There are abundant articles on the web about pain, heartache, pleasure, and happiness, stuff you read in Psychology Today— words, words and more words, soapy stuff, experts and more experts writing the same twaddle, non of it out the box.
The experts, how do they become experts? Make the point that we are living in a world where people take too much psychotropic dope, particularly anti-depressants and mood stabilizers— I’m on anti-depressants, a few months ago a dark shadow began following me.
Maybe the psycho dope helps but beer and Tramadol works for me.
A few years ago I met a German psychiatrist in Pai, Thailand, an unorthodox hippy town that looks like a Spaghetti Western set in Kao Tao Mountains.
We drank Thai beer, Leo, with ice like Thais do. Earl says to me,
psychotropic drugs are useless, I couldn’t live with myself prescribing them. After a month the body becomes immune so you must continue increasing the dosage.
I got the vibe the German shrink was on the run— Pai’s a scene where people can slip away from the de facto world, a no man’s land.
I eat a lot of raw carrots, three or four a day, big ones, dildo size. I’m too lazy to scrape the outer skin or wash them, so I eat the dirt and pesticide with the rest of it.
Carrots absorb pesticide residues from the soil, if you don’t peel them you get 80% pesticide, peeling them you get only 50%, that’s how much the pulp contains.
I’m too cheap to buy organic carrots but how in the hell does that work? Do farmers hire migrant workers to walk the rows with fly swatters, swatting the stalks, you don’t eat the stalks, so what the fuck? Do they inject the soil around the planted carrots with syringes of Lysol? Anything will pass as organic and it’s big bucks.
I’m going to flush the pesticide-ridden carrots down the toilet with the anti-depressants.
I’ve flushed a lot of weird stuff down the toilet in my day— unwrapped Tootsie Rolls that look like turds, chicken bones, lit cherry bombs, Ken and Barbie Dolls in odd positions— a hobby you wouldn’t mention on a job application, the kind of things Ottis Toole did in kindergarten at break time.
Porn is OK these days right? Hustler Magazine was the only thing happening porn-wise, twenty years ago— Playboy seemed tame compared to Hustler. But, Playboy was more literary with contributing authors such as— Vladimir Nabokov, Kurt Vonnegut, Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, James Baldwin, John Updike, Joyce Carol Oates, and Ray Bradbury
I've heard rumors about retirees in Pattaya, the Thai, Disneyland for sex, having heart attacks during sex because they overindulge in viagra and beer.
After cashing their Social Security check and paying rent what's left goes to getting loaded and laid.
The horn dog chazers can get laid for 1500 baht, $44.82 per go, at bars with names like— Pussy Bar, Throb Night Club, Boom Boom Pub, Titty Title Wave, and Doggy Style Lounge.
Almost all Pattaya bargirls, and massage workers, are from Isan, a region in the southeast of Thailand. The lions' share have dark skin, tit jobs, and tattoos.
The economic environment in Pattaya revolves around the sex industry, both gay and straight. The scarlet boys and girls feel sex for money is a normal thing. For them peddling booty is a career choice, honest to goodness work, while working as a clerk, or office worker is a waste of time, slavery.
The sex-for-hire scene in Thailand doesn't turn me on. What could be more ingenious than mock-up fucking with a hooker asking you every few seconds?
Did you cum yet?
My fantasy is taking off a nurse's pantyhose while she relaxes on the sofa after a day of pill-pushing, then sniffing her stockings.
Non omnino sanae, not completely sane, that's my motto.
In the early sixties, the beginning of the US involvement in the Viet Nam war, Pattaya City was a string of bamboo huts on the shore of the Gulf of Thailand.
When GIs began coming to Pattaya on R&R, drinking beer, beachcombing, and playing touch football, the bamboo huts were converted to bars and whore houses in no time.
So you can blame the sex trade in Thailand on GIs.
The Thai government does little to enforce the anti-prostitution laws, making a public statement once a year proclaiming they are going to crackdown.
But to their credit, the government strictly enforces statutory rape and sex slavery laws.
The Bangkok Post often runs stories about mothers getting arrested for pimping their 15-year-old daughters.
There are also bits in The Post about the Thai mafia, scary creatures with green tattooed faces and empty yellow eyes, selling sex slaves and yaba, meth, the madness drug, or Nazi speed— that one cracks me up— Nazi speed? The World War II metal cylinders of speed tablets, the size of a pack of Lifesavers. Stuka pilots ate it like candy.
Yaba is cooked by the Wa Army in Myanmar. The Wa State is an autonomous region within Myanmar. It is de facto independent from the rest of the country and has its own political system, administration, and army. They export meth to Thailand to fund their war against the Myanmar military junta.
Both outfits are what cops call bad guys.
I occasionally wonder who is smoking Nazi speed? You presume it's the homeless or local trailer-trash, but it could be anyone
— your boss, teacher, paster, a pal in the Elks Club, the pizza delivery kid, an NFL player.
I have never seen people in Thailand that look like the before and after pictures on the drug rehab web pages— zombies with black zits, meth mouth, missing clumps of hair, and body odor like turpentine.
The meth addiction experts on the web write blandly like TV doctors speaking to patients— Dr. Kildare, Marcus Welby, Ben Casey, or Trapper John.
The expert's research is based on the biochemical and physiological effects of yaba on the body. But, how can the experts know what is going on in meth addicts' heads if they haven't smoked it?
I haven't used Nazi speed, I can only imagine what a speed freak's life might be like.
Four drags from a glass pipe, and it goes directly to Stewart's head. — his noggin is rushing in all directions. Stewart believes he's the master of the universe, it’s the dopamine rush.
In a short time, the harsh intensity slows to a trot, paranoia sets in, Stewart walks to the window, peeking through the tightly closed curtain, surveying the scene outside.
It’s ghost-free, so he places a CD in the ghetto blaster, Black Metal by the band Venom, the furious music feeds his mania.
Two days later— there're Bic lighters, pieces of aluminum foil, and newspaper covered with muck strewn all over the living room floor.
Blood on Blood by Wild Thunder pulsates through Stewart's living room.
Mrs. Mabel Stew, a widow who lives next door is scared, shaken by the shattering vibrations coming from Stewart's house, she calls the cops.
The patrolmen knock on Stewarts' door, the meth-head opens the door and the police walk inside without a warrant. Blinded and paranoid he pulls a kitchen knife on them, thinking they're home intruders.
Three months later, Stewart, the Nazi speed head is in jail on Rikers Island, serving two years for assault— of course, there's plenty of dope in the joint.
No comments:
Post a Comment