kaow, an impossibly ornate clutch of buildings built over the course of about one hundred and fifty years. "Wear a black suit," and I even had the jacket, borrowed for the recent commencement exercises.
There were about a thousand people there, all dressed in black, all Thai except for me, mostly old people. I was the only one with a jacket on too. They just walked us into the temple in groups and we did a little obesience thing on the floor, then got a souvenier card.
Lunch was superb. We went to the "Royal Thai Navy Officers' Club Restaurant," on the river. Fried Butterfish with spicy mango salad; sweet green curry; stir fried mixed vegetables with oyster sauce.
Sometimes it almost seems worth it.
It wasn't at the current palace, but rather at the historic Royal Complex called Wat Pra Kaow, an impossibly ornate clutch of buildings built over the course of about one hundred and fifty years. "Wear a black suit," and I even had the jacket, borrowed for the recent commencement exercises.
There were about a thousand people there, all dressed in black, all Thai except for me, mostly old people. I was the only one with a jacket on too. They just walked us into the temple in groups and we did a little obesience thing on the floor, then got a souvenier card.
Lunch was superb. We went to the "Royal Thai Navy Officers' Club Restaurant," on the river. Fried Butterfish with spicy mango salad; sweet green curry; stir fried mixed vegetables with oyster sauce.
Sometimes it almost seems worth it.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Internet is Slow These Days
It's probably the billion people in Asia that are playing "Cabal," or "Darkness and Light," or "Ragnarock," but whatever it is, the Internet is slowing down over here.
And Hotmail and gmail, I can't even get in these days, for four days now. I'm wondering if some parlors have them blocked, I did see a screen notice, "Yahoo Chat disabled."
We'll see.
And Hotmail and gmail, I can't even get in these days, for four days now. I'm wondering if some parlors have them blocked, I did see a screen notice, "Yahoo Chat disabled."
We'll see.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Long Ago and Far Away
do I hear this right? Are people mocking Chelsea Clinton again?
Between what people have said about her, and what people have done to her parents, it seems to me that she is the most gracious young woman on Earth.
That family, you've got to admit, they can take a punch, all three of them.
Between what people have said about her, and what people have done to her parents, it seems to me that she is the most gracious young woman on Earth.
That family, you've got to admit, they can take a punch, all three of them.
Friday, February 8, 2008
What Do Women Want?
What Do Women Want? (I think I have it figured out)
Women want
A man with clean hands,
And close cropped finger-nails,
This last is most important to women.
No one wants a scratched up back,
Or anything for that matter.
Women want men who have jobs,
That’s my experience anyway,
Unless the man is a poet,
Says the venerable C.B.,
Poets get so much pussy
They can hardly stand it,
At least on the printed page.
Women want men
With clean personal habits,
It only stands to reason.
But upon reflection I must confess,
I was a filthy beggar when my woman clove unto me.
Women, young women,
Want cell phones with cameras,
And Honda Wave motorcycles.
But if they’re poor enough,
About four thousand Baht a month
Will do it, and you’ll get yours, oh yes,
And laughed at behind your back too,
Like who could give a shit.
Women of a certain age want
What any woman wants,
But not to have it anymore, only
To remember it, fondly, if you’re lucky,
If you can call that luck,
And I’m not sure of my feelings on the subject.
Women want to be treated
Like the Queens that they are,
Or thrown around like sparing partners,
Want presents and consideration,
Or to be taken for granted and mocked in their presence,
Want to be provided for,
Or perhaps made to provide,
Want to be made secure
Or enticed to throw security to the four winds
And blow this pop stand altogether,
It’s hard to tell, really.
Women want
A man with clean hands,
And close cropped finger-nails,
This last is most important to women.
No one wants a scratched up back,
Or anything for that matter.
Women want men who have jobs,
That’s my experience anyway,
Unless the man is a poet,
Says the venerable C.B.,
Poets get so much pussy
They can hardly stand it,
At least on the printed page.
Women want men
With clean personal habits,
It only stands to reason.
But upon reflection I must confess,
I was a filthy beggar when my woman clove unto me.
Women, young women,
Want cell phones with cameras,
And Honda Wave motorcycles.
But if they’re poor enough,
About four thousand Baht a month
Will do it, and you’ll get yours, oh yes,
And laughed at behind your back too,
Like who could give a shit.
Women of a certain age want
What any woman wants,
But not to have it anymore, only
To remember it, fondly, if you’re lucky,
If you can call that luck,
And I’m not sure of my feelings on the subject.
Women want to be treated
Like the Queens that they are,
Or thrown around like sparing partners,
Want presents and consideration,
Or to be taken for granted and mocked in their presence,
Want to be provided for,
Or perhaps made to provide,
Want to be made secure
Or enticed to throw security to the four winds
And blow this pop stand altogether,
It’s hard to tell, really.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Pic of the Day
My friend is a letter carrier in a little northern town, like South Park without snow, we're drinking the local moonshine which this batch had been soaking in some bark, some roots, and some honey for a while, which made it "herbal whiskey." The food was great too. The fish had been swimming in a barrel only an hour before. Everything was really spicy. The host had his own cock-pit and lots of big, tough birds. At about nine o'clock he began lovingly washing and drying each of them before putting them to bed.
Bob's Your Uncle
This is a snippet from some long ago notebook.
"There were social philosophers in the neighborhood, if one only had the ears to hear. Our tailor was Mr. Sacks, well our dry cleaner really, although he would sometimes take up a cuff. He was a Jew with the foresight to have been born in New York, and so he remained alive in the 1950’s. When I was about ten years old I passed him in height. He was an enlightened man; he had a black assistant who worked the dry cleaning and pressing machines. He also possessed a clear understanding of the true nature of the world. “Hello Ceely, how’s Ceely?” he’d say when I brought in my father’s suits to be cleaned and pressed. I was the first Ceely; my father was the second. My father had delivered dry cleaning to local customers for Mr. Sacks in the 1930’s. So had my uncle Jack, for that matter, so Mr. Sacks could have said, “hello Ceely, how’s Ceely and Ceely?” Even he had to draw the line on individuality somewhere.
"Sometimes I’d go into the shop and he’d be in the back doing the pressing himself. The assistant’s day off, I suppose. He was so short that the up-stroke of the pressing machine lifted him off of the ground. He hummed a tune, and occasionally sang the words to the song. The words were foreign, but I remembered the refrain, “die ganze Welt is beschissend . . .” When I discovered what this meant I also discovered that Mr. Sacks was a soul mate. I had come to the same conclusion myself. A shitty world indeed, that’s just the half of it."
"There were social philosophers in the neighborhood, if one only had the ears to hear. Our tailor was Mr. Sacks, well our dry cleaner really, although he would sometimes take up a cuff. He was a Jew with the foresight to have been born in New York, and so he remained alive in the 1950’s. When I was about ten years old I passed him in height. He was an enlightened man; he had a black assistant who worked the dry cleaning and pressing machines. He also possessed a clear understanding of the true nature of the world. “Hello Ceely, how’s Ceely?” he’d say when I brought in my father’s suits to be cleaned and pressed. I was the first Ceely; my father was the second. My father had delivered dry cleaning to local customers for Mr. Sacks in the 1930’s. So had my uncle Jack, for that matter, so Mr. Sacks could have said, “hello Ceely, how’s Ceely and Ceely?” Even he had to draw the line on individuality somewhere.
"Sometimes I’d go into the shop and he’d be in the back doing the pressing himself. The assistant’s day off, I suppose. He was so short that the up-stroke of the pressing machine lifted him off of the ground. He hummed a tune, and occasionally sang the words to the song. The words were foreign, but I remembered the refrain, “die ganze Welt is beschissend . . .” When I discovered what this meant I also discovered that Mr. Sacks was a soul mate. I had come to the same conclusion myself. A shitty world indeed, that’s just the half of it."
Monday, February 4, 2008
Pic of the Day
This is up in Supan Buri, which turns out to be one of the nicer Buri's. This is the place with the great "hell," and the only huge Buddhist graveyard I've ever seen, a couple of thousand graves containing actual human bodies and with each marked by a substantial, meditating Buddha.
The food was good, too.
A Gift of Love
Here's a little something, just for you! A gift of love! Another snippit from "The Accidental Murderer."
The first time the side bell rang it was Bobby. “Hey man, how goes it?”
“Been a little excitement since I seen you last,” quite the understatement, that. Johnny and Bobby went up the few stairs to the living room and sat on the couch. Bobby heard sounds in the kitchen. “Hiya, Marie. What you up to in there?” “I’m cookin’,” she said, and then, with feeling, “for my family.”
“Ain’t she something,” Bobby was shaking his head. Johnny voiced an opinion: “But you know, you always know what’s on her mind.” Johnny valued that in Marie, that plus she was hot. Johnny’s own mom, no one ever knew what was on her mind. Until she’d snap, that is, she’d smile right on along and then explode, sometimes it was so removed in time that you still didn’t know what had gotten her going in the first place. Johnny’s dad was in the taxi business, he worked in the dispatch office for a big fleet. It was a good job, money wise, and it kept him out of the house sixteen to eighteen hours per day, which he thought was good too. It was Johnny and his sister who were stuck at home with mom. His sister was four years older than Johnny, she left home for college right after high school, three days after graduation, in fact. Johnny was almost never home. His mother didn’t seem to wonder or care where he was all that time. It was what he liked most about her.
“So, what’s all this excitement about,” Bobby took out a cigarette and Johnny reached to the right of the couch, opened an army surplus metal storage box, and took out a cigar box. “Claude almost got nailed last night.”
“What, on the bike?”
“No, cops.”
Bobby lit the cigarette; Johnny put a magazine on his lap and took a couple of things out of the cigar box, then he put the box on the coffee table. His hands were very busy. “You gonna make me ask a thousand questions, or what?”
“I got back, you know, I dropped you off, Darlene was here,” Johnny held a joint up in front of his face and blew on lightly. “They were just drivin’ along, mindin’ their own business, and here come the bubble-gum brigade.” He reached for an ash tray, there were a couple on the coffee table, sat back, and lit the joint. “They ended up at the station, Claude’s trunk was packed with sh*t, he threw the key out the window, it’s back there somewhere, by the time the cops get their wheels on the ground, the car’s gone.” Johnny took a long pull and held it, exhaling slowly. “He’s a f*ckin’ magician, that guy.”
“How’d you find all this out?” “When I got here Darlene was waitin’, in Claude’s car,” Johnny still couldn’t believe it, “Claude gave her the key and the cops let her drive away in the car.”
“So Claude walks,” Bobby said, laughing low. “Yeah,” Johnny passed the ash tray holding the joint, “all he lost was that good gravity knife.”
“Aw, sh*t,” Bobby could feel Claude’s pain, “he loved that knife.”
The second time the bell rang it was Paddy. “You’re lookin’ pretty sharp, there.” Paddy was wearing charcoal grey dress slacks, shined shoes, a black knit shirt and a three-quarter length leather car coat that fit him like a glove, “what’s up? finally get a girl friend?” “F*ck you,” said Paddy, luckily he was smiling, and he went up to the living room and made himself at home. “Hey, Lil’ Pat,” for a couple of years in high school, Bobby was “Little Paddy,” and Paddy got promoted to “Big Paddy.”
“What’s up? big brother,” always good to see Paddy, usually pretty exciting stuff going on. “You gonna hog that joint or what?” Bobby half got up and handed it over, Paddy was sitting in the big chair next to the TV. Johnny took his seat. “This what you got for me?” Johnny told him, “yeah, it’s your lucky day, I bought this for myself, I got an extra z just for you.”
“You lying little sh*t,” but kiddingly. Johnny was as tall as Paddy, but something in Paddy’s experience of the world had given him the belief that he was bigger than everybody. Paddy handed over the ash tray, with smoke coming out of his nose, “it does taste pretty good.”
Johnny snorted a little laugh, “just give it a minute,” and like a good businessman he added, “all natural too.” There was a lot of the new Dust around, it would knock you out but it wasn’t the same. “So, what’s it gonna cost me?” “Sixty.” “You f*ckin’ thief,” Paddy expressed mock outrage, “tryin’ to git rich off your friends!”
“Hey, you smoke a joint, you want your money back, it’s yours, keep the reefer.”
Paddy had, they all had, a good buzz going by then. Paddy reached for his wallet. “No, I think this will do nicely,” he took out three twenties, “very nicely.” Johnny leaned over to Bobby and said, low, “if I even think about cheatin’ Pat, just f*ckin’ kill me.” “What’d you say.” “I said, Pat’s my favorite customer, what a ray of sunshine.”
Marie walked in. “Hello Patrick,” they knew each other, “you stayin’ long?” “Hi, Marie,” he smirked, “still with the Brass Balls, eh?” Marie sat on the stick chair next to the phone table. “F*ck that,” and to Johnny, “give me a cigarette,” back to Paddy, “what you been up to? don’t see you much.” “I stay busy,” he left it at that. Marie took the cigarette and went back inside.
The third time the side door ball rang it was Claude. When they got to the living room Johnny gestured to the dining room, “grab a chair and join the party.” Claude saw Paddy and shouted, “wooooo! to what do we owe the honor!” “Shoppin’,” he said, and held out his hand. Claude slapped it and took a slap back. These two went way back. Paddy was one of the first kids Claude met when he moved to the neighborhood, that was early grammar school. They became friends right away, it was that or kill one another. They made a good living from kids lunch money, later on from other things. Claude took a dining room chair and sat next to Paddy. Paddy said, “stayin’ out’a trouble?” Claude looked over at Johnny and smiled, Johnny laughed out loud. “Sh*t, tell ‘em Claude.”
Claude filled him in, mostly the parts that made Claude look heroic. “You still get them Georgia plates?” He couldn’t believe it. “You lose them plates and you’ll be happier.” Yeah, yeah, I already figured that out.
“You should give lessons,” Bobby was relaxing and enjoying himself. Claude said, “somethin’ smells good.” Bobby warned him not to mention it, “I been disinvited already, so you ain’t got a chance.” Paddy got up. “I gotta go, I’m workin’.” Some poor soul out there. Claude got up too, “yeah, me too, gotta get rid of the car,” but Johnny was having none of it, “sit down, now ain’t good.” He told Claude to wait till after midnight, be quiet about it, and don’t wake me. “Leave my car on the street.” Marie heard the fuss and came back in. “Dinner’s almost ready, so where’re you three goin’?” Subtle, as always. “You guys eat?” Claude asked, and to Paddy, “you got time to eat?”
“Yeah, I got time,” and to Bobby, “we’ll take your car.” “Check.” Bobby collected his stuff; the other two were ready. Marie smiled, “that was easy.” “You got the secret, kiddo.” Paddy put a little bag in his coat pocket, smiled at Marie and said, “we know the way,” adding, “thanks, John,” and they walked out. “Let’s go to the ‘Roma.”
The first time the side bell rang it was Bobby. “Hey man, how goes it?”
“Been a little excitement since I seen you last,” quite the understatement, that. Johnny and Bobby went up the few stairs to the living room and sat on the couch. Bobby heard sounds in the kitchen. “Hiya, Marie. What you up to in there?” “I’m cookin’,” she said, and then, with feeling, “for my family.”
“Ain’t she something,” Bobby was shaking his head. Johnny voiced an opinion: “But you know, you always know what’s on her mind.” Johnny valued that in Marie, that plus she was hot. Johnny’s own mom, no one ever knew what was on her mind. Until she’d snap, that is, she’d smile right on along and then explode, sometimes it was so removed in time that you still didn’t know what had gotten her going in the first place. Johnny’s dad was in the taxi business, he worked in the dispatch office for a big fleet. It was a good job, money wise, and it kept him out of the house sixteen to eighteen hours per day, which he thought was good too. It was Johnny and his sister who were stuck at home with mom. His sister was four years older than Johnny, she left home for college right after high school, three days after graduation, in fact. Johnny was almost never home. His mother didn’t seem to wonder or care where he was all that time. It was what he liked most about her.
“So, what’s all this excitement about,” Bobby took out a cigarette and Johnny reached to the right of the couch, opened an army surplus metal storage box, and took out a cigar box. “Claude almost got nailed last night.”
“What, on the bike?”
“No, cops.”
Bobby lit the cigarette; Johnny put a magazine on his lap and took a couple of things out of the cigar box, then he put the box on the coffee table. His hands were very busy. “You gonna make me ask a thousand questions, or what?”
“I got back, you know, I dropped you off, Darlene was here,” Johnny held a joint up in front of his face and blew on lightly. “They were just drivin’ along, mindin’ their own business, and here come the bubble-gum brigade.” He reached for an ash tray, there were a couple on the coffee table, sat back, and lit the joint. “They ended up at the station, Claude’s trunk was packed with sh*t, he threw the key out the window, it’s back there somewhere, by the time the cops get their wheels on the ground, the car’s gone.” Johnny took a long pull and held it, exhaling slowly. “He’s a f*ckin’ magician, that guy.”
“How’d you find all this out?” “When I got here Darlene was waitin’, in Claude’s car,” Johnny still couldn’t believe it, “Claude gave her the key and the cops let her drive away in the car.”
“So Claude walks,” Bobby said, laughing low. “Yeah,” Johnny passed the ash tray holding the joint, “all he lost was that good gravity knife.”
“Aw, sh*t,” Bobby could feel Claude’s pain, “he loved that knife.”
The second time the bell rang it was Paddy. “You’re lookin’ pretty sharp, there.” Paddy was wearing charcoal grey dress slacks, shined shoes, a black knit shirt and a three-quarter length leather car coat that fit him like a glove, “what’s up? finally get a girl friend?” “F*ck you,” said Paddy, luckily he was smiling, and he went up to the living room and made himself at home. “Hey, Lil’ Pat,” for a couple of years in high school, Bobby was “Little Paddy,” and Paddy got promoted to “Big Paddy.”
“What’s up? big brother,” always good to see Paddy, usually pretty exciting stuff going on. “You gonna hog that joint or what?” Bobby half got up and handed it over, Paddy was sitting in the big chair next to the TV. Johnny took his seat. “This what you got for me?” Johnny told him, “yeah, it’s your lucky day, I bought this for myself, I got an extra z just for you.”
“You lying little sh*t,” but kiddingly. Johnny was as tall as Paddy, but something in Paddy’s experience of the world had given him the belief that he was bigger than everybody. Paddy handed over the ash tray, with smoke coming out of his nose, “it does taste pretty good.”
Johnny snorted a little laugh, “just give it a minute,” and like a good businessman he added, “all natural too.” There was a lot of the new Dust around, it would knock you out but it wasn’t the same. “So, what’s it gonna cost me?” “Sixty.” “You f*ckin’ thief,” Paddy expressed mock outrage, “tryin’ to git rich off your friends!”
“Hey, you smoke a joint, you want your money back, it’s yours, keep the reefer.”
Paddy had, they all had, a good buzz going by then. Paddy reached for his wallet. “No, I think this will do nicely,” he took out three twenties, “very nicely.” Johnny leaned over to Bobby and said, low, “if I even think about cheatin’ Pat, just f*ckin’ kill me.” “What’d you say.” “I said, Pat’s my favorite customer, what a ray of sunshine.”
Marie walked in. “Hello Patrick,” they knew each other, “you stayin’ long?” “Hi, Marie,” he smirked, “still with the Brass Balls, eh?” Marie sat on the stick chair next to the phone table. “F*ck that,” and to Johnny, “give me a cigarette,” back to Paddy, “what you been up to? don’t see you much.” “I stay busy,” he left it at that. Marie took the cigarette and went back inside.
The third time the side door ball rang it was Claude. When they got to the living room Johnny gestured to the dining room, “grab a chair and join the party.” Claude saw Paddy and shouted, “wooooo! to what do we owe the honor!” “Shoppin’,” he said, and held out his hand. Claude slapped it and took a slap back. These two went way back. Paddy was one of the first kids Claude met when he moved to the neighborhood, that was early grammar school. They became friends right away, it was that or kill one another. They made a good living from kids lunch money, later on from other things. Claude took a dining room chair and sat next to Paddy. Paddy said, “stayin’ out’a trouble?” Claude looked over at Johnny and smiled, Johnny laughed out loud. “Sh*t, tell ‘em Claude.”
Claude filled him in, mostly the parts that made Claude look heroic. “You still get them Georgia plates?” He couldn’t believe it. “You lose them plates and you’ll be happier.” Yeah, yeah, I already figured that out.
“You should give lessons,” Bobby was relaxing and enjoying himself. Claude said, “somethin’ smells good.” Bobby warned him not to mention it, “I been disinvited already, so you ain’t got a chance.” Paddy got up. “I gotta go, I’m workin’.” Some poor soul out there. Claude got up too, “yeah, me too, gotta get rid of the car,” but Johnny was having none of it, “sit down, now ain’t good.” He told Claude to wait till after midnight, be quiet about it, and don’t wake me. “Leave my car on the street.” Marie heard the fuss and came back in. “Dinner’s almost ready, so where’re you three goin’?” Subtle, as always. “You guys eat?” Claude asked, and to Paddy, “you got time to eat?”
“Yeah, I got time,” and to Bobby, “we’ll take your car.” “Check.” Bobby collected his stuff; the other two were ready. Marie smiled, “that was easy.” “You got the secret, kiddo.” Paddy put a little bag in his coat pocket, smiled at Marie and said, “we know the way,” adding, “thanks, John,” and they walked out. “Let’s go to the ‘Roma.”
Sunday, February 3, 2008
New Pix, Big Time
I finally loaded all my old pix from a remote hard drive that I almost forgot about. Maybe I should do a Photo of the Day?
This ultra-rip-roy young man is from Surin, seen about two years ago.
An Analogy
Can you believe that Spell Check still thinks that "blog" is misspelled? I hate Microsoft.
How is Microsoft like a retarded dog?
1. A retarded dog chases a car down the street and expects praise for chasing it away.
2. A retarded dog learns to bring your slippers, then he brings them all the time, whether you want them or not, even when you really, really don’t want them.
Question: How does Microsoft mirror the above behaviors?
How is Microsoft like a retarded dog?
1. A retarded dog chases a car down the street and expects praise for chasing it away.
2. A retarded dog learns to bring your slippers, then he brings them all the time, whether you want them or not, even when you really, really don’t want them.
Question: How does Microsoft mirror the above behaviors?
Mr. Fred's Cheerful Poetry Corner!
I think this one is uplifting and positive, although if you are looking for boundless good cheer, well, if that's what you want you are probably not reading this blog anyway.
"The Father"
I believe in God, the father almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth not,
I’m afraid. But rather
Place my faith in a more
Elastic god, one who
Neither made, nor was made.
I think of god although I know
To think of god is foolish.
And so I note my cynicism here,
Regarding him or her by way,
I’m sure you’ll understand,
Of a disclaimer.
But god there is,
Of this I’m sure.
To think for just one minute
Of any bloody thing at all,
However bloody great or small,
You’ll find that god’s within it.
Sometime around October, 2007
"The Father"
I believe in God, the father almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth not,
I’m afraid. But rather
Place my faith in a more
Elastic god, one who
Neither made, nor was made.
I think of god although I know
To think of god is foolish.
And so I note my cynicism here,
Regarding him or her by way,
I’m sure you’ll understand,
Of a disclaimer.
But god there is,
Of this I’m sure.
To think for just one minute
Of any bloody thing at all,
However bloody great or small,
You’ll find that god’s within it.
Sometime around October, 2007
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Everything Old Is New Again
Everything old is new again; this new century isn’t so unfamiliar after all.
When I left America, somehow I like the sound of that, I knew that I would need decorator items that traveled well. My solution was to color-Xerox the fronts of some examples from my much too extensive, compulsive really, magazine collection. So now I can look around and see:
1. “Wonder Wart-Hog Magazine,” Spring 1967, which cover features the flying Hog in orbit with a net catching Soviet ICBM’s. “Americans, why spent Forty BILLION Dollars on an Anti-Missile Defense System when you could have the HOG OF STEEL for HALF the amount?” Substitute “Iranian” for “Soviet.”
2. “Time” magazine, April 16, 1979, which shows an Arabian Nights scene touting the article: “ISLAM: The Militant Revival.” And lest we forget, even in '79 Muslim (Palestinian) terrorism had been in full swing for over ten years already.
3. “Newsweek” magazine, August 11, 1969, showing a great self-portrait photograph of an astronaut on the Moon. It’s been so long that now the talk of returning is more “new” than “déjà vu.”
And yet we are supposed to get excited about these things all over again, like someone wanted to keep us excited or something. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
When I left America, somehow I like the sound of that, I knew that I would need decorator items that traveled well. My solution was to color-Xerox the fronts of some examples from my much too extensive, compulsive really, magazine collection. So now I can look around and see:
1. “Wonder Wart-Hog Magazine,” Spring 1967, which cover features the flying Hog in orbit with a net catching Soviet ICBM’s. “Americans, why spent Forty BILLION Dollars on an Anti-Missile Defense System when you could have the HOG OF STEEL for HALF the amount?” Substitute “Iranian” for “Soviet.”
2. “Time” magazine, April 16, 1979, which shows an Arabian Nights scene touting the article: “ISLAM: The Militant Revival.” And lest we forget, even in '79 Muslim (Palestinian) terrorism had been in full swing for over ten years already.
3. “Newsweek” magazine, August 11, 1969, showing a great self-portrait photograph of an astronaut on the Moon. It’s been so long that now the talk of returning is more “new” than “déjà vu.”
And yet we are supposed to get excited about these things all over again, like someone wanted to keep us excited or something. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
