Asia, & Other Stuff

Sometimes you can’t get a story off the ground, your thoughts are flat and you don't seem to have the piss and vinegar to get started.

Beer works, I’ll suck a few down. 

Haruki Murakami is a Japanese author who doesn’t need beer to write. I love his work, he’s everything David Foster Wallace isn't. Wallace's work is impossibly wordy, causing you to wonder where he's going with the heap, what's going on and why bother?

Wallace writes cryptically and no one gets the drift so they assume the freak must be a genius. 

 

Haruki’s work travels through a tunnel to another world, then returns to earth. In his own words,

I go somewhere else. I open the door, enter that place, and see what’s happening there. I don’t know, or I don’t care, if it’s a realistic world or an unrealistic one. I go deeper and deeper, as I concentrate on writing, into a kind of underground. 

Haruki is akin to the Colombian writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez but Marquez taps Magical Realism much more than Murakami.

There’s a scene in Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Cholera where Mauricio Babilonia is constantly followed by yellow butterflies wherever he goes— a symbol of love and hope. 

In The Green Mile by Steven King, — John Coffey cures Old Paul Edgecomb’s kidney stones by exhaling hordes of flies onto him. 

Stephan King surely didn’t lift the insect cure from Marquez, but the notion crossed my mind. Perhaps both garnered the insect visualization from the Bible that says flies follow you when you’re sad.

Thais are golden people, Thailand is the land of smiles. The Western world could learn a lot from them, they know how to toe the line. They’re like bamboo, sturdy, but able to sway with the wind. 

Then there’s the Asian squat—a triple-flex movement done by bending at the hips, knees, and ankles, folding everything up underneath you.

Thais can squat like this for hours, eating in the position on a straw mat. A family of four consuming a plate only from a US-sized Christmas dinner portion.

I couldn't do the Asian squat if someone put a gun to my head.

Thai women are considered to be some of the most beautiful women in the world. When they travel to America they're forthwith gobbled up by local men but watch out, they're quick on the take when it comes to the almighty buck, out to marry a old guy for money.

I can’t speak Thai— it’s a linguistic screwball for me— every syllable is pronounced in one of five tones, low, mid, high, falling, or rising. The tone must be spoken correctly for the intended meaning of a word to be understood.

I know a masseuse who works in Pattaya, I need her company, we're attached somehow, but, because of philosophic or language disparities, we have never had a deep conversation. We talk about rudimentary things, what did you eat, or it's raining or hot out.

In Thailand, non-Thais are known as foreigners. I have lived here for a gazillion years and will always be considered a foreigner or outsider. 

It’s against the law for foreigners to run for public office. Not that I care, I’m not wearing a suit and tie or cutting my hair for anybody. Besides, I'm corrupt.

 

Also, it’s against the law for foreigners to own land— if foreigners could buy land the Chinese would own Thailand.

Foreigners must report to immigration every ninety days, which isn’t so bad, there’s a drive-thru, and the immigration officer in the window is a hoot, or if you work at it you can register online. 

Thailand is by no means a police state, like Laos or Myanmar, It's free here, but terribly conservative, like most of Asia.

     

My girlfriend Tea knows I write, she sees me typing day after day on my laptop in bed. Early in our relationship, she said— 

I don’t care about your writing. 

The comment came outta nowhere, we weren’t talking about writing— she could have said, 

fuck your writing.

I forgot exactly, it’s not important because I will write if I want to.

If you don’t have a girlfriend who likes your writing, invent a character in your stories. 

If you have read my stories, you know Henry is married to a Cuban woman, Lucia Varga. They met in Havana while he was editing an English language ex-pat rag, The Gringo Times. 

Like my real-life girlfriend, my character Lucia  isn’t crazy about my work, Spanish is her first language. But, Lucia and I can communicate on the deepest level, I write the dialogue, so I control where it goes. 

Walking Pattaya City, the disparity between the down in the mouth, and those with too much is heartbreaking. 

I see a sparrow, pecking at dirt, looking for seed, or a homeless person sleeping on a mat on the sidewalk. A street dog with mange drinking water dripping from an air-conditioner pipe. A four-year-old beggar holding a toddler, shaking a plastic cup in front of a 7-11. 

People doing awful work, pushing heavy carts with fried fish on them, others cleaning the street. I sewage truck operator holding a hose sucking human waste out of a septic tank into a small tanker, the stench is awful. People working for pennies, animals, and, people living in loathsome conditions. 

I watch a Mercedes Benz drive by, I shrink, there's an aura of

arrogance surrounding the car— the suffering of street rabble means fuck all to the flush passengers. 

Nothing is written in stone for the rich, they’re consumed with calculating stock options, or making real estate acquisitions, things that blind them to the real world, feeding their haughtiness.

Socrates wasn’t an admirer of the rich saying,

what a lot of things a man can do without. 

War Hath no Self-love

 

I had been feeling beat, unable to write, wondering if it was the end— thinking there was nothin left.

So, I downloaded a few Ebooks from PDF Drive for inspiration— Thompson’s, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Collected Stories of Raymond Carver, and Factotum by Bukowski. 

I began with Factotum, noticing Bukowski's detailed character descriptions, thinking, maybe I need to work on that. 

I got the feeling Factotum was an early book and Buk left the Mark Twain shit behind later. Buk, overdoing it like Twain—

I worked with a little fat man with an unhealthy paunch. He had an old-fashioned pocket watch on a cold chain and wore a vest, a green sunshade, had thick lips, and a meaty dark look to his face. The lines in his face had no interest of character, his face looked like it had been folded a few times and then smoothed, like a piece of cardboard. He wore square shoes and chewed tobacco, squirting the juice into a spittoon at his feet.

Bukowski’s mumbo jumbo about the guy left me blank, all I got from it was the guy was fat.

I look at Carver’s book. He doesn’t mention his character's appearances— the color of their hair, what they’re wearing, if they're fat, thin, pretty, or rat ugly. 

At one point he says of his wife— 

I noticed white lint clinging to the back of her sweater. 

This gave me the feeling she was a mannequin. 

Carver displays his characters through their, actions, interactions, and dialogue. His characters are domestic, drink a lot, and rarely leave their neighborhood except to go to work. 

Hunter S. Thompson is the unsullied opposite of Raymond Carver. When you read Hunter you get the feeling he’s writing flow of consciousness on LSD, traveling through the cosmos. But, he’s a master of his craft who has— in the words of Pablo Picasso, 

Learned the rules like a pro so you can break them like an artist.

I was ten at the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis, puzzled and clueless.

In our den, we had a Sears Toshiba console TV. In the sixties people thought things made in Japan were cheap— they all had RCAs and Motorolas, but our Toshiba was the best TV on the block. 

I think my parents were as dumbfucked about the Cuban Missile Crisis as I was. Of course, they were more aware of the ins and outs, but watching TV for hours dulled their senses— filling their heads with cotton candy, causing world events to look surreal.  

The origins of the Cuban Missile Crisis lies in the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, during which US-supported Cuban exiles hoping to ferment an uprising against Castro were overpowered by the Cuban armed forces. Who were tipped off about the invasion beforehand and were waiting for the hapless exile invaders.

After the invasion, Fidel persuaded Khrushchev to give him nuclear missiles to safeguard the Cuban Revolution against US aggression.

Once the nukes were in place on Cuban soil, the shit hit the fan. And, Che Guevara attempted to coax Castro to fire the rockets on major US cities. Guevara, the cold-blooded prick.

What could have been a tragic nuclear holocaust— leaving behind a post-apocalyptic world, was settled in thirteen days of negotiations. Khrushchev agreed to remove the missiles if JFK and America would accept the existence of Cuba.

A bogus agreement by the US, considering the CIA tried to assassinate Fidel over 600 times during his reign using such tricks as exploding cigars and pens.

I have never tried to write like anyone but myself. I don’t think you can and do bonafide and heartfelt work. 

Surely, there are people out there trying to write like others— Bukowski, Kerouac, Steven King, or even Shakespeare, laugh, the idea of trying to write like The Bard seems silly.   

In yonder cornfield, my true love frolics with a comer, off with their heads.

Shakespeare's work is timeless, great and all that, but, when was the last time you sat down and read Richard III or The Tempest for more than a few minutes?  

What are you gonna do this evening Fred? 

Oh, I’m so excited, gonna make popcorn and sit in the den and read Hamlet.

In high school, we were thrilled to finish the seminars on Shakespeare, Ben Johnson, and Beowulf, progressing to— Henry Miller, DH Lawrence, Phillip Roth, and JD Salinger. 

It was springtime and the books were exuberant— Tropic of Cancer, Portnoy’s Complaint, and Lady Chatterley's Lover. 

The sexed-up books and spring air made us horny— more than a few lost their virginity. What would The Bard say?

When daffodils sprout, a maiden's flower opens, and rigidity pangs of hunger.

I didn’t have a clue about sex back then, I knew what it was but had no idea how to do it.

I discovered masturbation by mistake in the bathtub, soaping my penis overzealously, flowing with the sensation.  

Still a virgin my Senior year, I made it with an older friend of my mother's, a nurse. Nurses were considered to be loose back then. 

She and my mother were drinking in the living room and my mother went to her bedroom and passed out. 

The nurse and I flirted some, walked outside to the backyard, fell on the grass. I had a hard-on instantly, she pulls up her white dress, drops her panties, puts my cock inside her, saying, 

push harder, harder, fuck me, oh God, fuck me.

The language of screwing was new to me, It sure wasn't Shakespeare.

We made it again a few more times at her apartment, but she moved to Minnesota.

Sex with the nurse gave me an itch for older women. After high school, while working at Shultz’s Kielbasa Factory, living at home, I spent most of my income on Times Square whores. Going out for drinks with and getting to know a few. 

None of them enjoyed sex, one, a gal who called herself Brandy, a fake name, told me.

Nobody, no hookers, enjoys being pawed and fucked by men we wouldn’t give the time of day to if we met them somewhere else.

The Time’s Square hooker episode was a phase, eventually, I realized buying sex made me feel empty.

Today I have wicked sex with my Cuban wife Lucia. What would The Bard say—

She has a simian's spunk which maketh her hoot like a hyena.  

Smoke

 

Two days ago, a friend Muzzy quit smoking, and everything he thought and said suggested smoking. 

We were sitting in the den, watching hockey and drinking beer with my Cuban wife Lucia, and he sniffs his knuckles and fingers saying, 

I can smell it.

Lucia says to him, 

the nicotine has to sweat out of you, the second day is always the hardest, the third day is hard to of course, but from then on you’re over the hump. Henry puts in his two bits, 

you are never over the hump, you can be sitting in a bar, and the guy sitting next to you offers you a smoke and you think, well one won’t hurt, so you savor the cig and you’re addicted again. Lucia says, 

don’t be fatalista, Muzzy is going to be tobacco-free, give credit where credit's due. Henry gives in,

OK, kudos Muz, Muzzy says, 

I can smell it, the tobacco residue on my hand.

Henry takes a brisket in a bowl out of the frig to the patio grill. He pours a quarter bag of charcoal briquettes into the grill arranging them O-shaped, placing newspaper in the center, lighting the paper, Muzzy asks, 

Why don’t you Zippo the shit outta the coals? 

Because the meat will taste like lighter fluid.   

Henry lights the newspaper, the coals catch fire, eventually simmering down to a fine grey color.

Then he pours 12 ounces of Hickory chips on the coals, puts the upper grill in place, setting the brisket on it with an oversized fork. Muzzy says, 

Man, the sizzling Hickory smells good.

Can you vape that shit? 

If you’re craving a smoke Muz, they sell vape pens at Ed’s Smokes down the street. Hickory's harsh, try lilac, tea tree, or eucalyptus. Vaping, cigars, pipes, cigarettes, they’re all carcinogenic. 

What about pot Henry? 

Well, there's no nicotine in it, I doubt it’s bad for you. Let's get loaded and watch Woodstock in the living room while the brisket cooks.

For Christ's sack, Henry, don't tell me you were at Woodstock in 69, everybody says they were there.

No, my boss at Schultz’s Kielbasa wouldn’t let me off, I would've gone. I remember him saying,

Henz, no time for funny business, we got Kielbasa to get out boychek.

Lucias in the bedroom napping, she’s supposed to be making potato salad.

Henry grabs a four-CD set from the cabinet next to the TV, Woodstock 1969. They light a joint.

Richie Havens opens, playing alone, thumb fingering like a madman, big sound, playing his guitar like it’s a drum, serious about something — during Woodstock 69 hippies thought acid was changing the world but the real pioneers in the 60s were the geeks in Silicon Valley. 

Muzzy says about Richie Havens, 

the dude doesn’t have any teeth, 

yeah Muz, I think he’s a street musician. 

Then a swami, a fat guy with long hair and a beard, wearing an orange robe comes to the middle of the stage. He scans the sea of hippies and then says something gurus say —  

music is the celestial sound that controls the whole universe. 

The guys laugh out loud, they're loaded, Muzzy says, 

I don't know nothin about the universe, but sex and money control everything else. 

Henry fast forwards the CD through the folk music, Melanie, Tim Hardin, and Joan Baez to the following evening of Woodstock when the show begins to rock— Joe Cocker, Mountain, Canned Heat, The Who, Johnny Winter, hard-rocking, loud bands.

Lucia walks into the living room, wrapped in her kimono, she's livid.

The brisket caught fire. Didn't you dipsticks smell it burning? I sprayed the grill with the garden hose. Anyway, it's burnt to a crisp. Henry smirks saying,

Oops, we'll go to Fu King Chinese, my treat. 

Lucia dresses in the bedroom, putting on a crop top and cut-offs. Her dark hair's long, waist length, she primps it some, looking like a movie star. 

The guys, Muz and Henry, wear the same shit they’ve had on all day, smokey jeans and T-shirts. They're slobs. 

Henry has waist-length hair and Muzzy who's bald says, 

bein bald's the best, it’s much less hassle. And, women dig bald guys, our heads are phallic. 

That’s right Muzzy, dick heads get a lot of pussy. 

They pile into Henry’s Chevy Malibu wagon, Lucia drives. Muzzy lights a joint and passes it around. Bill Evans’ Peace Piece is playing on the radio, Henry says, 

God, I love this.

Lucia parks in front of Fu King Chinese, they go inside, sitting at a round table. The restaurant is drab and poorly lit with red lights, resembling a Bangkok whore house. 

An old Chinese woman wearing a Qipao, a traditional Chinese dress, brings a pot of black tea with small cups. After burning his mouth on the tea and scanning the menu, Henry waves his hands to get the old girl’s attention, she comes to the table smiling, her teeth are greyish. He orders,  

we'll have the sweet and sour pork, cashew chicken, fried rice, and wonton soup. 

They sip black tea, forced to contend with a rare period of silence. 

The dishwasher carries the hot food on a large brown tray and the old China girl places the dishes on a spinning plater in the middle of the table— making it easy to reach what you want, unless two people are after the same dish. 

Fu King Chinese was weird, but the food was divine.

Henry pays and they walk out, piling into the station wagon. 

It’s 9 PM, Muzzy invites the couple to his place for a drink. He’s got a trailer at Tropical Mobile Home Park. On the way, he asks Lucia to pull over at Shorty’s Market for beer.

They wait in the car and Muz walks out of Shorty’s carrying a case of Coors Light with a tightly backed paper bag on top.

He directs her to his trailer, she parks in front. It’s nothing special, a Skyline Mobile Home, brown, rectangular, a poor man's trailer.  

It's a mess inside, dishes in the sink, ashtrays full of cigarette butts, smelling like yesterday's garbage. 

Lucia looks around, raising her eyebrows saying to Henry in a muffled voice,  

It’s awful, let’s go.

Muzzy brings em a warm Coors Light, and says,

welcome aboard, and Henry says, 

yeah, the place has a nice feeling, like death. 

Muzzy pulls out a red package of filterless Pall Malls, asking, 

how bout a smoke, Lucia says, 

you know we don’t smoke, you’re back on em again?

well, you gotta go somehow.

There’s a knock at the door, Muzzy yells,

the checks in the mail, common in.

It's a dwarf couple, they're achondroplasian, with long trunks, short arms and legs, large heads, prominent foreheads, and bowed legs. He introduces the couple.

Henry and Lucia, say howdy to Big Mike and Cabbage. 

Big Mike has a bottle of tequila and Cabbage has some plastic cups. She pours five large shots on the console table and everyone helps themselves. Muzzy offers Big Mike and Cabbage a cigarette and Big Mike says, 

Cabbage and I never smoked, we were afraid it would stunt our growth, 

laughter roars through the trailer. 

After too many beers and shots, Henry and Lucia excuse themselves and she says, 

Henry's drunk we should go. 

Lucia jots down Cabbage's phone number saying, 

How bout dinner at our place this week? Just us couples, don't bring Muzzy.