Pistonhips

2005-06-01T00:39:00.000+07:00

Movie Review: Hollow Man

The plot of this movie can be summed up as follows:

A group of scientists working on a secret, government funded project, create a formula that renders animals invisible. Without seeking the necessary approval from the top, they advance to the final stage of their project and try the procedure with humans. They inject the lead scientist with the same serum and are successful. Now invisible, he starts killing people.

However, it is never clear why exactly he begins the slaughter of his colleagues who assisted in the research.

The invisible scientist, Sebastian Caine, is portrayed by Kevin Bacon as the typical, hard-to-be-around genius, preoccupied with more important things than being polite to people. Is this supposed to provide some reason for the audience to accept the sudden eruption of murderous rage?

A vague notion that the genetic change has brought along an unwanted side effect that sets off the violence is hinted at as well. That, or an overwhelming sense of untapped knowledge and newfound power that sends Caine off the rails. Also, Caine becomes aware of the fact that his former girlfriend who spurned him, Linda, (played by Linda Shue) and an assistant in the project, has taken up with another scientist on the team. The new boyfriend, Matt, (played by Josh Brolin), has always been a second rater to Caine in terms of scientific smarts but, like that old cliché that no doubt has some truth to it, makes up for that deficiency with better social skills.

Added together, these potential explanations don't wash.

Despite the absolutely threadbare plot and some of the relatively inexplicable actions, I still call this a movie worth watching.

First, the special effects are impressive. As with any number of movies over the years that have dealt with invisibility, the trick is always how to make it clear that the unseen individual is actually there. Here there are a number of ways utilized, including the gradual reappearance of a gorilla strapped to a gurney, and later Caine, their anatomies filling out as a reversal serum takes effect. More predictable circumstances abound where the invisible Caine is showered with water or blasted with steam or fire extinguishers and his image becomes momentarily visible, though the quality effects are still enjoyable to watch.

Secondly, the viciousness and refreshing lack of usual Hollywood sentiment are almost laugh-out-loud hilarious in an inappropriate kind of way. As mentioned, the sudden spiral into casual slaughter is a bit off in the overall context, but once it starts it is somehow entertaining. Probably not least for the oafish and annoying supporting cast did I find myself actually rooting for the suddenly psychotic Caine. If there is any doubt that the word "oaf" can apply to women, it is eviscerated here. Together with the pair of gullible blokes who are part of the research team, this collection of credulous louts are the least likely group of morons who would ever find themselves part of an elite scientific unit and their demise is welcomed.

Of course, Caine's ex-girlfriend and her new, second rate, pussy-whipped boyfriend are portrayed as Caine's nemeses and distinctly different from the other screw-ups. An inevitable final few minutes play out where things are wrapped up and the evil is vanquished.

Finally, being invisible is something that every person has pondered at some point. Inevitably, thoughts quickly turn to what deviant acts a person could partake in without any fear of being caught. Without wasting time on any monotonous deeper issues, this is the area the film quickly transitions to for a brief period following Caine's initial transformation.

Though Kevin Bacon's fiendish performance is the only one that is above average here, that he is somehow at his best when invisible and fondling the tit of one of the sleeping female scientists says it all regarding this movie. Trite dialogue and a meaningless plot are just some of the failings in a film that could have been much better but still provides an impressive display of cinematic special effects.

Released: 2000

Directed by: Paul Verhoeven

2005-05-27T00:51:00.000+07:00

Thai Cop Gets Life for Double Murder

The verdict is in for Somchai Visetsingha, the Thai policeman who murdered Vanessa Arscott and Adam Lloyd, and the sentence is life in prison.

The two Brits, pictured above, were vacationing in Kanchanaburi, Thailand in September last year when a late night argument with Somchai started in the copper's restaurant.

While what initially sparked the row is still hazy, it is clear that Somchai repeatedly shot Lloyd then mowed down Arscott in his car, dragging her 200 metres before getting out and shooting her execution style as she miraculously tried to crawl away.

Unfortunately, one only has to look at the underlying "logic" that instructed the judge regarding sentencing to determine that the punishment is essentially meaningless.

According to the judge, the only thing that prevented a death sentence was the fact that the accused confessed to the crime shortly after being arrested. Arrested after being on the lam for a month. Anyone who followed the trial will also note that the murderous pig retracted his confession and based his laughable non-defense around claiming a fictitious person committed the crime.

Someone that no one has ever seen or heard of. Actually, it would be hard for anyone to have heard of him, as the brainless cunt making the claim cannot even provide a full name, despite stating that he has known him for years.

Let's clarify, as is often necessary when trying to get your head around complete and utter horseshit glibly spewed in a nation guided by pure, undiluted, mind-numbing, head-up-the-ass insanity:

The murderer was spared the death penalty because he confessed to the crime despite having subsequently retracted his confession and then basing his entire defense around a lie that a retarded 3 year-old would have trouble spinning without being laughed at.

All is not lost for the murdering piece of filth. He quite possibly may appeal the verdict.

The option for appeal seems to be open for one reason...because he retracted his confession. Had he stuck to that confession, the one which allowed him to escape the death penalty, presumably any appeals would have been impossible.

It is for these reasons that I state the sentence appears meaningless. Will he actually spend some time in prison? Probably, as even the Thai public are a notch above lobotomized cattle in terms of gullibility and attention span. Just barely though.

The length of time served will be commensurate to how long the international press can keep this percolating on the backburner. If they are ready to ratchet up pressure as soon as some unctuous and gutlessly rationalized piece of nothingness is offered up as to why the sack of shit is being released early, there may be hope.

Even in the face of that, a short period of time served may be the final eventuality in this case.

That the reputation of Thailand has at least taken another deserved hit is undoubted.

2005-05-24T19:37:00.000+07:00

Dual Pricing in Thailand

The bane of every westerner who spends an extended period of time in this country.

What am I referring to? Businesses, hotels and roadside vendors who charge Thais one price and foreigners another, more expensive price for their products and services.

Is it evident everywhere? No, definitely not, though it is prevalent enough to be called common.

The worst culprits are:

1. Hotels, of which even large international chains take part in this gutless practice.

2. Government operated parks, tourist attractions and ancient sites, all of which charge foreigners ten times as much as Thais in entrance fees.

There are some western fools who steadfastly defend such blatant racism and shameless discrimination. These bleeding hearts feel there is some inherent justification in people from a developing nation fleecing western tourists and expats.

The nonsense from such mewling apologists is sickening. The simple fact that obliterates the validity of any claim they try to make is that incredibly wealthy Thais, who directly exploit the poor of this country as much as any westerner, of course pay the lower prices as well.

There are a number of ways that both tourists and expats can try to combat dual pricing. Upon confirmation of such an occurrence, simply ask why this is being done and try to shame the person you are dealing with. Inform them that you will never return to their establishment. Also, advise as many people as possible about the culprit and follow through on your threat regarding no subsequent business with the offending piece of human garbage.

Confirmation of course can be difficult. Most hotels will deny outright that they do this. A simple way to verify is to make 2 phone calls a few minutes apart; one made by a Thai and one made by a foreigner, both requesting prices for the same type of room.

E-mails to the worldwide head offices of offending chains expressing your disgust would do wonders as well. When will one of these large outfits realize the advantages that their dealing with such a problem would produce? If they were to include such a declaration regarding the end to such practices in their brochures and a posted sign near the reception desks of their hotels, the positive effects from word-of-mouth would be beneficial for everyone, including shaming other offenders into reform.

Another method is to put a stop to all tipping. The fact is that, while the western mindset sees tipping as an acknowledgement of good service and an understanding that most workers in such jobs receive substandard pay, when dual pricing is in effect, adding a tip only serves to reinforce such practices. If the tourist doesn't balk at the price and still adds a gratuity, the shameless cunts will have their simplistic theory confirmed; that all westerners are wealthy and have money to burn. Obviously, the realization that dual pricing is taking place is absent for many tourists and so letting people know is important.

Regarding food vendors, a simple way to determine if they are trying to scam you is to stand at the side and observe a few transactions to determine the going price. If they then try to charge you more, simply walk away, hopefully causing the cunt to lose some money if there was any preparation necessary and it can't be sold to someone else.

There is not much that can be done about government run tourist sites, though foreigners residing in Thailand may have some success in paying the lower fee by presenting work permits or showing a long-term visa stamp in their passports.

Some fools just don't understand the negative effects that this can have on their businesses over time. I discovered that a restaurant near my flat was charging foreigners more than Thais (also demonstrating that this even happens outside of tourist areas.) Of course I immediately stopped eating there and told anyone who would listen, both Thais and farangs, that the worthless creeps had sold their reputation for ten baht a plate.

So it was supremely satisfying to see the deserving-of-financial-ruin, cheating scum, forced to close the doors of their restaurant earlier this week.

2005-05-20T23:30:00.000+07:00

Movie Review: The Machinist

There is a history of Hollywood movies in which the protagonist is balanced on the edge of sanity and the viewer is left to wonder whether the action as seen through the character's eyes is real or imagined. Not least for the reason that the tragic and perplexing ways of the human mind in this regard are not uncommon and provide just the kind of grist appropriate for intriguing and wrenching stories.

Still, in the last few years there has been a spike in the number of such dramas. To bolster my claim I'm not going to name a single one and am too lazy to hunt down the titles which I forget (please feel free to provide the names of these flicks in the comments' section.) (Ah at least the I remember the Russell Crowe movie, A Beautiful Mind.)

Perhaps it is these times of stimulation overdose on numerous fronts and the spectre of an insane and bloody few decades ahead of us that have spawned a mini-genre centered around the breakdown of the mind and the blurring between reality and fantasy. Or maybe the well of ideas is dry.

Regardless, The Machinist is one such film.

Something is very wrong with Trevor Reznik. He is a machinist who works on the grimy shop floor of a small tool and dye production plant in an unnamed, mid-sized, dreary American city. He hasn't had a sound night of sleep for a solid year.

For the voyeur in all of us, Christian Bale, who plays the lead, provides one of the most memorable cinematic examples of an actor undergoing serious physical hardships so as to add to the credibility of his performance.

Bales's emaciated frame is something to behold and will elicit misplaced guffaws from many. The director recognized the attraction of such a rare accomplishment and regular shots of the shirtless wraith feature throughout the first half of the movie. The rapid weight gain by the likes of De Niro in Raging Bull pale in comparison to the truly insane self-torture that must have been necessary to achieve this look.

Just what is haunting Reznik is the mystery. A clever viewer may perhaps unravel the events that have conspired to drive him close to the edge. As the director makes it evident that the "what" has been buried in the main character's own psyche, the audience is likely to be as surprised by the various twists that emerge as Reznik’s mind convulses and forces him to stare down the truth.

The self-loathing doesn't just result in his own misery, as much as he might wish. An industrial accident because of Reznik's lack of sleep and wavering sanity triggers the beginning of the end-game in his own internal battle to come to grips with his troubled recent past. Those around him shake their heads at his unlikely recounting of different events. As a result, not only does Reznik start to question his own take on reality but the viewer also wonders if what they are seeing through his eyes is real.

There are some good supporting roles including Jennifer Jason Leigh as the cliched caring whore of whom Reznik has deemed is the only woman he is worthy. Also, Michael Ironside, the shop floor victim of Reznik's carelessness, an always appropriate addition to noirish dramas such as this.

Flat lighting and overcast skies are featured throughout, and interior shots are washed in a green/grey hue to add to the sombre atmosphere. Close-ups of Bale as he screws up his mug in incomprehension and confusion are also regular features.

The film comes full circle in 2 ways. First, the arrival at the place where the movie began, a flash forward that started the freak show rolling. Most importantly, the ending marks a dilemma overcome by the main character as the cat and mouse game with himself reaches a conclusion. Though there is no carefree, pollyanna future projected as things draw to a close, there is at least a sense that the worst of a self-imposed ordeal is over.

While there is a good story doled out over the course of this gloomy and atmospheric film, the focus is undoubtedly the struggle of the main character and Christian Bale provides a grimacing, convincing performance. The power of the human mind to hold us to account regarding our instilled values makes for a strong underlying theme. Just as it's hard to draw a perfectly straight line from motivating factors that guide our thoughts and actions, so too the consequences of a fleeting few moments can be taken care of in ways we might never fully understand.

Released: 2004

Director: Brad Anderson

2005-05-17T21:21:00.000+07:00

Random Thoughts

Walking down the street feeling disconnected.

Absent "something" that makes you feel human, like some strand has finally broken after years of stress and strain. When it was there you couldn't put your finger on it. Weren't even aware of it.

Kind of like one of those fleeting revelatory feelings that you live for. Yet you feel you should be slightly disturbed that something is qualitatively different this time around. As if consequences no longer mean anything.

Other sensations you have had were still varied, though related enough so that you could more readily articulate them. The one similarity is that, like this new one, those more common vibes always occured when there was flat lighting, an overcast sky. As there was today.

Days as a child in the crisp weather usually associated with such a grey-infused sky/soul. Satisfaction that the entire locale had been brought in line, at least to some degree, to your default mindset.

Catching auras...a concept I have heard about and like to believe I have experienced. The momentary surreal ambience that suddenly surrounds you, ostensibly because of the presence of another person, their energies outside the average banal, hammered-into-mediocrity, subdued sameness. Bristling with something so different, or at least receptive to your own collection of inexplicable internal currents, that you briefly experience a unique sensation that somehow refreshes your being.

Maybe those precious moments of being outside your normal mental state are because others are catching your auras, in turn sending back their own responsive energy.

Perhaps you've finally caught and absorbed the collective soul of this place in one fell swat.

Bangkok as a metaphor for life (in a pinch, what can't be wedged into a comparison to life?)

That buzzing, exotic energy. Bursting with potential, so easy to grab if you just make the first step. Yearning. Somehow always seems out of reach.

When those exquisite respites from bland normalcy occur, it only reinforces the monotony of other times. When you're staring at your weathered mug in the mirror, you're always staring at it. When you're rammed into some crowded form of public transport, you're always there. When you're limp cock is shlumping out of a wet and spent snatch with an audible pop, it's always happening. The repeated banalities become eternal every time you're acting them out.

All the while you crave meaningful relationships and profound conversations yet find yourself avoiding them at the same time. Simply because they will be parceled out in fleeting moments. The end of each meeting will inevitably arrive accompanied by an empty feeling. It never quite reaches your expectations and only invokes an exaggerated sense of longing.

The real moments of loneliness and despair are never quite as sublime as the poetry and other artistic renditions that celebrate them.

But those musings of others do help you to sort through your own experiences and cast a retroactive sense of hope on things.

Monotony

One monotonous day is followed
by another monotonous, identical day. The same
things will happen, they will happen again --
the same moments find us and leave us.

A month passes and ushers in another month.
One easily guesses the coming events;
they are the boring ones of yesterday.
And the morrow ends up not resembling a morrow anymore

--Constantine Cavafy

The City

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea.
Another city will be found, better than this.
Every effort of mine is condemned by fate;
and my heart is--like a corpse--buried.
How long in this wasteland will my mind remain.
Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look
I see the black ruins of my life here,
where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted."

New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas.
The city will follow you. You will roam the same
streets. And you will age in the same neighbourhoods;
in these same houses you will grow grey.
Always you will arrive in this city. To another land--do not hope--
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you have ruined your life here
in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world.

--Constantine Cavafy

Days of 1903

I never found them again--the things so quickly lost....
the poetic eyes, the pale
face....in the dusk of the street....

I never found them again--the things acquired quite by chance,
that I gave up so lightly;
and that later in agony I wanted.
The poetic eyes, the pale face,
those lips, I never found again

--Constantine Cavafy

2005-05-16T18:44:00.000+07:00

Game Over

Another English Premier League season has come to an end.

Without participating in the www.premierleague.com fantasy football league, I can't say that I would pay a whole lot of attention to the games. By taking part it adds a whole new edge to watching and following the league. It's like having a small wager on each week's slate of games. Through being involved in the fantasy league I have become much more knowledgeable about the game, the teams and the players involved.

I improved considerably this time around, finishing 5, 245 out of 472, 148 as compared to last season when I was in the 13, 000 range out of about 300, 000 players. However, the overall number of team managers deserves a huge qualifier. If I remember correctly, only about 250 to 280, 000 managers were signed on from week 1 this season. Of those it's impossible to say how many joined for a lark and then never paid any more attention throughout the season, essentially voiding their team as a serious contender.

I'm guessing that probably a solid 100, 000 participants in the fantasy league were serious about playing and religiously made changes and tried to attain the highest scores possible.

Despite my fairly good finish this season I only managed to take second in the main league in which I took part (all players are ranked against all other players but you form separate smaller private leagues to keep things manageable with friends, co-workers etc.)

I had been leading in the private league for the past few weeks. However, a series of transfers I made for week 37, (which featured numerous teams with double fixtures) though paying modest gains, ended up costing me in the end. 2 players I had on my squad because of that important week 37, Reyes of Arsenal and Scholes of Manchester United, didn't play in this last week and lost me the top spot by 3 points.

A very enjoyable and free bit of strategizing that adds some excitement to every weekend's schedule of games. It will be kicking off again in a few months and as the time draws near I will set up another league and put out the call for participants. I still stand by the advice that I provided in this article that I wrote at the conclusion of last season's schedule, if anyone is interested.

Unfortunately the discussion forum after which I named the private league and from which I drew other managers has since turfed me so I will simply ask for anyone reading here to sign up as the time approaches.

2005-05-16T15:09:00.000+07:00

Bangkok Bus Drivers

A Bangkok bus company holds a board meeting discussing hiring practices for new drivers:

"Well, public safety is one of our main concerns, the driver of course being at the wheel of 5 or 6 tons of lethal weapon and responsible for numerous lives. What exactly should we look for in our drivers?"

"Ahem...well I'm thinking the stupidest monkeys possible who have taken psychological testing and shown to be short-tempered, incapable of following the rules of the road and likely to take out their anxieties in reckless driving."

"Hmmm...that's interesting. How do you think we keep those drivers satisfied and committed to performing a good job?"

"Well, make the cunts work 14 hours straight and pay 'em 4000 baht a month."

"Jaysus, you are one clever son-of-a-bitch. We've still got to implement some kind of monitoring system…there are bound to be a few who can’t take the stress and start driving dangerously."

"Sure, just have some cunts get on the buses at random stops, check tickets and not bat an eye when the driver veers across 3 lanes of traffic, hammers the brakes at every stop and slams on the accelerator before everyone is completely inside the bus."

"I'm overwhelmed by your brilliance."

"We've also got as an added benefit a mass of unblinking sheep who see nothing odd in the insanity that passes for so-called bus stops. Where dozens of buses recklessly cut in front of each other, slow down abreast of the stop but 20 metres from the kerb and expect everyone to sprint into traffic, wildly dodging oncoming cars and hoisting themselves up into already moving vehicles. Of course they all readily comply without complaint."

Also, continual deaths and maiming are strangely not seen as symptoms of a truly fucked and dangerous system but unavoidable one-offs in which the parents of children killed have no choice but to accept 100, 000 baht (2500 US dollars) as compensation."

"Sorted..."

**********************************

It is amazing to be on one of these buses where the clown who is driving seems determined to endanger all the passengers, taking insane chances that result in near misses. All the while, no one so much as flinches.

I've been close to throttling one of these pieces of human garbage recently but have contented myself in unloading a volley of verbal abuse at the fool upon exiting.

I'm thinking that any damage laid on the scum while still on the bus would be fairly incriminating if the police showed up. However, if he were stupid enough to come outside I would have no qualms in wrapping my arms around his back in an inverted bear hug, picking him up and battering his legs to pulp against a concrete electrical pole.

It just seems as if public safety has no resonance with anyone here. It is remarkable the PR job that subsequent governments have done in creating an image of Thailand as a safe place to travel. Sure, the odds of being targeted by random violence is low and the vast number of tourists leave here unscathed but the almost total lack of foresight and enforcement of any regulations definitely makes absurd mishaps more likely than in a western nation.

Here's another victim of the head-up-the-ass mentality that guides so many of these worthless bus drivers.

2005-05-13T15:02:00.000+07:00

The Chronic Liar

Chronic liars have always puzzled me. I'm not referring to the occasional white lie most people tell, usually to cover an embarrassing gaffe or protect someone else's feelings. I mean the self-aggrandizing type who literally can't stop spewing monumental whoppers every time they open their gobs.

The problem with such bullshit artists is that in any group situation they find themselves, they always have a surprising number of gullible fools who will lap up whatever they offer up for consumption. For everyone who catches on to their twisted game, there seems to be many more who will nod in gaping wonderment and so the payoff remains as an incentive for further bullshit.

I clock these fools almost immediately. Who couldn't? Their contradictory horseshit and wild tales are quickly detected. Of course, as with ladyboys, the very best are probably rarely caught out, though because there is always an irrefutable antidote to their horseshit, i.e., undeniable facts, there are likely none that are never shamed. So how and why are so many in their orbit apparently so easily duped?

This is more of a mystery to me than the other "why" that so many people ponder if and when they finally realize that the sociopath in their midst has been lying about anything and everything from day one. That standard question being, what propels the person to custom-make stories to fit any occasion or topic of discussion?

Does the sociopath gravitate to situations where he senses the people are of an exceptionally gullible nature?

An important qualification is that the possibility exists that others have made the same observations about the person's honesty but also remain silent. If the lies are of a relatively inconsequential nature then perhaps they too are enjoying the impending train wreck, knowing that eventually the lies will inch towards more sinister territory, as the sad fool's life disintegrates and, as always, he tries to deceive for personal gain.

But if the horseshit of the self-aggrandizing nature was spotted then surely others would cast doubt on the individual's word regarding all matters?

Knowledge of such a person can of course insulate oneself against duplicitous entreaties from the spewer of lies.

At once you are convinced that he must be totally bereft of self-awareness or at least unaware of the unspoken reactions of others. The lies flow at an insane clip. When any subject is raised and the initiator throws out a story from the past, a one-up is sure to follow, glibly delivered by the chronic liar.

But no, there must be some understanding of his own peculiar neurosis, as you give off subtle hints to let him know you know. In years gone by I would brazenly challenge such individuals but now I do just enough to introduce a hint of awareness and contempt. You know your disbelief has registered with him because of non-verbal clues as well as wariness that develops in him when you are around. An impending social occasion is met with reluctance when he knows you will be there. You are the one who offers up that friendly pleading that all mates engage in when someone initially begs off attending. He quickly acquiesces and agrees to come along, satisfied that you aren't on to him or at least don't hold it against him.

In this I believe is a clue to the motivation that spurs on the chronic liar. He believes his lies will make him more accepted and better liked by others. The attention he receives when spinning tales is like a drug, the warmth and validation from his friends and colleagues providing the urge for the next hit and soothing his massive inferiority complex and lack of confidence. The short term sensation of being at the center of attention trumps any danger of getting caught.

If and when enough catch on and the inevitable drunken roasting of the liar takes place in his absence, the stock explanation is sure to surface: "He actually believes the lies himself, it's a sickness..." Except in rare cases, I don't buy this tired myth. As mentioned, he knows the risks and takes the chance, enjoying the hits to his ego while he can.

It's a self-fulfilling prophecy and in the fool's mind the end-game is always justified. When people naturally start responding in negative ways the clown convinces himself he's being persecuted and starts laying the groundwork for a quick and gutless exit, hitting people up for loans he never intends to pay back, spinning tales of people out to get him etc.

There are a disproportionate number of these sad cases in Thailand, having burnt too many bridges in their home countries. Also, the "mystique of the orient" and the accompanying possibilities seem to fuel any number of lies they spin to others. Some of these fools wouldn't be too bad as mates if they could give the horseshit a rest. Of course, being able to trust someone is at the crux of friendship. Ultimately their lying is just one symptom of an overall corrupt character and a person is wise to quckly identify and then steer clear of these scum.

2005-05-12T23:08:00.000+07:00

Shit Wars: A Generation-Long Monumental Farce

An article that perfectly sums up my feelings regarding the over-hyped load of shit known as the Star Wars movies.

Thankfully I haven't partaken in watching these films since the first trilogy ended twenty or so years ago and I have no intention of doing so with this latest installment.

What an amazing phenomenon that has produced so many fawning aficionados and so many billions of dollars in profits all from such a mediocre body of work. I have a strong suspicion that even if I were to look back at the original, which of all of them has at least some merit, I would realize how average even that supposed classic was.

George Lucas has duped subsequent generations of gullible, non-questioning fucks who shell out for his latest Hollywood hype job because it's the thing to do. Even if people have a strong forewarning that what they are going to see is substandard crap they willingly go along for the ride.

I try to follow a strict code regarding movies I pay for, whether they're at the theatre or on DVD. If I haven't built up a sense that there's some entertainment value to be gained, usually through the word of reviewers or friends I trust, I simply won't waste the time.

The ongoing absurdity with the Star Wars franchise is perplexing simply because, as the writer of the article points out, save for the first movie, they have seen a sure and quick descent into utter shite. Yet these clowns suffering from arrested development go through this asinine charade every time a new serving of crap is dished up by the bearded, over-rated oaf Lucas.

It's the clinging to the spectacle aspect combined with being part of "something" and the romanticizing of the whole movie-going experience that drives these individuals. They keep the cachet alive of being part of a rabid core of super fans, through camp-outs to buy tickets, multiple viewings and obsessive collecting.

The "I don't get it aspect," that is always part of such movements as characterized by outsiders who scratch their heads at the excessive wackos, is guaranteed because of the uninspiring crap that is at the heart of their obsession.

Despite that, the myth of quality must be at least perpetuated to a degree by these clowns as each subsequent movie is watched by many millions. I'm hoping that this time people wise up and by their disinterest help turn this last load of tripe into the colossal flop it deserves to be.

2005-05-01T11:44:00.000+07:00

Expectations

Taking a taxi in Bangkok can be a relaxing, almost surreal experience. Though on the front line when it comes to dealing with foreigners, as a group, taxi drivers are some of the worst English speakers about. However, only a modicum of Thai language is necessary to overcome the communication barrier and with directions delivered a peaceful ride is usually underway.

Most often, nary a word is spoken during the entire journey, nor is the silence interrupted as you pull up to your destination, hand the fare to the non-speaking driver and are on your way.

Unfortunately, if the driver does make attempts to converse, you can predict with remarkable accuracy the inanities that will flow.

"Where you from? You like Thai woman? You have Thai wife?"

If you answer in the affirmative, the shameless probing will continue...

"Where she from? Where you meet? You have baby?"

Sniggering, juvenile references regarding sex and the obligatory appearance of a fold-out brochure advertising some brothel are sure to follow. The outspoken type are invariably trolling for customers for such establishments, looking to earn some extra money on the side.

So it was recently that upon entering a cab I groaned to myself as the tell-tale signs were there. The rictus grin on the driver's face as he repeatedly looked at me in the rear-view mirror accompanied by those antsy mannerisms of someone ready to burst and the standard opening gambit..."Where you from?"

On cue, the talk proceeded to questions regarding my marital status and whether I had any children. Responding in the negative I then returned the question. The driver took the opening, a beatific grin on his face as he professed the love and joy that his 2 young children have provided.

His brief and genuine explanation on the pleasures of fatherhood in passable English was somehow interesting. From there:

"Where you go for Songkran?"

"Ahhh, I'll just stay at home this year."

"Why?"

"Mi mee ngen."

"I know that many foreigners also do not have big money. Same everywhere. Most people small money."

A bit of common sense from an unlikely source.

He went on to explain that he moonlights as a cab driver at weekends but spends his days in the military.

A first; a sane, enjoyable conversation with a Bangkok taxi driver.

2005-04-29T20:45:00.000+07:00

Movie Review: Waking Life

Every once in a while you run into one of those true raconteurs at a party somewhere (always seems to be in the kitchen.) The kind who can keep a slew of cunts enthralled as he raps out too-perfect set pieces on any number of topics. You know it's part of his trick bag and he's spun the same anecdotes dozens of times before, tweaking them along the way.

Strewn amongst the tales, which are delivered like a polished stand-up routine, are memorable lines that make you look at things in a different way. Maybe a product of the speaker's own mind or plucked from some pop-culture guru of the day.

But it doesn't really matter where the ideas came from...the cunt's entertaining and besides, he's better than most fools who can barely string together a few coherent thoughts let alone reel off a clever narrative.

Waking Life (2001, by Richard Linklater) is a unique animated film that features a series of such individuals, as they keep the main character (and audience) rapt and intrigued via their most passionate interpretations of the world around them. In essence this film is a series of vignettes, sewn together by the main character's search for instruction and insight on life, and ultimately, a way to escape the dream in which he finds himself immersed. The gentle and inquisitive nature of the young man (played by Wiley Wiggins) who may or may not be experiencing the last few moments of his life in a surreal, time-skewed final exit, somehow matches, and guides, the feel and ambience of this memorable film.

On first glimpse it appears to be a live-action movie in which artists then drew over top of the original footage. In fact, albeit in layman's terms, that's exactly what it is. It creates an interesting and powerful medium, flashing between varying degrees of a detailed adherence to an authentic representation of visual reality and simpler line drawings that symbolize the different subject matter and states of consciousness that the protagonist is undergoing. The animated format provides unlimited potential for various tricks and added effects, which are always used in interesting ways and add to the overall feel of this evocative film.

The various rants and smooth, world-view recitations are at worst, new-age claptrap that couldn't withstand a cursory challenge of the concepts presented. The film is not unconscious of this fact. The wide range of viewpoints presented in the various monologues will undoubtedly provide at least some ideas or new way of looking at things that will appeal to many different individuals. While scoffing at a few, I couldn't help but be drawn into subsequent rants and soliloquies.

The film eventually moves towards a discussion on the nature of reality and the power of lucid dreaming.

The overall tone of the movie, though created by the seemingly independent voices represented by different characters or types in society, is not averse to mocking some of those very exhortations. Or more accurately, the same characters question themselves and provide a few different avenues for the viewer to examine their words and thoughts. A left or right ideological bent is not necessarily provided as the standard against which to judge various ideas presented. But more concisely: have they come to their views in an honest way? Does their highlighted bit of wisdom provide either a helpful or destructive road map for life?

The repeated changing of venues and eclectic mix of different characters seems meant to remind us of the richness of ideas and alternate viewpoints in life. The celebration of the vast array and potential ecstasy of life, the joyous incomprehensibility that keeps us wondering and searching.

It reminded me of a television interview I saw with an author, now deceased, a few years ago. The interviewer was querying the venerated literary legend on the amount of written garbage that is produced and lapped up by the masses. Far from taking the bait and segueing into a rant that would, by comparison, highlight himself as brilliant, the author made the point that those creating such supposed "garbage" must be committed to their work for it to resonate with any audience.

This film is far from garbage but the point is that the same concept done in a less intelligent way would have fallen flat and come off as contrived and pathetic. Here, the outcome seems so in line with what must have been the film-maker's vision that you can only applaud and take it all in.

Like zombie flicks, Neil Young and pints of Guinness, I'm guessing that this is a love it or hate it kind of film. For me the movie worked in many different ways, the most important being that it made me think and feel. Among other things it reminded me to steer away from the constant attempts to degrade, especially about those who make an effort to get close. After all, what is a mate except someone who buys your bullshit and riffs off whatever you have to say?

Like a mirror-image of that distinct phenomenon that yanks have foisted onto the world, i.e. the "my-life-as-a-movie" persona, this is at times a movie like that...people rapping so solemnly and deftly that it could only be a movie...but wait a minute, it is a damn movie. It's the sense that so many for so long have been looking out of the corner of their eye, conscious that other cunts are eavesdropping on their deep conversations and marveling at their lives. Here it has come full circle. The "art-as-life" enigma rears its head again, and it is heartily welcomed.

Try as I might, I couldn't dismiss this film. The likelihood that it has sparked numerous conversations in dingy university housing flats amongst groups of 1st year liberal arts students is undoubted. I find myself wishing I could take a joyous and ethereal page from this film and transport myself to some of those youthful celebrations.

Cross-posted at: Blogcritics

2005-04-28T16:07:00.000+07:00

Have They No Shame?

Nor proofreaders?

This is one of the most shameful, worthless pieces I have seen written in the Nation for a while.

In a country that is as far from being a meritocracy as possible, one of the most laughable examples of pure incompetence on display is in the local English language media. Those media outlets where Thais shamelessly parade their substandard English skills for all to see.

In many of these cases, I'm guessing that the fools are children of wealthy Thais, who after their time spent studying abroad, decided they were entitled and capable of writing or speaking English for a living.

The article linked to above is fraught with spelling errors, fucked up grammar and skewed syntax. A level of writing below what appears in daily newspapers from the west is to be expected but this is just plain careless, slipshod horseshit. It appears the moron who banged out the mistake-riddled load of tripe was intoxicated while writing it. The bloody fool apparently didn't even have the brains to run it through the spell-check on his computer.

I counted at least 14 errors, and that's not even including all the run-on sentences and, at times, almost nonsensical syntax. Here are a few examples:

While marketing can always be done, but as the history of Thai tourism development proves,

...either in terms of services and balance of demand and supply. (We're waiting...)

The competition in Asia for wealthy tourists have never been more intense.

He warned that if there isn't any clear policy related to management and preservation, balancing the supply-and-demand and carrying capacity of tourism destinations, improving service standard, security and HR, the rapid growth of visitors will not be appropriate for an industry that has problems accumulated over many years. (Rambling and with errors.)

And so many careless mistakes:

He cited for for example,

...he wrotes in a recent paper.

...the Hong Kong habour...

...known for his sytematic and long term thinking, (Especially amusing when a word related to competence is spelled incorrectly.)

To be fair, there are some skilled Thais who write in both English language dailies in Bangkok. Though his name escapes me, a film reviewer for the Bangkok Post regularly posts entertaining, error-free pieces with fresh insight.

However, they've got to start doing something about shit like the article cited here. The individual in question must be informed that he doesn't have what it takes. He is a disgrace to himself and the Nation. Regardless of the wealth or status of his family or however else he finagled himself into this position, he is clearly unqualified to perform.

Let the Nation know that we expect more from them.

letters@nationgroup.com

2005-04-27T16:09:00.000+07:00

Drug Use in Thailand

Anyone with even a passing interest in international news or specifically regarding south-east Asia and Thailand, will be familiar with the notorious drug war launched a few years ago by the Thaksin government. Since that time there has been a second drug war and a 3rd one is looming. The condemnations are barely heard now as Thaksin has outlawed any reporting on the statistics regarding those killed. I've harped on this numerous times and I won't go into details again.

3, 000 killed extra-judicially in 3 months (with the laughable claim that only a dozen or so were done in by the police), many with identical envelopes of speed tablets and similar handguns found next to their corpses, sums up the brutality and underlying mentality guiding such campaigns.

Anyone who uses drugs is only ever a few steps removed from a dealer of some sort, regardless of whether a few joints or pills are being handed on to them by a friend who made the transaction.

The belief that being slightly removed from any dealing activities somehow insulates a person from the horseshit that is inevitably associated, is a sentiment I have long sensed from most drug users. While in many countries dealing is now the only illegal aspect of the drug subculture (at least regarding marijuana), in Thailand possession is still a very serious crime that can result in a length of sentence similar to that which a person would face for manslaughter in the west.

Once in the orbit of anyone who is providing you with drugs, you are beholden to that person to a certain degree. Add into the mix the fact that your judgement is undoubtedly skewed because of the usage and you are receptive to suggestions and requests from such individuals. If someone is leaning on them, what qualms would they have against using you in any possible way so as to lessen their potential plight or punishment?

There are numerous examples of Brits, Australians, yanks and other foreigners banged up in Thailand for getting involved in the drug scene. Bangkok's Bang Kwang prison is full of western fools who thought they were immune from consequences.

There is another larger tier below those incarcerated here, most of whom are doing time because of dealing or transporting across international lines, and those are common users. The sneering nonchalance from these individuals never ceases to amaze me. They are happy to tell anyone and everyone of the fact that they regularly smoke reefers during their stay here and assure their listeners that nothing negative will ever befall them because of it. They are the types who will casually spark a joint in the presence of others, oblivious to the fact that any foreigners in their midst are now open to extortion, jail time or deportation in the event that the coppers show up. Unlikely? Of course. Probably hundreds of such fools have come and gone, spent a good chunk of their lives here, engaged in illegal activities and left unscathed.

But those fools who are snared never fail to start mewling and are ever eager to try and trade on their western status, a far cry from the image they projected in the time leading up to their arrests.

Here are 3 observations I have made regarding those who want everyone to know that they are fearless hard-cases living on the edge in a gritty 3rd world country and are willing to use illegal drugs:

1. That they haven't been caught assures them that they never will be in the future. This circular bit of nonsense afflicts many people in various situations. It's a variation on ascribing a run of good luck or the absence of any catastrophe to some inert object or other superstition.

"Hey, this rock I carry around in my pocket protects me from tigers/witches/being raped in the ass etc."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, it hasn’t happened to me, so..."

2. They all boast of a connection to some higher-up. To believe all these fools, a person would have to come to the conclusion that all Thais involved in the police force and army are a bunch of malleable, wishy-washy pushovers who take an instant liking to whatever foreigner is in their vicinity and pledges their eternal help to them. This claim of a free get-out-of-jail card is almost to-a-person and truly beggars belief regarding the naivete of these fucks. Do these cunts truly feel that whatever feel-good, flippant comment was offered at some point in the past by some Thai whose path they crossed, some stiff who was/is related to some tart they're fucking, allows them to break the law with impunity?

"Ahh, you caught a foreigner and he was dealing smack? But he knows Tittifuck? Cut 'em loose! What the fuck were you thinking?"

I wonder if Bang Kwang is full of sad fucks who spend those eternal minutes wondering why their local connection didn't get them off the hook?

3. A compulsion to share information. Not unlike many small-time hoods, whose only claims that differentiate themselves from others, are the senseless risks they are willing to take in life. It's as if that added bonus of having others know is the only thing that makes it real for them.

That affliction which seems to take hold with lawbreakers the world-over and for which the authorities will always be grateful. To share their own self-perceived daring and callous nonchalance creates an ever-growing web of knowledge regarding their activities. Amongst which is undoubtedly some vindictive cunt, one who may even partake in the backslapping and simultaneously set in motion a gutless series of steps in hopes of seeing the braggart nailed to the wall.

Are these fools so lacking in awareness and understanding of the human condition? So inexperienced in the ways of the world that they don't know the masks that people wear? The sociopaths, the sly insincere individuals, the lovers of mayhem, the manipulators amongst us? That no person can ever really know another?

Far from gaining a sense of schadenfreude from the plight of anyone who ends up in prison, I wish they would get their heads out of their asses before it's too late.

Cross-posted at: Blogcritics

2005-04-25T10:42:00.000+07:00

Thailand's Mobile Phone Obsession

The height of stimulating intellectual group interaction in Thailand is a bunch of tittering fools clustering around each other as one privileged fuck takes a picture of them with a mobile phone camera.

The mobile phone phenomenon has been hitting hard here for years. The only other country that, anecdotally, I rate usage and ownership equally as high in, is Israel. Another trait shared by both nations is that they are full of cunts totally bereft of the ability to show any common decency and respect to their fellow man, albeit for different underlying reasons. That myopic, selfish tendency extends to the way they use their precious mobile phones.

If mobile phone etiquette here were projected onto, say, dental hygienists, those usually pleasant and efficient assistants of dentists the world over, they would start shitting into the open mouths of prone, anesthetized patients.

I have yet to endure the absolute moronic, head-up-the-ass, clueless absurdity that I regularly witness here and I hope I never do. That of a completely self-absorbed sack of shit yapping on their mobile phone while their dinner partner sits across the table with a weary look in their eyes. If this did occur to me, I would casually get up and walk away, leaving the brainless fuck with the bill and severing all future contact with them.

Thais like yammering to each other, the ease of keeping in touch, altering fucked-up last minute plans, squirming out of lies and blunders and avoiding face-to-face confrontation, all via their mobile phones.

But there is more to the national obsession with those palm-sized pieces of plastic than just the practical aspects.

It's hard to overestimate the power of group-think in this part of the world. Push-of-the-button nationalism wrapped in a hyper-desperate need to be accepted as one of the crowd and an acute worry regarding how you are perceived by others. People here are up to their assholes in debt. Those with 5000 baht per month jobs often own mobile phones worth twice that. You see flash cars and motorcycles parked outside pitiful abodes in squalid, tin-shack ghettos. For some, what you are seen cruising around in is more important than where you spend the most intimate moments of your life.

The mobile phone provides the possibility of at least a modicum of acceptance. "Hey look, that cunt in the grimy clothes ain’t so bad after all..." Not only that but they are real-time providers of small doses of validation and societal approval, doled out as you receive a call in the presence of strangers. That big-city dissonance of being detached and not acknowledging the presence of others is quickly overcome as you puff out your chest and stride into that temporary mode full of mannerisms that radiate "hey fuckers, I'm needed by someone...”

There is great potential to manipulate and play on various fears and insecurities via mobile phones.

Personal messages sent via phones are hugely popular here. Look for phone companies in the next few years to offer this service for free, with the caveat being you simply have to put up with advertisements flashing across the monitor on your phone. With the amount of time spent fawning over, stroking and greasing up with vaseline and lovingly storing inside their assholes while they sleep, the potential for mind control is unlimited.

("Well, I’m sure the Tittifucks lodge their phones up their assholes every night so there isn’t much choice for us is there teerak? *mmmmpphhhh* Jaysus, my new Nokia is more oddly shaped than your cock...ahhh, though the antenna does feels strangely pleasant. Goodnight you well–trained, mindless fuck, don't rush off in the morning without helping me to yank my...OHHHHH! It's vibrating! I've got a call, and listen! My arsehole is emitting Britney Spears' latest...)

Top political leaders here have massive stakes in telecommunications companies or own them outright. A steady stream of unsubtle messages in the lead-up to elections, tied to the notion that to choose otherwise would result in outsider status, and the sheep would quickly fall into line.

While the rest of the world logically implements laws that restrict the use of phones while driving, a not uncommon sight in Bangkok is a motorcycle carrying 3 or 4 passengers, with the driver yapping on a phone with a rictus grin and that glazed disconnected look in his eyes.

Ever quick to latch on to a melodramatic concept and turn it into a reality based TV show, producers at a local Thai station are capitalizing on point-of-death phone calls. The number of people speaking to family members and friends while they are driving or engaged in other dangerous activities and at that same instant when they slam into a brick wall or oncoming traffic, is constantly growing.

Those who were on the other end as they heard the final sickening crunch and accompanying death throes, will be interviewed as they recount the wrenching episode, the final words, the remnant of hope at the fact that were allowed to claim the miraculously undamaged phone.

2005-04-21T22:53:00.000+07:00

A Subject of Inexhaustible Interest Regarding Thailand

Here is a lengthy article on Thailand regarding...what else...that subject which has seen more ink spilled about it than any other single aspect of this country; prostitution. The writer claims to be a jaded denizen of Sukhumvit soi 4 but at times offers up tripe similar to that from which he claims to be offering a respite. Being closer to the action doesn't necessarily provide sharper insight or more believable hypotheses.

He starts off well, debunking some statistics that could be dismissed by a moderately trained chimp. The problem is, he adds to the mix his own litany of absurdities and hard-to-believe claims that he likely gleaned from local bullshit artists who bolster and reinforce a take on things that sits well with his view of the world.

Among the gems: that Thai prostitutes clean the feet of paying customers before they shag them. Now, In my time here I have never paid to have sex with a woman but I have talked to plenty who have. Never have I heard this unlikely tidbit, something that many scum would probably gain a hearty and patronizing sense of pleasure from if it were true. Before receiving a traditional Thai massage your feet will be washed by a young girl whose sole responsibility is just that, only to allow the masseuse to avoid touching filthy foreign feet. It's not out of the realm, but again, I have never heard about this regarding prostitutes.

Another claim, that does seem plausible and has a ring of truth to it, is that Thai prostitutes are generally free agents and not beholden to pimps. Of course, there are reasons that drive them towards the profession but an abusive, controlling individual who skims off most of the profits and keeps the girl desperately reliant, is not a sense many have gained from the girls working at the beer bars of Bangkok. While the writer of this article, like many before him, makes this observation, a significant portion of the piece is devoted to that almost unquestioned issue of human "trafficking" in the region. I don't know the extent of this or how true many of the claims are but the free-agent phenomenon and the trafficking horror stories just don't seem to jibe. How and why are those being trafficked out of Thailand so easily snared and in apparently such large numbers while an even larger number of girls remain in Thailand, unfettered (except for the slobs they endure.) Even on occasion hitting the jackpot, marrying a farang and, as the author states, returning to their villages with "no social disgrace attached."

Fuck!! No stigma attached to a poor Isaan girl who is in any way connected to a farang? This alone tells me that the writer is relying on input from those he thinks are hip to the scene. Like many minorities in the west who are more conscious of their differences than the majority they feel threatened by, poor Thais are as hyper-conscious of social stigma as anyone in Thailand and usually more so. The foreigner-with-a-Thai-woman-must-be-a-prostitute canard is one that is alive and well amongst the lower classes.

The writer does have questions for assorted NGO's about the reported statistics of such trafficking but this core contradiction of relative freedom on one hand and the international trade in flesh on the other, doesn't cause him to ponder this dissonance to the degree it deserves. So instead of bracing those who potentially benefit from such half-truths and the belief that this supposed murky underworld exists, he dances around the issue. I'm guessing it's because he is likely part of the world of NGO's himself.

Some more problems I have with the article are regarding the claims of wages paid to rural Thais. Most importantly, are these figures based on unemployed people as well, which, if grouped with those who are working, would drag down the average. His figures are that 1/3rd of Thais make less than 2 dollars US per day. This would be the equivalent of 80 baht per day. Poverty and exploitation of the poor is horrific here and I personally know of numerous people being screwed in various hell-on-earth jobs. However, I do take issue with the specifics. I have never heard of anyone in the last few years getting less than 100 baht per day for a grueling 10-12 hours of physical labour. That in itself is beyond sickening as far as a true crime against humanity and I am only quibbling over a difference 20 baht but still, it seems articles like this take liberties in order to ratchet up the *gasp* factor. He further claims that 1 in 6 make less than 1 US dollar a day. Less than 40 baht per day? 10 million in Thailand at this rate of pay? I don't believe it unless there are some credible sources and statistics provided to back it up.

Another matter concerns the core of scum who gleefully trip on shamelessly using, exploiting and discarding young vulnerable Thai women and who perpetuate the myth of them as cagey vipers so as to absolve themselves of any guilt. There is no doubt these men do exist. But as usual, a uniformity and a kind brotherhood of such people is implied and stated outright, which imbues that sinister and easy-to-loathe pall that adds to the appeal of such an article, a kind of sensationalism which the writer himself takes issue with.

However, he makes a few valid points throughout. One I have long echoed, and that is the fact that prostitution is far more accepted and thus indulged by Thais and other Asians than it is for western tourists and expats. The garish-street front bar/hook-up joints and the strange and pathetic acting out by the core of western fools who do partake gives many a sense that perhaps the numbers are greater than what reality would show.

A generalist piece which offers no new insight, arrives at few conclusions save for the obvious, and at times is maundering and unfocussed, it is still worth a look.

Cross-posted at Blogcritics

2005-04-17T18:21:00.000+07:00

Book Review: Deep Survival--by Laurence Gonzales

How and why do accidents occur? Are there some people pre-disposed to react in a more efficient and clear-headed manner when the going gets tough? Does thinking through a potential situation before it ever happens provide any hope that a person will respond correctly upon such an eventuality? Or, despite having vague ideas about potential emergencies playing out, without having ever experienced them, are humans absent a mental map which can guide them to safety?

These and more are some of the questions that are addressed and themes that run through a fascinating non-fiction book by Laurence Gonzales entitled Deep Survival. Gonzales has spent a lifetime undertaking and writing about extreme sporting activities, risky professions and dangerous human behaviour in general. In this book he brings together his years of experience in studying and observing the reactions of people faced by such stress and in particular he deconstructs numerous accidents that have occurred to various people along the way. The question that has always intrigued him and forms the underlying theme of this book is: why exactly do some people react better than others and in the process survive any number of frightening near-death experiences brought about by the vagaries of chance, the chronically underestimated forces of nature and plain stupidity?

The results as instructed by his years in the field and supported with loads of research from various psychologists, doctors, survival experts and the testimony of survivors themselves, would have many self-proclaimed hard cases second-guessing their own boasts of how well they would handle themselves when the shit hits the fan.

One recurring observation that comes home again and again after a thorough analysis of numerous screw-ups in the wilderness by weekend warriors and hardened individuals with a lifetime of experience under their belts, is the power of the human mind.

There is no good pre-indicator that tells us which individuals will handle themselves better under stressful and dire situations in the wild. A teenaged girl is just as likely to respond in a way that will increase her likelihood of survival as opposed to a seasoned outdoorsman. This is not just some quirky unfounded claim but something borne out by statistics as detailed by Gonzales and backed up by the various experts in the field whom he interviews in the book. However, look closely at a person's thought process and analyze their actions under stress and certain "eerie similarities" exhibited by survivors do emerge, such as the fact that rule-breakers are more likely to come out alive as opposed to the rigid rule-followers of the world.

While individuals normally can't be assessed accurately on first glance as to how well they would respond in tough situations, there does appear to be statistical evidence regarding demographics. Children under the age of 6 actually have one of the highest rates of survival when being lost in the wilderness and this is even more proof regarding the power of learned processes. Children at that age are not cognizant of the idea of "being lost," thus the realization and subsequent panic never dawns on them. If the mind has not already been conditioned to live in the world of urban convenience we have constructed, which is highly forgiving and induces certain patterns of rewards and expectations, then it appears survival in the wilderness is more likely.

Myths, such as various aboriginal peoples of the world being inherently more attuned to the ways of wilderness, a long-held belief that fits into the hazy, karmic law of compensation that so many fools ascribe to and that somehow soothes our consciences, are tossed aside. That certain individuals from such populations are more skilled in survival in the bush and have a greater feel for direction than others is not in doubt, but this is simply from an awareness and subsequent practice from an early age.

Gonzales spins a highly entertaining and readable narrative in which he deconstructs numerous extreme sporting accidents and highlights common themes upon which he then extrapolates with various theories and personal observations. Every chapter has its own series of mishaps and tragedies told in a way that pulls no punches...never mocking the sometimes incredibly naïve, ill-prepared fools, yet always being brutal in the assessment of how and why they fucked up.

No matter how easy it is for a reader of these tales to shake their head in disbelief at how brazenly obvious the impending disaster was, Gonzales always drives home the point that this is the very nature of such accidents. Just as in everyday life while performing some trivial task, the same litany of factors influence every decision while rappelling down a steep slope. From peer pressure, the desire to impress, laziness, tiredness, daydreaming...the reasons are multitude. Of course the potential consequences are much more deadly but that is readily apparent. That you haven't ever experienced such a situation and thus are lacking the mental map to respond and which inhibits your ability to survive is what is key.

Or as Gonzalez opines on the word 'experienced': "(it) often refers to someone who’s gotten away with doing the wrong thing more frequently than you have."

Just as a few conditions need to come together to set the stage for disaster, the absence of such conditions convince many that they know what they are doing when in reality they have been blundering along at some weekend past-time from the beginning, lucking into their string of “successes”. That more fuck-ups don’t occur is what is so surprising.

This book is jammed with shrewd insight and well-articulated hypotheses and observations. It's one of those books that takes you a while to read—not because there is any lack of desire to keep plowing through the pages—but because it continually hammers you into a reverie and forces you to stare off into the distance and ponder something that the author has so perfectly highlighted.

For some, Gonzalez may go a bit too far in the early going as he establishes the concept and poses the questions that make up the running theme of the book. Nothing he writes goes so far as to be called filler, and though extrapolation is the stock in trade of non-fiction writers, in an attempt to ensure the big idea is lost on no reader, he sometimes adds more than necessary in those early chapters. It is clear that this is a topic that is dear to his heart, something so intimately intriguing to him that he has essentially devoted his life to experiencing, observing and writing about it.

Another thread running through the book is the author's own personal experiences as well as those of his father, who flew during WWII as a bomber pilot. Usually a clear writer of crisp passages and memorable lines, only occasionally does he add unnecessary throwaway lines such as:

"When I first heard that story, I almost wept, because it seemed so much like me and my father."

Scant criticism for a book that, overall I highly recommend. Like all good books it leaves you wanting more.

The subject matter is one that will resonate with most men, at least, and probably a growing number of western women as well, for whom an ever-expanding swath share the aspiration to be men. As the famous saying goes, the greatest compliment one man can hear from another is praise for performance in battle or on the field of play. Everyone likes to fancy themselves as possessing at least a modicum of physical ability and for many, competitiveness is a motivating factor behind everything they do. With prosperity available to most apes of average intelligence from western countries, the number of people turning to extreme sports for recreation and the opportunity to prove themselves outside of their bland office existence will continue to grow.

Gonzalez not only deconstructs numerous survival incidents that stand alone as entertaining pieces but also provides some incidental as well as prescribed advice on how to best prepare your mind for such encounters. Through those compelling mishap post-mortems, patterns necessarily emerge and some conclusions can be drawn, though Gonzalez also shows reverence for those unknown factors that remain a mystery. Ultimately, every person will only ever know their true reaction if and when such a difficult situation arises. As Gonzalez so concisely points out on a number of occasions throughout, you can only hope that you’ve spent a lifetime building up a solid core that will help you to respond.

Or, as one such maxim from the ancient philosopher Epictetus states, plucked from numerous Gonzalez includes and which demonstrates that the enigma of human survival has always intrigued and driven mankind to further understanding:

"On occasion of every accident (event) that befalls you, remember to turn to yourself and inquire what power you have for turning it to use."

Cross-posted at Blogcritics

2005-04-13T11:40:00.000+07:00

Happy Songkran!

Familiarity breeds contempt.

That is the sense that I can't escape this year as the annual Songkran festival is set to kick off today.

For anyone unfamiliar, this is the Thai/Buddhist new year celebration during which everyone throws water at each other and a general atmosphere of reckless insanity takes over for a 5 day period.

If it can be accepted that self-preservation is a universal instinct possessed by all people everywhere, then the only conclusion that can be drawn is that there are a helluva lot of mind-numbingly SHTOOPID fuckers here.

Come next Monday, probably 500-700 people will have lost their lives and tens of thousands will be maimed and injured. Amazingly, the fucking fools in charge of trying to reduce the slaughter have set 637 deaths as a standard which should be considered a good year!

A number of years ago I spent my first Songkran in Isaan. It was a remarkably fun and interesting experience. There is something surreal about being in the back of a pick-up truck with a group of others and hammering buckets of water into the faces of a motorcycle riders approaching in the other direction at a fair clip. There is something missing in the hardwiring of the average westerner to prepare them for this. So upon the first few examples of this occurring, something tells you that the po-faced sinewy fucker you have just belted with the water is going to come after you and unleash that suppressed oriental rage and secret fighting ability you know they all possess.

But he doesn't. He continues blithely on. So you continue nailing people and they do it to you. You round a corner and a crowd is surging, further down, two camps have broken off and are grouped around two combatants who are brawling for some unknown reason. You end up on a main thoroughfare rammed with people and vehicles and you inch along continuing with the exchanges of sharp blasts of icy water. Mingled in with the procession of vehicles are groups on foot who approach you and mash white powder onto your face, many of them cute giggling young women who aren't averse to initiating a round of mutual gropes.

That was a memorable experience that I will never forget. It was dampened somewhat as I saw the life spilling out a young man's head after it had been ravaged by the steel pipe and cage enclosure on the back of a pick-up truck that backed into him as he was speeding down the street drunk on his motorcycle.

As far as celebrations in Bangkok, talk is always of the Khao San road festivities where foreigners and Thais alike join for a contrived version of the water throwing celebration. The "hurry up and be spontaneous" atmosphere that pervades is one reason that I will be giving it a miss this year. Mashed together with thousands of others and barely being able to move, combined with the growing feel of corporate sponsorship infecting the area, complete with banners and on-site radio stations reporting live from the "event" with their loudspeakers blaring, are other reasons that reduce the possibility of having a good time.

Maybe it's just the expected "past through rose-coloured glasses" phenomenon that inevitably results in cynicism and an unfavourable comparison to years gone by. No doubt many Thais also feel this as well.

In fact, I had a brief conversation with an older Thai man recently, his lamentations echoing my own contempt for this year's holiday.

***************

PH: Somchai, how has Songkran changed over the past number of years?

Somchai: It's the lack of imagination...sure we were reckless as hell back in the day, but at least there was some thought involved in how we orchestrated the carnage. I'm talking 7 on a motorcycle with the topmost passenger balanced high on someone's shoulders with a pair of long-handled wire snippers doing his damnedest to cut low hanging power cables. Sometimes the cables would come swinging down and electrocute one of the cunts on the bike but at least there was some kind of challenge involved.

Hell, I remember one well-off family in the neighbourhood would get everyone in the swimming pool. They would have a narrow walkway erected 10 metres above that spanned the pool and various family members—of course only after having consumed copious amounts of alcohol—would walk across while simultaneously playing an electric guitar that was plugged in...the cord was 50 metres long and the connection was secured at either end by electrical tape...now that was excitement. Some fried corpses, yes, but it was a kind of enjoyment that's missing these days.

Even a few years ago things started getting real basic...families soaking themselves in petrol and then flicking matches at each other...that sort of mindless garbage.

Nowadays, people just swallow as much booze as possible and drive into brick walls, off sheer cliffs and into each other. I even hear that in an attempt to meet popular demand, the government is going to open a series of muti-billion dollar off-ramps to be opened only on special occasions like Songkran...one exit labeled BRICK WALL, the other labeled SHEER CLIFF...just take your pick.

No imagination...it's all just follow the crowd, pre-packaged experience...sad.

2005-04-11T18:54:00.000+07:00

Movie Review: Requiem For A Dream

For any piece of writing to be effective it necessarily has to keep the reader intrigued. Writers of non-fiction will inevitably stray towards sensationalism and exaggeration so as to make the piece interesting enough to be read to its conclusion. Things are simplified and packaged into a nice theme that fits into the one thousand word format.

The temptation and thrill at being able to create worlds and having others take their renditions as accurate has driven many writers to blur the line between fact and fiction. There are other reasons as well; to ease the pressure of deadlines, avoid annoying things like research and other types of legwork and increase the writer's personal success. The parsing of reality into the most objective and truest representation possible is usually not the one that will result in the most entertaining read though typical praise would lead a person to believe otherwise.

Take war as a subject, for example. Anyone convinced of the authentic nature of a piece about the horrors of war is in reality congratulating the writer on his skill in constructing an entertaining narrative. That the reader has been affected by the writing, focussed more on a particular issue and come away reeling at the inhumanity of it all is probably a good thing. Had fiction-like tools not been used to strengthen the narrative and ratchet up tension, the reader may not have felt compelled enough to continue reading to the end.

It's not that elements of fictionalized stories don’t exist in the real world. It's not that most people when queried wouldn't accept that any particular example of non-fiction necessarily reflects the writer's own bias and a desire to be heard. Most would admit to a healthy skepticism regarding anything they read but at the same time we like to be taken along for an entertaining ride. If we gain something that we think instructs us on life and provides a one-up on others, then all the better.

Loathe to admit that they're the ones providing all the angles in an attempt to give more credence to whatever unique slant they're attempting, writers will introduce composite "friends," unnamed sources and supposed insiders. All of whom take the place of real characters. Sure, many of these are real people providing authentic insight and supporting a thesis, but liberties are often taken in this regard.

Like war, stories about the dangers of drugs almost inevitably end up romanticizing the ordeal. Newspapers and magazines are replete with suburban redemption tales with the survivor highlighted as someone who has truly accomplished something. There seems to be therapeutic value or just the plain thrill of having your own life romanticized by a skilled writer that seems to move people to want themselves featured in such a piece (often referred to as a tot piece--triumph over tragedy.) What steps do people like this actually take to alert the media that they've ridden out the requisite personal horror and are now ready for the final step towards recovery, to have their personal lives smeared all over some rag in a sensationalistic piece?

Do they simply place a call to the paper's switchboard and are then transferred to the writers on staff known for spinning such tales? Perhaps there's a name bank with various categories, rape, drug addiction etc., and when a particular tragedy becomes the flavour of the day, one of the fools is contacted.

Just as a chronic lender of money is the one least likely to pay it back, so the individual with the compulsion to see the intimate details of their life aired in public may provide skewed insight. Perhaps they've studied such accounts and tailored their own story to follow a similar formula. They might recognize that the facts or solid logic expressed usually don't resonate as much as a particular imagery, a particular stylistic pattern that is more easily consumed by the masses.

If these are problems inherent in non-fiction, then the much more prevalent examples of fiction storytelling must surely be free from such obstacles.

However, while those obstacles may not be there, the end result might be similar. It is just that prevalence that makes all forms of fiction--and most prominently, film and television—-the single source for providing insight into moral dilemmas for many people in society. While ostensibly the same level of diligence doesn't apply as it is "only entertainment," audiences may in many cases attach as much significance to works of fiction.

You would receive a head-shaking, breath-exhaling, monumental scoff from most if you suggested they have their world view shaped by cinematic renderings. Yet those same people are likely willing to give their validation to certain, well-done pieces; "a realistic war movie," "a shocking look at the effects of drug abuse." That they themselves have never experienced such things and have no true barometer of authenticity is only proof that their seal of approval is simply a nod towards the director's ability to produce what they conceive as a convincing piece.

Or maybe that's elevating some experiences to such a plane that even undergoing such an ordeal yourself would leave you wondering if it was authentic...

All of these considerations are part of that age-old question; "Does art imitate life or does life imitate art?" and were part of my thoughts after having watched Requiem for a Dream.

This film slipped under my radar back in 2000 when it was released but in recent years I have heard plenty of feedback, the kind of buzz reserved for those gut-punch movies that leave you reeling and are usually proclaimed authentic for that reason alone.

It's a film based on the book by the late Hubert Selby Jr., a yank writer who was influenced heavily by the so-called beat writers of the 50's and 60's. Take the Kerouac stream of consciousness style and fuse it with some of Ginsberg's matter-of-fact/celebratory musings on the junky scene and you have some idea of Selby's style. Filmed a few years before his death, Selby even has a brief cameo appearance in the movie. Selby was known for looking at the dark side of life and exploring human pain to its fullest. This film follows that tradition and is based in a fitting locale.

Anyone not familiar with the US through travel or time spent living there has still developed a hazy mental image and feel (however inaccurate it may be) for various locales in that country due to a lifetime of watching Hollywood movies. Coney Island is a place that always evokes a strange mix of dreary imagery; lost hope, yearning, a not unappealing setting (the water and Manhattan skyscrapers in the distance) scarred with the ever-present dilapidated amusement park rides and boardwalk.

The kind of place where blue-collar workers end up—the ones who can't afford the more expensive neighbourhoods of New York city. Add in retirees who lived modest middle-class lives and the usual collection of directionless youngsters in every bleak, dead-end town who can never quite get it together to get move on to bigger and better things once they have grown, and you have the Coney Island of my mind's eye.

This then is the setting for the film, one that charts the course of 4 lives and the impact of drug addiction upon them. Pain is sublime, pure and all encompassing in this ordeal of a movie, where there is never any doubt regarding who will win—the narcotics (actually heroin in 3 cases and a nasty diet pill addiction in the other) or the characters involved. The only matters in question are how sweetly wrenching their downfalls will be, what horrific fate awaits each and whether any sense of hope at all can be snatched from the depths of despair.

In essence this film is comprised of 4 character sketches in self-destruction as induced by dependence on drugs. None of the minor obstacles thrown in the way of the characters are overcome so much as embraced. There are some not unexpected twists to the semblance of a plot but again, the downward trajectory is never really halted or in question.

The story centers around Harry Goldfarb (played by Jared Leto), his girlfriend Marion (Jennifer Connelly), their friend Tyrone (Marlon Wayans) and Harry’s mother, Sara (Ellen Burstyn).

The 3 youngsters descend into their heroin hell with a brief respite as a half-cocked plan to get some money from dealing so as to fulfill their dream the title refers to, disintegrates and their slow-motion suicides are back on track.

The plight of Sara Goldfarb is slightly different from the others though no less painful to watch. A widow who lives in a dingy flat and spends her time watching surreal daytime game-shows, she receives a call from a telemarketer convincing her that she too can appear on television. This quickly becomes her entire reason for living, her dream, and in preparation for some anticipated future TV debut, she finds a doctor who prescribes a teeth-gnashing, manic cycle of amphetamines to help her lose weight. Ellen Burstyn does a good job in her role and will evoke a great deal of sympathy and empathy from most viewers.

The scenes cutting to and from the game-show she watches together with the drug-induced illusions in her flat become a bit monotonous at times though overall the effect is quite good.

In fact, there are good performances all around in this film. All the actors squeeze some undiluted pain into their deliveries, including some scenes that must have been just as difficult to pull off as they are to watch. However, in a film that, as mentioned, is character driven, with the exception of the aging and pitiful Sara, there isn't much insight into what brought these individuals to this point in time and what makes them such vulnerable specimens, ripe for the corrosive effects of addiction. They each get at least one chance to pour out their souls to each other in the calm before the storm, as they stroke themselves into pain-numbing bliss with each subsequent hit, but where did this capacity for weakness and self-destruction come from? Maybe it's in all of us to varying degrees and the most sensitive and naive will succumb to the evils of drug use more easily if we choose to take that route.

Jenniffer Connelly’s was another performance of the 4 that struck me. She has established herself as an actress skilled in capturing the emotional pain of a character and distilling it into some riveting performances (for another similarly impressive role, see her in The House of Sand and Fog.)

The theme that runs through this is simple and stark: DRUGS ARE BAD. No matter what your intentions, once you choose that path you're fucked. It doesn't come off in a condescending or lecturing way in the least...here are 4 people and what happened to them, take it as you will. Of course people like this who fall prey to the insidious side of drugs do exist and are easy to find, just as are the recreational, functional user type.

The results as detailed here play into the well established pop-culture story-line of heroin as the nastiest of the nasty and can't help but romanticize the lives of the characters to some degree no matter how gritty and merciless their ends are. It's the slow-motion suicide, do something up right even if it's self-destruction, no subtleties to be had motif that I'm guessing has resonated so well with the MTV generation. As a result this film has almost reached that cult-like status, on the must-watch list of everyone who knows they're hip to the hardcore realities of the world.

Director Darren Aronofsky does a good job here with gloomy atmospheric scenes with plenty of close-ups of tortured faces and some unorthodox (though such methods are becoming so common as to be less and less experimental) uses of the camera to capture various emotions and moods. The climax is the culmination of a relentless march towards total misery and leaves the viewer hammered senseless with nary a shred of hope.

There is not much in the way of feel-good emotions to be gained by the viewer here, except to marvel at the depths of others' despair, feel the weight of empathy and be thankful for your own trivial problems in life.

Now! Where can I score some of that insanely powerful junk so as to induce a wrenching downward slide into hell that will result in my being eulogized by jaded hipsters for generations to come?

Cross-posted at: Blogcritics

2005-02-22T15:13:00.000+07:00

Book Review: The Turner Diaries--by William Pierce

I remember years ago working behind a bar in an attempt to cobble together some money and move on. The dreary work had few appealing aspects but the number of wackos you ran into was always good for the entertainment value.

One day, a freakish acquaintance of one of the stiffs who worked there bounced in, eager to relay the details of his intriguing life. He started speaking to his mate and I shamelessly listened in from a few metres away. He started off with a breathless flurry of recent developments, including praise for a recent book he had begun reading. He had spoken barely a few words on the subject when I knew without any doubt to which book he was referring. His sparse initial comments would have been barely enough for most to register a guess but somehow I knew beyond any doubt.

It was his mannerisms and desultory banter together with touching on what he would claim was a life-changing "literary" experience. I groaned to myself and muttered, "not another cunt on about The Celestine Prophecy." You may remember this title from a few years back and may have even read the bland prose yourself.

Take The Celestine Prophecy with its conspiracy laced yet ostensibly benign, new-age horseshit and infuse it with an insane dose of paranoid fear and hatred and the sinister mirror-image result is The Turner Diaries, an underground novel that has been the favourite of inbred, white-trash gun loving yanks for years. The kind of fools who are genuinely frightened that their right to own guns is at risk, that the hordes of immigrants flooding their country is part of a sinister plot orchestrated by "the Jews" to take over the world.

The popularity of such novels is not surprising. Their underlying premise is one which appeals to those unwilling or unable to explore issues and seek real and genuine knowledge on any given subject. They pander to every fear and desperate anxiety that exists in society and draw in countless wide-eyed, awe-struck individuals because of the fact that, of course, there are numerous instances where governments do lie, and undertake duplicitous, murderous acts and some things do always remain unexplained. Buying into such books and the surrounding subculture allows those people to bypass any effort necessary to acquire objective knowledge from a wide variety of sources and makes them feel they are in possession of the truth. At the same time they gain sense of belonging and feel part of a group who are hip to what's really going down.

I first heard of The Turner Diaries quite a few years ago, the name uttered with smug satisfaction by members of various hate groups, white supremacist organizations and fanatical gun owners on talk shows or internet discussion forums. There was always the cachet of secrecy; the fact that it was never available by usual means such as at book-stores, instead sold at gun shows and traded at clandestine meetings by breathless oafs bristling with the anticipation of an armed showdown with government forces al a Waco, Texas.

With the ease of obtaining such books via the internet, any mystery surrounding shit like this has been washed away. It was never widely available simply because it is such an all round terrible piece of work. If this is the best these clowns have to offer then the powers that be truly having nothing to be worried about regarding armed revolt.

Told in the 1st person in a chronological way loosely adhering to a diary format, it tells the story of a future revolution spearheaded by those truly intelligent gun-loving wackos who knew it was coming all along. Telegraphed in the most straightforward way, there is absolutely no evidence of any skill or technique that contributes to good storytelling. Obviously no one ever told this fool about the most basic premise in fiction writing; show don’t tell. Of course, just as previous crap such as The Celestine Prophecy could barely be referred to as a novel, this is nothing more than a rabid right wing tract.

Ham-fisted, laughable symbolism delivered in the most obvious way so as not to miss the studious glare of the intended audience is rife throughout. Every targeted person is warranted to have attained their position or success by underhanded means and of course sports an obviously Jewish name.

There were no bricks handy so we equipped ourselves with blackjacks consisting of good-sized bars of Ivory soap inside long, strong ski socks...

We parked about a block and a half from Berman's liquors, around the corner.

The causation fallacy is in wide use throughout this poorly written load of tripe. Non–sequiturs abound in which some social ill is mentioned and then a phrase that encapsulates one of the fears that motivate these fools is casually tacked on, the simplistic association enough to stoke the rage of the brainless cunts most likely to be rocked by such stunning revelations.

To ensure that no one misses any of the connections here, the government and any type of officialdom is referred to as the System while the pure crusaders are part of the Organization.

The paucity of imagination is further evidenced in the passages where violence is wreaked on those who are supposedly responsible for the plight of the honourable, hard done by working class caucasians. Their rights and sense of morals have been destroyed by the menace of liberal ideas as delivered by the sinister Jews:

Someone walked up to him while he was waiting for an elevator in the lobby of his office building, pulled a hatchet from under his coat, cleaved the good Jew’s head from crown to shoulder blades, then disappeared into the rush hour crowd.

Again, unintentionally farcical. A person can't help but wonder if this was intended as pure satire. However, further reading makes it clear that this fool's brain nearly short circuits when he feels it is time to unload some more bilious hatred. The almost incoherent and nonsensical results are truly absurd:

She gained an understanding of the unique historical role of the Jews as the ferment of decomposition of races and civilizations. More importantly she began acquiring a sense of racial identity, overcoming a lifetime of brainwashing aimed at reducing her to an isolated atom in a cosmopolitan chaos.

The stock in trade of all raving conspiracy theorists is utilized throughout in which a shred of truth is taken and then wildly extrapolated to feed the paranoid nightmares that these clowns thrive on.

The bare semblance of a plot maunders along with various acts of terrorism as provoked by, what else, the US government decision to ban gun ownership as dictated by the appropriately named "Cohen Act." Interspersed with the rabid anti-Jew, anti-liberal, anti-immigrant mantras and platitudes that guide these wackos, it is amazing that this ponderous tale apparently helped to motivate Timothy McVeigh to bomb a US federal government building in Oklahoma in 1997.

What is interesting is the similar language and emotions regarding the indignant and long suffering common people and the need to strike back against governments as compared to the rationale spouted by the current brand of Islamic terrorists who are effectively fucking with yanks. If even a fraction of the injustices that the US government and its military have perpetrated on the world were experienced by the yanks whose lives are made easier by such actions, then perhaps these raving lunatics would actually gain enough adherents to see their twisted dreams come to fruition.

It must be assumed that those who go for this horseshit would be sympathetic to the cause of the Islamic terrorists who struck on 9/11. The rationale could be almost be taken word for word, albeit with different underlying motivations:

That is, can we justly blame what has happened to us entirely on deliberate subversion, carried out through the insidious propaganda of the controlled mass media, the schools, the churches and the government? Or must we place a large share of the blame on inadvertent decadence—on the spiritually debilitating lifestyle into which the Western people have allowed themselves to slip in the 20th century?

And another passage which should serve to demonstrate the admiration these individuals logically should have for bin Laden and his boys:

That is he didn't understand that one of the major purposes of political terror, always and everywhere, is to force the authorities to take reprisals and become more repressive, thus alienating a portion of the population and generating sympathy for the terrorists. And the other purpose is to create unrest by destroying the population's sense of security and their belief in the invincibility of the government.

They both hate the US government, Jews, liberalism and turn to thousands of years-old fairy tales for comfort. A closing portion of the book even foretells, in yet another awkward and almost orgasmic passage, the death that liberated Palestinians will eventually wreak on Israelis with the help of the enlightened geniuses depicted in the book. Though I'm guessing there is some appropriately specious reasoning which allows Muslims to be just another group they have included in their net of blame and hatred in recent years.

This rambling screed is not much more than a vast wet dream for what such paranoid lunatics hope will eventually transpire and in that sense they must be insanely jealous of what Al Qaeda has accomplished.

As if sensing that his wild tale is not hitting the mark, the author keeps inserting meaningless asides just so as to introduce more laughable predictions of what a dystopian future awaits a US that has been poisoned by liberal values. The old "large groups of Blacks roaming the streets" is ratcheted up to include a future where gang-rapes by Blacks in school classrooms is the norm. The simplistic ham-fisted rendering is the sign of a talentless fool and a likely indication of how he rates the lowlifes likely to lap up this garbage.

The hypocrisy is so complete it is laughable; evident in every claim made by the narrator against the tormentors of caucasians and then perpetrated times 10 by the supposed heroes of the tale. Most striking is the constant demonization and degradation of Jews and spluttering passages where they are casually slaughtered. Every frightened ignorant claim ever made against them is floated here, coming from every and all angles, never infused with even a shred of logic and all pointing to an invincible and superior group of people. A group of people this fool is obviously insanely jealous of and in fact would like to emulate, for the narrator seeks to be part of an elite group that rules the world, just as these scared fools are convinced Jews do at the present time.

Fraught with contradictions, fallacies, inconsistencies and obsessive and continual lies, all soaked in an invincible paranoid fear, it is not surprising that this absolute load of shit appeals to those 2 ignorant groups of yanks for whom these qualities are also the motivating forces: bible beaters and fanatical gun owners.

2005-01-29T09:18:00.000+07:00

Bangkok Subway Not Ready to Re-Open

The recent subway crash in Bangkok and the subsequent fallout is a perfect example of current PM Thaksin's modus operandi regarding any issue that requires government input, guidance or at least comments that reflect some understanding of the problem. Hours after the crash, Thaksin insisted that it was because of "one incompetent driver." Strange how that one driver has caused the system to be shut down for a full 2 weeks with things set to re-open on February 1st.

Following the accident, those in charge of the new underground may as well have taken out full-page ads in the local newspapers, declaring

"WE ARE INCOMPETENT FUCKING FOOLS AND WE WOULD LIKE THE OPPORTUNITY TO KILL OR AT LEAST CRIPPLE YOU."

Instead they have engaged in a series of farcical tests on the system, ostensibly to instill confidence in the public. This article in the Nation this morning clearly demonstrates that any person with a modicum of common sense and the self-preservation instinct will steer clear of these damn fools once the death trap re-opens.

The hint of sheepish collusion or simply embarrassment that they call these clods their fellow countrymen seems to have resulted in a slightly understated headline to this article. "Drill misses Target by 4 Minutes" seems a bit innocuous while suggesting some slight falling short of some sort of target. Inherent in the tone of the article is the collective gulping of those two-bit incompetent hacks sensing that they may just have to brace someone in charge and ask some tough questions. Or maybe not.

Further reading indicates that the drills were simulated emergency responses to a fire and the 4 minutes represents 80% over the accepted maximum time limit.

This alone indicates the system is not ready to re-open...full fucking stop.

One sentence within the article caught my eye. Never having worked as part of any type of emergency response unit, perhaps this is the correct way to proceed if a real fire were to happen on the subway system:

"All gates to the station were closed except one for allowing rescuers to enter."

Is slamming exits shut actually the logical way to proceed, assuming they were acting exactly as they would in a real fire? What about the cunts trapped underground? Wouldn't it make more sense to man those gates to prevent any people entering but also giving stray passengers an opportunity to escape? As opposed to providing a dead-end where fleeing apes can curl up in a ball and suck in the smoke that also has nowhere to go?

Coming so close to the February 6 vote, Thaksin will have no choice but to play his usual game of repeatedly insisting something to be true together with the steadfast declaration of some absurd time line. This is "the emperor has no clothes" mentality taken to bizarre levels, able to reduce any onlooker to a gibbering and incredulous fool.

Thaksin could cake his face with human shit and brazenly walk into a room full of reporters and unctuously claim that he is the epitome of sweet-smelling, infallible excellence. If someone dared to question him, he would screw his face up in a look of disdainful and petulant annoyance, the dried shit would crack, he would lick his lips and declare that no one correctly understood the problem and people were out to get him.

Fully unaware of the role that media should play in a democracy, Thaksin sees any legitimate questioning of his actions or words as being equivalent to an uppity employee daring to move beyond fawning sycophancy.

Let's see if anyone in the mainstream media will call the fool on this one.

2005-01-28T23:35:00.000+07:00

Contradictions and Other Bangkok Sightings

Somchai deftly slices and dices ingredients, mashes assorted combinations with a pestle and performs numerous other tasks all at once without breaking a sweat. Seemingly one with the utensils and environment of the kitchen where he works in a high volume hotel restaurant, the hand-eye coordination and ability to perform under pressure is a sight to behold. Economy of movement, the surety of every action, no wasted energy, the whippet-thin, sinewy body gliding and reacting; muscle memory and instinct are the guiding forces in this overture of gastronomical synchronicity.

Finishing his shift at the top-rated Bangkok restaurant, Somchai doffs his whites and slips into his street clothes and hits the streets at the height of rush hour. His po-faced countenance and ease of maneuvering amongst the oncoming blitz of other pedestrians on the crowded street is a mirror-image of his performance in the kitchen. Sidestepping and angling his body, his forward movement is never halted as he makes his way towards the usual bus-stop where he will catch the no. 99 to his one-room flat across town.

Abutting the footpath where he will wait for the bus is a hastily erected corrugated steel fence, slapped up to keep pedestrians away from the newly begun construction project taking place therein. Though it is evident that all should steer clear and not enter through the space in the fence, an obvious opening to allow workers to come and go, there are still numerous signs indicating that entrance is prohibited to the public. Even those authorized individuals, upon entering the work area full of large equipment and uneven terrain, are met with various warnings and directions.

Inside the sprawling excavation site, ten metres from the crude entrance in the 7-foot high fence and protected behind another fortification, this one industrial strength steel mesh with a gated opening, is a raised concrete platform. Numerous signs with stark warnings to keep away are posted in different languages, large red X marks, skull and cross bones and other various exhortations surround the enclosed area. If a person were not prone to looking up, they might not see the large steel demolition cylinder suspended 10 metres above, attached to the arm of the large crane half a football field away. The rockiness of the terrain has resulted in the makeshift area being built so as to crush extra large rock formations that have been unearthed and make transportation away from the site easier. Front end loaders can lower the unwieldy slabs over the fence and rarely does a person have to set foot inside.

Slicing down the crowded street like a wraith, Somchai, nips into the opening in the fence, spots the raised platform and quickly approaches, happy that someone has erected this nice enclave for him to rest and wait for his bus away from the rush of the city. He slips inside the gate, hoists himself up, lies down and is promptly mashed into oblivion as the cylinder comes hammering down during its pre-arranged, twice hourly dry run to ensure everything is in working order.

***************

The skytrain rounds a bend and comes close to a residential block, a wall of windows providing a momentary flash of the decorated, stacked chicken coops and the people within. In one I clearly see a group of 3 or 4 white-uniformed nurses lazing around. Even in that brief glimpse I know they have just finished their afternoon meal, and that they are Flips. Beyond that, it's impossible to establish an accurate portrayal, though I'm guessing they work for an aging and wealthy Thai/Chinese woman. How difficult would it be to stake out a place close to the entrance and approach one of the Flips leaving after a day's work and strike up a friendship? Not very...Flips, especially women, are always looking for a way to advance beyond their dreary station (aren't we all?) Over a brief period of time I could insinuate myself into that very flat and look out upon the skytrain slicing by, perhaps even initiating another series of "chance" occurrences...

***************

It's night and I'm walking down a side street carrying a bag that contains a jug of chocolate milk. I'm swinging my arms though still wary of the narrowness of the street and the reckless assholes buzzing by in cars and on motorcycles. The bag bounces off the snout of a soi dog, a pleasing responsiveness from the full jug reverberating up my arm. The dog doesn't even glance at me. He is standing erect, swiveling his head around and surveying the action on the street but the solid clip hasn't registered.

2005-01-19T09:48:00.000+07:00

Accident on the Bangkok Subway

It was bound to happen. In a culture where the ability to think clearly and independently is almost non-existent, the possibilities for a fuck-up in a complex, technology-based system are infinite. Upon reflection, it isn't surprising that the early weeks were error free while everyone was keyed up and determined to do a good job as the plaudits were flowing and the media cameras were clicking. Six months down the rail and already the monotony of routine has set in. Still, pointing to such a minor disaster as this as a true indicator of a collective cultural character while catastrophes in other nations are just one-offs, isn't completely fair.

Yet...it has been interesting to watch the post-collision narrative play out on this one. Immediately following the crash on Monday, the standard line that was thrown out and quickly repeated by many was "computer malfunction." This response was possible for 2 reasons. Of course there could have been some truth to it, or as part of what is a common trait of Thais, do whatever necessary to shift the blame for your own fuck-up. The logical result of this gutlessness is blaming the vast modern subway system of which those employees working within are probably scared shitless.

The screeching sounds heard a few hours later were the cogs in the skulls of the handful of semi-intelligent assholes at the top. It dawned on someone that if word got out that the computer system was faulty on a multi-billion dollar system that took 10 years to build, then there may develop a slight aversion amongst the public to travel on the new subway.

The story-line was quickly changed and advanced by PM Thaksin to "it was an incompetent driver." It seems incompetence may have been in the air as apparently passengers remained trapped in the train hammering to get out as staff scurried about for up to 20 minutes to find the keys...

Anything any government official says here is completely and utterly worthless and it can be assumed it is a lie. If the same cunts staffing the same government agency encountered the same fuck-up every day for 10 thousand years the assholes would never figure out that coming clean and trying to solve the problem is the best route to take. As well as providing the public with the truth that would instill a sense of confidence that those at the top may have a shred of competence, it would also instruct those citizens as to what course of action is best for them.

So, what the government says regarding this situation, as with everything, is meaningless. Of course, the supposed facts coming out could be true but it's better to look at any reported information as just an insane tale from the mouths of timid, colluding fools. If it were a contrived effort to stave off the inevitable truth that a more all encompassing incompetence once again ruled, the ham-fisted concoction still employs aspects that they would naturally expect to be part of any such mishap and thus included so as to appear plausible.

Namely the complete inability to think independently. This quote from an article from The Nation sums it up (again whether it is truth or fiction is irrelevant):

"The driver told the control room that he had released the B09 brake, and one official at the centre repeated what he had said without considering whether it was the correct thing to do," Prapat said.

"They worked like parrots – just repeating what others said without thinking about whether it was the correct procedure."

After a number of years here, I realize that the default reaction of most Thais when presented with a situation that is out of the ordinary, i.e. an impending fuck-up, is instead of taking precious seconds to think and respond, they will seek out input from someone else. In my experience, almost without exception, they trust anyone but themselves in any given situation. They are desperate to be told what to do so as to eliminate the need for thinking.

I know...I started this piece with the claim that it's good to avoid generalizations and we should look at the details of each situation. It's all speculation at the moment as my default reaction upon hearing about something like this is that a cover-up is taking place. The secondary batch of things being reported do seem to have a ring of truth. However, as I said, any fabrication would likely include such an angle, as abandoning of personal reactions and desperately seeking help from others or the mindless carrying out of insanely inappropriate orders guaranteed to cause mayhem are not uncommon here. It has likely occurred with many Thais in different situations and is therefore a familiar part of such tragedies.

"Where ignorance reigns, life is lost," is an apt truism that is proven time and again though thankfully nobody perished this time around. Unlike most traffic accidents involving a reckless bus driver who "fled the scene on foot," "was seen high-tailing it away from the accident," "sprinted into a nearby field," "was observed bug-eyed and yipping like a scared dog as he legged it down the street while injured and maimed passengers begged for help," at least this option was not available as the driver of the train in question was pinned inside.

2005-01-18T20:57:00.000+07:00

Book Review: America (The Book): A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction--by Jon Stewart and the writers of The Daily Show

From Jon Stewart's latest book: restore dignity to the current justices of the Supreme Court of the United States by matching them with their correct robes

This book reads like a lengthy satire magazine. Not surprising as it is a volume of political wit from Jon Stewart (and his staff of writers), the acclaimed current yank master. But it even looks like a glossy mag (cum bizarro world instruction guide), with loads of amusing inserts: pie charts, graphs and humourously bastardized words and pictures of famous philosophers and politicians. Photocopies of these clever additions (see above) are likely already adorning dorm room walls and cubicle separaters throughout the land.

Aimed at the college crowd and those under thirty who make up the apparent loyal and sycophantic following of Stewart's, they will hail this as another example of his brilliance. Having not yet seen his acclaimed television program I was free from any bias. After finishing the book I'm guessing his real talent is on the glass tit, though there are stll plenty of laughs to be had here.

While his brand of humour and delivery is near genius levels according to his fans, it is impossible to develop any type of real narrative using this style in print. Quips, one-liners, droll observations and the ever popular insertion of a current or recent pop-culture reference into an historical situation, morphing the 2 into amusing scenarios replete with double and triple entendres, are quickly established as the few gimmicks in his shallow but never empty trick-bag. As is the habit of fake quotes attributed to historical figures in which they use the word "fuck," which wears thin after the first half dozen times.

The grandiose claims that have adorned the public declarations and unctuous volumes, as well as the smarmy politicians who have peddled lies throughout history as highlighted against the true shit-caked, hypocritical reality, is the ostensible theme of the book. In fact, the real motif that eclipses that and exists throughout is...the collective wit of Stewart and the group of professional writers who assisted him. Not a bad substitute considering how skilled they are.

Ranging from "Democracy Before America," through the other nine blandly titled chapters covering various aspects of the US government system and closing with "The Rest of the World," the over-riding schtick is that it is meant to be a wacky textbook or helpful guide. The additional instructions supplied to "teachers" for classroom activities are often hilarious as are some of the graphics (for some reason the send-up of the Presidential library had me gagging with laughter) and the running gimmick allows for the loosely connected stand-alone chapters.

The huge heaping of sex-related jokes throughout will have the self-righteous bible beaters outraged. The ones who won't even read the book but will be extremely perturbed by its presence and popularity and will see it as another opportunity to try and dictate to others. As usual these clowns and their insidious, shrill pronouncements will backfire, as demonstrated by the load of free publicity gained when Stewart's book was most recently yanked from the shelves of some libraries in Mississippi as a result of the picture that appears at the beginning of this review.

Ruthlessly hammering and mocking everything in sight, where nothing is above being laughed at, is Stewart's stock in trade. This is something good, a mentality I share. Various ethnic and special interest groups all have their foibles and absurdities slammed, just as every lying duplicitous, hypocritical sack of shit politician is eviscerated, regardless of which party or ideology they have whored themselves out to...a true delight for the anti-PC crowd.

Before reading this book I knew it would inevitably be rated against the other two widely accessible left-leaning political humourists of yank origin—Michael Moore and Al Franken. Though much different in style, the similar target audience makes the comparison worthwhile. All generalists whose prose styles could be handled by a 12 year-old, they have convinced a new generation of adult readers that to have breezed through their offerings is to have a solid grounding in the issues of the day. Of the 3, I would peg Franken's Lying Liars book as the better overall volume in terms of readability, style and effectiveness. Moore's substandard polemics which play fast and loose with the truth, employ sweeping generalizations and are lacking in solid research are the poorest of the lot and a 2nd rate companion to his entertaining documentaries.

Stewart's first publishing endeavor is as consistent as it is limited in its scope. Unlike Moore and Franken, Stewart doesn't offer up the requisite "underneath all my sarcastic venom I know us yanks are still the best," type of jingoistic crap. A hip, jaded version of that underlying mantra most yanks casually accept, served up to appeal to as many as possible and avoid offending the tender sensibilities of those whose cries of "traitor" could affect future sales. Thankfully Stewart avoids this type of horseshit altogether.

With Stewart's obvious wit and shrewd analysis of politics and popular culture, this book could have been much better than the one-dimensional result. How about a longer set-up beyond the 2-sentence jokes that are rattled off? Another indication of his full conditioning by his work on the tube and a recognition of the average attention span of those most likely to be reading his book. Of course, business smarts in catering to a pre-existing audience and a desire to sell as many books as possible likely instructed the end product as well.

No doubt Stewart and his flunkies are astutely skilled in lampooning any subject they choose and rarely does this book descend into that "too clever by half" territory. His television audience will love this book, though curiously the aping of the steady delivery of one-liners that works so well on the tube left me feeling frazzled. The rapid-fire skewering of individuals and riffing on different subjects doesn't lend itself to being "the kind of book you can't put down." I would recommend this as a bathroom accompaniment or a beer and pizza-stained frat-house prop for referencing the humorous lines that appear throughout. Always being amazed at how different writers progress in style and scope, I look forward to future attempts by Stewart (though a compilation effort he most likely had a great deal of input) that move beyond a format he has already mastered and is best suited to television.

2005-01-14T07:29:00.000+07:00

Room Service

Upon meeting someone and becoming acquainted over time, the inevitable opportunity arises for a social occasion outside of the usual location you interact with each other. The circumstance which can be an interesting and voyeuristic experience...a situation where you can observe the person with their partner, wife or girlfriend in tow.

More often than not the reaction I have when meeting the significant other of someone I have gotten to know, is that together they are a total mismatch. Not just in looks, where it can actually be refreshing to see a fox with a deformed oaf or a decent looking bloke with a wretched hag (though the fox with oaf phenomenon is entirely more common in Thailand and a different matter altogether.)

It's the sense that the 2 are completely incompatible and unlikely to have ever come together. In fact that is just how people come together...for the unlikeliest of reasons. It's never a well-considered choice, and is usually made when 1 or both are in a state of emotional upheaval, vulnerability, or just plain desperation at needing to fill or have a hole filled. While it appears otherwise, a twisted kind of compatibility is just what does keep the 2 wackos intertwined though the contempt often seems to be barely concealed under the exterior.

After fucking up any number of relationships, the one that will probably evolve into a long-term affair is the last in a line in a series of failed attempts. The one that is least toxic, probably somewhat lacking in passion, but more workable than the others for whatever reason. In rare cases this bland relationship of convenience turns into one of those lifelong jobs, with the habit of years and the cooing admiration from condescending assholes the only bond that keeps it afloat.

Take Wilbur Letackney, one of those fools who never outgrew his naivety. The kind of person who has dedicated much of his life to a desperate attempt to be the nice guy. Too old to still be called pussy whipped, he never strayed in the years he has been together with his well-fed, po-faced hag of a wife.

It has been said that the marriage of a couple of whom the man has embarked upon a lone trip to Bangkok, will last on average 2 hours and 36 minutes. Or at least will remain untainted for that length of time, in the cock-in-a-strange-piece-of-flesh kind of way.

When a retired couple like the Letackneys come to Thailand for the first time, the fact that the hectoring, shrill, geriatric shrew at Wilbur's side makes any chance of infidelity academic. Besides, old Wilbur has long ago convinced himself through a lifetime of uttering simplistic notions that celebrate the marital longevity that is becoming ever more rare in society, that he needs no one else but the petrified slab of humanity he calls his wife.

In his hazy and sluggish brain, he is not even aware he has developed numerous ways to tune out the mind-numbing horseshit spewed by his spouse. Upon arriving in Bangkok, Letackney nonetheless feels some kind of faint pulse in the part of his brain where the sexual attraction for other women has long since withered.

As the holiday wears on Wilbur feels a growing contempt and rage for this hideous witch at his side, the one bereft of all signs of femininity. He chalks it up to the stress of being away from home and can't connect it to the boiling over of 40 years of subordinated sexual frustration.

A wise entrepreneur in Bangkok long ago recognized the fact that there are those like Wilbur who crave the beauty of Thai women when they are here but will never push themselves to actually solicit a prostitute, even if they have the wherewithal to ditch the wife or girlfriend for a few hours.

The result is a maid service that operates in some of the major chains in Bangkok. The hitch is that the 1 or 2 maids per hotel act as floaters and work alongside the regular contingent of cleaners the hotel utilizes. They provide a special service and never really do any cleaning. However, they do stride about with a keen eye for sad chumps like Letackney.

Though he may be faithful enough not to go through the necessary stages of soliciting and paying for a call girl, most men are not able to withstand the urge brought on by the sudden presence of a woman on all fours with her skirt hiked up, bare arse straining and ready to be plundered. With a few spotters throughout the hotel who supplement their miserly incomes from their jobs as waiters or front desk clerks, and the ever present mobile phones, it really isn't that hard to coordinate. This is how Letackney found himself with his withered cock activated after years of dormancy and buried in the maid he stumbled upon in his room after nipping up to retrieve something while his wife plugged herself in the hotel restaurant 30 floors below.

Such "lucky" individuals rarely question the surcharge that shows up on their hotel bill as they are checking out. In the rare instance where a tight-fisted eagle-eyed wife wants to contest the amount, she finds herself over-ridden by a suddenly stern and unflinching husband. As regular maids catch on to this potentially lucrative side earner and become freelancers, the frequency of such "spontaneous" encounters are increasing. So too are the number of individuals heading home with a different kind of souvenir...a fetish for Asian maids, one that is cleverly exploited by the same tarts who cultivated the new obsession. A card with a raft of suitable website addresses is discreetly slipped into the spent fool's luggage, as the maid beats a hasty retreat, giggling and hinting at the many rooms that still need cleaning...

2005-01-12T18:11:00.000+07:00

Rankist Generosity

As the aftermath of the tsunami continues to play out, Stalin's famous quote about a million deaths being a statistic while a single death is a tragedy couldn't be more true. The over-riding sentiment that seems to be attached to most stories is the rankist element that is part of any comment on individual or government sponsored contributions to the relief effort. There are also the accompanying desperate efforts to conjure up language that will express the feelings of shared grief but they just seem to...fall a bit flat.

What is tangible are the insinuations and outright scolding heaped on various nations and entertainment and sports superstars who haven't ponied up what is perceived to be an adequate amount. Those assertions crackle, are real, are something we can really associate with.

The one-upsmanship from various governments around the world can't help but be beneficial as the real amount of aid continues to increase. A closer look reveals that many strings are attached to various pledges. These dazzling promises and high figures may in part be based on low-interest loans and might well not materialize in full.

Donations made by various stars and duly advertised may also have ulterior motives, including an enhanced public image. Again, if the end result is more assistance, then it's great to see every overpaid thespian and steroid bloated pro athlete run scurrying to make a donation prior to their next interview so they can let the true figure roll off their tongue in a nonchalant way and appear genuinely moved.

Woe is the fool like Paradorn Srichiphan, a wealthy Thai tennis star, who made such a pathetically sniveling donation (10, 000 baht , about 250 US dollars) in comparison to his earnings, that he will most certainly pay for it in a real monetary way. The 10, 000 US he could have easily given will be eclipsed by the income loss he is sure to suffer as a result of this huge PR disaster.

Argue the rightness or wrongness of goading wealthy individuals into coughing up, but the fact is that failing to see in advance that this expectation was developing, means that a fool like Paradorn is ill-equipped to deal with all aspects of celebrity status. Such stars occupy an unreal position, are paid unreal amounts and thus are expected to demonstrate unreal and exaggerated displays of generosity. These individuals are given a great deal of leeway by most of the adoring and sycophantic public and an image of benevolence will solidify their standing. Come across as an ungrateful cunt and the public will happily join in as the media hammers them into remorse and humiliation.

Part of the whole post-disaster posturing is a sociological study in group-think. Is it a spontaneous outpouring and world-wide reaction or can people be routed into pre-existing emotional gatherings that they can latch onto? Is "the media" a sentient force that dictates our reactions or simply a reflection of our collective feelings?

Quite often humans do have the power to dictate how others will respond in any given situation. For example, in the case of a man trying to seduce a woman. Most fools recognize that females are the half of humanity who give off signals and indicate whether they are in any way interested in the attentions of a particular slob. Still, any tit who maneuvers into the position of being alone with a tart should realize that he holds the license for the negation of the woman's inhibition. All he has to do is issue the license and eliminate any simpering gestures of hesitation or that sickening coyness that some assholes from western nations exhibit around women. Avoid any behaviour that hints at and lets a woman buy into that contrived image of a pure virginal chastity and she will instead opt for that which she really longs for. To be stapled to the mattress with a rigorous and energetic shag.

The world-wide reaction to the tsunami disaster is most striking then, as compared to the response towards the slaughter that continues in Iraq. As succinctly pointed out and asked by Terry Jones (the same member of the Monty Python comedy troupe) in a commentary in the Guardian; what has contributed to such vastly different amounts of attention and monetary aid despite the similar toll in lives? Is it the sudden ferocity of the tsunami? The instant destruction? The belief that perhaps we could have been victims if we had vacationed at a different time and maybe, just maybe those foreign cunts with the strange culture and guttural language in Iraq might just have deserved what they got if only a tiny bit? The lack of media coverage (surely)?

Speaking of Iraq, the Guardian continues to demonstrate why it is the top online newspaper bar none with this account from an Iraqi film-maker in the days after the much touted route of Fallujah by US forces back in November. A bleak, macabre landscape greeted him, soaked with misery, desperation and rage. Most noticeably he asks, where are all the bodies of the insurgents the yanks claimed to have killed? He also guarantees that a civil war will kick-off in the very near future.

Maybe any amount of assistance for Iraq would open our eyes to just how horrific things are there at the moment and would highlight our own culpability in the massacre. Comparatively, our spontaneous and generous outpouring towards the countries affected by the tsunami strengthens our image of a world full of caring and just souls in which we all play an important role.

2005-01-11T22:12:00.000+07:00

"My name is Somchai and I'm addicted to having my head up my ass..."

In the basement of a Buddhist temple in Bang Na, a group of individuals meet. Some limping, some limb-less, most disfigured, they are inexorably entwined. They share a similar addiction. There is something elemental in the purity of the ongoing shared experience that brings them together. A certain mindset that has developed from repeated and ongoing fuck-ups.

The kind of fuck-up that results in their own and other's life-threatening injuries. This self-induced helplessness removes any and all responsibility and care from their lives. It incinerates the necessity for activating the synapses in their long since atrophied brains.

These desperate and sick souls are addicted to having their own heads lodged firmly up their arseholes.

It's warm, snug and possesses a certain odour distinct to the natural anal lubricant with which their empty melons have become perpetually slathered. Though this fetid and cozy hiding place becomes a hole away from home, logistics mean that they do have to yank their heads free on occasion so as to wreak the damage that their addiction requires.

This, THIS is what you hear, the muffled, yet distinctive popping sound of heads being yanked free at all hours and all days, as a tacit choreography exists amongst this sacred brotherhood of head-up-the assers. Like an engorged schlong that has discharged its load and slips lifelessly out of a well-hammered snatch, so too those moist shit-caked craniums lurch into the real world absent any real direction but involuntarily jeering forward and leading the bodies they are attached to.

"I...I...don't know what came over me," says Somchai, a regular attendee of the weekly meetings.

"I...I...wanted to have my other hand free so I could talk on my mobile while driving my motorcycle..." *snuffle *

"I thought that duct taping little Tittisuk to the exhaust pipe was a clever remedy...I had just finished feeding him a baby bottle full of klong water, another innovative way of saving money that I was congratulating myself on. I wrapped the little tyke around that secure piece of pipe that is a safe distance from the ground...I thought it was perfectly sensible. I had been driving for some time and talking to my best mate, arranging how we were going to drink away our week's wages when I detected a burning smell and looked down to see his diapers on fire...pulling over to the side of the road I was conveniently next to a motorcycle repair shop...there were these big red containers with spouts sticking out and the jugs seemed to be full of water so I grabbed one and doused little Tittisuk with the contents, already smiling to myself because the great sky fairy would never forsake me and my good heartedness...but then..."

Somchai breaks down as another member of the group, a woman, consoles him. Her head has spent so much time inside her anal cavity that she often uses her spacious arsehole as a container to transport large quantities of fruit when she is returning home after a trip to the market. Her hands are missing because of an industrial accident in which she casually inserted her hands into a vat containing rows of rotating blades. She had been attempting to retrieve a smelling stick she had dropped—one of those ones that Thais jam into their beaks. She had been convinced there was no need to exercise caution because the sky fairy was looking out for her, but alas, he was asleep at the time. She is stroking Somchai with her stumps.

Here is a woman minus a nose, lost while bobbing for apples in hot oil. There a man rocks back and forth on what remain of his legs, amputated just above the knees after he dozed off in a farmer's field and had his lower extremities mulched into the soil by a tractor pulling a cultivating implement.

It is difficult for the people here to relay their tales of misfortune but it is a form of therapy. A strange calm comes over them knowing that they are in it together. More than a few recount stories of being faced with some dangerous impending doom where the last few minutes before impact were not spent reacting but instead burned into eternity as they turned to whomever was closest and shouted:

"WHAT DA FUCK SHOULD I DO!?!!??!!!"

2005-01-10T07:38:00.000+07:00

Jatujak Market

Located in the northern part of Bangkok, it is a sprawling weekend market in a permanent location with multitudes of stalls and countless number of different items for sale. Ostensibly organized into logical warrens of awning covered outlets, JJ market, as it's known to locals, is nonetheless guaranteed to have you lost and enraged upon your first visit.

The original planners were likely in league with those architects and social engineers of shopping malls the world over. Where the litany of sameness is designed to hammer visitors into a confused, surreal funk similar to other reality-alleviating experiences such being drunk or jacked up on drugs. The theory being (and proven by tests and studies) that people in such a state are more likely to make purchases.

I have a suspicion that most tourists to Bangkok envision JJ market as an enticing and thoroughly cultural outing, where they will be met with all manner of unique, hand-made items imbued with the mystique of the orient. In truth, the bulk of products for sale are poor quality, mass-produced horseshit that will fall apart within months of being purchased.

However, there are some different areas of the market worth visiting, the sections arranged according to the type of product sold there.

If you are looking for potted plants for your home or balcony, there is a good reasonably priced selection.

Interested in becoming involved in the cock or fish-fighting racket? Expensive specimens of the brawling fish or fowl can be purchased at the market. Other, non-fighting tropical fish of various types can be bought as well, and with some time, patience and acquired knowledge, they can also become lucrative if you start breeding down the line.

There is a range of antiques on display, including religious artifacts with that distinctive Asian design influence that appeals to the aforementioned occidentals determined to find something that suitably represents their eastern adventure. Unbeknownst to many of the fools perusing the "antiques" is that they well may be fake, something that is perfectly OK with the authorities, as long as a fake antiques license is held by the seller.

There is also a books venue where the cheapest used books in Bangkok can be had. Unfortunately the selection is usually horrendous, with mountains of musty volumes which have been gathering dust for years. However, if you are willing to take some time to pore over the stacks you can occasionally find something worth reading. Operated by an aging but fairly friendly Chinese gentleman who brings in containers of used books from North America, he is open to haggling if you are buying more than a few at a time. Unlike the vast majority of the market which is only open on Saturdays and Sundays, the used books section is also open on Thursday and Friday afternoons. If you are lucky you may arrive just as someone has dropped off a selection of decent books they have cleared out of their flat before vacating Bangkok.

On the weekends the place is rammed to the hilt with sweaty, red-faced tourists and throngs of Thais. If you have a specific purchase to make and you know where to go, it is tolerable for the 20 minutes to half an hour necessary to slip in and out. The inevitable frustration it breeds amongst first time farangs is also guaranteed to provide some entertainment in the form of couples exploding at each other. Bleating tourists in a panicked state after they have had their pockets picked is another possibility, as the inevitability of being mashed up against other sweating bodies tends to bring ot the thieves.

Located adjacent to the Mo Chit Skytrain station.

2005-01-08T08:44:00.000+07:00

Balcony Time

Watching someone you know from a distance while they are unaware can be interesting. They may adopt certain "while-alone" mannerisms that are absent when in the company of others. It's an odd voyeuristic sensation and you can almost imagine yourself as you must appear when next to the individual.

Some people seem slightly at odds without a constant sidekick to validate their existence while other cunts thrive as lone...cunts.

There are many experiences that are part of the vast catalogue of deviancies and otherwise pedestrian activities that confirm the interest humans have in the lives of each other. One such enjoyable respite at the end of a long day is kicking back and observing the anonymous fools in the building opposite from you with a set of high-powered binoculars.

Back in my home country, I was housed in a vast complex of chicken coops where every po-faced cunt went to and from their own cramped hole with nary a smile or nod of acknowledgement to their fellow fuck-ups. A series of buildings faced each other at various angles but were far enough away that brazen surveillance attracted little or no attention.

Together with the realization that most people likely pay no heed to the possibility that someone could be watching them as evidenced by open curtains, windows etc., the other observation that registered strongest was the complete and utter banality of most cunts' lives (not too mention the fucker with nothing better to do than observe those stilted and dreary lives.)

While the obvious hope was to catch a balls-out fuck session, the main activity that I witnessed was mind-numbing repetitive behaviour. A surprising number of people pace about their small enclaves or engage in similar rote activity such as lurching up from their position in front of the glass tit, disappearing momentarily and then repeating a few minutes later.

End-of-the-day balcony time in Bangkok is an enjoyable contemplative few minutes alone with a few jars. There are no binoculars as the buildings are too close together to allow any covert observation, though you can still view the comings and goings of a few others who enjoy the same peaceful time alone. Though there is a fair amount of traffic on the soi below, it rarely breaks the peace because of the habit most Thais have of engaging in reckless driving without ever mashing the horn.

Everything becomes enveloped in a kind of slow-motion haze. Such abstractions as laws, manipulative horseshit perpetrated by others and all manner of pointless emotions disappear. It's especially therapeutic if undertaken just as the quality of light is staring to change. From the flat light of late afternoon to dusk and then suddenly the different world of Bangkok at night is upon you.

2005-01-07T21:54:00.000+07:00

Fucking the Dog

Back in farangland, you could always spot the hopeless salesperson in the local coffee shop. They were the fools with pensive looks on their faces and some papers spread out in front of them covered in crumbs from the half dozen doughnuts they had just finished ramming down their throats.

Every subsequent pastry shop was a respite from their anxiety at accomplishing fuck-all and the opportunity to display the accoutrements of their trade for everyone to see. To luxuriate in a small hive of activity for a few moments in the day was better than the awkward silences and blank stares they faced from the cunts they were trying to manipulate into buying whatever worthless contrivance they were peddling.

These days the presence of all manner of electronic gadgets that have replaced the briefcase crammed with papers has added an extra facet to the coffee shop dogfucker. Show off your toys, fuck around surfing the net, phone the wife of the cunt you're competing with at work and try to arrange a surreptitious fuck session...anything but what you're getting paid to do.

As this article from the NY Times points out (registration required), it takes unlimited amounts of juice to keep the various toys operational and most major chains, such as the ubiquitous Starbucks, are only too willing to oblige with the "free" usage of electrical outlets for patrons while they are slurping back $5.00 dollar cups of coffee.

Strangely enough, while the bloated desperate whore mongers who cruise the beer bars of Bangkok are rarely toting around laptops, they too are looking for the nearest receptacle to plug.

2005-01-06T08:04:00.000+07:00

An Arse by Any Other Name

The parade of pert, upturned female arses on display on any given day in Bangkok is one of the splendid attractions of living in this otherwise polluted cesspool. Like the trees and greenery that serve as a natural cleansing system in other urban landscapes, the impeccably sculpted bottoms of Thai lasses are anodyne in their presence in such large numbers.

Those swishing flanks can taunt you at all hours and in any location. The suppleness and whippet-thin physiques of most Thai women means they are prone to casually squatting while in shops when they want to rest or look at some goods on a lower shelf. The lowrider jeans in fashion help to ensure that a liberal slab of ass can be hanging out for all to see in many instances.

The density and responsiveness of these achingly sweet and sometimes savoury arses are legendary and perhaps the result of centuries of natural selection. Nudging against the fabric of a not-too-tight skirt is a perfect habitat in which to view such a classic arse on display in public.

An obese, heaving arse on a Thai woman is very rare—-the kind with the hideous cottage cheese look. However, the smooth, naturally plump arse is available, though more scarce than the common, slim variety and this fact makes it more sought after amongst those connoisseurs in the know.

In western countries, a slightly hotter than average day, coupled with well-fed ox-like women and less than sanitary personal hygiene habits that result in chunks of shit clinging to the hairs around certain arseholes belonging to those bovine hags, and a rather unpleasant odour can emanate in close quarters. Communal experiences such as standing in line or packed into public transportation at rush hour are the prime locations where such gag inducing noxious vapour can be inhaled.

Just now this brought on a slightly related memory. Years ago while in a small room with a group of strangers—all of us at a 1st day orientation for a seasonal temporary job, a extra-large black woman with a set of those monumental African arse cheeks was sitting next to me. As the meeting wore on she became restless and rearranging herself on her chair, she lifted one of her gargantuan slabs and emitted an all powerful stench of humid, exquisitely pungent snatch odour that permeated the entire room.

These phenomena are both, so far as I can report, non-existent in the land of well manicured vertical smiles.

Marinated in a mixture of red wine, spices and a dash olive oil, the female Thai arse makes for a unique and singular gastronomical delight. It should be noted that while most women here are genetically blessed with naturally delectable arses, the limp, flat variety also exists. This sickly vintage of flank is in stark contrast to the flocks of superb derrieres and is normally possessed by those women of Chinese descent. The compensation for being from the more intelligent money hoarding sect? Or perhaps as a result...while the former comes from generations of active and energetic motion, the pampered Thai/Chinese slut has known ongoing sedentary pursuits as her well-trained husband brings home the seasoned dog.

Regardless, the popularity of all sorts of cosmetic surgery in Thailand has also resulted in the advent of arse implants. Perfect for those wanting to alleviate the shortcomings they were cursed with as they seek out the uplifted butt that is an indicator of superior mating stock and a subtle hint at nubility.

So when you are tying into what you think is a well-seasoned local arse, beware of hitting a hard shank of inserted plastic.

2005-01-05T09:18:00.000+07:00

Movie Review: Insomnia

It's rare to watch a crime drama that does not have its share of tired cliches woven into the plot. Insomnia, starring Al Pacino and Robin Williams, is no exception.

To list a few: an aging and jaded cop—Pacino's Will Dormer—haunted by a case from his past; a supposedly highly intelligent perpetrator of a gruesome crime who engages the lead investigator in a psychological duel, initiating the "game" via unexpected phone calls; a female police officer who decides to take it upon herself to head out alone to collect some evidence from a potentially dangerous suspect, thus setting up the climax.

Bolstered by a handful of Academy award nominations, I had high expectations for this film.

A murder has taken place in a small town in Alaska and the local hick investigators are having problems solving the crime. Called in to help from Los Angeles, Will Dormer along with his partner Hap Eckhart (played by Martin Donovan) have an internal affairs investigation hanging over their heads back in the City of Angels, with a likely deal to be cut by Eckhart meaning that Dormer's reputation will be ruined. The result is antagonism from Dormer towards his partner that is subordinated with an ostensible professionalism and desire to solve the case with which they were sent to help.

The legend Dormer quickly puts together a ploy to snag the killer (another cliche—an obvious lure that is fed to the media and which the killer quickly falls for) and the locals and the 2 LA detectives descend on the scene of the plant. It seems the school bag of the teenaged girl who has been murdered was already found. Let's replace the contents with rocks, put it back where we found it and let the media report that if we really find it we should be able to crack the case. A shadowy figure promptly appears as the cops look on from their hiding spots and Dormer mistakenly plugs his partner as they chase down the killer in the fog. The killer gets away and Dormer lets the assumption stand that the brutal murderer also topped his partner.

This is really no more than a 2nd rate crime flick with the added scthick being that Dormer is unable to sleep during his time in the fictional Alaskan town of Nightmute. Haunted by his past, what has just occurred and the 24 hours of daylight that is part of life during the summer months in the far north, Dormer starts to come unhinged.

It's as if the director, Christopher Nolan, decided to add the additional bit about being unable to sleep so as to provide a plausible cover for Pacino's sleepwalking performance. Except for a few exceptions, Pacino has been coasting through a series of roles in the past few years and it seems as though the nomination he received for this movie was based on name recognition alone. Sure there are a few flashes of quality acting here and the trademark borderline rages from Pacino, but combined with the fairly lame concept and script, the accolades seem overblown.

The theme is that tried and true crime drama nugget...the past always catches up with you, take one wrong turn and you'll eventually pay the price, the end doesn't justify the means etc.

Robin Williams as the twisted mystery novel writer who thinks he's more clever than he really is, comes off as a caricature of so many similar performances from others in the past. The plaudits apparently flowed because of the contrast of this role compared to the usual characters he takes on, but I just can't see the brilliance every cunt and his movie-watching goldfish chimed in with when Insomnia was released in 2002. The cinematic psycopath and the one-upsmanship involved as subsequent screenwriters try to come up with the perfect non-sequiturs and odd reactions imbued with creepiness has resulted in many implausible and unintentionally amusing performances. It's hard to do well and of course any actor is limited by the dialogue and context with which they are provided.

The instant familiarity as Dormer and Finch settle in for some psychological tete-a-tetes where each professes to be more versed in the ways of the world and the workings of the mind are similarly unlikely. The fact that Dormer seems ready to nod off during these interactions because of his lack of sleep again adds unintended comic relief.

Detective Ellie Burr, played by Hillary Swank, is the local cop, a naive sycophant who looks up to Dormer and is assigned to investigate the shooting of Eckhart as the other more serious investigation continues. At first a cursory job, appearing simpler because of the meddling by Dormer to cover his tracks, Pacino's character at the same time urges her to put more effort into it. The message is clear...Dormer is torn and ultimately wants to be caught, at the same time allowing the young female cop to see the correct path.

Likely Mad magazine did its usual takeoff with this as they do with most Hollywood movies. They must have had a field day with the abundance of material to lampoon this flick. From the dangerously sleep-deprived zombie, Dormer, who turns into a walking disaster while others casually look on, to the amateur local cops who are painfully aware of their own shortcomings. Those cops who are supposedly trained to find murderers, rapists etc., but wait...they're hicks who needed help flown in so they can be forgiven...but then the young female cop inevitably shows her brilliance, but then as mentioned she heads out alone, going against protocol and failing to take a partner just for excitement. The scene where Dormer shoots a dog carcass in a back lane in broad daylight (or is it night?) so as to obtain the bullet to switch with the real one retrieved from his partner's dead body, is another example where the suspension of disbelief didn't work.

There are still some good scenes here and there are certainly others in the genre that are much worse. As a character driven drama, I suppose Insomnia requires a person to be completely taken with Pacino's acting. The disappointment is what sticks here, with Pacino as the conflicted detective not carrying the film (though certainly the dominant performance) as many others have claimed. Though the setting is Alaska, the movie was filmed in British Columbia, Canada, and the beautiful scenery and flat natural lighting add to the atmosphere and is another aspect that at least makes the film worth checking out.

2005-01-03T22:05:00.000+07:00

Sex and the Church--A Lecture by Alan Watts

Alan Watts was an English writer, philosopher and orator who was singularly skilled in interpreting Eastern religions and philosophies and distilling them into easily understood and appealing sentiments for western audiences. He moved to the US to study religion as a young man, earning a master's degree in theology and becoming ordained as an Episcopalian priest. Having been interested in a wide range of eastern religions even as a youngster growing up, he furthered his education in this area at various institutions in the US. He really came into his own in the 1950's and '60's, when he started writing and speaking prolifically in the US and elsewhere on the subjects that were so much a part of his life.

He dabbled on the fringes of new age celebrity status during that time, associating with the likes of Aldous Huxley, Timothey Leary et al, but still remains largely unknown to many.

Though his books have remained relatively popular since his death in 1973, with the burgeoning power of the internet to disseminate information, he continues to gain posthumous praise and new fans.

Besides his books and essays, there are dozens of his recorded lectures which can now be easily obtained at various locations on the net. Usually generalist and topical in nature, they tie in some aspect from any number of religious teachings that originate in Eastern countries and are applied to something that was (and usually still is) relevant to the audience of the day.

Possessing a sonorous and easy-to-listen-to voice, the recordings would be a good starting point for anyone interested in exploring different spiritual outlooks from around the globe. A highly skilled speaker, Watts never talks down to the audience, and despite the sometimes annoying habit of laughing at his own jokes (and thus prompting the rapt audience members to erupt as well,) these are some truly thought-provoking pieces.

The recorded lecture entitled Sex and the Church concentrates on Christianity more than the Eastern religions he normally talked about, though inevitably comparisons enter into Watts' discussion.

Though every organized religion seems to have strange and distorted views of human sexuality, Christianity has forged a monumentally fucked-up and repressive obsession with the human genitalia and related urges. At the same time, Watts argues, this dominant role that sex plays in the church is also an undeniable indication of its importance in Christianity.

At the root of most major condemnations that flow from bible beaters and their leaders are those related to the pelvic thrust. Not lies, not attempts to defraud, not hatred, malice or violence, but primarily any and all things sexual. "Living in sin" and anything "immoral" is almost inevitably related to some form of fucking that has not been authorized by the church. "Sexual regulation societies" is what Watts calls most Judeo/Christian based churches in western societies.

Why is this so?

Because, as Watts points out, eating and fucking are our most fundamental ties to the material world. The point at which we can become most attached to the physical organism we inhabit.

Secondly, and more subtly, we cannot rid ourselves of our sexuality. Religion as repressed sexuality or sexuality as a manifestation of the divine? This is a question that Watts poses and comes back to explore more thoroughly near the end of his talk.

Watts argues that the negative connotations are in themselves an expression of sexuality. "A peculiar form of eroticism" is the result of creating such a longstanding taboo out of sex. But Watts also says that the whole anti-sex tradition is not as "anti" as it appears.

Behind this most ultimate of physical pleasures and the resulting attachment is the impermanence of life. Inherent in the emphasis on detachment from the body that is part of all religions is this moral fixation on sexuality. The degree you identify yourself with the pleasures of the body is the degree to which you will be sucked away by the force of transience.

Underlying the emphasis on detachment is a problem according to Watts. And that is, why is there a physical universe at all? If this existence is such an inescapable snare, and we should be so wary of that which is presented as reality, then WHY?

According to some theologies, the world is in fact looked upon as mistake, a fall from divinity. A rational soul in charge of an animal body is the result. The divided human...the soul and the body as dueling entities that make up the whole, is a longstanding theme in many beliefs.

Here is where Watts departs. Though we are all falling apart, this is not something to be lamented but is truly part of the splendor of being alive. Watts goes off on a bit of a tangent here stating that one day the replacement of all our decaying parts, limbs, organs etc. as we age, will be end the result of our obsession with staying young. The fallout will be artificial and bored fools, as plastic as the materials used to prolong their lives.

After the brief bit of prophecy, Watts homes in on the theme of duality that crops up in most of his books and speeches, a result of his understanding of eastern religions. In other words, without decay there cannot be vitality, just as one is inherent and represented by the other. Just as, in fact, black represents white and vice versa.

"Supreme moments, superb vitality." The importance of reacting, taking steps to make things happen, as in the timing of music and that urgency that is part of youth, are 2 such examples. So too, timing is of the essence in matters of both sexuality and that other most real connection with physicality, all the pleasures associated with the art of gastronomy. "And then it's happened and you've had it..." as he says, but this should not impart a feeling of regret. The only genuine facet of regret is not taking it when you had the chance.

Detachment should not mean that you must remove yourself from participation. Complete participation but still detached...this is where Watts comes to the point he does in every lecture and one that presents a conundrum, signifies the limitations of language for most others. Usually it as this point where he demonstrates his skill in providing some clarity to certain concepts.

Not a blase, mien of nonchalance, with your thoughts elsewhere while you are furiously hammering away...not a way of being anxious about physical pleasure, so afraid that some there is a certain way it's supposed to be that can never quite be attained. Empty, desperate machinations, so you want it again and again (kind of like the phenomenon whereby someone eats bland food and keeps cramming it in because they are never satisfied). When you're grasping for something you cannot fully experience it. Holding on too hard takes the life out of something transient. This, says Watts, is the danger in becoming too attached to the physical world.

In the second part of the lecture, Watts delivers an amusing anecdote on the initiation ritual of confirmation he experienced as a young lad. Not some wise passing on of special knowledge from the reverend in his church where he grew up but a stern warning on...the evils of masturbation. Nothing more that a standard spiel on jacking off, replete with the assortment of ailments that were sure to befall every young boy who couldn't resist.

He also provides a brief history on the rising and falling tides of morality within the church. Marriage was initially a social institution to strengthen the alliance between families. Politics, eugenics and the bargaining process that was part of the union meant that inevitably perfect matches rarely occurred and getting a little bit on the side was not uncommon. Idealization of women as goddesses in the middle ages changed things somewhat and coincided with the growing cult of romantic love. The institution of marriage became intertwined with such notions. What also flowed from this was that such sentiments started to infuse the laws of the day. The person you married was the person you should love and the only relationship where sex should have been allowed to occur was marriage.

Periods where prudism towards sexuality were in ascendancy were contrasted by the presence of lasciviousness during those same times, such as the Victorian era, and here again Watts comes back to the theme of interdependence, the fact that one cannot exist without the other.

Watts also argues that according to a defender of the faith, the church could be held up as symbolically nothing but sex as opposed to repressed sex while those who make sex their god are the ones repressing religion. Sexual biology in turn reveals the mystery of the universe, and is not obscured but evident in the paintings, interior design and architecture of many of the great churches of the world.

While Watts is mainly playing the contratian here, this supposes a monolithic and continuing consciousness of "the church" that suggests a secret and shared understanding all leaders and followers. However, a powerful sociological aspect of all group behaviour means that every sap who is part of the process does not have to be acutely tuned in to a higher awareness to help carry forward the definitive character.

Still, the more plainly erotic manifestations of artwork in other religions is simply an undeniable statement of how fundamentally part of the cosmos human sexuality is and more proof of the different attitudes that prevail in the western world.

Watts finally comes to the crux of his speech and what I had been expecting. Those few seconds of orgasm that over a lifetime may add up to a few hours seem almost patently to be one the easiest ways to approach a higher plane without any dedication or discipline. One of the oldest and most basic charges against organized religion is of a concerted attempt to control the masses. Surely the attempts to imbue with fear and demonize that which represents something more powerful than they could ever offer are part of the skewed, eons-long fixation.

"The ultimate sacrament in bringing lovers together." This is why sexuality is degraded when fools say that it should only be carried on for purposes of procreation. In fact "that is what animals do." "Mystical intoxication," becomes the ideal goddess. "Scales taken off the eyes"--by this I assume Watts means the inevitable comparison that many indulge in when looking at potential mates and which has to cease before someone will enter the realm of lover.

Returning once again to the theme of duality Watts states that opposition to prudery goes overboard. Where do you draw the line? The battle of morals represents the same complementary aspects that are part of everything. Moralists mustn't be obliterated or the resulting total hedonism would become bland and plastic. Libertines and prudes need each other. The tension that exists between them is what helps makes the world go round.

The problem with trying to relay the gist of a lecture by Watts is the same as trying to retell a good joke from a master comedian. It falls a bit flat in the translation. Also, unlike in print, a lecture will rely on simpler language and the skill of the speaker to pass on not only ideas but an overall feeling. Like a good novelist or film-maker who takes a simple almost cliched idea and makes it work, the cumulative and combined effects of an Alan Watts lecture are what makes it enjoyable.

2004-12-30T19:36:00.000+07:00

Looking for Answers

Where ignorance reigns, superstition is certain to be lurching right alongside, the stunted and brain-damaged substitute for logic and reason.

On the heels of the nearly incomprehensible tragedy that has wreaked destruction and taken close to 100, 000 lives in southern Asia, people are looking for answers. Already a resigned lamentation tacked on to any discussion about the horrific events is a growing belief by many Thais that the tsunamis that mashed resorts and killed thousands is some kind of monumental karmic payback. According to this way of thinking, the over-development and disregard for environmental concerns that have been a growing problem surrounding numerous tourist locations in the past number of years has finally been addressed in a tangible way.

The pop-Buddhism that is rarely explored but latched onto by so many young westerners simply because the idea appeals, is in reality not too far from what is practiced by the masses in Thailand. The inquiring, philosophical brand is the domain of a select few Thai and western scholars and is something I have rarely encountered here.

Belief in the fairy-tale version does not result in some smug, gleeful pride from remaining alive while others have perished. The empathy is real, to a person and pushes people to take real action including donations of money, food and clothing. It's the simplistic extrapolation from personal actions to the forces of nature. As if the pettiness of some bitter fool gobbing into someone else's plate of food before serving it to them is somehow similar to this. Their paucity of imagination is demonstrated by the fact that according to them, the supposed controlling force over the entire universe possesses human-like emotions similar to the ones that guide these fucking clods in their pathetic lives.

It's always interesting that regardless of where in the world and whichever is the fairy-tale of choice, the simpering adherents consistently have faith that their god is a vengeful, murderous force as petty and absurd in its actions as any human.

The fuck-ups at the Thai meteorological agency must be in cahoots with whichever god was behind this latest disaster. A person would hope that an agency like this would have in its employ some of the more educated and rational citizens of a 3rd world country that as a whole are light-years away from a wide ranging acceptance of common sense and logic. When government departments like this also have their heads lodged firmly up their arseholes, then any hope for a different scenario next time around is a laughable dream. Remember that this is the country that in the space of 1 year had 2 separate outbreaks of bird flu covered up by the same bureaucrats because the brainless fuckers are so obsessed with saving face.

As the bloated, maggot-ridden corpses are collected and sent off to their final resting places, one thing is certain. Much has already, and will continue to change as a result of this tragedy. Thais running screaming from the beach-front while walking alone at night, no more lovely tarts to happily shag doggy-style on the sand under the moonlight as the waves lap at the shore, any minor mishap in the vicinity attributed to the actions of some lost soul--will all become commonplace. In the minds of many, the ghosts of the victims will haunt the coastal tourist towns for all eternity.

Years hence when the beach-front resorts have been rebuilt, minus the rustic character that resulted as bits and pieces were added over decades, things will never be quite the same again.

2004-12-29T21:23:00.000+07:00

Movie Review: Super Size Me

Eat only McDonald's food for 30 days and see what the results will be. In Super Size Me, film-maker Morgan Spurlock does just that and the results are sickening and hilarious, creating a voyeuristic appeal that helps to drive this movie forward. The premise behind this independently made documentary grabs people so instantly that it has helped to make it incredibly popular in a short amount of time.

However, there is much more to this film than just the scenes of Spurlock ramming burgers down his throat and turning into a bloated, lethargic oaf. The film is mainly a look at the problem of obesity in the US as spurred on by the obscene amounts of money food giants spend on advertising as well as their influence over government policies through lobbying (i.e. more money.) Built around the 30-day schtick, it is an effective and engaging film.

Yanks are a nation of bloated slobs who keep cramming it in. The number of overweight yanks has doubled since 1980 and obesity now ranks as 2nd to smoking in terms of number of preventable deaths every year.

Because of the ever-increasing availability of inexpensive video equipment and film editing tools that can be adapted to a moderately priced computer, the documentary film genre is set to explode. Spurlock will serve as another motivator to every clod with a half-baked idea and some extra cash and time on his hands. The risk within the field of documentaries, and one that yank filmmakers seem ever prone to, is passing off contrived or staged events as reality in hopes of bolstering the popularity of the film. Get 'em in the seats and standards be damned. Likely some such term as "docutainment" has already been coined to describe the trend.

Spurlock steers surprisingly clear of this despite what the film's premise might suggest. Except for a vomiting scene that was probably induced, all other interviews and filmed interactions seem genuine. Bloated-hog-on-the-street interviews are as spontaneous as one could expect, and with Spurlock's wit, which is subtle and never mocking, there are some truly funny scenes. I also have to believe that the health effects of his month-long binge are real as documented by the 3 physicians who appear throughout. After the huge amount of publicity the film has received I am sure lawyers from McDonalds demanded verification of various health indicators as mentioned in the film under threat of lawsuit.

The surprise the doctors show regarding the sudden nosedive in the filmmaker's overall health seems authentic as well. During the month-long binge, his blood pressure, cholesterol and uric acid levels, as well as various liver indicators all sky-rocket while he bloats up in the process, going from a fairly healthy 185 lbs. to 208 lbs.

The film ticks along smoothly and this is a testament to the effort made during its filming and production. I suspect that Spurlock has studied film-making and the final product likely represents a year or more of work. He looks at the problem of obesity as driven by fast food giants from various angles including the addictive aspects, the insidious advertising techniques that hook children at a young age and even the booming subculture of fad diets. The white trash redemption fantasy no longer just includes drug and alcohol users. The fatsos are in on it now as well, with their own group of minor celebrities who have accomplished rapid weight loss and now are revered by other bloated fools who don't have what it takes to shed the pounds.

Spurlock has a knack for attracting freakish characters to be interviewed during the film...though yanks as a whole seem to be able to smoothly transition into the role of being in front of the cameras. It's almost as if they have been rehearsing their roles their whole life in case the opportunity arises. The rail-thin wacko who has consumed close to 20, 000 Big Macs and the manic son of a famous ice-cream maker are 2 in a range of interesting and entertaining interviews that are interspersed throughout.

Numerous clips in which Spurlock is followed into various McDonald's outlets by one of his partners who is filming the scenes, are hilarious as well. In the process they demonstrate the apparent requisite that to work for the peddlers of swill in the US you must be a swollen ox yourself. A strange contrast to Thailand where gorgeous women, often perfect tens, regularly staff the counters at various fast food joints. Again Spurlock shows a knack for thinking on his feet and often delivers a few subtle jabs that the po-faced slobs fail to catch.

There are plenty of interesting trivia bits and statistics doled out regarding McDonalds, including the fact that they control 43% of the fast food market in the US, have 30, 000 outlets world-wide and their own company jargon refers to customers who regularly frequent their restaurants as "heavy users."

While the graphics are often schlocky and amateurish, as would be expected, there are a series of what seem like original paintings that are shown momentarily as an introduction to various spiels on social issues, such as addiction that stem from the central topic of the film. Each one of the garish paintings features a bastardized, sinister looking Ronald McDonald appearing as though he is set to partake in some deviant activity. This is just one of the many nice touches that adds to the film.

The arrogance of McDonald's management and their failure to see this film as a looming public relations disaster is another enjoyable surprise, as Spurlock is casually brushed off no fewer than 15 times as he tries to arrange an interview with someone from their corporatre headquarters.

Even after viewing this well thought-out and researched documentary, the tendency of many will be the stock response to any serious effort to look at the underlying causes of obesity. Derision, mockery and assaults on the characters of those who don't have the will power to stop jeering their greedy mugs into the trough and slurping up pig-sized portions of unhealthy food. Any number of variations on "they don't have to eat there, eat as much...use some willpower ya fat bastids! etc." This attitude comes up a number of times throughout the film though never encouraged by Spurlock. He shows empathy for these people and his film makes a person think twice about piling on the poor fools who are destined to a shorter life anyway.

Looking beyond the simplistic explanations that make the rest of us feel superior seems to be a running theme throughout Super Size Me. In what is the most annoying aspect of the film, Spurlock's cheerful yet irritating girlfriend hectors him regarding the unhealthy side effects of his month-long experiment, culminating in a tearful and maudlin phone conversation after one of his final visits to the team of physicians in which the scope of his mounting health problems become apparent. Though choosing to make himself endure the marathon of self-punishment simply to make his film as authentic and intriguing as possible, in the process he demonstrates that despite the rankist, smug judgement of others, where we end up is not always down to superficial and dismissive reasons.

2004-12-27T21:11:00.000+07:00

Terror in Thailand

Not the overblown, shrill, government stoked "terrist" kind, but the natural brand that is always more devastating in its destruction.

It's been one hell of a few years for Thailand. Ironically, as the economy has continued to soar, the land o' uneasy smiles has been rocked with hardship after catastrophe, including SARS, the bird flu times 2 (or is it 3 now?), the continuing violence in the south and now the hideous destruction wreaked by the earthquake-induced tsunamis that have left hundreds dead on various beaches on the western coast. All of these problems have hit Thailand where she hurts most—in the dominant tourism industry.

Despite living hundreds of miles away in Bangkok which is inland no less, I've still had to field a handful of e-mails from ignoramuses in different parts of the world who nonetheless are concerned for my welfare. How else could I respond? "In fact, hundred-meter tall waves did manage to rage 9 hours north across countryside and through numerous cities and have devastated the nation's capital..."

Greeting various acquaintances throughout the day, some of us go through the motions of mouthing a few trite platitudes in an attempt to voice empathy for the victims and their families. In reality it seems more an exercise to convince ourselves that we really do care.

For others, the breathless, exhilarated telling of where and when we heard, what latest numbers we have from what sources, who we might know in the locations where it's all happening and barring that, the adopted 1st person accounts we have read and pass on as if it's our own family member who told us...within all that is a thrill at being alive and the strange pleasure humans get in relaying bad news.

Don't get me wrong, there is a genuine, if vague sense of grief and sadness that this has befallen others. Regarding the ability to directly help out, my paranoia is winning out at the moment, as I am certain the sinister cunts who have already asked me for money with red buckets emblazoned with an amateurish looking decal were not part of any official charity raising. I would like to help and will in a monetary way when I am certain of the legitimacy of the agency making the collection. I also enjoy a bit of manual labour every once in a while for the workout and the immediate sense of accomplishment and that is just one reason I wish I was in the heart of the aftermath down there. Probably the other more urgent reason I would like to be there is that there is something elemental and thrilling at witnessing such natural force, assuming of course that all your friends and family survive the onslaught.

Also, besides being right there to help, the sense of empathy is greatly heightened when you're in the midst of devastation. Barring that you really have to work on feeling it...but it can be done. Just as when you've lost a loved one in a car accident, you can sit and meditate, put yourself in that person's place in the seconds leading up to the final impact and if enough concentration is imparted you will start forward with a gasp, the eerie sense of reality so strong that you can terrify yourself. So too with those who suffered this horrific ending you can sit and force yourself to that final precarious moment and in so doing you will be filled with a desperate hope that it wasn't too prolonged, that the final flailings were quick, the overwhelming pressure on every inch of their being only momentary.

While some tragedies start out with various sources high-balling the death toll, in this case it seems like it will only rise. Less than 48 hours after the waves raged ashore at speeds estimated at 500 km per hour, 25,000 dead (for all Asian countries affected) is the most recent number I have seen. That it will top out at 60- 70, 000 isn't unlikely. Just as all these disasters seem to follow their own sad story-lines, let's also hope that there are a few stranded souls clinging to life somewhere who can ride out whatever hardships come their way with a Hurculean effort before they are finally rescued.

2004-12-26T15:40:00.000+07:00

Book Review: The Da Vinci Code—by Dan Brown

It always pays to be skeptical about indulging in the latest pop-culture sensation, from the most recent Hollywood hype job to whichever tripe is being passed off as music and dutifully propelled into the top spot by the obedient masses. It may be somewhat harder to create a successful book where the actual quality of the volume does not back up that popularity, though inevitably it does happen. Within all the flotsam, it takes only a modicum of common sense to determine which segment of the population a particular book may be directed towards. Occasionally a book will transcend classes—including social, gender, genre preference and entertainment (i.e. the format which a person normally patronizes) and appeal to a wide and varied audience.

The Da Vinci Code is such a book. Released in 2003, it has steadily gained in appeal, exposure and overall sales.

After reading the book I can understand its success. The strongest things going for it are a compelling story idea backed up with loads of interesting, supposed facts, as well as a plot that, while cliched, keeps things ticking along quite nicely.

The protagonist is a yank academic expert specializing in religious symbols. A clever opening has the yank symbologist, Robert Langdon, drawn into the murder investigation of a top curator at the Louvre while he is in Paris to give a lecture. He is brought together with the other lead character, Sophie Neveu, who happens to be the grand-daughter of the slain Louvre sentinel. The last remaining elite member of a brotherhood that protects the Holy Grail from being discovered, he leaves a series of clues at the location of his death in hopes of leading Langdon and Neveu to the hiding spot.

A grizzled, merciless French police chief is after Langdon and Neveu once a contrived series of events ensure made-for drama confusion and an incorrect accusation against Langdon regarding the murder. In any such drama based on the race to find something, there are normally at least 3 interested parties in the hunt, and Brown employs the same tactic here. The 3rd seeker of the Grail is a bishop from the powerful catholic church group known as Opus Dei. With his freakish charge, a brain-washed albino giant, and help from an unknown "Teacher" who provides inside information and keeps the reader guessing as to who he is, the different parties are after Langdon and Neveu as they follow the series of clues left by the dead Loevre curator.

The parts of this novel that kept me reading were the instances when the main character had the opportunity to demonstrate his (the author's research) theories regarding the history of the church and their use of symbols in creating a story-line to be lapped up by the masses. The destruction of the feminine mystique as perpetrated by the church, is a running theme throughout the book, as well as how famous artists railed against the church through the slew of hidden messages and symbols in their work as a means to give voice to what they believed was the real story of christ without tipping off those for whom they were often commissioned to do work...i.e. the church. Another theory woven into the story is that it is a lie that Mary Magdalene was a whore when in fact she was (apparently) from a well-to-do family and thus was a perfect match for christ and also that she and christ had a child.

Behind the heretical (to the church) variations of history are the secret societies known as the Knights Templar, and the offshoot organization that is even more select and ethereal, the Priory of Sion, with supposed famous members through the ages including the likes of Leonardo da Vinci and Victor Hugo. The existence of the Priory of Sion is highly doubtful, but its claimed raison d'etre as laid out in The Da Vinci Code (and numerous other books, essays etc.) is keeping the Holy Grail hidden and protected and deciding upon its eventual unveiling at an historical appropriate time to do the most damage to the church.

Though I mentioned that the author, Dan Brown, seems to understand the use of plot, the twists themselves are absolutely fraught with cliches, as is the use of language. That he was obsessive about research and truly intrigued by the story idea is evidenced by the fact that the most compelling passages are when part of the theory that drives the story forward is being doled out by Langdon, when he is regaling another character with his knowledge. Handled in a less deft fashion, this book would be roundly dismissed as an awkward vehicle for a conspiracy theory. Because of the attention it has gained, many are of course doing just that, but it is also sparking countless others to casually accept the claims outlined in the Da Vinci code.

Brown employs a technique not uncommon in thrillers and mysteries, and that is leading the reader down a false path so as to set up various plot twists and unexpected eventualities. The problem here is that when the resolution plays out, the cryptic build-ups in earlier chapters in no way jibes with the benign reality that the reader is then asked to accept. Sinister organizations and insidious heartless characters are suddenly harmless as if it were all imagined. If the touches had been subtler, it would have been more acceptable with the framework established. As it is, it comes off as somewhat lacking in imagination.

With regards to the plot, it appears Brown makes a concerted effort to be formulaic. In fact, comparisons to an earlier novel with the same character show enough similarities to demonstrate that Brown makes no bones about his lack of innovation and instead seems intent on polishing his own tried formula. A quick check on the fog index* and other readability factors indicates that the prose style is certainly intended to appeal to as wide an audience as possible (a few samples show a fog index from 6.5-10, with most in the 7-8 range--exactly what is considered a level most palatable to the masses.)

While plot-driven, there is still an expectation of at least some character development but here they remain flat and undeveloped. In fact, I can't recall any tendencies or personality traits specific to the characters nor did I have a visual image of them in my mind's eye as I was reading--something that I normally find with most books.

The Da Vinci Code is simple to read, with a story idea that almost anyone from a western country will find intriguing. Whether you are a raging atheist or a gullible bible-beater, the society you have grown up in is part of Christendom. The influences of christianity on your own life and world view are almost impossible to deny. If you reject all that the church stands for, that denial and the opposite beliefs you hold are proof of the overarching effects of the dominant religion of any society. The allure of a hidden, secret trove of documents that could somehow bring down such a powerful organization or contain some never before fathomed truth that could alter the political and religious power structure of the world is also a concept that contains mystery.

Written in such a way as to appeal to as many as possible, Brown likely had visions of seeing the book adapted to the big screen and probably constructed it with that in mind. True to the puritanical mind-set of the US as a whole, the sexual tension in the novel is kept to a puerile level and only a few cutesy comments hint at any developing relationship between the 2 main characters, perfect for a cinematic rendition most acceptable to the masses---soaked with violence but free from any abhorrent sexuality. The movie is already in the works with big names from Hollywood certain to keep The Da Vinci Code a phenomenon for some years to come.

*Here is a site I found that allows you to upload any document or type in any URL and quickly obtain numerous indicators such as the fog index.

2004-12-10T18:59:00.000+07:00

Murder Made for Metal

I can't say I was ever a fan but what a strange and pointless death suffered by former Pantera guitarist Darrell Abbott. Some lunatic rushes onstage during a performance by his new band Damageplan and puts 5 bullets into him.

I've only seen it mentioned in one article, but it is kind of weird that it occurred 24 years to the day after John Lennon was murdered in New York. The same number of bullets as well.

Years ago I was travelling through Spain and was in the northern town of San Sebastian when Pantera came through for a performance. A mate I was with eagerly rushed off to the show that night and praised it as one of the best he'd ever seen. I had just had my wallet nicked and lost a good chunk of cash and had to think forward to the coming days and so had to decline the offer to join him. He said it was the most unique concert he'd ever seen not least because of the fact that staff members associated with the band were passing or throwing hundreds of small cups with beer into the audience.

In the last 10 years or so I've passed up the opportunity to see 3 different famous rock performers only to see them killed a few years later; Stevie Ray Vaughn, John Denver and now Darrell Abbott. However, even if I'd known Denver was soon to buy it I probably still would have turned down the invitation.

When the shock of tragedy dies down it's at least certain to cement Abbott as a heavy metal legend. The emotion of it all might even push a few melodramatic sorts over the edge, the type who've been conditioned by years of cliched, tragic storylines...

He killed his parents as they slept. He bludgeoned them to death with an electric guitar. He then soaked himself in gasoline and climbed aboard his motorcycle, drove onto the freeway and set himself alight as he plowed head-on into a truck.

2004-12-09T23:04:00.000+07:00

The Truth is Illegal

Almost to a person, expats talk about the strangeness of Thailand being a factor that makes it appealing to live here. The situation in the south has ratcheted up in the past few weeks to such a degree of insanity that things have moved beyond the standard Twilight Zone comparison and brought home just how ingrained an historical government structure remains despite claims of democracy. The result is a certain ham-fisted, brutal, blundering reality, replete with absurd denials and murderous rage directed at those who point out the continuing fuck-ups.

Fascist clowns and apes gulping fistfuls of acid and wearing simpering grins, their faces caked in shit as they become perturbed that anyone dares to mention the stench emanating from their fecal stained mugs. Hammering skulls into pulp and then claiming it never happened the way eyewitnesses claim, despite the availability of images that clearly show those who were present are telling the truth.

"Wha shud we do, wha shud we do my fellow simians? We're killing people and shrugging our shoulders. There's a group of criminals lobbing bombs on a daily basis but we can't put a stop to it, so let's vent our frustration and break some heads and kill some people at a demonstration.

Now we've got to deal with the fallout. The top pathologist in the land wants to help...get her da fuck outta here!

And to show the people what intelligent bags a shit us cunts at the top are we'll get down to some real thinking...how to stop this unrest in the south...what should we do? Thas it! Let's get every damn fool across the land to make paper fuckin' birds and then we'll dump 80 million of the fuckers from airplanes onto the southern provinces!

But the truth, the truth, waddawe do about that? We don't want no truth being uncovered! Let's just outlaw da fuckin' truth!!"

If it takes generations to change the mindset of a nation and those who are in charge, backsliding isn't fraught with the same time-related difficulties. It's interesting listening to those who respond to the people who are accurately describing the shadow of fascism that is darkening wackoland USA. They mock those who make the claims without even knowing what fascism is, nor understand that any theoretical description of any form of government rarely occurs in its purest form. But they seem to be relying on their Hollywood mind's eye to tell them that appropriately disastrous scenes aren't playing out before them so nothing really bad can be happening. That's the worst part...things pretty much carry on as before, until your face is the one that's being stomped on.

2004-12-06T09:30:00.000+07:00

Showering Together: A Social Experiment in Thailand

A hunch that I have long held is that the poorer a woman is, the more workmanlike approach she will adopt for cleaning herself in the shower. This belief has come from years of taking showers with various tarts during that playful, almost ethereal, pre or post-shag time spent together. That achingly sweet experience that is so appropriate in the hot climates of the world...preferably in the afternoon, with only natural light so as to best induce an hypnotic, trance-like quality.

However, with the blurring of time and the long parade of floozies, I couldn't vouch for the accuracy of this claim, though I was quite certain a controlled experiment would prove it to be true.

There are a number of possibilities that may lead to the expected pattern. First, the familiarity that the lower classes have with performing rote tasks such as learned in the rice fields or factories and that become applied to other ritual daily routines. Second, the hardscrabble upbringing is often accompanied by limited water resources, which may lead to the developing of more efficient cleaning practices. Some of these young girls spent the early years of their life bathing outdoors in a private area that nonetheless could be seen by prying eyes. As a result many were brought up with the habit of wearing a wraparound while they were cleaning themselves, becoming expert at deftly cleaning themselves with as little water as possible and maneuvering around the fabric of the thin garment.

There are other intangibles that could have skewed the results of this less than scientific research. For example, how many felt the urgent need to vacate the shower stall and get as far away from what they may have thought was a hideous, diseased piece of human garbage? Hard to say but it should be noted that I never applied any undue pressure for any of these women to join me.

The sample size consisted of 100 Thai women in need of a shower from all points on the social spectrum.

The method used to measure results was simple observation.

None of these women were prostitutes in the strictest sense of the word. In other words I did not pay any of them for their participation in the study nor did I even inform them that it was taking place. All of these women have been acquainted with me over a period of years. In all cases I tried to avoid the insinuation that this was a pre-sexual contact cleaning session so as to avoid the inevitable urgency that could have resulted thus skewing the results.

The experiment took place over a period of 4 months and was conducted in numerous locations, though the primary ones were 1.) my flat 2.) the opulent digs of a wealthy middle-aged hag who I service occasionally. The other instances were at the homes of the various women involved in the experiment.

In the case of the home of the middle-aged widow, this was only used during times when she was away for days at a time and had entrusted me with the run of the place. This presented what I believe were irregularities and as a result I discarded the observations gleaned from those sessions. Normally the women I secreted into the home of the absent widow were overwhelmed by the wealth to such a degree that I believe it induced behaviour that did not adhere to their normal standards. The sunken marble bath was not conducive to showers and instead resulted in long leisurely baths together.

I made an effort to follow the same procedure and lead-up to every shower taken together with the subjects of the research. I endeavored to recreate as much as possible the same environment in each situation so as to avoid anomalies. As mentioned, I was previously acquainted with all the women involved. Normally a mid-morning coffee or breakfast appointment was arranged at a location some distance from where the hoped-for shower would take place. A convivial atmosphere was cultivated during the meeting and inevitably any invitation to one of the 2 mentioned locations or a suggestion to repair to hers was readily accepted. A taxi was hailed but on a pretense we always alighted somewhere that was a fair distance but still within walking distance from the intended final destination. Upon finally arriving after making some unnecessary purchase at the local shop, we would be hot, covered in perspiration and receptive to a refreshing cool down. After re-attaining a comfort zone over drinks, the simplest of offers was met with regular success "Ya want that nice little arse of yours scrubbed in a relaxing early-afternoon shower?"

Now! On to the results...

As expected, my hypothesis was borne out. The more underprivileged background a woman was from the more efficient and to the point she was in cleaning herself. The general procedure included full body lathering with spare movements, little banter and an understood desire to wrap things up as quickly as possible.

This contrasted with the behaviour of the women from middle and upper-class families. The shower was seen more as a sensual experience. In the most extreme cases a mewling petulance was exhibited with sulking demands that I assist in cleaning them (I happily obliged.) Some of the more well-heeled specimens developed a glazed look in their eyes, were more prone to insert digits, shampoo bottle or brushes into themselves and also were more likely to sit down in the shower. I attributed some of this behaviour to being spoiled as a child though more research is needed in this area.

A number of other observations came from the study, some with relevancy to the the proposed theory and others that are unrelated:

Women with larger asses are more likely to enjoy the tactile sensation of mashing their lathered arses against the tiled wall of the shower stall.

The most likely shagging position adopted in the shower (again this was not pursued aggressively but naturally developed in a number of cases) was standing, with the woman bent over.

Women from more privileged backgrounds were more likely to initiate mutual washing. However, all women were receptive to mutual washing when I was the instigator.

A number of women, with no correlation to social background, enjoy squatting and urinating while in the shower. A rare few also found a strange pleasure in shitting in the shower.

Women from poor, mostly rural upbringings, while displaying the general playfulness that all women expressed when taking a shower together with me, were more likely at some point to display a seriousness, a clear signal to get down to business and finish the task at hand.

There is something elemental about water that can almost cause a regression or at least draw out distinctive traits of someone's personality. Also, washing habits are learned early in life and may trigger memories associated to that time, especially when another person is involved, often representing a surrogate parent for the weaker person in the relationship (i.e. the woman.) It is clear that our upbringings and the values we accrue over time infuse every aspect of our behaviour. The keenest observers can benefit and gain insight from all variety of routines and tasks that those around them perform.

As for the results, I can't honestly claim that there are any concrete or constructive conclusions that can be gleaned from my research, though for those with a particular taste in showering activities it may help direct them towards the type of woman most likely to satisfy their particular desire. However, I am calling back the most nubile participants for follow-ups in hopes of definitely confirming another suspicion that arose from the initial round of research, that being that a ripe, upturned, well-lathered, female arse is one of the most exquisite sights to behold.

2004-12-04T08:20:00.000+07:00

The Allure of Nostalgia

Who isn't subject to the odd bout of nostalgia? Perhaps raving sociopaths...

Everything looks good when looking backwards. Your own personal nostalgia trips with special meaning attached to various things that would leave others cold. Also, collective nostalgia, both for times you may have been alive and for others that perhaps your parents experienced.

Despite the slaughter of 50 million, WWII seems to have that evocative quality for many who weren't around at the time, fuelled by a never-ending flow of movies and books that romanticize the time period.

A few years after the fall of brutal dictatorships there's always bound to be the odd nostalgia piece on people bemoaning the ""good old days." Though we may have been afloat on an ocean of shit, all we seem to remember are the peanuts.

There's always a healthy trade in artifacts and things from those bygone eras as well. And who doesn't enjoy the heft and feel of something created with skilled workmanship and care that has lasted the test of time? An old fishing rod, a solid, well-used pencil sharpener with the distinctive smell of shavings or a leather-bound volume that is hundreds of years old. Handled by others who lived in those days, representative of different ideas, morals and hopes. The basic and almost crude attempts at early package design that if attempted today would be laughed at, but presented as retro, a telegraphed appeal to an earlier time, and more often than not it works.

Memories and nostalgia are one way we seem to be able to get our heads around the ephemeral nature of time while engaging in a bit of revisionist history, forgetting the pain and remembering the best. Strange that the increasing speed of social phenomena makes at least the collective nostalgia celebrated closer and closer to the time period when it was first experienced.

Despite the fact that those reveries are a way of connecting with years gone by, the one thing from the past that we rarely are able to face with such a casual and positive embrace is...ourselves.

The changes you undergo in your outlook, personality and understanding of the world makes you almost literally a different person today than you were 10 years ago. Though many swallow fairy tale renditions of reincarnation, other believers in eastern religions actually think that a new life is not granted after death but is a constant renewal within this existence.

That we are unable to face up to unresolved issues in our past is illustrated by the uncomfortable relationship many adults develop with their families. The passage of time and the growing infrequency of visits makes every subsequent one an emotional and often unpleasant experience. When you sit down at the table for a family meal for the first time in years, not only are you facing your family members but your former selves. The natural instinct is to avoid those situations where you have to face down your past incarnations. Those situations aren't so troubling because of a physical location but more likely the very people who elicit such ghosts.

Like a married man who cheats on his wife and then is reminded of his guilt each time he sees his spouse, he will eventually come to resent her for arousing such feelings. In the same way a family reunion can result in misdirected angst.

Behind closed doors, families with 30, 40, 50 year-old siblings can regress into puerile bickering matches sparked by what would appear to be absurdities to an outsider...

"Here Johnny, ya want some chocolate cake? Remember how much you used to like your cake? Hey everyone, remember how Johnny used to like the cake?"

"Why you son-of-a...YOUU CUUUUUUNT!!!!!!"

A family split, even one that is not dramatic but a drifting that occurs over years, might not be recognized as fully when a person is only a few hour's drive from their dysfunctional brood. The local environment that helped solidify a certain persona keeps whatever wacked-out idiosyncrasies that may have developed, still floating around the periphery. A total disconnect as when the home country has been vacated for many years can exaggerate changes, leaving the person satisfied with how things played out if somewhat wistful at times. A return visit is inevitable, likely played up in the long-absent fool's mind with a prodigal son story line, but when family members and fossilized former mates and acquaintances are more interested in the past, the separation is finally complete.

Cross-posted at: Flogging the Simian

2004-12-02T20:43:00.000+07:00

Book Review: Why I Am an Agnostic by Robert G. Ingersoll

This is not a well-researched, dry discourse that attempts to refute the religion of christianity. In its infinite logic and simplicity it demonstrates why that in fact is not necessary. In this brief and precise volume, the author, Robert Ingersoll simply points out the all-encompassing absurdity of every facet of the religion and the traits of the intractable moron who is the average christ lover.

The ridiculous fairy-tales. The unanswered criticism. Above all the stunning contradiction of hatred, revenge and promises of eternal damnation that thrill so many righteous scum while blithely claiming that theirs is a religion of peace and love.

There are multi-layered, complex attempts by highly intelligent individuals to provide well-articulated theses on the supposed truth of christianity. Pedantic tomes that require mental gymnastics to give them any sort of credence. There are just as many equally weighty responses. Aside from the potential entertainment value, Ingersoll demonstrates why they are not necessary. There is absolutely nothing in the bible or as preached by the religious fools that in any way jibes with the reality around us.

The most basic of questions directed at these intolerant bigots cannot be answered, only met with dodges and weaves. Anyone who provides a succinct and memorable demolition of the absurdities is not given a rebuttal, for one cannot be provided, but instead has their reputation shredded.

Religion appeals to scared individuals for whom logic is alien and it perpetuates that mindset. In their thinking, no moronic attempt to respond to the overwhelming evidence that obscures their antiquated fairy tale is beyond the pale. The presence of fossils that obliterate the ridiculous timeline proposed by the book these shitheads worship? Simple...they were put there by their supernatural vengeful deity so as to test their faith.

Ingersoll provides a personal recounting of his religious upbringing highlighted against his ongoing realization at how unbelievable the teachings of christianity were when questioned. Those who seemed most obsessive about the cult and became preachers seemed to be of a type. They all used the promise of eternal pain and suffering as the central aspect of their beliefs and attacked anyone who dared to question them. Get caught up in the morass of circular reasoning and fear-induced belief and all one has to do is open their eyes. This is exactly what Ingersoll did and he points to this as another factor in helping to eliminate any doubt he had that christianity was anything but undiluted horseshit. His studies and research in science, astronomy and the humanities provided him with the enemy of all religions...knowledge and the desire to question.

Ingersoll introduces an absurdity and then effectively piles on observation after contradiction to demonstrate what tripe it all is. Short sentences, staccato-like rhythm and repetition are all tools that he uses to drive home his point. In fact, Ingersoll almost seems to ape the mantra-like style that many down home preachers of his day likely used, and this would be in line with his clever approach throughout that is laced with mocking wit and irony. Far from adhering to a respectful tone, Ingersoll implements the only kind of language that can be used to counter such patent absurdity that has nonetheless convinced so many ignoramuses through the ages. A common conclusion that Ingersoll arrives at when trying to understand the thinking of those who preach, defend and worship christianity is that of insanity. Even regarding the asshole who helped to get the fucked-up ball rolling:

"We know, if we know anything, that devils do not exist-that Christ never cast them out, and that if he pretended to, he was either ignorant, dishonest or insane."

Together with the obsessive reverence many seem to show christianity because of the outlet it provides for their own sadistic feelings, another theme that runs throughout Ingersoll's piece is the almost universal condemnation by theses wackos of all that is most pleasurable in life.

Not only does the puritanical, controlling, shrew-like mindset of christ lovers demonstrate their warped view but it also seems to inhibit those artistic tendencies which result in the other-worldly rendering by the most skilled of writers.

Though a small sample, he highlights some of the writers who most affected him with their ability to deal with human nature, love and the beauty of women against the paucity of similar examples from the puritans as another demonstration of the skewed, self-punishing, just plain anti-all-that-makes-life-wonderful outlook, as another reason to dismiss these fraudulent control freaks and their load of shit. (One that Ingersoll cites is Shakespeare...a fair number of interesting articles on whether he was in fact atheist/agnostic.)

Though eviscerating the non-logic behind christianity, Ingersoll also touches on the utter lack of originality in its holy book, pointing out that the same basic foundations can be found throughout all religions:

"I concluded that all religions had the same foundation-a belief in the supernatural-a power above nature that man could influence by worship-by sacrifice and prayer. I found that all religions rested on a mistaken conception of nature- that the religion of a people was the science of that people, that is to say, their explanation of the world-of life and death-of origin and destiny. I concluded that all religions had substantially the same origin, and that in fact there has never been but one religion in the world. The twigs and leaves may differ, but the trunk is the same."

Though hardly an original thought, the simple articulation is indicative of what makes the entire book so enjoyable to read. In that simple telling a light is shone on the limits of man's mind, as incredible as it is in many ways. The vastness of time can never be truly grasped by us, all tears that are shed are ultimately of the self-pitying variety, all actions are selfish and all concepts of god in the end are only a deification of ourselves. The righteous scum who latch onto the vengeful image of god are of course ecstatic that their own feelings have been given legitimacy. When they invoke the name of god they are referring to themselves though they are so short-sighted and foolish as to not embrace the simplicity of that fact.

Ingersoll ultimately strikes a hopeful and positive note and never once, as the "agnostic" in the book's title refers to, claims to know the answers, only that those who do propose simplistic solutions are fools. That the fundamental questions of existence remain unknowable drives many into the arms of the dispensers of fairy tales with the caveat that they must also accept a degradation of all else in life that potentially holds wonder or the key to a worldly plane of pleasure that might never be fully quantified or understood.

However, more than one hundred years after the book was published and as we look forward to this new century that is certain to be mankind's bloodiest, Ingersoll may have been too optimistic:

"Nothing gives me greater joy than to know that this belief in eternal pain is growing weaker every day-that thousands of ministers are ashamed of it. It gives me joy to know that Christians are becoming merciful, so merciful that the fires of hell are burning low-flickering, choked with ashes, destined in a few years to die out forever."

That they can punish themselves during their one eternal existence is their own damn loss but the danger these clods present to others is reason to continually stand up to them and prevent them from further insinuating themselves into the governments of the world.

To obtain a free e-book version (in PDF format), e-mail me at: pistonhips@gmail.com

2004-11-30T08:36:00.000+07:00

Mumbling

Mumbling is one of the most annoying habits to put up with when interacting with someone. The inability to utter words clearly and failing to decisively end a comment so as to allow someone else in a conversation to take a turn or when it's obvious one party wants to take leave. That strange, maundering, tapering off that never quite seems to end, creating an awkward social moment yet certain to be exhibited the next time around by the same person.

Deference, submission or real-time uncertainty as the person hears their own voice and blanches at the absurdity of their thoughts being formulated into speech. It can be painful watching these clods hang themselves out for anyone wanting a jolt of cheap superiority.

There seems to be a prevalence of mumblers amongst the expat community here. Broken down misfits who seem as though they're ashamed to be alive, the merest attempt at give and take in a conversation and they will quickly adhere to your viewpoint. So conditioned to hearing their words mocked that they start to take on the trait themselves? Questioning everything they think or say to the point that a complete comment cannot be uttered before the doubt starts clawing back at the words before they escape?

However, assuming that such behaviour is naturally associated with an inferiority complex could be the same as the mistaken belief by many that politeness is a sign of weakness.

Perhaps going days at a time without conversing with someone in their own language beyond stilted pidgin level, their voice atrophies. After some months or years the sense that they are fading becomes real...just as any skill will erode with lack of practice so too our ability to maintain the public face we offer up will become less familiar and not so easy to take on as opportunities lessen.

Set one of these ghosts at ease over a few pints and the pent-up internal banter will come pouring out, resulting in some interesting conversation. Just as long-term friends will unknowingly take on mannerisms of their mates over time, often the mumbler is such a blank slate that he or she will often adopt various attributes of a person with whom they are chatting for the duration of that single interaction.

*************************

While looking for some shade-tree analysis on the underlying psychology of mumbling so as to supplement my own rambling, I came across this dictionary of nonverbal behaviour. Though no entry on mumbling, it does provide some interesting reading (note that it appears to be down at certain times during the day but is well worth bookmarking and checking at a later time.)

2004-11-28T15:49:00.000+07:00

The Beer Bar

The beer bar is a particular type of establishment in Bangkok (elsewhere in Thailand as well) that is a front for prostitution aimed at foreign tourists. Actually, "front" probably isn't the correct description, as that word tends to connote something covert or at least with a modicum of effort made to conceal.

There is no doubt that the women working in these establishments are whores yet there are always a few fools who steadfastly insist that this is not the case. Such a fool does not even have to be a gaping first-timer smitten with a peasant girl who is lining him up for a big score, the sap convincing himself that he'll just lay some money on her to be generous. No, even regular visitors often take this strange stance that the woman he just happens to visit on a regular basis is an exceptional case and works there only as a waitress. An example of cognitive dissonance in an attempt to adequately sweep aside the knowledge that the hole they are plugging has not taken hundreds of diseased cocks before them.

The bar itself is usually of the affected rustic look that appeals to the mindset of the foreigner who likes to envision himself as a daring adventurer in far-flung corners of the orient. Open-aired with plenty of bamboo, wood fittings and winsome cultural decorations, it is not unlike what would genuinely appear in other locations in Thailand because of climate and available material for construction. However, it stands out as contrived and garish in Bangkok. Like a carnival sideshow hastily slapped up, the air of cheapness is increased because of the presence of the caricature-like western oafs and imbeciles with their rictus grins and absurd get-ups.

The women who work at the bars are usually poor, uneducated and from the countryside, having made the decision to sell their bodies to support their families. Normally they are relatively attractive but they age quickly and the turnover rate is high. Some stick it out and develop monumentally haggard faces, continuing to appeal to select deviants and occasionally opening their own bars.

The tendency of most Thais to make the best of any situation results in another myth being perpetuated by the foreign whore mongers. Perhaps in an effort to legitimize their actions to themselves and others as much as possible, many claim that the girls have made the choice to sell themselves simply because it is a job that appeals to them. With the options of factory worker, sales clerk, secretary or prostitute, according to this theory, they simply choose to be a hooker for all the various benefits and perks the job offers. This skewed line of reasoning posits that it is not only for the vast difference in pay that exists between prostitution and the other options but because the girls are just attracted to the daily routine that getting cored out by strangers offers them.

Other variant explanations accept that money is the key motivating factor but are usually spewed by those whose complex world-views can be summed up as "everyone has a choice..." Failing to recognize the inequities and virtual nothingness offered by any supposedly legitimate opportunities available otherwise, these fools can see only their own experience and home country as the template with which to judge others. Regardless, all such negative depictions of the whores they are screwing allow a degradation in the mind of the foreigner, one that gives them an out when they need to release their pent-up feelings of self-loathing.

Surrounding the various beer bar districts, an economy builds up to support the whores and their customers. Restaurants, hotels and food vendors all service and keep the receptacle and the cock alive and functioning. Feeling at home in their diseased stomping ground, both the whore-mongers and whores feed off the contempt they know others feel for them. Both take part in a mutual outward flaunting of their twisted relationship. The whore disdainfully and brazenly strides about with her catch, clued in to the reactions of other Thais and careful to make certain that they understand she is oblivious to what they think. The foreign piece of scum courts the stares of others with his ridiculous behaviour which includes holding hands with his teen-aged prostitute and openly leering at all other Thai women he passes with his used slut in tow, desperate to prove to all how virile he thinks he is. Just as the prostitute is aware of the thinking of other Thais, so the sex tourist seems to brighten up at the approach of a western woman, eager to display his temporary feeling of liberation.

Where women are bought and used so regularly it is not surprising how many fools are insecure basket cases, despite trying to present themselves as debauched libertines. Though they are in relative carnal heaven, it doesn't take much to draw out evidence of a precarious ego. Someone entering the bar who doesn't look like an extra from the set of a low-budget horror movie will elicit discomfort from the other foreigners already there. Resigned to their lot, of course the women would rather take paying cock attached to the least hideous of the foreign slobs and will gravitate to those customers who are less likely to make them vomit. Despite their perceived rise in personal currency amongst the local women, the fools are reminded of exactly why they have to pay for it in the first place.

Cross-posted at: Flogging the Simian

2004-11-27T07:15:00.000+07:00

Ride On Brainless Fuckers

The annual road fatality statistics are in for Thailand with 13, 000 corpses littering last year's shoulder-shrugging, convinced-of-multiple-lives, total-disconnect-from-reality, simpering, rapidly-blinking, genuine-incomprehensibility-at-the-mention-of-the concept-of-cause-and-effect, head-up-the-ass, gleefully swerving, petrol-stations-at- the-side-of-the-road-selling-booze, slamming-head-on-into-brick-walls-for-kicks, fucked-up highway of death. 70, 000 fools hammered into varying states of physical destruction as well.

The statistics repeat themselves every year yet it seems that the nationwide aspiration is for every cunt to seek out death and maiming in the same way. A giant slaughterhouse wagon winds its way through every village and city throughout the land on a yearly tour, offering up a blood-soaked glimpse to the masses of what the future holds for them. Yet every brainless cunt streams out of their house and swarms the deathmobile as it passes through, thrilling at the hope that one day they will meet a similar end.

Though there is some dispute, it appears as though Thailand is tops for SEA. With a fairly healthy economy relative to other wretched 3rd world holes in the neighbourhood, more cars and motorcycles on the road means more first time fools and potential for disaster (no indication of per-capita deaths as based on car ownership in the stats.)

Still, the majority of car owners are from the middle and upper class and this suggests that this is a nation teeming with complete and utter ignoramuses for whom increased education levels does nothing to improve driving ability nor heighten the instinct to avoid death and injury. Despite some desperate attempts by clueless tourists to perpetuate the myth that Thais are benign, good-natured simpletons, the middle and upper classes here are as arrogant as any group of fuckers anywhere. In fact, in a society where wealth allows a person to literally get away with murder, the self-righteous belief that they are qualitatively different than others and not subject to the same rules likely imbues these cunts with a sullen disregard for road safety.

The fuckin' fool in charge of this insane asylum is obsessed with making regular and absurd declarations regarding the elimination of various social problems, yet the massive economic cost that the yearly road carnage causes doesn't seem enough to spur the arrogant tit into addressing this issue in a serious way.

Though this is a world-wide problem it is worse by degrees in SEA and particularly Thailand as these latest numbers indicate. The worst part is that even for those who avoid the roads as much as possible, the danger is almost as prevalent in such a pedestrian unfriendly city as Bangkok. Any number of years will not allow a person to become inured to this preventable and self-destructive behaviour.

As much as I hope to avoid this end, I've already seen my final days in this country flash before my eyes a hundred times as I shatter a side window after some moronic fool has clipped me, dragging the cunt from his car and hammering his skull into the pavement.

2004-11-25T22:33:00.001+07:00

Hobbies

I keep a number of fashion mannequins in the basement. I also have a sizable collection of special effects make-up; putty, false wigs, eyelashes, prosthetics, stage blood...you name it and I've got it. I've become a good judge of facial bone structure over the years. After a few brief meetings with someone I can quite deftly reconstruct a good likeness with various sculpting tools and stage supplies. The face of the mannequin takes on the look and the feel of the real person. In this way I become extremely intimate with this person I have simucloned. This is a word I created to describe this process as it is partially but not only a simulation, which suggests something flat and uninspired...nor can I go so far as to call it a true clone, hence the synthesis of the 2 words. I feel such a unique word is necessary for something that is probably not undertaken by many others with such care and precision.

When I use the word "intimate" you likely imagine something sinister or unhealthy. In fact, the intimacy I am referring to immensely expands my pathos and understanding for the person that I have simucloned.

I am interested in the concept of physiognomy. That is the belief that we can ascertain character traits from looking at the facial attributes of a person. I am split on the logic behind this. At best it is a pseudo-science but still quite intriguing. Is a low forehead evidence of low intellect? Or are the developing years and subsequent lifetime of feedback absorbed because of a less than appealing visage what leads to such eventualities?

I can take these random musings and explore them fully and without the encumbrances of social etiquette and bothersome norms that would make it impossible otherwise. I can lie on the floor at odd angles observing the unique jaw-line characteristics that facilitate the energy flow and reciprocal absorption of various forces that are circulating and can be taken on by our countenances. I can reconstruct strange facial anomalies and individual momentary revulsions specific to each person---not unlike the scientific analysis of DNA---gleaned from my scrupulous observations. I can stare for hours from a particular point of view and feel the universal importance of what would otherwise remain fleeting barely discernible flashes.

I remember years ago when I first learned of the idea of voodoo dolls. It was from the horror comics I read as a young lad. Fear, Tales from the Crypt…the idea fascinated me. Of course I quickly constructed my own set of dolls that resembled various adults in my life...somehow the other humans my age seemed unnecessary…besides I rarely had anything to do with them nor did they come near me long enough to warrant any animosity.

In my juvenile mind I gained pleasure from making them as similar as possible to their real-life representations. Though unconnected to any of the story lines in the horror comics that provided such enthralling tales of poetic justice centered around such basic and appealing ideas as voodoo dolls, I convinced myself that the likelihood of effectiveness would be increased if the miniature look-a-likes were anointed with some secretion from the intended victim.

Like a precursor to modern-day DNA investigators who lurk in the haunts of those they are stalking in hopes of acquiring saliva from a glass rim or mouth scrapings on a discarded toothpick, I sought out such bodily fluids and personal items for my growing collection of dolls.

My grade-school teacher was the most obvious inspiration for what I was sure would be a way to balance the unfair distribution of power. After constructing a passable likeness of her I skulked into the teachers' toilets at school and obtained what were the deposits of her monthly blood letting. This produced what I believed would be a doll that was somehow "activated," more connected to the walking, talking bag of flesh...if somewhat pungent. A handkerchief nicked from the handbag of one of the sluts who visited my mother in the afternoons and fashioned into a simple dress for the miniature floozy was another example.

I amused myself with those dolls for some time, gaining a pure liberated feeling when some misfortune followed my abuse of one of the dolls, my youthful mind failing to see the obvious, that everyone gets fucked up sooner or later. In many ways, the clear-eyed realization that it was all childish yearnings coincided with by disdaining the appeals of those peddling fairy tales and salvation. Others of my age group embraced the absurdities just as they should have been acquring a clearer vision of the world.

Thankfully I left those puerile hobbies in the past.

Simucloning has provided me with a peace of mind. An art form, a meditative reflection on people, life, the world. Humans tend to become blasé about the most incredible things. The ease with which something loses its marvelous aspect is related to how prevalent it is. The face doesn’t receive the attention it should from most. Despite my passion for studying and learning from the simuclones I develop, I have been reluctant to share my creations with others. However, it is ironic that the very simuclones I create are what give me the final clues as to who is approachable and a potential kindred spirit who I can introduce to this exciting world.

An exceptional woman entered the sphere of specimens from which I draw. Visually challenging with a creamy complexion and piercing eyes that would be difficult to capture in a simuclone but well worth the effort. In those eyes was something that at first confused me. It was only with the comfort and time that the completed simuclone provided that I saw that there was a subordinated desire to rise above the banalities of everyday life and the bland, superficial people who populate it for the most part.

######## and her unique presence became part of the daily routine that was my day job, her ethereal look deflecting my interest away from other faces. After some months passed and I had become ensured of her receptiveness because of the hours I had put in with her simuclone, I suggested that we go out on the Friday that was 2 days hence. She readily agreed.

I could sense that she was very nearly floored by my preternatural ability to read her emotions and predict her thoughts based on facial expressions. After an enjoyable evening together in which we shared laughter and an instant sense of comfort, ########## happily accepted my invitation to return to my flat for some swine and discussion.

I felt the time was right for the introduction. Though I was comfortable with ####### and certain of her positive response I still thought that before wheeling one of my most recent simuclones out, I should prepare her...

"Peel back the layer of flesh covering every human face and you'd have the same essential look. That thin covering provides a remarkably unique visage, only rarely in our encounter with thousands of people do we ever see those disconcerting doppelgangers despite the sameness of what lies underneath.

Watching any television show or movie would have a person believe that most people are poised, unperturbed individuals. Not to suggest that there is any paucity of conflict that is inevitably part of any artistic drama in the cinema or on the glass tit. Only because of the stern, unflinching or perfectly rendered faces of actors that depict any other type of pure emotion.

Furthest from the truth, people are usually stroking, scratching, mashing, picking or gouging their own faces in some bizarre manner. Tugging at their blistered and diseased lips, ramming digits into every orifice, sniffing their own fingers. Momentary, involuntary jolts in which they are almost subconsciously marveling at the presence of their own strange representation to the world, substituting for the absence of another's touch at that moment...

These tics are accompanied by unique and strange grimaces, revulsions, blanches each person in possession of their own specialized stable of facial expressions. Jeering their faces forward, wincing, screwing their mugs up in strange and contorted fashions. It's as if people forget how easily their actions are observed by others or the reveries that rescue them from their daily lives provide a barrier in which..."

Though admittedly it was less than spontaneous monologue I had hoped that it was appropriate because of the importance of the occasion. The series of emotions that flashed across ##########'s face were ones I had not even been prepared for, ones even her simulcone had not previously offered up.

Sensing that critical moment when the collective weight of the willing synapses would push her over that final hump I wheeled my most recent simulclone out...it was of someone we were both familiar with. I thought it would somehow have been bad form to introduce ######### to her own simulclone.

I could feel something leave the air...

I had also been prepared for this eventuality, knowing that she was coming to grips with the enormity of this new reality in her own way. I had to cement things finally so we could proceed to discussion of the more important and positive aspects that simucloning could provide to our burgeoning relationship.

I brought out stainless steel case, its pleasing heft a reminder of how much pleasure I had gained from the simple yet precisely crafted utensils within. Opening the case on the low table that was between us I revealed a selection of scalpels. I picked one up and handled it, looking at ########## and noticing her shared sense of respect and pleasure at the sight of the instruments.

Slashing upward with the scalpel, I opened up the cheek of the simulclone, loosing a flow of stage blood from the capsule I had secreted there earlier. The viscosity was superior and matched perfectly that of real blood.

"This is one of the marvels...you can step back in time to some crossroads that someone has faced and alter their life...understand what could have transpired. A momentary look of horror and then the observational orgy of witnessing what would have played out had the person been cursed with such a terrible scar. Would their soul have hardened along with the scar tissue or...it creates a truer empathy for all the people you create and observe...of course you can caress their faces as well. An exceptional ability to read cues, to induce expected behaviour to know...to know in advance exactly what people will do..."

Her face was stretched back into a grimace that could be mistaken for a look of extreme puzzlement or incomprehension, horror even but was only an indication of how this new information was being processed. As if her whole facial structure had to get itself around this and take it in fully.

I handed her the scalpel and awaited her decision. Of course, I already knew what was to come.

2004-11-25T18:50:00.000+07:00

Instant Beer Review: San Miguel Blue Ice

One more choice for beer drinkers in Thailand with the recent addition of San Miguel to the corner store coolers. Branded as Blue Ice, the single serving bottles are clear with striking royal blue labels and foil neck and top coverings of the same colour.

Supermarkets, a few specialty shops and pubs that cater to foreigners have a fairly decent selection of beer including numerous more pricey imports but for the local corner stores in Bangkok the pickings are fairly lean. It is nice to see another selection.

I'm just about to lay into my first San Miguel as swilled in Thailand, so give me a few moments as I retrieve one of the bottles that are chilling in the fridge.

**ahhh** Distinctive, crisp, goes down well. The taste is remarkably smooth and light for the relatively hefty alcohol content—6.4%.

I can't definitely say if the total sensory experience is influencing my opinion at the moment, including the excitement of trying a new product, the impressive packaging and the good memories I associate with drinking San Miguel, but I am definitely impressed.

A fleeting yet not unwelcome aftertaste.

I believe this will be my beer of choice for the next while. I'm a brand shifter when it comes to beer--Heineken and Leo are my usual choices with the occasional Chang so this will be one more product I can rotate in and out of the lineup.

I don't usually put much stock in beer blurbs touting the very product on which they are printed but:

"BLUE ICE BEER redefines refreshment. Experience that distinctive full-flavored taste balanced with a special cooling effect resulting in a refreshing beer that is exceptionally smooth and easy to drink."

does do it justice...though 1 minus in that the cunts chose the yank spelling of "flavor"...ahh, I guess Flips were colonized by the yanks so I'll let it pass.

Though my first impression is good there is a strange coated feeling inside my mouth after the first bottle. I will now swill my second bottle accompanied by a packet of crisps.

Yes...the flavour is solid and carries through the second bottle. Goes well with a salty snack. This bodes well for drinking this beer while eating a meal.

San Miguel originates from the Philippines though my own experience is from drinking it in Spain many years ago. Impossible to conjure up the taste as experienced then though I definitely remember enjoying it at the time. There is often conjecture as to varying tastes of a single beer brand as brewed in different countries but because of the intervening years I can't definitively comment on this.

I should also mention that after a quick perusal of San Miguel products on a few websites, this Ice brand is but one of numerous products the brewery produces and I am not sure if there are other lines currently available in Thailand. Also, I have only seen the 330 cc bottles or cans though it is quite likely the larger 640 cc job is or will become available.

Getting into categorizing the buzz is a mug's game, on par with those heads and their nuanced discussion of various strains of ganja, but still, I'll classify this one as cerebral.

With the quality and the moderate price of this new product, hopefully it will spark a slew of promotions and a potential price war amongst competitors. Overall a strong first impression and recommendation.

San Miguel Blue Ice beer brewed and sold in Thailand, single serving bottle 29 baht, or can 25 baht.

2004-11-17T21:54:00.000+07:00

Keepin' It Tight

The first proper 1.0 release (Gamma version) of Mozilla's Firefox is upon us, so download it if you haven't already. The Beta* versions were already superior in many ways to Microsoft's IE, which is already in its 6th release version. A number of features make Firefox a superior product in my opinion, mainly the built-in pop-up ad blocker as well as tabs, which on first glance don't seem like such an innovation but you will come to like using them in short order.

Also, as myself and countless others have mentioned, Firefox keeps out much of the spyware and adware crap that latch themselves onto IE with such ease and regularity.

However, it is still important to keep a number of adware blockers and exterminators operational on your system while using Firefox. If you want a useful list, here is a post I made some time ago with what I consider the best ones. Always remember to frequently search the databases of programs such as Ad-aware for updates.

The most recent version of Ad-aware that I have just installed caught more than a dozen spyware parasites. This is something relatively new as previously Firefox had kept all such problems away and almost rendered those free anti-parasite programs irrelevant.

Recently I read an eminently logical comment on the IE/Firefox debate, the gist of it being that fairly knowledgeable users, who nonetheless have a relatively superficial if nonexistent understanding of things beyond the ease of maneuvering around their own system and the net, assume that Firefox is fundamentally sounder because of its seemingly superior security. However, with at least 90% of the world's users still hooked up to IE, is it that those who create these malicious parasites and go after security holes see IE as being the only system worthwhile targeting for purposes such as mining info and simply highlighting its weaknesses?

Though I still believe Firefox to be better in many ways, at least for the next while it's back to daily system checks with Ad-aware and Spybot, though hopefully this is not a trend.

Speaking of downloads, for those dinosaurs out there whose gaming experience runs to solitaire and who get weepy-eyed at the thought of Pong, or if you just want to waste some time at work and don't want anything too involved, you may want to try Snood. An ostensibly simplistic game with annoying cartoonish graphics, it does do the trick if you want a few minutes to kill with your morning coffee. A free download with a 30-day free trial, I am still looking for the crack for the most recent version so as to override eventual paid registration. If anyone has it, please e-mail me...

* What's all this "Alpha" "Beta" and "Gamma" jargon you keep hearing in reference to computer software? Quite simply, Alpha (the first letter in the Greek alphabet) are the first and in-house versions that are only offered to outside users on a very limited basis. Beta (second letter in the Greek alphabet) is offered to selected users to be tested on a wider basis with some bugs still left to iron out. There are usually a number of Beta versions with the last few being release candidates with only a few final bugs left to be fixed. Gamma (third letter in the Greek alphabet) or "release" version is the one which is supposedly free from bugs; finished and documented, with all code and features completed.

2004-11-12T23:00:00.000+07:00

Book Review: Don't Stop the Carnival by Herman Wouk

This is a book written by Herman Wouk, who is probably best known for his epic historical novels detailing WWII (Winds of War and War and Remembrance.) Relatively short compared to those doorstoppers, this novel predates them by a number of years, having been published in 1965. A stark demonstration of how writers develop over time, Don't Stop the Carnival is nowhere near the quality of work that Wouk began to churn out later in his career.

It is the tale of disillusioned fool who decides to cash in his chips and head to a small island in the West Indies with his wife. Determined to embrace the simple idyllic life he buys a small resort and embarks on a series of ham-fisted adventures in his attempts to make the hotel operate efficiently with all manner of practical obstacles thrown in his way.

This is an all round lousy book. A maundering plot with undeveloped characters, the underlying theme is that by tossing it all and heading to some native paradise you are bound to encounter a new set of problems. Fraught with cliches and mildly amusing escapades, not a fuck of a lot happens throughout the entire story.

There are a few amusing exchanges such as when grizzled expat veterans of the island essentially mock the main character Paperman, enjoying a laugh at his boundless naivete and propensity to be swindled. There are a couple of good one-liners throughout, one that I have shamelessly cribbed on a few occasions, that being when some longtime sage sums up the human detritus that washes up on the shores of the island as the "freaks, frauds, fools and failures" who couldn't hack it in their home countries.

Besides that, what is the point of reviewing a book that was so uninspiring?

It is a single, eerily prescient short passage that appears early in the book, spoken by a bleeding heart , hippy type who is also the bane of the lead character for the simple fact that he, Klug, is fucking Paperman's daughter. In the passage in which they clash regarding fundamental values and worldviews shortly before Paperman makes the final break for the island, Klug raps out one of his anti-establishment set-pieces:

"Klug arched a surprised eyebrow at Norman. 'Exactly, late Freud. And sheer prophecy. Look at us. We build giant highways and murderously fast cars for killing each other and committing suicide. Instead of bomb shelters we construct gigantic frail glass buildings all over Manhattan at Ground Zero, a thousand feet high, open to the sky, like a woman undressing before an intruder and provoking him to rape her. We ring Russia's borders with missile-launching pads and then scream that she's threatening us. In all history there's never been a more lurid mass example of the sadist-masochist expression of the thanatos instinct than the present conduct of the United States. The Nazis by comparison were Eagle Scouts.' The Sending arched an eyebrow again at Norman. 'If I were you I'd buy that hotel in the West Indies tomorrow.'"

2004-11-07T22:55:00.000+07:00

Book Review: Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley

I've always disliked the divisive saw that starts out "there are two types of people in the world, those who X and those who Y," with as many possibilities as there are endeavors or lifestyles. Usually it's just another harmless way to pronounce membership of some group, as always who you're not as much an identifying factor as who you supposedly are.

One experience that regularly seems to elicit this type of response is an LSD trip. It is so unlike anything the person is likely to have ever done before that it seems natural to distinguish themselves as being qualitatively different than how they were before and from others who haven't done it. Though it does possess that annoying exclusionary insinuation and an assumption of having some special insight into life's mysteries.

It has some merit though, as you do feel as though you have glimpsed something you never thought possible, both in terms of sensory perceptions and imagination regarding philosophical considerations. While isolated in your own mind, the power of feeling these thoughts is real though undoubtedly any attempt to record them in that state would result in gibberish when viewed or listened to later. This fundamental rearranging of the apparent consistency of the world around us, even only for those 12-24 hours, and the realization that it is possible does result in this regular description being offered up by those who have tried the drug.

It has now receded so far into the past that it would be impossible to ever sit in a reverie and recapture the actual state that I experienced at that time, as it is sometimes possible with other emotions. It is that remembrance of thinking at the time that I would never be the same that has remained.

There have been a number of popular books written on the subject of LSD, both historical renditions examining the early development and usage of the drug as well as descriptive accounts recounting the details of various individual experiences. Probably the best known of the lot is The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe. Wolfe trailed along after one-hit wonder author Ken Kesey (One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest) and his troupe of flunkies as they traveled around the US in a souped up psychedelically painted van, dropping copious amounts of LSD and evading authorities as new laws were enacted to deal with the arrival of the drug. Wolfe did a stunning job of capturing an entertaining feel for the time period (early 1960's) as well as the thoughts and feelings that can accompany the experience of trying the drug. Far from only romanticizing the characters and lifestyles described, he applied his usual razor sharp caustic wit in showing many of the inherent absurdities of the antics described.

Together with Kesey, Timothy Leary was another 60’s LSD celebrity who was noted for his public endorsement of the drug and also penned at least a few books on the subject. While the Wolfe classic tended more towards the social aspects that grew out of the popularization of the drug at that time, Leary concentrated on more dreary and deeper "spiritual" issues. At one point in Kool-Aid, Wolfe hilariously mocked the different types that were attracted to each following and detailed one encounter between the Kesey and Leary camps that took place at the mansion of some well-bequeathed societal dropout. The attempts to out-cool each other offered a perfect demonstration of how self-proclaimed satori cannot eliminate those annoying traits that afflict us all nor does it induce some universal brotherhood among the clods who habitually take the drug.

True to the 60's drug culture icon status they helped create for themselves, both fools fell into the trap than many people do and kept on plowing back fistfuls of LSD like candy, desperately trying to recapture the wonder of those first few experiences. Kesey especially rode out his counterculture icon schtick to the very end, endorsed a handful of embarrassing tributes to his acid tripping days while never producing any written work that ever approached One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest in terms of acclaim. Leary too lived as a caricature until he passed away, latching onto any well-to-do hipster clique that would finance whatever half-baked project he was pursuing in exchange for the cachet he brought them. Any truthful account of the last years of both highlights their uninspired thoughts (though Leary is always mentioned as having waxed presciently on the advent of the internet...I think this is overstated somewhat) and general listlessness as compared to their earlier work and relative mental sharpness.

Aldous Huxley was another author and experimenter of LSD. Probably best known for his dystopian, tale Brave New World, Huxley penned a number of other lesser known books as well, including Doors of Perception, a slim volume that details one of his mescaline (a naturally occurring psychotropic drug, also known as peyote, obtained from small cactus plants whose effects are similar though not as powerful as LSD) trips. Doors of Perception is actually little more than an extended essay, though it often appears together with a longer more detailed discussion entitled Heaven and Hell. (An accompanying trivia note that always seems to go along with any mention of Doors of Perception is that apparently the American rock band from the 1960’s, the Doors, named themselves after the book.)

Huxley describes the sensory perceptions he experiences after having consumed the mescaline, drawing comparisons to the pureness of observations that he feels the greatest artists of history must be imbued with. This relates to the title of the book, the "doors" he refers to being the various artistic and spritual endeavors that humans have always had as part of their life as a way to alleviate the monotony and seek out a mental landscape where the potential wonder of existence can manifest itself in a tangible and productive way. The mental rut that most people end up in is only a defense mechanism though, the laziness and inability to harness potential largesse resulting in a safe and narrow construct that keeps us from losing it completely. As Huxley states regarding what happens when things ricochet in the other direction:

The schizophrenic is a soul not merely unregenerate, but desperately sick into the bargain. His sickness consists in the inability to take refuge from inner and outer reality (as the sane person habitually does) in the homemade universe of common sense - the strictly human world of useful notions, shared symbols and socially acceptable conventions. The schizophrenic is like a man permanently under the influence of mescalin, and therefore unable to shut off the experience of a reality which he is not holy enough to live with, which he cannot explain away because it is the most stubborn of primary facts, and which, because it never permits him to look at the world with merely human eyes, scares him into interpreting its unremitting strangeness, its burning intensity of significance, as the manifestations of human or even cosmic malevolence, calling for the most desperate countermeasures, from murderous violence at one end of the scale to catatonia, or psychological suicide, at the other. And once embarked upon the downward, the infernal road, one would never be able to stop. That, now, was only too obvious.

A strange resemblance to the way heads characterize those individuals who weren't able to handle an acid trip and "never returned," the danger that exists adding to the experience and the cachet of the surrounding subculture and necessarily implying that their minds are strong enough to withstand such an onslaught. I've yet to meet one of these individuals trapped in the perpetual madness brought on by a bad LSD trip or an unprepared mind, though I don't suppose they would be out and about too often, assuming they're not an urban myth.

Huxley also discusses the use of peyote by Indians of North and South America, praising them for recognizing the importance of seeking out mescaline-induced beatific visions to aid in their spiritual and religious ceremonies. He also laments the fact that western religions can't see the benefit in taking mind-altering substances as a means to increase spiritual awareness. The obvious universal and historical need for humans to literally get out of their minds a perfect match for the escape that many are likely seeking but often never receive from Christianity for example, taking the insanity instead as at least it takes place in a kind of social club and provides a sense of belonging. Huxley's discourse becomes rather dry at this point, and his default position seems to be a romanticized view of the Indians as compared to westerners especially when discussing the corresponding religions of both groups. After a lifetime's exposure to self-righteous and judgmental bible-beaters I don't blame him.

The earlier part of the essay in which Huxley tries to capture the experience of tripping into words is the most concise and engaging. Though he does a good job of capturing some of the sensations that a person experiences...to reiterate that cliché...it really is impossible to do it complete justice. The theme that runs throughout the essay is the belief that all humans have incredible mental potential for both thought and accomplishments that can be aided by drugs such as mescaline. Unlike Wolfe's classic, this is a relatively serious discussion of responsible drug experimentation as a means to literally open a door that can then be expanded on with other means. Free from any of the social hysteria or subculture that was detailed by Wolfe (released at least 10 years before the other books, there probably was no subculture to speak of at the time) it is a logical and relatively entertaining discourse on a subject that rarely is covered in any way except for propaganda or hype.

2004-10-04T22:21:00.001+07:00

Cowgirl from Isaan

Hello cowgirl from Isaan
Is this place at your command?

Can I stay here for a while?
Can I see your sweet, sweet smile?

Old enough now to change your name
When so many love you is it the same?

It's the woman in you that makes you want to play this game...

Hello ruby in the dust
Has your band begun to rust?

After all the sin we've had
I was hoping that we'd turn back

Old enough now to change your name
When so many love you is it the same?

Hello woman of my dreams
This is not the way it seems

Purple words on a grey background
To be a woman and to be turned down

Old enough now to change your name
When so many love you is it the same?

It's the woman in you that makes you want to play this game...

It seems Neil Young really did have Isaan bar girls and those sad fool farangs who get tangled up with them in mind when he wrote this song...

2004-09-26T21:55:00.000+07:00

The Anti-Social Test

Answer the following questions to determine your level of anti-social behaviour.

1. When you are preparing to leave your flat, if you hear activity in the hallway do you delay your departure out of fear that you may have to descend in the lift with one of your neighbours?

2. Do you burst out laughing at inappropriate times while watching movies at the cinema?

3. Do read the obituaries just for laughs?

4. Do you make cryptic, vague comments about your personal life in hopes that you will scare off any work colleagues who may try to initiate friendships?

5. When slipping out unnoticed from a woman's flat after a drunken one-night stand and while she is still sleeping, what are you likely to leave on the pillow?
a.) a rose
b.) an empty beer bottle
c.) a used condom

For this question, classify b.) or c.) as "yes" when tallying the results.

6. When an associate or colleague divulges confidential and potentially damaging (to them) information to you during a drunken conversation, do you:
a.) reflect on it mournfully or
b.) record the details in case you need to put the screws to that person at a later date?

For this question, classify b.) as "yes" when tallying the results.

7. Do you purposefully raise sensitive subjects around those you know will be most offended? (For example, discussing the increasing level of birth deformities around pregnant women.)

8. Do you join self-help groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous just for the entertainment value of hearing others recount their oh-so-fucking-pitiful lives?

9. Do you feel a strange affinity with serial killers, mass murderers and those who respond to government initiated violence and destruction with bombings, killings and terror of their own?

10. Do you like sandwiching razor blades between two coins with some chewing gum and then letting the missile fly when you are in large crowds such as at concerts or sporting events?

11. When in a group of people do you enjoy sparking a disagreement between two other individuals and then sitting back and watching the words and/or fists fly?

12. Do you view social norms as curious novelties with which you can manipulate others, initiate social experiments and just plain mess with people's minds?

13. Do you tell inconsequential lies to people and then later feign incredulity when the person raises the point in front of others, asking what in fuck's name they are on about?

14. Does the arrival of each new year bring another series of decade-old grievances to the fore, alerting you that it's time to finally even the score, 10 years being the amount of time that you long ago decided was necessary to pass before various accounts were settled so as to provide plausible deniability?

15. Do you volunteer for church groups who provide comfort to terminally ill bible- beaters with no families left just so you can be at their bedsides as the life is draining away and be able to lean closer to them and whisper "It's a pathetic tale for gullible ignoramuses you've been following your whole sad life, it's pure fucking blackness waiting for you, no fairy tale after-life...just nothingness. You think if there was a god he'd allow me to be your last fucking contact with the real world?"

If you answered "yes" 5 times or fewer you are a fairly normal, albeit naive, individual.

5- 10 "yes" answers and you are definitely not a "people person."

10-15 "yes" answers and you are a fucking lunatic with paranoid and sociopathic tendencies. Consider suicide or a career in politics.

2004-09-25T13:12:00.000+07:00

The Strange Face of the Thai Justice System

The Thai police and the Thai justice system have some strange manifestations and practices that differ greatly from most western countries. Roundly acknowledged by expats and Thais alike to be rife with corruption, the Thai police are vested with some remarkably wide-ranging powers that are more likely to be seen in totalitarian and fascist regimes rather than the democracy Thailand claims to be.

A regular occurrence in Bangkok is the arrival of a group of police officers at a night club where they will bar the doors behind them on the way in and demand urine samples from as many patrons as they see fit. Drug tests are performed on the spot with a mobile lab and anyone failing the test will likely face a night of interrogation at the local station, probable fines and a possible search of their home and finally, potential arrest. The arbitrary nature of such events can probably be chalked up to club owners who have not played along with bent cops angling for payoffs.

Another almost daily event that is surreal only because of the difference from western countries, is the parade of arrested suspects whose pictures are sprayed all over newspapers and on the TV news. The standard shot is of the suspect seated at a table with the associated wares of whatever crimes they are accused of having committed arranged neatly in front of them, along with a row of stern-faced coppers behind the individual or group of arrestees. This doesn't seem to cause any discomfort to those within the justice system or raise concerns regarding the presumption of guilt that are inherent in such displays.

But then, why would it even rate an acknowledgement when the thousands gunned down in the war on drugs last year are now barely mentioned by the local media?

A related sideshow activity is the re-enactment of crimes committed by those same individuals who are accused and in custody. Perhaps this spectacle is only undertaken when someone has confessed to a crime though with such disregard for any semblance of a fair justice system and ruthless, brutal cops, what does a confession really mean anyway? These recreations of crimes are played out for the media cameras, with often a sheepishly smirking individual making a pretend gun with his thumb and forefinger and showing how he put a slug into someone's head.

Last year there were a few corrupt Buddhist monks locked up for various scams in which they bilked gullible fools out of millions of baht. In one case a monk even turned murderer and the requisite demonstration was played out with him in his orange robe, smirking and demonstrating how he pulled the trigger.

Bribes are such an accepted part of dealing with police in Thailand that it doesn't even rate any displeasure when someone is recounting how they were pulled over in their car and had to cough up the appropriate amount for whichever violation they may or may not have committed. Supposedly illegal activities carry on blatantly as long as the pigs get their soiled snouts in on the action and slurp up an appropriate heaping of the slops. A half-baked theory that is routinely floated is that any family with aspirations of wealth and power will ensure that at least one family member joins the police force and aims to ascend in the ranks. Their upward trajectory in the force is likely smoothed along by payoffs from the family who in turn looks for suitable payoffs in terms of having their misdeeds overlooked somewhere down the road. Thaksin Shinawatra, the prime minister of Thailand and one of the richest men in Asia, is himself a former pig.

As with all instances of using anecdotal sources to form an opinion on something, there are numerous contradictions and examples that fly in the face of the accepted condemnation of the actions of the Thai police. Personally I've never been harassed or shaken down for a bribe from a policeman in Thailand and during my only direct interaction I only experienced courteous and professional behaviour. Though in possession of a distinctive hard-edged facial appearance, make eye contact or offer that barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement that is almost universally known and many will smile or nod in return.

Perhaps that is only a testament to how powerful a hold learned and accepted norms of behaviour have over us. The outward arrogance of many western pigs grates because it is seemingly easy to attach their assumptions and thought processes to such mannerisms. Just as the smirk that so many suspects in this part of the world have on their faces may have more to it than only the sneering smugness that occidentals associate with such a look.

There is the same intrigue with crime and law enforcement here as in most places. One pop culture phenomena that has found its way here is the made for TV, real-life police documentary in which a camera crew follows various police officers around as they pursue criminals. Latching onto a particularly sleazy or deviant case, the camera crew will then follow the individual through the various stages of arrest, trial and sentencing. In these cheaply produced prurient affairs there is often a shot of the arresting officers talking to the accused at various times throughout the process. The sight of a police officer coddling and comforting a criminal who is realizing the enormity of his fuck-up is something that wouldn't likely be seen in a western country. Though the cameras are rolling the displays seem genuine and are a strange contrast to the brutality these same police officers are capable of.

The practice of identifying national character traits is easy to criticize as it is fraught with sweeping generalities. However, I do believe these rare but tender displays of sympathy from the boys in brown are representative of a Thai capacity for forgiveness and an affinity for those who have fallen that is often not so evident elsewhere.

Cross-posted at: Flogging the Simian

2004-09-14T22:02:00.001+07:00

Thai Cop Accused of Murdering British Couple Still on the Run

The Thai policeman who reportedly shot and killed 2 British tourists in Kanchanaburi is still on the run. Himself an experienced investigator, he is obviously knowledgeable about procedures for searching for suspects and thus may be able to elude capture longer than the average person.

The prevailing wisdom in the press and echoed by Thai politicians is that it is urgent that the suspect is found as soon as possible. Not because of the senseless brutality of his crime, though that is mentioned, but mainly because the case could further tarnish the image of Thailand abroad. Thai authorties now predict they will capture him within days.

Other details regarding the incident are coming out which could possibly only be speculation but at the same time, if true, would seem to make more sense than what was initially reported.

The original reports tended to suggest that the British couple had just met the man who eventually killed them. This was reported along with the fact that the young British man, Adam Lloyd, became angry that people were staring at his girlfriend, Vanessa Arscott.

The claim that the two Brits had only met the policeman on the night in question doesn't seem to jibe with the degree of the anger involved in the apparent 3-way argument that took place at the restaurant where the quarrel was said to have begun. Also, a certain amount of trust must have existed for the 2 young tourists to get into the same car as the Thai copper (though other contrasting accounts say that they never got into the car). It seems unlikely that this would have happened had they just met him.

More intriguing is the suggestion that the young British woman had been having an affair with the Thai policeman. The supposed problem that is being mentioned with this story line is the fact that they had reportedly only been in Kanchanaburi for 7 days.

This doesn't seem like a convincing argument as to why this couldn't have happened, though of course no real evidence supports it as being true either. When people envision two young tourists trekking around the world, coupled with the sympathy and sadness that their final night naturally engenders, people may have a tendency to simplify the relationship that may have existed between the two dead Brits.

Let's look at the events leading up to the tragic night and a possible scenario that could have played out.

Lloyd and Arscott had been travelling together for the past 2 months. Although ostensibly it sounds like an idyllic and lovely experience for a young couple in love, the reality is often much different. Travelling together for an extended period can be a stressful experience, exaggerating minor differences and bringing repressed grievances to the fore. When there are a myriad of social opportunities where young people are mixing together involving conscious and often contrived attempts at hedonistic displays, insecurities and jealousies can easily get out of hand.

If Lloyd was a jealous boyfriend, perhaps in those previous 2 months, like so many insecure individuals before him, he had sought to allay those concerns by cheating on his girlfriend. A drunken fling with a young female traveler after a spat with his girlfriend, or maybe simply becoming overly friendly with the wide range of interesting and attractive women a person meets when travelling.

Upon landing in Kanchanaburi and after a series of blow-ups and accusations regarding infidelity, perhaps she headed out alone one night convinced that finally their relationship was on the rocks. There was the added stress of knowing that their trip was almost over. The events of their time on the road together meant things wouldn't be the same on their return to the real world, and she decided to take a small bit of revenge with her own meaningless fling.

She could imagine the future memory she might one-day hold of spending the night with a Thai policeman, a unique experience from what had degenerated into an otherwise negative end to her extended vacation. Maybe there was a bit of arrogant disdain for the belief that young female tourists can't enjoy the same uninhibited sense of release at becoming involved with the local men the way the lads enjoy the company of beautiful foreign women when travelling.

Maybe Arscott was the jealous one. Maybe she initiated the fling (if there was one) based solely out of lust. Somchai (the Thai policeman) would have eventually had the sense that he had been played for a dupe and perhaps in that short time became more enamoured with her than she could have anticipated.

The one sickly image that resonates throughout this whole tragedy is that of Arscott being ploughed into at top speed and then being dragged by the car for up to 100 yards. Then, like a wounded animal, chunks of her flesh stuck to the car, having a few slugs pumped into her by Somchai before he fled on foot.

The truth, if it ever fully comes out regarding dramas like this, is always more complex and nuanced that any speculation could be. Unfortunately for the families of the dead couple, this has all the elements that makes for an almost insatiable interest from the public; sex, murder, the mystery of a foreign country and those tangible and real aspects of a personal relationship that most people can identify with.

Cross=posted at; Flogging the Simian

Discuss this or any other post from Pistonhips or Flogging the Simian at the new Pistonhips Discussion Board

2004-09-11T17:17:00.000+07:00

Thailand: Week in Review

Thaksin tries to stifle the media while others try to take on Thaksin, a sad conclusion to jealousy and rage and the Scorpions come to town.

Ever the prescient and shrewd individual when it comes to envisioning how his actions will be perceived, the libel case against a female journalist brought by Thai PM Thaksin appeared set to kick off this past week. The 400 million baht (approx. 10 million US) lawsuit against the Thai Post and Supinya Klangnarong alleges that she defamed Thaksin and his Shin Corporation when she wrote an article claiming that government policies have favoured the massive conglomerate owned by Thaksin. Upon meeting this past week the Criminal Court instead decided the libel case will not be heard until next year.

The question remains as to whether there were any strings pulled to put the case off until after the general election early next year, in hopes of avoiding embarrassing details surfacing that could harm Thaksin's attempt to be re-elected…

However, another fight started picking up steam early in the week, again involving Thaksin and this time maybe a more evenly matched opponent. "Battling billionaires" got underway as Ekkayuth Anchanbutr accused some within the government of stock manipulation resulting in countless billions in profits.

Ekkayuth fled Thailand in the early '80's after being accused of operating a pyramid scheme that bilked billions from investors. He made a fortune in the UK with a string of Asian food stores and has returned recently after the statute of limitations expired regarding the accusations against him. So far Thaksin's only response has been to try and discredit Ekkayuth with references to his earlier indiscretions. Who knows if Ekkayuth has any motivation beyond uncovering corruption but the war of words should provide some good entertainment in the weeks to come.

The last 7 days also saw another killing in the south, where Muslim extremists have been detonating bombs and battling the army and police at a heightened level of intensity since the beginning of this year. In this instance, a Muslim was killed by a soldier who mistakenly thought the young man was an insurgent. "Mistakenly shot and killed" conjures up images of mass confusion with people fleeing and perhaps someone getting killed in the crossfire. But it seems as though the man was asked to lay face down on the ground and then had a bullet pumped into his back.

On Friday the big story was in Kanchanaburi. Take a 90 minute drive to the west of Bangkok and you arrive in the city of Kanchanaburi, best known to foreigners as the location of the Death Bridge featured in the movie "Bridge on the River Kwai." Early on Thursday morning a young British couple were murdered there after becoming involved in an argument with a Thai man.

It seems as though the initial problem arose when the young Brit became enraged at the belief that others were staring at his girlfriend. It's unfortunate that this asinine bit of jealousy may have sparked the tragedy though of course the insane over-reaction should result in proper punishment when the murderer is caught.

I'm trying to imagine how the Thai became offended enough to kill both of the young tourists. Maybe the incredible sense of effrontery and being affronted came from the fact that there seems to be a markedly different and acceptable practice of recognizing a woman's beauty here as opposed to many western countries. Looking at a beautiful woman for a bit too long (and there are many, MANY opportunities) is possibly not so disrespectful here or likely to result in harummphing from the woman or glares from a jealous man (though of course it does happen sometimes).

This contrasts from other countries, where outsiders especially have to be careful how long they look at the local women. In general, the attitude here seems to be a collective pride that Thai women are so worthy of having their beauty recognized. Many an arrogant foreign fool takes this too far with over-the-top ogling after his initial introduction to the beer bars and the hostesses working there but still Thais rarely react in a confrontational way over this.

So perhaps as the basis for the initial animosity from the Brit, this may have especially galled the Thai man who eventually lost it.

Compounding the sense of cruelty surrounding the murder and the anger towards the gunman, is the fact that it appears as though he is a Thai policeman. Possibly he acquired a taste for killing as last year's butchering spree of alleged drug dealers by police raged on during the government declared war on drugs.

As is usual when crimes are initially reported, the emerging details of this double murder are convoluted but the 2 tourists definitely met a brutal end. The young lass had her final moments of horror compounded by apparently being assaulted by her jealous boyfriend before being hit by the car driven by the Thai, dragged for a distance and then being shot as the murderer fled on foot.

On Friday night, Thailand's strange love affair with the German band the Scorpions was consummated once again, as the metal band that enjoyed most of its popularity in the '80's played a concert at Bangkok’s Impact Arena. Something about the melodic metal sound and the distinctive voice of lead singer Klaus Meine with his barely discernible clipped accent appeals to Thais…at least more than any of the other dinosaurs from that era. Come here for a vacation and you're bound to hear the greatest hits from the Scorpions in the bars of Bangkok, in the beach front bars on the islands, on the radio, from cover bands playing anywhere...

Not that there's anything wrong with their music, in fact there's a number of their songs that I enjoy. It's just, why that particular band to the relative exclusion of other tired metal acts from that time period? Who knows...just another quirky aspect to this strange place I call home.

Note: I had wanted to end this piece with a short excerpt from a Scorpion's tune in hopes of capturing some relevance to Bangkok and/or the events from the past week. Alas, a quick perusal of their songs reveals that, like the lyrics from most rock bands, when not accompanied by the music, more interesting words can be found on shithouse walls.

Cross-posted at: Flogging the Simian

2004-09-08T23:29:00.000+07:00

Railin' It

There are many people who subconsciously or otherwise see the benefits of hedonistic release. Half measures and occasional practice can only be considered a half-hearted pat on the back compared to the full embrace that is recommended. This partial recognition yet refusal to go all the way in embracing your deviancy, manifests itself in a phenomenon known as railin’ it.

Railin' it is what happens when the pressure of everyday living builds up to an intolerable level and a relief valve is sought by the repressed individual. The conscious decision to blow out all the clogged channels of clear thinking that have been blocked with the detritus of everyday life. The sinister and benign controlling forces that vie for your sympathies, the devotion of time and resources to the minutiae of life leading to the shelving of those hedonistic desires which could otherwise be your ticket to unbridled success and freedom.

Railin' it usually takes on a highly reckless aspect, hence the analogy of a well-engineered train that normally follows the straight rails of prescribed social behaviour laid out before it, jumping the track and reveling in the shocking, comparative difference that pure mayhem creates in its otherwise controlled nerve centre. This type of behaviour is similar to those who knowingly flip the rage switch when they are in a confrontational situation, knowing that a self-induced state of frenzy may help them to fight better or will at least frighten others. Railin' it also involves elevating yourself to different state of being that will strengthen your ability to survive. However, as with a train derailment or whipping yourself into a rage, railin' it can often have unfortunate or unwanted results. This is usually because railin' it is the result of a last ditch attempt to temporarily purge the soul of the effects of offensive and insidious outside forces.

One of the most common accompanying themes to a railin' it session are drugs and alcohol. The same tools that the masses have been using to seek temporary relief since the first time a cave man compulsively gnawed at the flesh of a hallucinogenic cactus plant, desperate to escape the confines and absurdities of his tribe.

The controlling forces that we are talking about include government, the media, bosses, business associates and rivals, the dominant religion in any society and their insidious attempts to shove morals down people's throats, and manipulative family members, to mention the most common perpetrators. All of these individuals and groups certainly aim at a wider range of influence than the sexual desires that may in some part have been made taboo by their efforts. Removing the lynchpin of attempted control in this area and refusing to accept the absurd "morals" of others will free you, lifting the burden of repression and allowing you to embrace your deviancies.

Why are drugs and alcohol used as a substitute for adopting a more logical approach to life (in fact, it allows people to attain, if briefly, the very state of mind that those changes in behaviour could lead to)? Because the mind altering effects of these substances allows us to temporarily burn away those inhibitions that prevent us from nurturing our true souls, not the dictates of others. To recognize that any emotion or desire should be welcomed head on regardless of how appropriate it may seem according to the norms that serve others and are internalized by an amazingly large number of people, is to gain a stranglehold on the ability to govern your life more independently.

Leaving the office, like leaving a bizarre world where upon entering you instinctively wrap yourself in the cloak of absurd and unreal behaviour and mannerisms necessary to get through the day…it’s like watching yourself from a distance…hearing yourself mouthing platitudes…you’re not even sure what they mean…now let the burden lift, walking…Friday night. Now looking for the neighbourhood bar with the best prospects…that week-ending stunned feeling, the mind-numbing pile-up of contradictory and stunningly meaningless activity that you engage in…playing the role, the game, the wacked out drama that always ends the same way. The collective feeling of release in the barroom is like the first shot…the real shots of alcohol slamming into your skull like a ball peen hammer between the eyes…the quality of time is affected now…elastic…stretching…a conversation with an already mashed, suited and tie-loosened individual…now reeling slightly from the quick intake of booze…walk outside to smoke a cigarette…now a different world, darkness and early evening…smoking against the brick wall. Looking at my watch ..how long have I been inside…a few hors already, time to move on, grab new vibe somewhere else…now a woman walking coming down the street towards me I must be grinning like an unashamed letch she’s long-legged jet black hair she’s coming closer now…ahh she’s an Asian beauty...returning my smile...it always seems to work that way the carefree don’t-give-a-damn purity of emotions slicing through…now speaking to her…attraction for her coming off me in waves…now moving forward together...freeze-frame shifting of faces and scenes…flooded with an ease of decision making…feeling and acting..now a back alley…inappropriate somehow yet more comfortable with everything at this moment than anything all week…the woman is with me…riffing off each other already…flowing..now she’s pulling something from her handbag…yes it must be…now she’s offering me something I’m mashing a handful of pills into my mouth and washing it back with a can of beer that I’ve somehow had with me and have now opened…now she’s swilling from the same can…now we’re standing at another bar…much different…”how did we arrive?” the thought flashes in my mind…stumbling down the back streets…amazingly just few hundred meters and descend into a different world…lone drinkers at tables the contempt coming off them in waves…sour beer smell in the air…real down and outers, the realization coming into my head and threatening to claw back the wave I’ve been riding, the sense of intruding over-coming the effects of booze…pushing the thought away lining up rows of shot-glasses and ramming the elixir down my throat…lurching into the centre of the bar…searching for the bogs…stumbling in.. as sickly realness hammering home…propping myself up at the trough-like urinal keeping my balance…finish up and turn around the toilet stalls on the wall behind me…one with the door open a leering fairy beckoning me..without thinking, move forward , the stumbling effects from the alcohol momentarily gone, enter the sickly enclosed confine, close the door and drive an uppercut into the fairy’s chin, lifting him off the ground before he slumps back onto the filthy scarred floor, lift his limp head off the floor with a handful of hair and drive his face into the porcelain toilet bowl, the sickening sound of breaking teeth and bone and the presence of blood jarring me back…lock the stall from the inside and hoist myself up over the top…land on my feet my head swimming again…WOT!…the Asian beauty..is she still with me?…back out into the bar…the different atmosphere engulfs me …now someone has turned on some music…dated sounding but real blues hitting me…time to get out..Asian tart…a corner of the bar is hazy and starts to come into focus…make my way there…some seem to be paying attention to something…the Asian woman is partially unclothed...proudly displaying her pert breasts…though some are casually looking on most are catatonic…despite the erotically charged sight, no one is close to her…I’m hammering the Asian bird now, doggy-style on the matted and soiled carpeting of this deviant cesspit, barely coherent of anything outside the focus of her perfectly formed unit barely rippling against my pounding but still somehow aware that everyone has drifted away from us…riding a wave of booze and good feelings the synapses are firing on full, taking in everything, the thrill of existing…looking at my hands in front of my face marveling at the incomprehensible reality of life and living…new colours entering the picture…like a rocket blasting out the top of my head looking at the Asian beauty…the look of recognition and conspiratorial camaraderie…we’re on the same high…JAYSUS!!!…what were those pills?….now we’re hailing a cab…piling inside, desperate and close to succeeding…pushing things to a place where the beginning and some distant far-off ending blur…existing…we want to go here…there...tell the driver…blast down a different side-street…no we have no idea where we’re heading…a crowd of people more bars…clubs...pile out…now we’re inside another establishment…I see two, no three, perfectly erect stern looking women watching me from the bar...a stark contrast to the Asian beauty at my side…the consumption of alcohol is ratcheted up to another level that I don’t find possible, now another…and somehow the women at the bar are now drinking with us, they’re German…enjoying the disconnected feeling of reeling through the the pulsing club..being unavoidably jammed into soft and pleasant smelling women…lecherous looks seem to abound now back with the Asian wisp and the well-built but not unattractive Kraut women…guzzling, mashing, toking snorting…losing sense of…moving…floating..in a vehicle again…pure release…now in a bed ..flesh everywhere…the Asian is Japanese…3 Germans…yesss…the repressed deviance of the 2 peoples denied their empires…it’s true tRUE ARRRGHHHHHH!!!!!!&*&**(^@#!%$!#@%%

…now waking up the last conscious thought of blasting through the final layer of the semblance-of-reality stratosphere at the club and then here…being thrown around the room by one of the Germans? Disjointed fragments of the events come to me but the cold hard greyness of where I am now over-rides any attempts at accurately remembering…a strange room, the Asian and one of the Germans lying next to me naked…the other 2 sprawled around the room, also unconscious. I hurriedly dress and slip outside, stumbling and lurching into the early morning starkness of the deserted morning street.

The alcohol and drugs allowed him to reach a stage that is naturally appealing to others, one that made observers want to latch onto him and join in the fun, as if not to do so would have been to be left behind. The booze and pills are only an excuse that is acceptable to society, one that enables a person to express their truest longings and un-shrouded emotions. Yes there are real physical effects that result from the ingestion of certain substances. But the underlying desire that a person is expressing when they make the decision to swallow the liberating tonics, is that they want to reach a stage where their truest desires, those which others call deviancy, can be expressed and experienced without the self-regulating effects from societal norms which they have absorbed. As you can see from the previous vignette, when that state is reached the positive effects are the emotional state that you reach as well as the tangible prurient delights that flow your way.

How do we come to a reconcilable, split-the-difference compromise between the repressive and ultimately destructive behaviour of our old friend Sid Vaneer, and the cleansing but short-term benefits of railin' it?

Before we address that specifically, we need to examine more closely the notion of "deviancy." Why does the idea of deviancy exist? First, because our sexual practices are for the most part cloaked in secrecy, it makes it easier for suggestions regarding what is supposedly normal to be sold to the average person. How do people gain confirmation in their own minds regarding whether other non-sexual behaviour they engage in and opinions that they hold are practiced and shared by others? They observe and speak to each other, often in the manner of the vicious gossip and hearsay that dominates much of society. Nonetheless, it is a means that a person uses to prove to themselves that they are "part of the crowd," "normal," "just like everyone else."

Sex and all its corollary implications are surrounded in a puritanical veil of secrecy and shame. While some outlets exist for expressing these feelings, for the most part the bedroom of the individual in question is as far as the exploration ever goes. Despite the zeitgeist of pseudo-uninhibited beliefs and speech that are engaged in some quarters, for the most part, shame, repression and feelings of inadequacy remain the norm. This is how self-righteous moralists would like things to remain.

The concept of deviancy remains relevant in our times when we have advanced in many other areas. Another reason for this is that the sexual make-up of each individual is so complex and one of the most unique and identifying characteristics that we posses as human beings. You, like anyone else, have a mind full of different desires that are the product of a strange world full of myriad and inexplicable forces that guide you toward your own unique and experience-influenced existence.

Remain true to your own feelings. Recognize the importance of all emotions and urges that you feel no matter how inappropriate they may seem. To buy into, even for an instant, the strict and self-serving moral code of what is so-called “acceptable behaviour” is to start to willingly give away your ability to think and act independently. Once you have accepted and learned the benefits of embracing your deviancy and railin’ it, you can exploit the fact that many others will never reach this liberated plateau of unhampered existence, by diving their weakness (i.e. fetish) and then turning the screws.

Without a qualifying statement in this chapter, those self-righteous and smug individuals who live for the possibility of aspiring to a position where they can ram their self-serving beliefs down the throats of others will point to this advice as proof of a sinister and depraved belief-system and will make hugely exaggerated extrapolations that only demonstrate their own hidden desires. While the crux and real benefit of this tenet is the disregard of insignificant fools like this, their manipulations and shrill finger-pointing can be emasculated with this simple qualifier: any practice or acting out of your desires must not include or harm any unwilling participants.

2004-09-06T21:55:00.000+07:00

Bangkok Scams

It's easy to spot the waxen-faced con artists hovering around locations where there are sure to be plenty of foreigners for them to prey on. That rigid, phony smile and the reptilian eyes are so patently obvious that a person wonders if they could ever have been taken by those shameless cunts.

What seems apparent to an expat is not so easily recognized by a tourist out of their element. I've lost track of the number of times I’ve seen a pair of clueless foreigners conversing with the oily scum who are trying to set them up for any number of scams. It's just as sickening to see the masks drop from the faces of those shifty fuckers when they think they aren't being watched and when no potential victims are nearby. That repulsive and sinister visage is a sure sign that there is some truth to physiognomy. No cunt could develop that look by coincidence.

These tiresome leeches are so brazen that surely they are well known to the police. But there they stand, day after day, year in and year out...

The growing population of long-term expats in Bangkok means that the number of scams with a Thai and a farang working together are becoming more common. Here are 2 of the most recent Thai/foreigner tag-team scams that have come to my attention:

Bump and Scare

This is a two-person effort perpetrated by a Thai woman and a farang man. From what I've heard it generally seems to work like this: a well-dressed Thai woman will be walking down a crowded soi in a tourist area and will scope out a likely foreign patsy, either a lone individual or a couple. They are hopefully new arrivals as distinguished by that dazed look that is a fixture on their mugs. The Thai woman will swiftly approach and jeer into the tourists, exaggerating the impact and rebounding into whatever is nearby; wall, parked car, food vendor, market stall. After feigning outrage, she will point to a tear in her apparently expensive skirt and start blabbering on in Thai, which the tourist of course will not understand.

At this point the concerned farang will happen on the scene and quickly demonstrate his prowess in speaking Thai while soothing the now concerned tourist and ensuring them that everything will be OK. The farang will slowly acquire a similarly concerned look and will take in the words from the Thai woman, turning to the other foreigner to confirm whether they had knocked into her. Before too long the farang working in cahoots with the Thai woman will tell the flummoxed tourist that the woman wants a few thousand baht to pay for the torn dress. It's not uncommon for the occidental to initially balk at this demand.

"Phone the police? Sure, I’ve done nothing wrong..."

A rapid intake of breath and a widening of the eyes from the con-artist farang as he starts in on his spiel about the unethical and unpredictable behaviour of Thai police. Playing on some ingrained stereotypes and some realities as well, it doesn't take very long to frame the police phone-call crapshoot in a way that makes the few thousand baht to forget about an asinine incident and get on with the holiday the better bet.

The main emotion that is exploited in this scam is fear. The plausible deniability if things go awry (as with all good cons) is that the dupe willingly handed the money over.

The Mystery of the Orient Scam

This one is also laid down with a Thai woman and a farang who is usually fluent in Thai, another "incidental" meeting with the intended target caught in the pincer.

This scam usually takes place in the vicinity of a tourist location that deals with Thai history in some way...ancient temples, museums etc. Nearby most of these locations are a slew of overpriced restaurants and coffee shops with outdoor patios where tourists can plug themselves full and discuss the days events. Again the target is either a foreigner travelling alone or a married couple. In this set-up the farang makes the initial contact, easily chatting up the saps who are often incredulous at what they have just seen at the tourist site and feeling like they are being immersed in the mystique of the far east.

As the conversation carries on, the Thai accomplice will sidle up to an adjacent table looking modestly dressed but also somewhat fretful. She is carrying an uncommon and well-tooled wooden carrying case and sets it down next to her. The farang wideboy makes eye contact with the woman and tosses out a casual phrase in Thai, impressing the wide-eyed rubes sitting next to him and ostensibly receiving a more than standard response, one that is seemingly soaked with desperation. A rapid conversation takes place as the seasoned expat goes sullen and strokes his chin in contemplation.

The farang couple are by now intrigued and finally their more experienced new-found acquaintance fills them in on the woman's plight.

"She's had a rough patch of trouble lately, lost her husband a few years ago and now the bank is going to foreclose on her house. She has a little one laid up in the hospital with cancer but the insurance money has just about run out. The only thing she has left of value is what's in that case..."

The wooden case is opened to reveal a collection of Buddha statues of various sizes and made from different materials. They all seem to be imbued with an ancient quality that somehow seems appropriate in this mystical and unknowable land…

The con-artist farang is now listening in silence to his Thai sidekick who is relaying the story of these ancient and valuable artifacts and he dutifully passes along the information in a reverential tone to the curious patsies.

The strangeness of the whole encounter and the general sense of dissonance that affects the tourists makes eminently logical queries such as "why wouldn't such valuable items be easily sold to any number of collectors, antiques shops?" seem unimportant.

The inevitable almost doesn't need to be asked and a discussion of price is suddenly under way without any pressure being applied. That the Buddha statues are cheaply produced copies that have been left to sit in caked mud and then scrubbed with a brush, put in a pillow case with rocks and shaken and had any identifying marks of having been manufactured filed off is irrelevant. In fact, a person could actually question whether this is really a scam as often the suckers will never discover the ruse and will have something unique from their trip abroad with which they can forever amaze the fools back home.

The main emotion exploited here is greed, with a sprinkling of sympathy, though that is only ever remembered when the tale is being spun.

2004-09-04T21:10:00.000+07:00

Google

Google is having a good year. Their IPO appears to have been a success and the changes they have made to Blogger have resulted in a better service.

Their introduction of Gmail in beta version has been handled in such a way so as to give it added cachet. As expected, whenever something is available in limited numbers those same cunts scoffing at those wanting to try the new service also mention that they already have 10 accounts.

I've been using a Gmail account for some time and it seems decent enough. It's faster than other free e-mail providers when flicking around between messages and different sections within your account and there are some unique features as well.

The large amount of storage space has been the big selling point but many are wondering whether this is simply to build huge data bases that can then be parsed by Google's search engine in order to target advertising and compile profiles that can then be sold to marketing companies.

Among others that have sprung up, here is a website that raises some valid issues.

Another annoyance and area of concern is the targeted ads that show up alongside every e-mail you open, selected based on some key words in the content of the message. It doesn't take much imagination to consider how many problems this could cause. A few Nigerian and Russian scam e-mails I've opened lately have strangely all had the same ad for the same internet provider attached. Wonder how they feel about that...

The bottom line is that any tit using the big 3 free e-mail providers (Hotmail, Yahoo and Gmail) should use common sense when deciding what kind of info to include in their messages.

Anyway, if you would like a Gmail account simply e-mail me your name (or the one that you would like attached to your account) and your e-mail address and I will send you an invite. My e-mail address is pistonhips@gmail.com.

While you're at it, you may want to download another feature they've added...a tool bar icon that alerts you to new e-mails.

2004-08-31T23:16:00.000+07:00

The Orange Vest

Motorcycle taxi stands are dotted throughout Bangkok. Probably thousands of them, they are little more than the parked motorcycles and their operators lounging around waiting for fares. If the location is adjacent to an empty lot they might have a simple bench and lean-to banged together, maybe a hammock or two strung out and the always present game of draughts (checkers) going on between two riders with a handful of others looking on. The board is a piece of found wood with the squares drawn in and the pieces are bottle caps, opposing players using either right-side up or upside down caps to distinguish them.

Walking through the streets of Bangkok on any given day you can walk past dozens of such stands with as few as 5 or as many as 30 motorcycles and riders waiting for customers. You also see hundreds of such drivers blasting recklessly through the streets, dodging and swerving around cars that are stalled in traffic jams. One of their benefits is this relative ease of movement compared to cars. The trade-off is the danger of riding on the back of one with no real protection and subject to the careless driving of the fool in control and the other lunatics in traffic.

I've witnessed numerous mishaps involving motorcycle taxis. One woman I saw was wearing a long flowing skirt which became entangled in the rear sprocket, jerking her to the concrete. Most women passengers ride side-saddle as they are wearing skirts or dresses and they often preen themselves in a mirror or talk on their mobile phones oblivious to their close brushes with death.

All motorcycle taxi drivers are distinguished by the coloured vests they wear. Orange, red or yellow are the usual colours, the thin but seemingly durable vests an indication that the driver is "legitimate", like a substitute for the license that hangs inside most cabs.

The vests go for anywhere from 50 to 100, 000 baht plus ongoing monthly payments, the "licensing fee" paid to the local mafia who apparently control all such operations. Not a small sum (the average monthly income in Thailand is about 3000 baht) for the usually uneducated lower-class individuals who aspire to a steady income and the freedom of working relatively independently.

After last year's butchering spree in which at least 2000 were killed in the government declared "war on drugs", the brilliant fucker in charge of this nuthouse decided to cast the net even wider with the insane campaign labeled the "war on dark influences". It seemed like a license to blow apart the skulls of anyone the government decided fell under the vaguely ominous category.

However, there was at least one specific initiative as part of the new assault on logic and civil liberties that seemed to make sense. That was the announcement that the "motorcycle mafia" that controlled the two-wheeled taxis would be destroyed and the drivers allowed to pursue a legitimate livelihood free from extortion.

The first part of this ostensibly just attempt at cleaning up the racket involved instituting a license that motorcycle taxi drivers would have to buy from the government. This aspect became law but amidst the growing condemnation from the rest of the world regarding the drug war slaughter, the war on dark influences seemed to peter out.

The motorcycle drivers were forgotten, and many now say that they pay the government license fee while continuing to cough up to the mafia.

Where there is the noticeable absence of a government that is seen to be competent and just and concerned with the citizens, organized crime seems to have more opportunities to gain traction. Sometimes the mafia simply end up alerting the competition to a new and profitable enterprise...

Cross-posted at: Flogging the Simian

2004-08-30T21:57:00.000+07:00

Copability

Every man makes a deal with himself regarding how far he is willing to stray in any ostensibly monogamous relationship with a woman. Some adhere to a boy-scout honour code in which they regularly tell anyone who will listen that impure thoughts regarding strange flesh never even enter their minds. The praise for their upstanding qualities they hope to receive from cooing women other than their wives or girlfriends, is their own emasculated version of this agreement with themselves.

Upon learning that their spouse has been the one to cheat on them, often the first response from these pussy-whipped sensitive souls who have been co-opted by the feel-good mantras of the day, is one of pure frustration. Frustration at the opportunities for other beautiful women they had along the way but that their upstanding character prevented them from indulging. Proof that their intentions were disingenuous to begin with, at worst a desperate transferal of the Oedipal complex and a desire to please.

Make the deal with yourself or the innate need to plow your schlong into a wide variety of female flesh will remain dangerously suppressed and will reverberate endlessly, possibly manifesting itself in unwanted ways. Ways that will be ultimately more destructive than laying down realistic ground-rules for satisfying, even superficially, the need for variation.

Sometimes the outlet can be as benign as chronic flirting with a string of beautiful women who happen to be part of your life in some way. Other methods include binge drinking sessions in which furtive groping or shagging a stranger can be chalked up to the evils of alcohol. Meaningless one-night stands when away on business trips are also common release valves as an antidote to the boredom of monogamy. This is much preferable to getting involved with a woman in the same locale as your work and domestic life. Initial claims that only a meaningless fling is what she is looking for will soon turn into blackmail from the embittered slut who is angry at her single status.

In Thailand these truisms take on a slightly different quality. The number of stunners who give you bedroom eyes every day and the endless number of situations where you could initiate the beginnings of a relationship with a woman almost have the opposite effect than imagined. While in western countries it is somewhat of a rarity to be pounced on, the knowledge that it is always available here sets your mind at ease. Upon meeting new women you actually find yourself telling them that you have a wife or girlfriend. Sure, many spiral out of control with the sudden abundance of uninhibited stunning women who have not developed bizarre reactions to being desired by men but the percentage is less than a person would expect.

Still, while the attention is incredible, the desire for the touch of a different woman never truly goes away. A great way to satisfy this desire while keeping your conscience clean, is a traditional Thai massage. Many of these massage parlours are seemingly set up with this in mind. There is no confusion in these locations that you are only paying for a legitimate massage, yet they are geared towards men with only masseuses (females providing massages) working there.

Many of them are slim young tarts while others are more experienced women with a pleasant layer of middle-aged chubbiness. They are all decked out in practical sweat pants and colourful short-sleeved golf shirts and they straddle you for two hours of comprehensive pounding, kneading and stretching. Upon entering the private room there is a set of laundered pyjamas laid out. Going buck naked with pyjamas overtop as opposed to wearing restrictive undergarments provides a more enjoyable experience and allows your cock and balls to hang freely and be more open to unintentional touching from the masseuse.

The women don't seem to mind the absence of undergarments and are so used to the human anatomy that the nudging and mashing of tackle is incidental to the task at hand. Of course many seem to get a giggly sense of mischief out of this as well as any involuntary movement and some will also grab and inspect out of sheer interest. This unexpected and genuine playfulness and touching likely trumps and paid session with a well-used prostitute.

The tendency and length to which this bonus groping takes place from any particular masseuse is known as her "copability factor."

I will be compiling data and hope to provide locations and individual masseuse numbers along with their copability factor at a later date.

2004-08-29T16:02:00.000+07:00

Beating the Rap

I knew it was only a matter of time. I had been preparing my reaction for months, if not years. I went over the possible scenarios in my head, watching them play out and convincing myself that I could over-ride the default rage impulse that has been part of my make-up for as long as I could remember. I tried to take on the flippant, roll-with-it nonchalance of locals, seeing an honourable side to not losing it over some pettiness or perceived injustice. After all, if something so fleeting, meaningless and ultimately inconsequential is an affront to your manhood then how much of a...

I took comfort in the fat-faced, carefree little porker ambling down the soi the other week, hot oil from the wok of a roadside vendor splattering the young child as he walked by. An unavoidable physiological reaction…he flinched but kept walking, without even glancing towards the source of his momentary discomfort.

Still, I knew that inevitably some damn fool in a car or motorbike would clip me or ram me head-on as I walked down the narrow soi where I live. Every passing week that I dodged near misses increased the statistical likelihood that the eventual collision grew closer.

Every day as I observe the reckless bags of human excrement who can’t comprehend that their cars are lethal weapons as they speed carelessly while talking on mobile phones, I always imagine what a class of Thais taking a driving lesson must be like:

"OK class we are at a very important point in the routine that you must develop…you have fastened your seat-belt, checked all your mirrors and you are ready to put the key in the ignition. Now please…this is important…this will set the tone for every experience that you will ever have as a driver in Thailand. Before you go any further, and this is physically difficult, but our naturally lean, whippet thin bodies assist us in this task…you now must drive your head up your ass as far as is humanly possible...all together class HMMMPHHHHHH ... UGHHHHH ... get your head up there, drive it, ram it, get it UP, UP, UP!!!

All right! Now the butchering, maiming and incomprehensible but aptly named "head-up-yer-fuckin'-ass" behaviour can be undertaken with ease. Hit the roads of our great nation...drive into walls, other cars, pedestrians...make us proud!!!"

Middle and upper-class fools should know better but they still speed, take asinine chances in traffic and feel smug because of their obsession with rank and the belief that an expensive car that they haven’t even paid off is the ultimate symbol of their superiority. Seeing this on a daily a basis is annoying mostly because of how they endanger others.

A common video edit in my head to the real-time occurrence of such a fuckin' fool speeding by is that they lose control a few metres after passing me...

The driver veers into a pile of steel girders jutting out that are heaped on top of a raised platform (which is also a trailer but when stationary is kept stable with "legs" that are lowered while the wheels are raised) that is on the side of the road next to a construction site. The steel beams shear strips off the top of the car off and peel back the scalp of the moronic fucker who is driving, leaving it hanging like a useless flap. Because of his unwise level of speed on this narrow, residential back street, after the initial impact the car has also whip-sawed into a concrete pole, hammering his innards into mush. The corner of the car has crumpled inward and the fool is impaled on the steering column, the life gurgling out of him.

It is a surprisingly quiet morning, and the usual eruption of frantic activity following such an accident is not present. I seem to be the only person around and I casually amble up and look into the bloodied face that is now absent the usual condescending sneer. There seems to be an unspoken plea on his face as I look around and am amazed to see that his mobile phone has survived the impact is lying next to him. I reach inside, over his shattered and heaving torso and gently pick up the phone, carefully inch back out, straighten up and inspect the device and then toss it back inside the shell of the vehicle.

"You think I'd help a sack of shit who would own such an inferior brand of phone? You sicken me...

Som nom na*, motherfucker," I say as I turn and walk away, the crunch of gravel under my feet a sensation that is full and complete in a pleasurable and tangible way that makes me happy to be alive.

I try to temper these feelings with the knowledge that when I am finally involved in some such mishap, if I haven’t been seriously injured, any over-reaction would be foolish.

A few weeks ago I nipped out in the early morning to pick up a few things. That is something I rarely do, usually waiting until later in the day to pick up supplies. Strange that altering our routines ever so slightly is often when things go awry…

As I was returning home, the early morning traffic was quite heavy and I did my best to stay near the narrow strip on the side of the road. It would be a misnomer to call it a footpath, the paucity of space making it often necessary to flatten yourself against the wall or building that abuts the road in many places.

As I edged around a street vendor that was jeering out into the road I was finally hit by the spectre that had been haunting me for years. All those well laid plans for a rational and measured response were lost in the haze of rage and probably the relief at once again having been given the license to unload on someone. Before having time to assess the situation I had already deftly and precisely taken out one of the headlights of the car with a well-placed kick and was letting loose with a stream of insults and invective. I immediately fronted the driver at her open widow and explained in a loud and unkind way what a brainless fool she was. She was rightfully angry at my explosion and responded in kind.

It was at bout this point that I returned to myself and realized the absurdity of my actions. A semblance of common sense still surrounds most such instances in Thailand and I probably could have demanded a small pay-out enforced by the police if I had chosen to call them. As it was I had eliminated that possibility but was still incredulous that the driver was now demanding compensation for the damage I had inflicted to her vehicle. Strangely, the 2 males in her car remained passive and did not enter the discussion, seemingly unperturbed by my verbal assault.

We exchanged a few more insults and I walked away. She slowly shadowed me in her car and then pulled off to the side of the road further up and motioned me back to her.

"I phone police," she seemed to be challenging me.

"OK..." There was no choice. I had to see this act of stupidity through to its conclusion. As I stood there in the growing mid-morning heat, I started to consider the possibilities and I realized that many before me had been booted out of the country for far less. As the wait became interminable and we both cooled off, the woman offered to call it a wash, both going our separate ways and forgetting the whole thing. Amazingly, and in a testament to my stunning level of stubbornness, I refused.

The call had been made and we would now see how an observer viewed the series of events that had taken place. I had a shred of hope that the police would not see my reaction as shifting the ultimate blame from her for having initiated the incident with her reckless driving. Still, I was a guest here and my ability to remain was tenuous at best. Dozens of anecdotal stories of farangs getting rail-roaded by less than scrupulous police flashed through my mind. What if they saw this as an opportunity for extortion? Truth be told, I hadn't really been hurt by the impact, in fact "forceful nudge" would be more accurate and any witness would likely support that.

I grew more nervous. The police had not yet arrived. We were relatively close to the building where my flat is located. Suddenly I decided to act, indicating that I would be right back, as I needed to get my passport, something the police would want to see when they arrived. I didn't wait for a response, and as it was in full view of the small crowd that had gathered they could see where I was going and there was no way I could slip away. Besides, I did plan on retrieving my passport...

I opened the door to my flat and quickly scanned the room for what I needed. Something heavy, with a blunt edge...

I found just what I needed and scoping out the approximate location on the side of my leg where I had been hit by the car I raised the object and slammed it forcefully down onto my flesh. Jaysus that hurt! Again...it has to be convincing ...AARRGHHHH!!!! Fuck, fuck, fuck!!! A few more for good measure...AHHHHH!!! I can feel the consistency of the meat there changing under the repeated blows. I painfully located my passport, locked the door and now genuinely limping, returned to the scene.

The police had arrived and I greeted them. In stilted Thai and with accompanying actions I demonstrated what had happened. They seemed disturbed at how I had reacted but still uncertain as how to rule and what should be done to resolve things. She denied the speed she was driving and the force with which I was hit. She demanded payment now that the police were there. I said I was unwilling. Things seemed to be at a standoff. I indicated my leg "jepp**" and through my passable Thai I let them know I was sorry but that her mistake trumped my over-reaction...an unwise response but one that was understandable in the circumstances. Hoping that enough time had passed, I dramatically unbuttoned my trousers and whipped them down to reveal an obviously visible and growing red welt. The mood shifted palpably. We both apologized to each other and the issue was declared resolved. The police departed.

I walked away sullen and ashamed, relieved that my self-inflicted wound was the only punishment I had suffered.

*som nom na-you deserve it.

**jepp-pain.

2004-08-28T08:35:00.000+07:00

The Dogfucker

The dogfucker is a selfish, lazy sack of shit who will do anything to get out of doing work. He takes advantage of the Thai dislike of confrontation, knowing that he can get away with his shameless coasting ad nauseum. He fucks the dog so thoroughly that he causes those around him to take on more than their fair share of work and also further strengthens and perpetuates the belief in the eyes of many Thais that foreigners are not to be trusted.

Dogfucker is so completely and utterly lacking in self-awareness that whenever the subject of the workplace comes up, he actually complains about what a hard row he has to hoe. That he has fucked the dog endlessly for years on end without leaving what he characterizes as such an unfair work environment puzzles everyone but him.

At the same time, the fact that he thinks he is putting one over on everyone is a great source of amusement for him. He regales people with his self-proclaimed shrewdness at enjoying such a free ride while his employers don't have the guts to confront him. This is similar to his boasts of breaking the law as a punk growing up, told with that oily conspiratorial look convinced that those listening will respect him that much more.

Admittedly, dogfucker is at first an outgoing, gregarious individual who makes friends easily and is generous with his favours. The fact that he has never had to completely fend for himself in his entire life and that approaching middle-age is still getting by on handouts, soon makes it clear why he is so free with money. Someone other than him has had to work for it.

It also becomes apparent in a short amount of time that those he surrounds himself with share one of two traits: they either lick dogfucker's arse and consistently defer to him and/or are mama's boys themselves. In extreme cases, effeminate weaklings prostrate themselves and become dogfucker's bitches, helping him to further his duplicitous lying and theft of time from his place of work.

Like so many who are lacking in self-awareness, dogfucker has a skewed and twisted set of non-morals that he governs his small, petty life by. With this ever-shifting template with which he looks at the world, all his behaviour can be justified and all others are to blame for whatever misfortune comes his way.

In the ultimate laughable example of hypocrisy and inability to recognize his own actions for what they are, dogfucker becomes agitated when those around him don't go along with the nudge and wink game of covering for his incompetence, laziness and lies. The absurdity in his being affronted at this while feeling no discomfort or shame at his own actions is just another indication of the self-serving bizarro world in which he lives.

Like many who display the same characteristics and tread the same path, dogfucker makes sad attempts at invoking platitudes that try to play on some non-existent fraternity of those he hopes will assist in his fraudulence. Of course, to swallow such meaningless mantras would serve no one but dogfucker.

Dogfucker demonstrates those quintessential examples of a fragile ego, attempting to play the big man with affected mannerisms and exaggerated displays of masculinity. Ironically, when things don't go dogfucker's way, he embraces the tactics of a petulant woman. He throws pathetic tantrums and engages in divisive and gutless back-stabbing sessions with whoever is available. Like so many before him, he forgets that those who patiently listen are aware that they are the ones getting the knife when they are not present.

When he returns to the real world, dogfucker is going to experience a wake-up call of monumental proportions. Alternatively, when he starts getting called on his incompetence and laziness, instead of moderating his behaviour he may continue to blame others and ultimately self-destruct.

While dogfucker is many things, best of all he is thankfully and finally
...gone.

2004-08-26T22:59:00.000+07:00

10 Million Stories in the City of Angels

The arrival of cooler weather meant that my easy existence was over for another year. My transition from the carefree days of summer, when sleeping just about anywhere was possible and squeezing out a subsistence existence was relatively easy, to the dreary slog of winter, was always sudden.

No part-time jobs or dole scams seemed to be in the offing this year. Any acquaintances I had developed over the hazy and difficult-to-remember past were hard to locate. Those who were still around now seemed to shun me at this time of year. They knew my arrival on their doorstep during the onset of winter could only mean a shameless gambit, an attempt to ingratiate myself with some nebulous proposition regarding future compensation. I had ridden out many a winter this way and the challenge of it invigorated me. At the same time, it always warmed my soul to give the opportunity to one of my childhood friends to be the giving, generous individual.

"A place on the couch for someone who hasn't done as well as me, a few bob here and there, a chance to break bread, reminisce? Why not, what harm could come?" It would soon become apparent to them that a life of toil was not for me. As I ended my stay with consecutive generous individuals, the cool, sullen words upon departure and the flat look in their eyes made it clear that this would be the last time. I always consoled myself that there was another friend somewhere who needed to exercise their benevolence...

This year was different. I was desperate, my funds were running low and no seasonal saviour seemed to be on the horizon.

I found myself near the university campus on the edge of town. A sprawling campus that with the beginning of autumn and the return of students created an atmosphere that temporarily took my mind off the impending season of penury. I wandered around and felt rejuvenated by the sight of the well-scrubbed eager faces. I lingered near any number of cafes and canteens on the campus and casually sidled up to tables that had been recently vacated, enjoying the lukewarm, unfinished cups of coffee and the half-eaten sandwiches left behind by the youngsters with classes to rush off to.

I still retained a relatively youthful appearance and found it easy enough to pass for a student, albeit one with a relatively sickly constitution and lack of regular dental care compared to the majority of the well brought-up students from middle and upper class backgrounds.

The beginning of the new semester meant a rash of exuberant activities dotted around the campus, designed to create a lively atmosphere for freshman and returning students. These usually kicked off in mid-afternoon and included numerous that were sponsored by companies eager to insinuate themselves with students as being synonymous with their new sense of freedom and independence. Often there was free food on offer and I made sure to take advantage of as many of these as possible. The best of course were the brewery sponsored beer fests with lager served up at cheap prices in plastic glasses to the students, many of whom were experiencing the liberating feeling of being able to drink legally for the first time.

There was an agricultural department on campus with a row of stables that led back to a small grazing pasture surrounded by a forest that bordered a river. It was easy enough to slip into the enclosure where the stables were and I found an unoccupied stall with fresh straw that made fairly comfortable sleeping arrangements. During the day-time I gained access to the recreation facilities on campus, allowing me to shower regularly and also providing the opportunity to keep my sartorial standards at a respectable level with pilfered garments that had been left carelessly unlocked.

The university library was vast and I spent hours poring through volumes of classic literature and theories on philosophy, psychology and religion. As I began occupying a certain routine, faces became familiar and I struck up conversations with various students. I always sussed out as quickly as possible their area of study so that when queried I would indicate a different faculty fearful that my ignorance regarding course material and protocol would give the game away otherwise. I even deflowered one lovely young coed in her campus dorm room.

Things had been going on like this for a week or so when I noticed a familiar face come into my range of vision as I was lounging at one of the campus cafeterias. It was a long-forgotten friend who I had not seen for years and, also recognizing me, he approached and we shook hands vigorously and quickly engaged in reminiscence. I avoided the cover story I had been proffering to the curious during the past week and instead indicated that I was here to observe and archeological exhibition.

He was now a professor at that very same university, involved in some interesting research in the social sciences department. As it happened, he was on the verge of a wide-ranging study for which he had secured generous university funding and there were numerous positions for which he required paid assistance. The implication was readily apparent…if I wanted one of the vacancies I was welcome to it. Because of my aversion towards physical exertion I was initially reluctant but he persuaded me with assurances of little work, good wages and interesting subject matter.

I arrived at his office at the campus the next morning for a briefing. He filled me in on the details and provided me with a cash advance as I would be working independently in various locations in the city. I was to arrive at the homes of women who had previously agreed to take part in the study.

All the women had one thing in common: they were widows and their husbands had all committed suicide. I was supplied with a series of questions and investigative techniques to elicit certain information. Though they had volunteered to participate in the study the women had likely subordinated information that was too difficult for them to deal with. My friend’s specialist knowledge in the area resulted in a sure-fire way to gently uncover their most repressed feelings. Together with the interviews they had also consented to allow their personal belongings to be rifled through in an effort to establish some sort of pattern that could then cast some understanding on the circumstances surrounding their husbands' final decision.

Because of my familiarity with such research from before the wilderness years, I knew that an initial pattern for the test group must had been already established but my long lost friend refused to fill me in beyond the basic details he had provided.

*************************

I arrived at the small bungalow with the tidy yard and knocked at the door. The woman who answered eliminated any thoughts of trying to provide any comfort beyond a gentle and sympathetic voice. Her gnarled hands and leathery face provided me with an estimate of her age at somewhere between 80 and death. She ushered me into the tiny salon that was probably decorated in the early '70's, with shag carpeting and endless shelves of cheap baubles, curios and dated photographs. There was a dish with wrapped hard candies sitting on a coffee table. The TV was in one of those faux wooden consoles and was turned down so as to be barely audible.

When you encounter someone eccentric on the street you may catch a brief sensation of their weirdness. When you step into the home of someone, you are enveloped by that strangeness. The odours, the numerous possessions they have acquired over the years that are all somehow soaked with a piece of their owner’s unique history, the fact that they are comfortable in familiar surroundings luxuriating in their own peculiarities, all adds to a distinct and singular sensation of unreality.

The old lady started in on her tale without being prompted and reeled off a disjointed story that besides proving the fact that her husband had topped himself more than 20 years ago really gave no insight regarding any clues as to why. 20 years…Jaysus! What did my friend think I was going to gain from this nearly senile woman whose memories had probably long since settled into a vaguely truthful rationale that she could live with?

She led me into a back room where there were musty old boxes full of papers and letters. She left me to search through the remnants of whatever life her long dead husband had left behind.

It was dreary slogging with little beyond the bland minutiae of endless documents that hold meaning only for the person whose life they once concerned. Old receipts, postcards, books, pages with scribbled musings…there was nothing that was relevant. What the hell did he expect me to glean from this absurd expedition? I was thinking about the comfort of the warm stall back at the campus and how I regretted this assignment despite the influx of cash it would bring.

I had a quick look in the closet inside the room, deciding that I had just about had enough of this horseshit. A few old empty suitcases that I opened and looked inside. Nothing. I looked inside the last one and heard something rattling around but couldn't locate anything…what…I felt around the edges…could it be that sad old cliched hiding spot, the false-bottomed suitcase? Maybe the old bastard had been one of those misers and stored his hard-earned dollars in here instead of entrusting it to the banks. That would certainly make this trip worthwhile I thought as I pried the bottom up sending forth a fine film of dust and a rustle of papers sliding out onto the floor.

I scooped up the dusty papers and photographs and slumped into the armchair, settling in to see if there was anything worthwhile amongst the new find. It became apparent that these were more personal items...what appeared to be some long, handwritten letters, numerous photos and a number of old stubs from airline tickets. They had all been for flights in and out of various cities in Asia, most frequently Bangkok, Thailand. Now as I started to look more closely with interest I remembered that the old woman had mentioned a "yearly business trip to Asia…" and the last one seemed to coincide quite closely with his death.

Though these seemed to be of more interest than the others, I had no desire to pore over them in this depressing place. I packed together what seemed to be the only information that could be of any use in this inane research project and made my way back to the salon area.

The old woman was passed out sitting upright on the couch with her head back and her mouth hanging open. I coughed loudly hoping to get her attention. No response. I jacked the volume on the TV up as high as it would go and still she remained motionless. I unwrapped some of the hard candies from the dish and lobbed them at her open mouth. A few clinked off her dentures and one disappeared into her gaping gob. Perhaps the old hag had expired with the excitement of the day and the mental strain of rehashing her husband's demise.

I dreaded the thought of actually touching her ancient and withered flesh to check for a pulse so I decided to have a quick gander around the rest of the house instead. The entire place was infused with a sense of hopelessness. Inside the cupboards in the kitchen were cans with labels that seemed to indicate they had been purchased in the early '80's. An old rotary dial phone sat on a small table in the hallway that led back to the bedrooms (one of which I had been in earlier). Next to it was one of those plastic domes filled with water and a miniature country setting and when you upended it little bits of white plastic drifted down on the scene.

I rifled through various drawers in the bedrooms but found nothing of worth. I paced slowly back out to the sitting area, wondering why I was taking care to be as quite as possible. The hag was now awake and staring blankly at the TV screen. I thanked her for her time and assistance and told her that the research department would be in touch. She seemed oblivious to my words and I walked out without hearing her utter another word. As I left, a few possible motives as to his decision to kill himself crossed my mind…

I hailed a cab and made my way back to the university campus and promptly headed towards my friend's office. He was out so I made cup of coffee and sat down to look over the handful of documents I had retrieved from the house whose memory filled me with a sullen feeling of pointlessness. There was something precious about these letters and photos as compared to the other papers I had inspected at the house.

I looked inside an already opened envelope and took out the letter that was inside.

Back today. The readjustment is strange. Like I was meant to be there all along. I will be with you again soon. I miss you with a passion equal to the sweltering heat that caused that rash to develop on your tender ass…

It continued on in this laboured and maudlin way for one and a half pages. Only the obvious passage of time infused it with a sense of nostalgia and longing…the words themselves were flat and poorly written in a stilted and unconvincing style. Perhaps the writer had also felt this, as he had obviously never sent the missive.

There were a few photographs of the deceased individual…my only confirmation that he was the one in the picture being the similarity to those pictures that were hanging on the walls at the house I had left a few hours ago. Next to him in some of the photos was a young Asian woman. It didn’t take a broken down son-of-a-bitch living in a horse stable to figure that the geezer had been nailing this, or maybe a string of different birds, on his annual visits to Asia.

There were a few other fading photographs, some with the suicide case and a young Asian man…comparing them to the other photographs it almost seemed as if the young Asian man and woman were related somehow.

There were a few scraps of paper with some names attached to local addresses. If there was anything to be discovered perhaps one of these individuals could provide the clues.

It was still gnawing at me as to what the whole purpose of this research project was about. As my professor friend who had given me a break was nowhere to be seen, I flicked on his computer and had a quick look around. The liberal university atmosphere must have made him feel comfortable and free from potential intruders as most of his files were accessible without any passwords.

There were some strange related articles and texts that were stored within the same folder as the contacts’ list for those individuals who had agreed to be part of this study. There were some legal references regarding the hold-up in the administration of wills of people who have committed suicide, information on hypnosis and other treatises on psychological manipulation. It seemed as if he was choreographing a hugger mugger scheme on a grand scale. I admired his foresight and was only perturbed that he hadn't cut me in on any of the action. I made a note to myself to brace him later...it wouldn't be hard to get a piece of the action as he would want to maintain the respectable façade of his position at the university to facilitate further scams. I had always thought the academic life would have suited me well.

Regardless of whether the information I had set out to obtain was truly relevant to any research or even necessary for whatever plan my friend had didn't really matter to me. I had become intrigued enough to want to follow this through. I made a few calls and quickly located one of the individuals whose name had been scrawled on a scrap of paper that I had found in the false-bottomed suitcase. At first I was stunned at my stroke of luck but then remembered that most people were unlike myself and settled into a routine early in life, often remaining in the same squalid house or apartment for their entire lives.

Within those documents I had also found a short, journal type letter written by the dead man in which he made reference to the individual I had just spoken to and had arranged to meet in the next hour. He had referred to him as a "solid bloke," "someone to be trusted" a "real friend" and a number of other cliches that indicated what he thought about the grizzled sounding old bastard I was about to visit.

"He was the stupidest son-of-a-bitch I ever knew. What a colossal moron…I can't even describe the lengths to which he would go to achieve the most complete cock-up of every situation he became involved in…aaahhh I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on him, he's gone and I do miss him, but christ he knew how to mess up….

His wife was always a shrill hag who never like me…in fact I haven't seen her since the funeral. I don't really care who knows now...

No, of course we never went there on business. It was pleasure, pure and simple…we started heading to Bangkok in about 1975…every year we'd head back…a couple times we tried different locations like the Philippines but we always ended up coming back to good old Thailand…"

I had found his address easily and he had gladly welcomed me in to his tiny bachelor apartment. He must have been close to 80 by now and there was no indication that he had any family or friends. He must have experienced a downturn in fortune in later years or was an incredible miser. This was the only explanation I could think to explain away his present surroundings compared to an earlier life that allowed yearly sojourns abroad. He offered me cold beer which I gladly accepted as he started on his rambling monologue…

The thing with Rodney (the name of the dead man) was that he always got tied up with these young women when we were there. I always saw it as a few weeks of fun and release from the horseshit we had to put up with back here…aye, I was married back then…long since finished of course…

Anyway, he always got hooked by one of these young lasses and by the time we were ready to leave he was lavishing gifts on her and promising her the world. The long haul back never quite cured him of his fixation but usually by after a few months he would inevitably forget about her and then the whole excitement would start revving up a few months before the next trip and the same thing would happen again.

There was one trip, I think it was about our 3rd or 4th somewhere in '79 or '80 I believe that he really fell for one of those tarts…I mean he actually forced me to extend my stay that year because he needed a plausible story for his wife as to why the "business trip" was lasting longer than it should. I thought that the same pattern would play out and he'd forget about her in time but that one was different…he kept on about her and even maintained some sporadic contact and the next year she was waiting at the airport when we arrived.

I must not have been paying that much attention during the first trip that he was with her, but that 2nd year I clocked something about her and I tried to tell my old friend but he just wouldn’t listen. I had heard about these types of "ladies" being quite common in Bangkok and had always been on the lookout but this one was exceptionally good I suppose. It was that slight hardness to her that I can't quite explain...

He would have nothing of it though. When you're neck deep in that surreal world where you think you're in love or whatever god-damn title you want to stick on it…you just won't listen to reason. But how could he not see her true nature…I just don't know. Amazingly, he seemed to go that whole second trip without clueing in to anything and then I was starting to think he was inclined in that direction…but even so the type of deviancy could only end in disaster I thought.

By the 3rd year he was fully involved in a relationship with her that had no sign of letting up. About that time a so-called brother of this woman started showing up…he was effeminate, strange looking in a way, almost too much like his supposed sister…

Always looking back you think you should have got in someone's face more directly but it's never that easy when it's really happening. You don't really have the guts to see if you're more important than...

Things were becoming pretty clear…and monotonous. A sad, cliched story that had played out hundreds of times before. It must have hit harder than usual when the sad fool found out. I'd found out everything I could…

"Sorry to interrupt you, but you're telling me that all these years he had no idea that he was spending time with a passable looking transvestite and the final realization drove him over the edge..."

"Ohhh no…I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. No in fact he was fully aware of the times that he was with a lady-boy as me and him both indulged in any number of deviancies. Laying into a few katooeys was the least of the sinister side of Bangkok we experienced. In this case she definitely was a woman. No…it was my keen eye that had been developed over years of trolling the underbelly of, at the time, the world’s burgeoning sex tourist freeway. That highway of cheap thrills was littered with some horrific and almost unbelievable sights…that's why I knew something was off in this case.

There's a lot of sad, used up cases out there...and wasted old fools like me were the shameless scum of the earth that exploited and irrevocably scarred the psyche of countless dozens of desperate people who turned to prostitution as a way of getting by in so many 3rd world countries. We were some of the most benign of the lot but looking back, it was all pretty shameful…nothing really good came out of it. Most of the girls became broken down souls who provided for their families for a time…but in the end the short-term benefit wasn't worth it for the destroyed spirit and the remainder of their lives going from one dysfunctional relationship to another.

There was the occasional one, like that girl he had fallen so hard for, whose pain turned inward and came out the other side a vicious vengeful anger that wanted someone to pay the same price she had. Mix in those years of deranged requests from all manner of sadists and freaks and the end result can be an unfeeling shell of a person looking to fill some of that void up with someone else's pain.

That 4th year was when my fears were borne out in a way I never could have anticipated. Shortly after arriving in Bangkok that year Rodney went off with his woman. Instead of limping back in the morning exhausted and reeking of booze, he didn't show up. I chalked it up to the freewheeling adventures we usually got stuck in and didn’t worry..but after 3 more days I was frightened and had no idea what to do…alerting anyone could lead to our yearly secret being split wide open with all the attendant destroyed reputations back home. After 2 more days I was ready to crack and truly fearing for his safety. Just when I was about to go to the local police and possibly the embassy, he came back, stark white, not speaking, probably weighing 20 pounds less than when I had seen him last. He wouldn't speak…he laid there in a catatonic state and when finally after about 12 hours he came back to himself and responded, he started blubbering like a baby.

The girl, her brother and a few more accomplices had tied old Rodney up and filleted the poor bastard where it hurt the most…made sure he would never stick it in anyone again…he had somehow made it to the hospital and been patched up but refused to give any details to the police.

The worst part of it was something we didn't find out until a few years after. Needless to say that was our last trip abroad together. I went a few more times with another associate but it was never quite the same…the worst part as I was saying was that old Rodney literally started to waste away after a few years. The horror of what happened was enough and god knows what cover story he put together to tell his wife. But this was back in the early '80's and the final indignity was that he had been infected with that new strain of deadly disease that at first was so roundly attached to deviant practices scorned and judged by so many others. No drugs to help with the final days, only a desperate horror that he had somehow brought it on himself. It finally became too much and he took his own life before he faded away..."

2004-08-26T21:58:00.000+07:00

Loads of New Shit

Since Google acquired Blogger this past year there has been some anticipation as to what changes they might implement.

Just in the past month or so there have been some great new additions. No more ads for one thing. Also, as you have probably already noticed there is new navigation bar at the top. If you are looking for a particular nugget of shit and don't want to wade through the horsehit that I have spewed here to find it, you can now use the search feature to look solely within this blog. This is also useful for someone who may have shown up here via a search engine and has not arrived at the particular post that contained what they were looking for.

Alternatively, the miasma emanating from this colossal, steaming pile of feces may be so thoroughly repulsive to you that you require a quick exit. In which case the "Next Blog" button allows you to surf an endless river of similarly shitty blogs.

If you feel that you want to contaminate someone else's mind with this shit, simply click on the small envelope icon at the bottom of every entry, allowing you to e-mail the link for that particular post to your loved ones and enemies.

2004-08-25T20:32:00.000+07:00

Katooeys

One of the first things many comment on after their first few days in Bangkok is the surprising number of katooeys. Katooey is the catchall Thai word for drag-queens, transvestites, and transsexuals; post-op, pre-op, hormone munching freaks at every level of believability. The majority are hideous, some are passable and the best ones are likely undetectable.

The worst ones are ostentatious, flamboyant, horrific looking caricatures of ugly women. Their annoying nasal voices are neither masculine nor feminine but a sickly, drug-induced hybrid. As the cliché goes, meat-hook sized hands and prominent Adam's apples are all give-aways, as are the lack of soft lines and curves that distinguish real women. Trapped inside an elevator on a hot day with the only other person being a katooey, also hammers home the repulsive fact some things just can't be changed. This is evidenced by the vomit-inducing emission of body odour from the sweating eunuch.

Most tourists in Thailand presume that the relatively large number of katooeys must mean that they are more accepted in this society than in most western countries. In one sense this is true simply because of the Thai propensity to live and let live. However, become more familiar with attitudes and get to know more Thais and it is apparent that there is a fair amount of aversion to katooeys from the average person. This is reflected in the fact that you will rarely see one of these lady-boys in any respectable job.

So why the apparent prevalence? Anecdotally, this occurrence seems to be shared with many of the dark-complexioned people of the world who reside in the tropical and Mediterranean climates. One thing many of those places also have in common are patriarchal societies. As with many countries whose men project an ostensibly strong image, the capacity for exactly the opposite is as much or greater than elsewhere. There is an emphasis on family but often sons have a closer relationship with the mother and this may create a disproportionate affinity with feminine qualities. Ironically, because of high levels of poverty and despite the importance of the family unit, there may be a greater incidence of abandonment that increases this bond between mother and son.

The belief that there is an overwhelming slew of these gelded wackos in Thailand is of course only based on a comparison to those western countries with original populations made up of Europeans from the northern hemisphere. Societies that are known for being puritanical, uptight and infused with self-righteous, judgmental beliefs that flow from the dominant religion. However, many of the southern countries in the running with Thailand for the gender-bending global giant are Catholic, so perhaps the religious angle isn't the only answer.

Also likely playing a part is that aversion for getting close to anyone but our loved ones. Even then, some frigid northern dwellers develop a shuddering repulsion at the thought of having to touch another human being. Casual touching is more common in the warmer climates, perhaps allowing certain desires to come to the fore that otherwise wouldn't.

Almost fittingly, the katooeys of Thailand help to serve the repressed urges of many foreigners as there is often a token lady-boy at the beer-bars that serve tourists and act as a starting point for those who wish to pay for sex.

Some westerners, usually of the younger self-proclaimed liberal set, though not attracted to katooeys, still find them to be inherently genuine individuals and worthy of engaging in conversation if only to show what accepting hipsters they are. As much as I am in favour of all people embracing their true desires, I still can't get over a general sense of unease around katooeys.

At the beer-bars, working in hair salons and at reception desks of struggling business that can't afford a real woman, the swishing, mincing katooeys with the affected mannerisms, coarse, sickly features and shameless come-ons are here if that's your twisted, hormonally altered, surgically mangled cup of deviancy.

2004-08-24T23:49:00.000+07:00

Skilled Manipulators: Part 2

Read part 1 here

You frequently need to visit a local government office, forced to deal with the bureaucracy because the business you are in is highly regulated. An admission by the parasites in power that they want a piece of the action. The paper work and time that is consumed during your visits causes you to make a determined yet respectful attempt to over-ride the standard red tape procedures, claiming that you’re a special case because of the frequency of your visits to the office. You break down the initial refusals with your persistence, offering a bottle of whiskey that you happen to have with you as a token of your gratitude. The acceptance by the bureaucrat guarantees that you are now in a different class and this will be the standard gratuity on the now occasional, subsequent visits. The cost of the bottle of whiskey is minor compared to the time and money you will save.

Sometimes the act of stepping on someone and smoothing over the damage can take place within a single encounter such as the described. Remember not to restrict application of the ############# principles to only standard and easily recognizable opportunities. You must increase your awareness so that the small trickle of advantages that start to come your way will turn into a lifelong harvest of the malleability of others. Opening your eyes to the reality of human behaviour detailed here and religiously studying the guidelines and procedures will make implementation easier as time passes.

If you were previously unaware of a specific phenomenon, let’s say for example, the existence of transvestite prostitutes, but then were tipped off to certain identifying characteristics. The new awareness would allow you to spot the previously unknown beast, leading you to exclaim, “Say, you’re right about that, there are a lot of them around!” The same applies regarding learning to recognize human relationships and situations that are ripe to be exploited.

Here are a few examples that demonstrate that occurrence of this phenomenon and some of the underlying pathologies that guide it.

The Hell’s Angels are one of the most notorious and feared motorcycle gangs in North America and parts of Europe. The litany of dastardly deeds and heinous acts they have committed could fill the libraries of most small cities. Through intimidation and fear they have established a crime network empire built on proceeds from drugs, prostitution and gambling. Despite all this they enjoy a relatively positive image amongst the general public. How have they accomplished this?

It’s hard to imagine that the good-ol’-boys-just-havin’-a-few-laughs
Image was created through a conscious decision and concerted effort by the members in an attempt to become white trash anti-heroes to the unwashed masses. After all, these are the lowest of the low, the deviants and scum who have decided to live outside civility and common respect that most others believe in. The kind of people, as Yves Lavigne said in his comprehensive undercover analysis of the Angels entitled Takin' Care of Business, who “have chunks of shit clinging to the hairs around their assholes.”

It’s more likely that they stumbled onto this unexpected windfall, as so many glorifies bandits in society have. The came to the realization by chance and realized that the envy others feel for their daring to live out side the rules that bind most of us to a bland and dead-end existence can be taken advantage of. However, there is evidence that some within the biker organization are aware of the benefits that accrue from having the public on your side. In recent years the Angels have staged numerous rallies and high-profile donation raising schemes, with all proceeds handed over to charities at a goodwill event with as many cameras present as possible to capture the unlikely Samaritans in action. Only a damn fool would see these supposed good deeds as a reason to look the other way regarding the damage they have otherwise done to society. With the number of fools around, it’s not surprising that a significant number of people have fallen for the ruse.

Does this result in any direst benefit for the Angels? It’s hard to say for certain or measure any real effects but the mixed reputation they have can only be a positive element that assists them in carrying out their modern day banditry. Has the image that they helped to nurture ever played a role in gaining a sympathetic ear from a juror in a criminal trial? Almost impossible to quantify but the likelihood is that in situations when there is a confusing miasma of conflicting statements and circumstantial evidence, the media images that have been implanted in people’s minds do make a difference.

Another example can be used to demonstrate the universality of this concept in which a few mere crumbs of token respect or civility can be used to offset the effects of repeatedly ramming someone’s head into a brick wall.

A number of years ago a psychologist coined the term the “Stockholm syndrome,” the name taken from a famous hostage taking incident in the capital of Sweden. The individuals that were taken hostage during that incident suffered through a great deal of stress and trauma. Upon their release and a reasonable length of recovery, they agreed to undergo extensive interviewing and testing in order that psychologists could discover more regarding the relationship that develops between a hostage taker and his captives.

One of the most shocking and revealing discoveries that the psychologists made was that a relationship develops between hostage taker and captive in which both start to feel a warped yet real sense of love for each other. The researchers further determined that the love the hostages felt for their captor was based on the times that there was an alleviation of stress, intimidation or torture.

In other words, it appears as though human beings, whether consciously or subconsciously, always give the greatest weight and consideration to favourable treatment they receive while doing their utmost to block out negative stimuli. This claim appears to fly in the face of a modern society that seems hypersensitive and ready to be outraged at the smallest slight. However, upon closer inspection you will realize that those people who are usually outraged only make up a small minority. Also, they are normally expressing their feelings because of disrespect that has been shown, not the harshness of the action they claim to be protesting.

This is knowledge that must be utilized by you as you become a skilled practitioner of ##############. When steps need to be taken most people’s behaviour is moderated by the standard and sycophantic interpretations of what is considered “unethical”. However, you can be confident that you have a great deal of leeway and a virtual license to practice the n with only a minimal amount of pleasantries and respect needed to offset any resistance to your tactics.

Another, more glaring and all pervasive example of the use of superficial niceties and symbolic gestures that allow the implementation of a more insidious agenda is of course, the governments of the world, tyrannical and otherwise. It is a truism that almost without fail, people will fail to take action to change the conditions that keep them repressed, instead continuing to suffer ad nauseum, labouring under the belief that they should accept their lot in life or that somehow things will change for the better.

What keeps the masses of the world placated, the many controlled by the few? To a large degree it is nothing more than the crumbs thrown to them by their rulers, served up alongside self-serving mantras and jingoism-soaked, symbolic platitudes. As with individual relationships, it is only when the arrogance of governments reaches a level that takes the populace for granted and totally disregards respect and civility that a repressed citizenry will rise up in revolt.

Once again further evidence of what you can get away with and the ease with which people will accept token gestures as sufficient appeasement while overlooking the flogging that you are giving them at the same time.

Now, let’s go over a few more habits and behaviours that were sued by Grapland (see part 1) in accomplishing the tasks he had set for himself.

Muddy the Waters

The previous 2 methods (Remain low-key and appear unassuming and Be respectful to others, most importantly those that you plan to , or have already stepped on.) for increasing your ability to be a skilled manipulator and thus better be able to start ##############, are inherently part of the rule that you should always muddy the waters. Being low key and leading people to believe you are inoffensive, unassuming and benign will always make people think twice, three or four times about whether you could have had any part in their downfall. By the time they have had a chance to pick up their dreams and/or lives up off the floor, you will be long gone with the loot and out of harm’s way.

Consciously taking further action to muddy the waters, such as Grapland did when using intermediaries, not only decreases the likelihood of anyone fingering you for the blame but also provides you with plausible deniability and further confuses matters if the authorities were ever to become involved.

The other possibility is that everything has been clearly defined in a burgeoning business or personal relationship and promises have been made and obviously broken by the main principle involved. In this case, the ease with which the aggrieved party can assign blame for his or her undoing means that the speed that action can be taken is increased in that irrational and dangerous state of mind.

As you can see for the above examples and guidelines, while a positive image is important, the way you wield that image and the results that you can gain from it are more important. Letting others know that you have one up on them is not advisable, making real gains because of these advantages is.

The term “Machiavellian” likely creates an image in your mind of a sinister and unforgiving individual, snarling and ruthless, the type of person you could spot a hundred yards off and would take appropriate action to avoid. After reading the ################ guidelines for becoming and or dealing with skilled manipulators, (ergo Machiavellian) you can see that the opposite of the envisioned and exaggerated character is true. The more inconspicuous and unclear you are, the easier you can implement the strategies necessary to get ahead. The more respectful you are to those you step on, the easier and cleaner the getaway will be.

2004-08-22T14:48:00.001+07:00

"I pledge my allegiance to the City of Angels..."

With one week to go, the election campaign for Bangkok Governor heats up...

The rains seem to have been heavier this year, the cool torrents lashing down in sheets, washing the filth from the streets of Bangkok. But the grime just doesn't go away. It keeps coming back, coating the nightmare landscape, objects, people...that rancid, ubiquitous layer of filth that infuses everything...

The election campaign for Bangkok Governor is on...

A better economy and more money for middle and upper class Thais isn’t enough to blunt the long string of questionable statements and actions from the Thai PM. Like the claim that 4 soldiers killed in an army raid back in January "deserved to die." There's a "som nam na" (deserving of misfortune) sentiment building against billionaire boy and his band of boondoggle brokering bunglers. Early in his term, Thaksin could do no wrong but now it's the Midas touch in reverse...

Fearing a drubbing for any candidate fielded or formally endorsed by his Thai Rak Thai (TRT) party, Thaksin is ostensibly steering clear of any involvement in the August 29 election for Bangkok's new governor. He's got the police force and army sewn up so to be genial and fair and in the hopes of a healthier democracy he's decided to watch from a distance. (Oh, the seedy looking bloke skulking by the corner is a good bet...ask if he'll hold your passport and valuables while you nip in for a quick one...)

The truth has been harder to keep down, as at least 3 candidates have been mentioned as receiving the support of the TRT. Three that deny this backing by the party that denied the endorsements while still hoping to sway potential voters with that non-support...

So who's on the honour roll of Thailand's finest, the straight shooters, the benevolent souls who wish to offer their dedication to the selfless position of governor of Bangkok?

"Here's the book full of mugshots mate, take a look and tell us what yer thinkin' is. Seen 'em anywhere?"

Chuwit Kamolvisit

One of the at least 3 candidates who has at some point received unofficial backing from some within the TRT.

The name invokes images of bug-eyed theatrical pleas and claims of innocence. Long known in Bangkok as a purveyor of female flesh in the string of massage parlours he owns, Chuwit was in the news in a big way last year after this demolition. As any innocent person would do, he went into hiding (or was kidnapped, depending on who you believe) following reports that he had masterminded the destruction to expedite the building of a new hotel. Whoever was behind the early morning annihilation surely wanted to avoid those annoying little details like having to deal with those people who owned businesses and made a livelihood there.

Like a cornered patsy running into a crowded street from a back alley to escape his attackers, Chuwit then cried "bribery" long and loud. "Bribery" as in the 20 million baht per month he claimed to have been paying police to allow him to operate the high-end brothels that helped make his fortune. Weeping like a schoolgirl for the cameras, Chuwit actually seemed to convince many of the authentic nature of his public display. Not the only merchant of lascivious lechery in the land of leering loose-limbed ignorant occidentals, but the only one treated so unfairly by the boys in brown...

This ongoing drama has created a strange pathos for Chuwit (or perhaps expectations of future comic relief) in the forgiving hearts of Thais and he seems to have a legitimate shot at the governor's seat. This is the official endorsement from Pistonhips for the peddler prince of prurience. The potential for farce is just too irresistible. In the past, a long line of Thai politicians have called news conferences that are held in front of garish neon signs that adorn Bangkok's handful of red light districts, so they can announce with a straight face that there...simply...is...no...prostitution...in...Thailand. It's illegal, so it can't exist.

"My utterance, nay the very entity-unto-myself, crackling energy of almightiness surrounding my proclamation supercedes all else, even reality and makes this structure, these scarred and haggard faces with no names, these broken lives and parasitic exploitative fortunes made for others, all a twisted figment of the collective imagination."

Maybe the same far-removed, isolated and privileged thinking that can't comprehend why anyone would take the merest notice at the subtle and nuanced debacle that launched Chuwit into the spotlight in the first place. Ironically it has also provided him with a great deal of publicity and probably increased his chance of winning this race.

The prospect of Chuwit standing proud, true and tall and making those unctuous denials is something that somehow makes him the most appropriate person for the job. Having made billions off that which doesn't exist, having failed to liquidate that which he used to exploit that which is not an issue, now in charge of the city that is free from that which never lined his pockets with the misery of others. "The Pimp Governor of Bangkok" somehow has a nice artificial ring to it. Go Chuwit!!! (We expect cut-rate massages in the ethereal nether world of non-existent bordellos once you assume your rightful position.)

Chalerm Yubamrung

Another candidate with ties to Thaksin (and in fact a member of the ruling Thai Rak Thai party) who is now playing down that connection. We're confident that were he elected there would be no strange revisionist history of whose logic only he understood and that allowed a renewed relationship with his old friend.

A caring fatherly sort who always looks out for the two rambunctious lads who are his sons. Unfortunately the lads have let him down at times. Sure they only copped a few poppers...err, that's accused of having popped a copper. But the rogue in question has been cleared so we can't cast aspersions after things have been so thoroughly investigated and tried before impartial judges. In fact, this is a testament to the resolve of Chalerm at having withstood incredible stress during the time his son was unfairly being hounded for something he was ultimately cleared of. Let it stand as a reminder of what those involved in various criminal justice systems the world over have long known regarding the unreliability of eyewitnesses. When it's initially a dozen or more whittled down to 6 or 7, it's still an indication of how unreliable those 6 or 7 were, despite the fact their stories may have corroborated one another.

If elected, Chalerm could spend millions on a study of physiognomy with himself as the specimen, all for the benefit of mankind and the elevation of Thailand to a position among the world leaders in cutting-edge research. The goal would be to find out if that look that seems to afflict the wealthy and connected and becomes a permanent fixture over time, is genetic, or if it actually results from the lifelong feelings the person is imbued with and that ingrain themselves in the waxy, sneering visage. That smug, almost mocking look that says "Thank whatever gods there are that my attainment of wealth and status has elevated me above mere mortals, free from the same consequences for actions that most accept as a responsibility of being alive..."

This past week he was asked to withdraw from the race by the TRT in hopes of siphoning off some of his support to another candidate, Pavena Hongsakul.

Pavena Hongsakul

The lovely Pavena. Beauty runs in the family, her sister a former Miss Thailand Universe. Is she too good to be true? A champion of abused women and a protector of children she has been praised by many for raising awareness about these issues. A social activist who if elected could use her position to help alleviate the injustices suffered by society's most vulnerable. Pavena has also been singled out as Thai Rak Thai's candidate, something she denies. Get to the dance first...who you go home with at the end of the night is something that can be obfuscated, justified or just plain lied about the next morning...

Apirak Kosayothin

Latest poll results put Apirak as the frontrunner. Free from any political baggage, he looks like the choice of most middle-class Bangkokians. A member of the Democrat party, the absence of any perceived meddling by Thaksin et al as well as the knowledge that if elected he would be a much-needed check against complete TRT control, makes him the current favourite. His well-scrubbed image earned as a successful businessman is another positive aspect working for Apirak.

Bhichit Rattakul

Bhichit, a former governor of Bangkok from 1996-200, rounds out the top 5 in popularity, according to recent polls. His late entry into the contest has skewed earlier standings and turned the campaign into a real race. While appearing to be a long shot, the last week of campaigning is sure to be full of many surprises and Bhichit may pick up some last minute "devil-we-know" votes.

Bhichit has even received some support from TRT MPs though this doesn't sit well with their leader. In trying to set matters straight regarding all the various warnings about which candidates TRT members are allowed to support while trying to highlight a long tradition of fairness in Thai politics, Thaksin said:

"We are a democratic country and we can say whatever we want if it is not beyond the boundary. If it is, the party will stop them."

And on that magnanimous note, the last week should be full of unexpected turns and unintentional farce. Votes will be bought, deals will be made and in the end someone will emerge from the filth, ready to tackle the problems and challenges that face this proud and great city!

Recent poll results

Candidate websites:

Apirak Kosayothin

Pavena Hongsakul

Chuwit Kamolvisit

Chalerm Yubamrung

Bhichit Rattakul

There are 22 candidates in total.

*Some time later, Pistonhips receives a strange call requesting his presence. Pistonhips walks into the pre-arranged meeting place and sidles up to the bar. 2 men come up beside him, one driving a knife into his hand that is laying on the bar, pinning it to the wooden surface while the other starts garroting him from behind...*

"Achhh...ahhh...Jaysus...lads, relax it's only words that hardly anyone's gonna read anyway. Hcchaaa *gasp*...ahhhhhh...give me a bre...no I mean please let me go , I’ll add a disclaimer...it's not real, satire pure and simple...aaieeeeeeeeeeeEEE!!!!

Cross-posted at:Flogging the Simian

2004-08-21T13:12:00.000+07:00

A Sad Story

It would be hard to imagine a country that is more of an antithesis to Thailand than is Germany. Efficient and well-ordered with a populace that is known for being humourless, demanding and goal-oriented all in a relatively dreary and cold climate.

So it was sad to hear that a young Thai student living in Germany on an exchange program became so overwhelmed that after only one month she felt the only way out was to take her own life.

It would be easy to cast about to assign blame. For example, the Thai tendency to focus on image, pomp and ceremony over substance and competence. In this case, reaching even a minimum level of proficiency in the German language before sending the girl off would have been advisable but of course it didn't happen.

Even more difficult for her family is that in the weeks leading up to her overdose on sleeping pills (though she survived but finished the job by leaping to her death from a window in the hospital where she was recovering) she repeatedly phoned and begged to return home. Anyone faced with the same pleas from their child would reasonably see it as a logical situation to use tough love. The first time away from home can be tough for someone, especially when they are from an incredibly insular culture and that initial experience is in a foreign country. Seeing this as only one of a multitude of lessons to be learned when growing up, it's hard to see any fault in the family's urging her to hang on.

Maybe even after that desperate act that landed her in hospital she sensed a disapproving scorn from a people who strive to avoid loss of self-control. Where she would have been surrounded by loved ones cooing their support had it happened in Thailand, perhaps the guttural clipped language and sickly hospital food brought home the reality even more and she took the final plunge. Speaking of blame, someone who has been admitted to hospital after trying to kill themselves should surely be watched or at least be in a room devoid of possibilities for finishing the job.

Stories like this always cause a round of hand-wringing with the usual stock cliches being bandied about. The importance of maintaining Thai culture against the ever-present big bad western influence while still recognizing that the wider world does have positive benefits to offer. The idea of foreign cultures is one that many young Thais almost seem obsessed with. The reality rarely jibes with the images of Hollywood movies and music videos than many of them have grown up with.

2004-08-19T23:12:00.000+07:00

Skilled Manipulators

The skilled manipulator shows up when you least expect him or her. You may never realize who the person is who is actually pulling the strings but be assured, when decisions start going against you and you're hung out to dry, it ain't no god-damned karma or other bullshit fatalistic happenstance. In 90% of the cases a skilled manipulator is the one behind your downfall.

Skilled manipulators are usually the best actors and the most ambitious amongst us. They have used their cunning to get where they are in the world and they are likely to recognize a competitor, such as yourself who is to be avoided or destroyed.

The multi-layered and well-concealed deviancy that is perpetrated by skilled manipulators, (hence forth known as SM's) make them a singular and sly adversary but one that at some point must be dealt with. In fact, they are often the last hurdle that stands between you and the goals that you have set for yourself.

Skilled manipulators rarely make a brazen move that can be traced back to them. Instead, they push people's buttons, turn others against each other and muddy the waters of otherwise clear-cut situations. SM's also have a network of flunkies and groupies who can be counted on to blindly absorb commands that are so subtly delivered that often they don’t even know they’re performing the dirty work of the SM.

The following is an example of a real-life situation where an SM takes out what he perceives to be a potential enemy.

Big breasted women, fast cars and a private booth at the hottest nightclub in town were looking like a real possibility for Jamie Slickwack with every passing day. His strictly regimented daily routine and strong work ethic was starting to pay off. Slickwack considered himself a bit of a wideboy; a ruthless, goal-oriented and selfish individual who never allowed sentiment or human beings to get in the way.

For example, just the previous week he had shamelessly squeezed out a broker who had brought him together with a wealthy buyer. Slickwack himself was a sort of broker as he represented numerous landowners in dealings that not only involved the sale of their property. However on occasion he sought out the assistance of freelancers who worked out of state when things were at a standstill. He had initially played the friendly good ol’ boy that was grateful for the lead that the broker had delivered to him, splurging for a few expensive evenings of partying. The expense was acceptable and minor compared to the money he would save by selling directly to the buyer.

Slickwack had avoided all subsequent calls for the broker except for when he had mistakenly answered his mobile without checking the caller ID and heard the cracking voice of the inexperienced fool who was getting a taste of what business was all about. Slickwack had made a dismissive comment, his voice soaked with smugness and then cut the connection. That was the last he had heard form him. After all, what could the callow and gullible little tyro do? There were no signed agreements and no legal recourse for the duped amateur.

Slickwack packed up his briefcase and headed for the door, telling his secretary on the way out that he would be with the buyer at a local bar celebrating the closing of their deal.

Moments after Slickwack exited, the secretary picked up the ringing phone and happily answered the enquiring caller, passing on the location of the bar that her boss was heading to.

Slickwack eased into the driver's seat of his new BMW, breathing deeply and taking in the aroma from the supple leather upholstery and exhaling a self-satisfied sigh as he admired the well-tooled instrument panel. Slickwack momentarily considered masturbating in the plush comfort of his car, as he often did, with his jacket draped over his midsection, his bare arse luxuriating in the smooth leather of the seat. Slickwack had recently acquired this near physical connection to the possessions that he had accumulated over the past few years. He had never experienced a deep physical connection or yearning for another person that exists between some people but he was sure that this is what it must be like. No time today he thought with a sigh as he pulled out of the parking garage and drove towards the barroom meeting.

Marv Grapland waited in the private booth of the trendy and hip bar where he had agreed to meet Slickwack. Grapland wasn't used to the flashiness and the cool-eyed freaks who didn’t flinch at the other patrons’ choices of body mutilation or other strange accessories. Grapland was a good ol' boy more at home drinking long necked Buds at a scared counter-top bar. However he thought to himself, unlike the other narrow-minded wasted old cunts who were part of his network, he could actually get to like this.

Slickwack pulled up to the stand-alone, low-key, high-profile watering hole with darkened windows and an inconspicuous sign that still somehow managed to grab a person. It read: Sluicepit. Slickwack had never really understood the appeal of the place but seedy-chic seemed to be in at the moment so who was he to judge? He’d heard that the owners had paid 2 million dollars on renovations to make it look as down-and-out as it did.

Slickwack slid into the booth next to Grapland and ordered a carbonated rice-water with a lemon twist.

"So we’re all set to wrap things up tomorrow, sign the papers and transfer ownership..." Slickwack said.

"That's right son."

The two drank together for a few hours with Slickwack dominating the conversation, always somehow bringing the focus back to discussion of what he thought of as his deft business skills. The darkened interior of the bar became smokier and more crowded as the lazy afternoon turned into evening. Neither of the two men seemed to notice a solitary figure who occupied a booth on the opposite side of the bar.

As Slickwack rose to visit the toilet the man followed, coming up behind him as he stood at a urinal. Slickwack slumped, voiding himself and unaware of what had happened as the sharpened bicycle spoke pierced his spinal cord and various vital organs and ended his life.

Have you figured out who the skilled manipulator is in the narrative? The fact is it was the buyer, Marv Grapland. Before we see how he directed events to a conclusion that was beneficial to his own situation, let’s fist analyze the mistakes that were made by the now deceased Slickwack.

Mistake number 1: Underestimating those you are dealing with.

It doesn't matter how much sharper your business acumen may be or how many advantages you may hold over your rivals. There is always the chance that's someone will be at the end of their rope and be willing to take radical steps outside the law, even if it means financial ruin, prison or death. If you have wrapped yourself in what you think is a cloak of invulnerability it will likely manifest itself in careless disregard for those who may on the surface appear to be below you. If this is the case then you are making a dangerous error.

Mistake number 2: Gloating over those you have stepped on.

Slickwack's hang-up call on the broker could have been what pushed the man over the edge. This is directly related to mistake number 1. Respect is important, even when dealing with those you intentionally plan to step on. The history books are full of examples of desperate acts taken by those who have lost face. To be made a fool of is one thing. To be made a fool of and know that others are well aware of it and possibly even enjoying the spectacle of it exacerbated by the mocking smugness of the person who set you up is quite another.

Mistake number 3: failing to investigate and understand your rivals.

This doesn't mean undertaking extensive cloak and dagger operations, paying private detectives or amassing files on those you deal with (though many have taken this step to their advantage). However, when large sums of money, prestige, job opportunities or women are at stake, it is important to at least take the bare minimum of effort to establish a basic profile on those you deal with.

Mistake number 4: failing to muddy the waters.

The fact that Slickwack failed to introduce other elements into the picture meant that when it became clear that he had become cut out of the deal, the broker had no possibility of drawing the line of accusation to anyone other than Slickwack. No intermediaries, no plausible cover stories, no illicit drugs or cheap floozies offered up to the man he planned on screwing. Ironically, as we will see, while he authored his own demise to a large extent, the person that would ultimately benefit the most from Slickwack’s mid-piss, cock-gripping expiry in the lavatory was not the individual who resorted to violence but in fact Marv Grapland.

Grapland sat at the table with his arm around the smirking young waitress he had pulled down onto the seat next to him after Slickwack had gotten up to go to the toilet. Grapland and the girl watched a crowd of people form around the door to the barroom toilet. The look of sour nonchalance on the girl’s face was replaced by one of genuine interest as she realized that they may actually be witnessing something out of the ordinary.

Shortly thereafter, the police and an ambulance arrived and took out the corpse of Slickwack. A lively buzz seemed to grip the gloomy drinking den as orders for drinks picked up and the patrons experienced a strange sense of being alive. Grapland approached the police officers on the scene and showed horror at the realization his business contact had been killed. The officer sat at Grapland’s booth, with the girl still there, and took a brief statement, leaving the seemingly bewildered Grapland staring at his beer in disbelief.

Grapland extended his stay at the hotel and saw Slickwack lowered into the ground a few days later. He also paid a visit to Slickwack’s office, expressing his deepest regrets to all while tentatively broaching a sensitive subject.

"Despite the horrible turn of events of course Slickwack would want to see the honourable thing done and you know business is business..."

And in the flurry of grief and practicalities Grapland was put directly in contact with the owner of the property and the 10 percent commission he saved was significant considering the millions involved and the shuffling, nondescript, soft-spoken Grapland was forgotten in the flurry of activity.

Hiram Granger was the broker who had been duped twice; once by Slickwack when he was squeezed out of the deal and the second time by Grapland, who had subtly pulled some strings and sent Granger over the edge. He was a gibbering fool and incoherent basket case when the police picked him up the day after the skewering of Slickwack. Witnesses at the bar where the killing took place and fingerprints at the scene made the case against Granger easy to prosecute and he was locked for good few months later.

Of course, you might be wondering: exactly what did Grapland do to turn Granger into a murderous thug? Grapland didn’t need to do much to tweak the situation and cause granger to take out Slickwack. Slickwack had already made numerous mistakes, all recognized by Grapland as creating a situation ripe to be exploited.

After having first met Slickwack and ascertaining that he had no qualms about squeezing Granger out of his rightfully deserved commission, Grapland also determined that Slickwack was a boastful fool. A fool that was receptive to brazen manipulation based on his exaggerated sense of self-worth. While Slickwack was incautious and dismissive of Granger, his dangerous hang-up call had not yet occurred when Grapland and he had met for a business lunch the previous week. During that afternoon session that stretched into early evening, Grapland listened and reinforced Slickwack’s bragging 5regarding how Granger deserved what he got for being careless.

"Yer right son, stick in the boot I say, only the strongest survive...I'm sick of this god damned sentiment about nercy and sympathy for those fools who can’t make it on their own..."

By the end of that booze-filled meeting, Slickwack was more emboldened than ever to be dismissive and arrogant towards Granger. It's debatable whether Grapland's encouragement had any direct effect on Slickwack's actions towards Granger but Grapland took even further steps that pushed the situation towards its final conclusion.

As Granger slouched back into his hotel room the night of the hang-up call with Slickwack, he knew that he had been screwed out of the commission on the deal that he had worked so hard to set up. It had happened before and he knew that it was an occupational hazard when dealing with greed-driven scum like Slickwack and Grapland. Grapland wasn’t bad he thought and was sure that Slickwack was behind the squeeze play. He was enraged at what had taken place but was resigned to the result. After showering, Granger headed down to the hotel bar to relax and drink away his frustration.

Granger was treating his guts to a flood of vodka and stale peanuts when a cheap floozy sidled up to him and struck and extremely meaningless and shallow conversation. Exactly what Granger was in the mood for. A few hours later the floozy was helping Granger to the door of his hotel room, only half as far gone as her new suitor who had been plying her with cocktails all night. The cocktails were a bonus for her however, as she has already planned on agreeing to the inevitable proposition for Granger as soon as she had spotted him and verified certain identifying characteristics.

She didn't waste any time once they were inside the hotel room, putting on her best slut-in-heat performance to get Granger nude and prone on the bed while leaving all of her clothes on for a quick getaway. As she stumbled back against the wall she pointed at Granger and started laughing, her face florid and distorted form her hysteric cackling:

"You weak impotent fool, I’ll never let you stick that tin-whistle in me!!"

She bolted out the door towards the elevator, hoping that she had remembered the line correctly, thinking that this was the easiest thousand she had ever made.

Granger slumped to the ground, his ego completely shattered and already plotting the destruction of Slickwack, who was still the most obvious target in the cumulative streak of disrespect and shame that had befallen him.

That evening the whore took the miniature cassette on which she had recorded the incident in the hotel room and placed it in an envelope that she addressed to the false name that Grapland had registered under at the skid row hotel. The tape recorder was an added bonus that had been provided by the seedy individual that had made the proposal to her. Grapland had not approached her directly nor was he staying at the hotel to which she was now sending the envelope via courier. The price of the hotel room secured the location as a mailing address for a few days and a collection point for the whore to pick up a key for the bus stations locker where she would find her one thousand dollars.

Was it possible that the lowlife that was working at the seedy hotel or one of his associates would pilfer the package he had left there or any other number of things could go wrong and disturb the plan? Quite possibly, but as with the strings that were pulled regarding any manipulation he plotted, he left a confused trail that would be difficult to trace back to him if anything went wrong.

Even Grapland must have been surprised at how well his plan worked. Perhaps he didn't expect that Granger would go completely off the deep-end but accepting the result just the same. In the tradition of taking on the traits of your most dangerous enemies in order to defeat them, how can you become a skilled manipulator and in the process recognize other SMs that you may come up against?

Remain low-key and appear unassuming.

This goes against most of the popular sentiments being spouted in best-selling self-help books on the market at the moment. Remember that at the heart of the ############ philosophy is the belief that, as part of an inherently social species, we must rely on and use others to get ahead, especially when manipulation is the tool-in-trade that is being used. Drawing attention to yourself is the last things you want to do as you get closer to others, plant the seed of destruction and slip under the detection of social radar, spinning the multi-layered and well-concealed deceptions that will assist you in reaching your goals.

Be respectful to others, most importantly those that you plan to, or have already stepped on.

This is a direct corollary of the mistake made by Slickwack when he did the exact opposite of showing respect by gloating and grinding Granger’s face into the dirt. Small gestures can go along way and can even confuse the unfortunate recipient of your manipulations into believing that they haven’t even been wronged. This is one of the most important rules that you can learn when increasing your ability to be an effective SM.

Men working under you will toil for hours and curse you for the unreasonable amount of work you have heaped on them. They will have violent fantasies of doing harm you and your family, yet if you show up on the job site or at the office and spring for a meal for the entire group of mules, the price of food a fraction of the extra profits they have made for you because of the absurd workload, their image of you will instantly change.

The fact is, this principle works and can be applied to countless different situations.

To be continued at a later date...

2004-08-19T07:29:00.000+07:00

The Olympics Brings out the Best in People...

Today the newspapers in Thailand are full of stories about the Deputy Prime Minister and a singular act of stupidity and arrogance. What did he do?

Why, he braced the Thai woman who won a gold medal in weight-lifting at the Olympics and promptly demanded that she hand over the medal so that he could return to Thailand with it and…this is where the incomprehensibility starts ramming its head against the brick wall of mind-numbing fucking insanity...apparently take credit for her win(?), absorb the love, praise and well-wishes from all those he assumed would be amazed at his stunning shrewdness in making such a head-up-the-ass move? WTF? Just WTF? WTF? WTF? over and over to infinity.

One can only imagine the phone conversation he had with the Thai PM after securing the medal...

Deputy Prime Minister: "I got it! She was a bit reluctant at first but what could she do…she handed it over tee hee hee!"

Prime Minister: "Superb! Excellent! This will play so well in the media! Her, a poor peasant girl who struggled and worked hard to achieve her dream, becoming the first Thai woman to ever win a gold medal at the Olympics, and us the corrupt lying scum that sweep in and demand that we be the ones to return home with the actual medal. Sure, she may have enjoyed keeping it with her in the hours and days after having been awarded the medal, felt the pride at returning home with it around her neck, the very symbol of all her hard work and dedication...but I just know the Thai people and the world for that matter will understand what a necessary move this was.

I'm sure this will make them forget the corruption, the thousands butchered in the drug war last year, people who oppose us turning up dead all the time, the brazen lies, the fact that my son got caught cheating at university and then the timid dismissive claims by officials that it didn't matter, my daughter who was accepted into the best university in the land with substandard grades, an associate of mine whose son put a bullet in a cop's head with dozens of witnesses and then walked free...THIS, THIS masterstroke of PR genius will sweep it all away!!!"

PM: "Tee hee hee!! Oh I'm so excited! I'm happy that you're pleased boss!"

PM: "Say, are you still capable of that I-just-got-caught-eating-gopher-shit grin?"

DMP: "Sure!"

PM: "Good, just make sure you have it smeared across your mug when the cameras start clicking, and make sure you hold up the medal as if it was you and your diseased, emaciated, lesioned carcass that earned it..."

What's most laughable is the desperate lies that are vomited forth when the fool gets called on his unbelievable arrogance and stupidity. The tit claims he urgently needed to get the medal back to Thailand where he could have a solid gold replica made for her.

2004-08-17T22:40:00.000+07:00

The Beautiful Muslim Women of Thailand

The images that people see on TV as the intros to stories about conflict in middle-eastern countries are the kind of shots producers of news programs love. They usually show black-clad Muslim extremists shouting anti-US slogans and posing with automatic weapons. Something many forget is that the location we see on our TV screens represents about 30 metres squared, often with a relatively small crowd present who are aware the cameras are rolling. These images seem to have taken hold with many people. Just as anecdotal stories of various groups of people erupting in cheers when the WTC towers came crashing down.

Constant reference to these images as so-called proof of what an inherently violent and hateful religion Islam is, simply demonstrates the power of television. Such a miniscule number of people yet the fear it creates is amazing.

Of course, if camera crews went roving in the US with the sole intent of finding hate-mongers to perform for the cameras, a non-stop parade of such clips could be amassed. If images of KKK rallies in southern US states, rabid apoplectic bible-beaters outside abortion clinics and white-trash preachers whipping themselves and an audience of bloated illiterates into a frenzy at mega-churches throughout the country were constantly beamed into the homes of middle-eastern homes, they too might start to generalize.

Any such mention of these obvious flaws to those who have brought up their iron-clad claims of a homogenous culture full of hate-mongers will be met with a spluttering response of so-called fact that "it's a religion of hatred...they tell people to kill non-believers in the Koran..."

I always reply to this with "where?" as I have a copy of the Koran with me and I have yet to see these glaring examples that are so often discussed. Of course this is never answered. Mind you I have yet to make my way through the tedious tome, but please, someone point me to where these calls for blood are.

If there were discussions of waging war and using violence in the Koran I suppose a person could see this as...unreasonable, strange, shocking? In a world where humans have been slaughtering each for millennia, surely a book that is the guiding principle, an instruction manual for living for hundreds of millions of people wouldn't weigh in with advice and wisdom on that?

Outrageous...it must be evidence that any follower is a rabid lunatic.

Regardless, of the 3 religions that are at the heart of most of the conflict gaining coverage in the world at the moment, they are all zero-sum, monotheistic beliefs that have no room in their after-life for anyone except their own followers. The Bible has been used to incite and create at least as much mayhem and justify as much slaughtering as any other holy book.

Those who generalize about Muslims always get around to the women. They are always portrayed as down-trodden, exploited, involuntary slaves to a religion that ultimately destroys their spirit and leaves them subordinates to their domineering husbands. Surely there are cultures where this does occur to a disproportionate degree but there must be some well-adjusted Muslim women somewhere who don't have sour, despairing looks on their faces as those stereotypical descriptions would have us believe?

Such descriptions might be solidified by such a dry and pedantic an essay (though thought provoking and well worth reading) by Samuel P. Huntington that was written in 1993 and discussed a stark future where all conflicts would see the foes cast as civilizations instead of nation states. "Civilizations" as he discusses it mainly breaks down into religions.

Shortly after reading that essay, that became even more popular after 9/11, I read a good critique (can't remember the name of the author) in which the writer discussed some flaws with Huntington's wide-ranging thesis.

Essentially the author pointed out that cultural and regional differences are much more important in contributing to certain collective traits of a people than is religion.

Without offering any evidence beyond my observation skills, libido and pure shameless lust of all women everywhere, I endorse this more nuanced and sound theory!

I base this on the Muslim women of Thailand and specifically Bangkok. And yes, I am referring to the women wearing a chador or headscarf with western clothes(as on sight I have no other way of identifying them). Such a half-baked theory would have to at least have another geographically located group that shared the same religion with which to compare and demonstrate different collective personalities. I can say that the Muslim women of Malaysia, for example, are definitely more reserved and less open to displays of friendliness to strangers.

Thai women in general are famous for their good-natured love of expressing their femininity by dressing in a classy and often sexy manner and most of all by their friendly, flirtatious outgoing personalities. Their ready smiles that are often displayed without any desperate attempt at trying to gain their attention by a lone man walking past them in the opposite direction (as compared to the sullen dismissive glare usually presented by women in the west).

These lovely Muslim women of Bangkok are often no different, and with their sexy application of make-up, and the mysterious allure of the headscarf, the smile is often more pleasant and rewarding than from a non-Muslim woman. Actually, the modest dress has kind of always appealed to me as opposed to the flaunting by many young women of their raw sexuality in the form of revealing clothing (though the nice unexpected jolt of flesh as you round the corner and see a tart nearly falling out of her dress can often be pleasant). Plus, knowing that they are likely chaste adds to the near insanity-inducing appeal.

That demure, coy look from under the head-scarf that frames her face in a cute, almost girl-like way and that clashes nicely with the true sexiness lurking underneath...