FREE ROMAN POLANSKI

 WILL THE LA COUNTY PROSECUTORS AND RIGHT WING AMERICAN SQUARES CHASE THE MENSCH TO HIS GRAVE? 

One can garner soft information from the carefully staged and propted baby picture of RP. Roman's tiny left hand is indifferent to the Teddy Bear on the Bauhaus white box (extraordinarily modern and avant garde for 1935). The look on young boychik's face, glitch, ready to nose dive, precociousness intact. Standing like a little man, spatially, a czar and Hollywood Caesar.

Writing about Roman Polanski is tough. He is not an average person, he will be remembered with the same revere as Beethoven or Tolstoy. He is a person who has risen above horrific conditions, He has suffered harassment from 40's Nazis, and in the present day, morality avengers of the Untied States local and federal government.

Boychik grew up surrounded by coven of yenta witches, in Krakow. His father (Rszyard Liebling) was a Marxist. The Liebling house was full of adoring aunts and extended family. He had a brief moment in the sunlight, until the Nazis marched into town.

Boychik's life changed fast in 1939 when the Nazis invaded Poland. He was like baby eagle, thrown from a loving nest on a magic mountain, into the depths of the Krakow ghetto. Ghetto police, SS, used Roman for target practice once, making him hold up chunks of rotting wood as Luger fodder.  

Roman was never in Auschwitz, but his mother (Bula) died there. His father survived the war in another concentration camp. RP's dad loved Roman like moon rays. One night Rszyard did a quick change act on the SS, smuggling 6 year old Roman out of the Krakow Ghetto into hiding with a  goy family of farmers in the Polish Forest. The spartan goys were freaked out by the glitzy street hustler of the Krakow ghetto. One night, with no regards for poor Roman's safety, the putzes gave him a few stale Kuklas, and threw him into the forest. Over the next few years, while other kids were in grammar school, RP was running from the Nazis, eating roots in an underworld tail spin and black haze of Gestapo and SS terrorism.

Aside: The author sincerely believes and states from his heart, that Roman Polanski running from the Nazis as a boy is enough. He should no longer have to run from Los Angeles County prosecutors. RP in his twilight years, should be allowed to live his life out in peace after what he has gone through. In modern day enlightened Europe at least they have enough sense to leave great artist alone.

At times Roman would hide in rural bush for days, sometimes hooking up with resistance fighters, carrying ammo and supplies for them on his back. Other times RP would go it alone, hiding behind velvet curtains in small theatres. It was in these country-side Polish movie houses, lying alone, hallucinating from hunger and neglect that RP began to put himself into a trance state to escape realty, while taking in Polish film through every nerve and pore. He connected through trance and self hypnotism to his future life and never looked back, knowing with vision and soul that he would survive the Nazis. 

Roman would project the x-ray images he received in the hiding places into screenplays and film. When the war was over RP began to live a more structured life, in a more secure world (gross understatement). Still terrorized by dreams of his past. 

Roman knew right away that he wanted to make films and by 1954, still living in Poland he was accepted in the Lodz Film School.  He began making films with a small hand held camera. Simple, spartan, black and white images of lust, hate and physical torture played out in a circularly plots, at times doled out with paucity. 

Roman's boyhood with the SS made him one tough and mildly sadistic cookie. Visualise the scene in 'Chinatown' where he slits JJ Gillie's nose with a stiletto, very convincingly. There was a weird realty in the bit, and you can see Nicholson was freaked out for real, Roman would always go for real terror if he could get it from his actors. His first film circa 1953 'Rozbijemy Zabawe' (Bust Up the Dance) was part art happening and pre-reality show of sorts. RP paid the local Krakow mafia to come in and bust up a Lodz dance and filmed it. Roman was inventing dark, absurdest cinema and shaking off SS violence. 

By 1958 Roman split Poland for the Left Bank of Paris. He started making independent films. As always walking on the dark side, Rogue Morgue Avenue blue velvet and rusted iron. While in Paris he did allot of  short film work, One stand out  was 'La Gros et el Maigre', a tough love affair. The short film garnered international attention and won awards. Film Noir was prevalent during Roman's period in Paris. But Roman Polanski's dark cinema of the absurd was original, he was no Goddard copy cat.

Romans first feature length film was released in 1962 "A Knife in The Water" a simple, three act and out psycho- drama about a couple who invite a hitchhiker to go sailing and mentally abuse him for kicks. Roman would do screenplay work as well as direct here, a trend he would follow through his film career. RPs first hand knowledge and experience of sadism at the hands of the SS, drove him to strive for dark realism and true to form terror on the set. At one point during filming "A Knife in the Water" he pulled a Lugar of his pocket and fired it into the air. Roman then picked up a bullwhip and started cracking it, like a circus master, creating a mood of stark reality. He received a "Best Foreign Language Film" nomination at the Oscars for "A Knife in The Water". Evidence of how talented young Roman was. The attention RP garnered began to feed his image as a infant terrible and hellion.

Bored with Paris, RP moved to 'glitz capital' USA, Hollywood in 1965. He experimented in the B movie genre of horror-film schlock, and ganja vision. "Dance of The Vampires", a Polanski experiment stared Sharon Tate. The two opposites met and fell in love. She was gentle, peaceful, self aware and easy going. Qualities that soothed and nurtured Romans dark side and fear driven nature.

Roman Polanski was and is a very hardworking filmmaker, leaving little to chance, but never closing the door on spontaneous psycho drama. RP made two films in the United States of significance, "Rosemary's Baby" and "Chinatown". "Chinatown" is held up as a kind of "filmmakers' film" and "sacred cow" like "Citizen Kane". You can't argue its beatitude in film history, but it always puts FL to sleep. "Rosemary's Baby" is RPs greatest film. A great expression of New York City urban sophistication, stylishness, and the most realistic interpretation of a witches coven imaginable. Roman set the standard for devil films with "Rosemary's Baby". For Christ sack, he lived through true world hell at the hands of the Nazi devils. His choice of Mia Farrow and John Cassevetes (a genius director in his own right), for the lead roles was magnificent.  

By the late 60s, Roman and Sharon Tate were "jet setters" rich artist couriers, harbingers of fashion, beautiful people. These labels and the lifestyle are outdated for the most part today. The couple was part of a very select group of Hollywood A list hippies. People like the hair stylist Jay Sebring (who gave Steve McQueen his great Caesar style cuts), Jack Nicholson, Marlin Brando, Harry Dean Stanton, Michelle Phillips, Dennis Hopper. On the low end of the late 60s LA hippie chain was the bum and pussy, Charlie Manson. Charlie's Drano sucking coven broke into Roman's house while he was away. Susan Atkins, Tex, Linda all dumb fucked, burned out minds bent on hypno voodoo 666, cut up Sharon Tate with a buck knife on an evil lark, high and blind. Appalling, even more so because Sharon was pregnant. Sharon Tate was a nice person who loved everyone, not a snob. FL thinks? If there is God? For fuck sack, there just couldn't be, but? What type of twisted karma? God as the planet fucker lets good people attract evil dope devils and violent unwarranted death. Consider also, that Sharon's baby never saw the light of day. Buddhist monks would say that Roman's unborn baby had good karma not to face what Roman had to face at the hands of the SS and Gestapo. The monks would also say that Sharon and Romans angel baby will be lucky to miss out on the  horrific extremes that we the living will face in the twenty-first century.

Aside: In the deepest part of my silent inner green forest, sometimes I wonder why anyone would bring a child into this out of control planet?  Baby's as gold charms? Selfish emotional needs?. The planet Earth is like a runaway CARBON-BANK TRAIN that is taking the planet down while spewing a few cheap tricks for the rich, schmucks like the Getty family, oil and sultan monsters. I don't hate the rich, there are some green rich, and very good hearted rich. But the modus that perpetuates carbon depedence, just another buck to be made on oil at the Merch, is what will do us all in.

Of course Roman was shattered by the brutal, unfounded and sadistic executions. The murder tragedy broke Roman's "green twig". RP's life without his mother, friend, lover and muse, Sharon Tate would gravitate into a series of "acts of denial". Roman found himself unable to deal with the bile in his heart. Like many, he turned to partying, the escape of excess. Fame, beauty, talent and jet set lifestyle gave him access to the best coca, booze, women, scenes, exotic locations available.

(Circa 1974, after the release of "Chinatown")

One such exotic location, A list fun house of sorts was Jack Nicholson's house on Mulholland Dr.… A modest enough bachelor pad, coca villa and peace palace that shared a circular drive way with a similar style house owned my Marlin Brando. When it came to sexual bravado and overall freakishness, Brando the wing nut gladiator had a most peculiar outlook.

But let's get back to the Jack man's pad. Brando preferred to fuck and dope up alone, but Jack man enjoyed having  pals around. With a mind like a squirrel, the Jack man would always keep separate stashes of booze, coca and weed. The B and D grade stashes were for women, screenwriters, critics, Mexican gardeners and cops. A grade stash was for women he wanted to fuck and close pals like Art Garfunkel, Roman Polanski and Lou Adler.

Jack man's house was an ongoing party house for the select that were allowed past security at the front gate. Roman had open invitation to Jack man's house and was welcome at any of the "hip" Hollywood party houses of the Aquarius era. Roman was using on a daily basis, still trying to lock out his pain. RP got a call from Jack man one afternoon, Roman was sitting in the bar of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Jack told him that an aspiring actress wanted to audition for him and would like to meet Roman at Jack man's house that night. Roman was half in the bag by the afternoon already. Jack man was going to New York that evening so Polanski could have the fuck nest on Mulholland Dr. to himself for the budding stars audition.

Aside: The Jack man had no ideal what was going on and was duped by (Vickys) mother as was Roman. In no way  does  FL's story allude to any guilt or wrong doing on the part of Jack man Nicholson.

Roman went straight from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel to Jack man's coca lounge. Roman was on a bender and wasn't eating. Once comfortably settled into the palace RP garnered all the A grade  stash and opened a bottle of Hennessy Cognac. RP was laying on the living room floor, strung out, when the guest bell rang at the front gate. Roman looked out the window and noticed an older women in a Cadillac dropping off a young women at the gate. She was allowed into the yard by security, Roman met her at the front door. 

Let's call her Vicky. Vicky was a very mature 14 year old who looked 20 years old. Her mother, the beard, was a grifter and set the hook using Vicky as squid. Vicky was no virgin, she had been pimped since she was 12 to feed mamas heroin habit. Vicky and Roman smoked some weed and drank cognac. Roman was in a blue haze, after very little conversation he invited her to the hot tub in Jack man's back yard. There was no talk of audition or future film projects. More over, there was a jaded romp, coca on the genitals, oral sex and a fuck in the tub. Roman was so loaded he didn't know if Vicky was 60 or 14. After a hot shower and a couple of shots of Russian Vodka, Vicky called her mom to pick her up. Roman gave her $1500 for the romp. 

This is not a case of pedophilia, Vicky's  mother was a fucking vulture and Roman was duped. Later Vicky's mother received a further settlement from Roman which went up her arm. Vicky has exonerated Roman years ago and just wants to live a normal life, after being raised by a demon.

When word got out that Vicky was only 14, the LA County prosecutor indicted Roman for having sex with a minor. 

During the years of the Reagan Governorship, there was a movement by Orange County conservatives, Walt Disney  Gene Audry and John Birch to bust Hollywood's A list hippies. The heat was put on LA Vice and Narco squads to bust the "hippy" movie stars. Roman knowing the right wing Reagan and John Birch squares would throw the book at him as example, skipped bail and split for Europe. Roman is a unique personality in that his time spent in the Krakow Ghetto, sadistically persecuted by the SS and Gestapo left him with a phobic mania and deep fear of being locked up. 

Once settled in France, a country that has more understanding about the nature of sex and love as it is, not as is written in law books. Roman continued to direct. 

Aside: Two films which are standouts "Tess" a adaption of a Thomas Hardy novel, staring Roman's new girl friend,  Natasha "Hot Lips" Kinski, was a lovely romp with the feel of "love in the potato patch on the Tolstoy commune". The second film worth mentioning is "The Pianist" autobiographical, a Jew running from the Nazis in World War II. This was Adrian Brody's break out film and Roman captures the freakishness and fear of being on the run from the Gestapo immaculately. 

In closing, a breif defence of Roman Polanski by Marshal Dillon and Chester. Let's make two lists, split a page in half and on the first slice write the names of all who have enjoyed and benefited from the art of this gifted human being Roman Polanski. And on the second slice, list the names of those two or three who might have suffered from Roman's misguided lust, which is iffy at best. Now, list the names of all those who want to put Roman Polanski in the Puritan's Pit. 

Do the addition or subtraction and take the liberty to judge for yourself and ask yourself the question "Does Roman really deserve to be judged by a rat fink, like Michael Douglas, whose jack ass self preceeds him? Or other Putitans?

Harley Ride in 1969 Deer Woman

In 1969 it was the sweet summer of love all over the world.  The Rolling Stones had released "Honky Tonk Woman"  and were throwing a mammoth party attended  by 200,000 in Hyde Park, London. Mick Jagger released thousands of white doves to fly free, into the air, each carrying a Jasmine peddle to evoke Buddha spirit.

About the same time in 1969, Victor Burgundy was getting ready for graduation from Wentworth Military Academy High School in Lexington, Missouri. Wentworth was a second rate private school that Victor attended because he couldn't get into St. Johns. He excelled in History, English Literature and played football quitting after breaking his nose in three places his sophomore year. VB refused to wear a face guard because he felt it would hide his pretty face. After the hit his face and mind would be bent the rest of his life.

Young Victor had a gift for gab and a telepathic imagination. He had a plan and wanted his family to forgo his graduation. He asked his ma, Pauly Mai to lend him some money. He planned to buy a Harley "shovel head" police unit so he could get of town fast. 

When the long anticipated graduation day came in June, VB had all the stash in place. He had bought a  67 Road King  with a "shovel head" engine with a  eight ball suicide clutch and a kick start at a Missouri Highway Patrol auction. The bike had police options. It was in meticulous condition because of regular maintenance. Victor had a  rain suit, leather coat, some overalls and kilo of Thai stick. He tied his rolled army issued pup tent with sleeping bag side ways behind the large leather saddle. He stored his Harley in a stall at the school stables, a old run down barn with some sway backs, rustled from the glue factory. For Victor getting out of military school in Bumsfuck Missouri was like receiving  a get out of jail card dropped from heaven by Jefferson Davis, freeing VB from Andersonville.   

VB would often go to the stable ( heavy with trees, free and open land) smoke dope with pals, camp and swim the horses in the near by Missouri river. Often they would go fishing for Cat Fish and Suckers, cooking them on sticks over camp fires. These were happy Sundays out of uniform. One time a friend, Tom Minter, drowned himself and his horse trying to make it across the strong current of the Missouri. Making it across was a talent you had to develop. They finally retrieved old Tom's body still hung up in the reins with his horse " The Clock" near the Gulf of Mexico, in the Mississippi. Too bad, knowing Tom he would have rather gone all the way out to sea with his horse, Viking style. Tom Minter and "The Clock" RIP.

Graduation was over at 2pm on Sunday. Victor didn't even bother to say good by, he threw his diploma and uniform in a dumpster, running in his boxer shorts as rain poured down. When he got to the stables his white pony was ready to rumble, hidden under a green tarp on a bed of straw. VB pushed the heavy bike up a dirt path, unto the road, choked it, throttled it, gave the kickstart peddle a mighty push, turning the engine over the second time. 

Victor was off and running like a bat out of hell, grinding  every gear on every shift of the suicide clutch. You really needed a extra hand or foot to ride them. He roared over the old black metal, riveted Missouri River bridge, leaving Lexington Hell at legal speed. Once out on I- 70 Victor was getting in clutch groove.

It was dark so VB made a pit stop in Independence, the home of Harry Truman. At the Standard Station he checked his oil (no leakage , amazing for Harley's of the time) tire pressure and tanked up. He slipped into a liquor store and bought vodka and Prince Albert in a can . The rain had stopped so he chose to ride through Kansas City and headed for Lawrence, Kansas

Lawrence was  the home of  " The University of Kansas" and William Burroughs was born here. VB made it downtown at 10pm and headed straight for Skip's bar, a local collage hangout. In 69 not allot of people were riding Harleys. When VB backed his Harley into a empty spot in front of Skip's, 60 college kids emptied out to watch. Skips was a great bar with allot of river wood paneling, old oars and Moose heads, shit like that. The coeds were were hot, perfect 10s all over the place. Once VB got to the bar rail no buddy would let him buy a drink, he drank Coors in baby cans. The big Peavy speakers were blaring the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Canned Heat, Muddy Waters and of course Three Dog Night's, "Momma Told Me Not to Come". VB WAS KING OF THE WORLD, FREE AT LAST!

Sittin alone in the corner of Skips at a heavy wooden table was a beautiful Native American girl, she looked like Joan Baez. On the wall over her head was a fake stuffed, White Buffalo head with piercing blue eyes. She wore white buck skin with hand bead work. Her hair was unwashed, crow color, in native braids. VB offered to by her a drink. She was a heavy drinker, so she was thankful for the free drinks. We started to chat and Victor could feel his huge horse cock doing back flips and thrusting forward like a dragon. He hadn't been laid in 4 years at military school.

Her name in the  White-man's  world was Stella Mae but "skins" called her " Deer Woman". She was hitchhiking  to visit her grandfather the great Native American medicine man "Crow Dog". He had a lodge on Pine Ridge Indian Reserve in South Dakota. As it turned out both Victor and Deer Woman were on the loose and didn't have a place to stay that night. VB SLAM DUNK! Deer Woman was about to get the banging of her life, VB let out a war whoop so loud that everything in the bar seemed to stop. So loud in fact that booth he and Stella Mae got 86ed from Skips. 

The lovers walked into a dark alley way. VB lit some Thai stick mixed with China White . Deer Woman took two hits and fell to her knees. VB toked for awhile and he and Deer Woman were in a "energetic mass" covered in white mystic fallout. As the sky began to open, Deer Women began to fumble with Victor's zipper, giving primo head of a higher consciousness.

Deer Woman jumped on the bitch seat of VBs Road King, the engine was cold but started easily . God what a feeling  ridding  into the night with DW holding on, way out there, two love Coyotes! We were crashing and burning, about 30 miles out of town VB pushed down hard on the right handle bar and derailed the ole razorback deep into a cornfield, slipping the eight ball clutch on the tank into neutral and finally layin his pony down. We could have passed out on the spot, but DW insisted on putting up the pup tent. We hopped in, snuggling and sipping vodka from VBs skull shaped flask. 

The next day was dry the air had straw smell. The sun felt good, it turned out the cornfield the love couple went down in the night before was a sunflower field. The smell of  tractor diesel fuel caused VB and DW to dry puke some. Hunched near us was a old Kansas farmer in overhauls wearing a sun bleached ODseeds cap. He looked at VB and said "did you steal that motorsickal from the po000lice boy"? Grinning and spittin some Red Man. Most farmers back then didn't care any more bout the "po000lice" than VB did. Red was sending black steel radio waves towards Deer Woman. Then bursting forward, Deer Woman put both her arms around Red and put her tongue deep into his mouth. Old Red's  20 ton mule hide neck turned 50 shades of red. He invited VB and DW back to his farm house for some brunch. He introduced us to his old lady, mighty kind.  Red's  wife was called Mag. We enjoyed pancakes, home smoked bacon, home made biscuits, fresh farm eggs and Hobo Nut coffee. It turned out Red and  Mag (she looked pure n sweet,white hair in braids with flower dress and white apron), never had kids. They were just gonna keep farming till they dropped on the land. Deer Woman liked that allot, this way of dying, on the earth, falling.  She told them she would make a Indian burial mound under a 100 year old Cotton Wood Tree on their land, when they were ready, they could go lay together and die.

Once back on I-70 West VB and Deer Woman got into brawl while making  a pit stop at Stucky's station near Junction City. Maybe it was the sugar rush. They were eating boxes of peanut brittle washed down with coffee, DW said she wanted to get to Pine Ridge in no less than three days. It would be her grand pa Crow Dog's birthday. VB had other plans, he wanted to go Southwest to New Mexico and party in Taos.  Maybe spending some time at the Limbo Foundation with Mama Bum Rush and the spirit people . VB and DW where smoking Thai stick and drinking vodka from his skull flask 24/7 now. VB had this insane ideal that he could go to the Limbo Foundation and be greeted like a returning holy man.

Tanked up and ready to roll, police unit stoked and rumbling, VB watched Deer Woman, freshly made up, sashaying stealth rumba tango out the girl's room making a B line for and climbing into the the cab of a Peter Built with South Dakota plates. Not even looking back at VB. She had used her charm and schmoozed a cowboy (who was hauling  mustangs) into giving her a ride to Pine Ridge, not wanting to miss Crow Dogs birthday.

Later VB found out the cowboy was shit canned by a bunch of drunk skins at Pine Ridge and had caught gonorrhea from Deer Women, as told by a numeroligist in Vegas.

VB was dumb fucked, but he new the  bronco buster slash rodeo clown didn't have a kilo of Thai stick. And he learned how strong willed Sioux women were. VB was destined for the higher calling of a holy man at the Limbo Foundation. He decided to get the hell out of Dodge City, Kansas and far away from fucking I 70, the scene of Deer Woman's hiatus. He headedsouth down rural Highway 50 towards Sugar City through small towns made of cinder block, the locals would stare at VB on his Road King like he was a circus freak. He liked to ham it up for simple country folk, give em a thrill. While stopping  for vodka, he would walk around town like Tony the Tramp with a bull whip. He could do rawhide tricks, snap cigarettes out of tree stumps and bar room stools. 

Sometimes pulling  off a empty road, VB would smoke dope and take nips of vodka from his flask.He would take off down road, putting his feet up on the handle bars riding 33 MPH, like he was sittin on a easy chair in a living room. All the time the dry air and corn fields flowed like green rivers going by in total silence. This beat the living shit out of watching American Idol.

Reaching Sugar City (pop 7689) about 9am. VB tanked up Police Unit, and looked for a cheap motel. He had been sleeping outside and not washing much, as well as, eating allot of  green corn that made him feel like puking. VB rolled into a dump with a neon sign that read  "Circus Motel".  He waited in the 50s deco style front office and rang the desk bell. A not so hot blonde, smoking a cigar, in a see through blue   nighty appeared. She  had a set of  4Os, D cup. Her tits were hanging some and she had huge brown skin pierced nipples. VB noticed a Green Mermaid tattoo on her neck. She asked VB to stay with her in her room behind the front desk because she was lonely. Cool enough, her name was Sharon and her room was like the inner sanctum of a freak show. It was paneled with wood painted black, there were allot small lamps covered with purple lace. Her family pictures  looked like a Diane Arbus exhibition. It turned out Sharon's father had ran a freak show for Ringling Brothers circus.

She came on to VB (still sick from green corn) and he puked all over her. That seemed to turn her on some. When Victor got his big greasy finger in her pussy, wet feathers fell out all over the place. The two loveless and sick birds ended up passing out on each other. The next day Sharon made VB some waffles and coffee, tearfully sending him off. But first she wanted a ride on on the back of VBs Road King. It was like freak show day in Sugar City. She didn't even bother to change her nighty with puke on it. VB and Sharon pulled right up to Sugar City Hall and parked. Sharon did a hippie dance and Victor did some bullwhip tricks, everybody started throwing money.

VB headed out of Sugar City,  southwest on Route 28. It was easy and uneventful, clear riding, passing through Ulysses, Kansas. A few hours latter he made it to Comanche National Grassland Park in Colorado. Victor wanted to camp and lay back here, do some soul searching. The circus freak scene in Sugar City was fun but not uplifting.

After a few weeks of total psychedelic purity and warlock soul travel in Comanche central,  VB ran out of Vodka and beef jerky.  He felt high and purified, a true long body rider ready to share his beautiful inner being  and purple throbbing aura with Mama Bum Rush and the spirit people at the Limbo Foundation in Taos.

He pulled the the tarp off Police Unit, checked the oil, brushed the white pony off. Open the gas line, caped the battery, cleaned the spark plugs some with a wire brush, choked it. Only three sweet kicks on the shovel head starter peddle and…. the beautiful sounds only a Harley can make. 

Deer Woman had left a pair of her braided buckskin breeches in VBs saddle box. It was a the oldest love gesture known  from women to man. Leaving some of her sweet scented deer spirit behind to guide him back to her soul. 

VB took to the road shirtless with his bullwhip wrapped around his waste like a cummerbund, wearing DWs buck skins. And of course, his WW 2 tank commander goggles (which kept bugs out of the eyes). He never wore a helmet, in 1969 helmet laws were dada. You could scramble your fuckin brains any old way you wanted during the summer of love.

Taos, New Mexico was only a 3 hour drive from Comanche territory on Route 64 through Trinidad and Cimeron. When VB got to Taos he asked a  KFC clerk how to get to the Limbo Foundation. He said "dude  you mean them gay weirdoes out by Sphincter pass"? VB, the holy brahmin messenger of love, pulled Police Unit onto front ground of the Limbo foundation at lunch time. He was sick, relying heavily on the Thai Stick and Vodka. He was greeted by some high spirit zombies who asked him to meditate with them in a silly little circle jerk of sorts. During the chanting Victor pulled out some Thai stick and his skull flask. He lit a joint and tried to pass the shit around. It was as though a alarm went off, all the love turned to hate. The Limbo spirit people started giving VB nasty looks. A security guard who looked like Chuck Norris in yoga pants started making threatening moves on VB, telling him to leave the grounds. VB uncoiled his bullwhip and stood the dude back some, skillfully removing a few centimeters of his foreskin in one rawhide crack. In a flash of light the Sheriff had VB in handcuffs on the way back to the Taos jail, were he was booked disruption of mantra. 

The Sheriff allowed Victor to make a few calls. VB called his mother Pauly Mae in Milwaukee and asked if she could wire a few bucks to give to the church. She agreed being the a big sweet pea she was. She then asked Victor where he had been and if could mail his diploma home? He told his Ma he was looking for a job. Pauly Mae then told Victor he got a official looking letter from the  Department of the Army which she took the liberty to open. She then red the shattering news. "Victor William Burgundy is requested to report to Fort Sheridan, Illinois on said date next month to begin processing  to enter the United States Army". 

Victor William Burgundy, sitting in a Taos jail, drafted as of June, 1969 the party was over for awhile.

How I Escaped Jonestown

In 1977 I was hitchhiking  through Guyana after leaving Venezuela.  I planned to head down the Atlantic coast visiting Charity ending up in the capital Georgetown.  I had scored some badass dope in Caracas including some yage, so I ate a handful and it starting doing a job on my head. I was stumbling through the jungle feeling like Simon Bolivar being chased by local Indians. When the Indians finally caught up on the peripheral, I saw large Mayan heads with no bodies and big toothy grins.  I fell down in the jungle mud consumed by hallucinations. The leaves and vines wrapped themselves around me so I couldn't move. I just looked at the mosaics unfolding before my eyes. I felt intense burning as though consumed by white flame. Then I saw the ugly head of Satan who was puncturing my body with his pitch fork, leaving holes, as if he was checking to see when the barbecue was finished. I was stuck in this shit hole alone, tripping my fucking brains out, somewhere near the Cuyuna River. I knew I had to get up and out or something bad was going to happen. You could get strangled by a Python or shredded by Pirañas here. Sometimes when tripping on yage, you felt your soul could leave your body and not come back, leaving a corpse. Maybe Satan wanted me back in hell to marinate.  I pulled it together and started walking, looking for the Cuyana River.

The People's Temple was a fundamentalist cult that was founded and led by James Warren Jones  (1931-1978) RIP.  Jones held degrees from Indiana University and Butler.  In the 1950s Jones set up The Peoples Temple in Indianapolis, Indiana, as a mission for the homeless and sick with a following of 900 members. The Rev. Jones was doing stuff with his flock in the name of the Lord, that was unheard of in the 1950s.

Jim Jones as a preacher was a combination Marxist and fundamentalist. His sermons spoke of helping the poor and downtrodden with  love. He would also talk of freedom for all, witch meant freedom for him from the Feds, reflecting his distrust of big business and government.  He preached on racial equality and his flock was interracial.  He would preach against White Christianity saying they didn't connect with God. Thinking to himself how unhip the Whites of the 50s were compared to him, and it was true, because Jones was eating white crosses like cotton candy and getting all the hot Black Pussy he wanted (cherry picked from his flock).  This was very radical for the times.  You could say that the Rev. Jim Jones was so ahead of his time that it made him invisible, shielded by the cloak of the Lord and his intense out of control weirdness.

The Rev. Jones knew how to suck up spirit energy like a vampire. He really didn't care were it came from,  scripture for him were just something  to use to get what he wanted, he was a son of Satan.  The dude was a hip dresser though, burgundy silk shirts, black and white polyester trousers and Crocodile skin boots. The Reverend dressed like Howling Wolf. He was what Norman Mailer called a "White Negro", this is why he chose to live in the hood and preach to Black People. I think the other reason the hood appealed to Jones was that all the good dope was there in the 50s and 60s. And like Robert Deniro, the dude loved Black Pussy.

Any  Pentecostal tent preacher with chops would stage "faith healings". The healings attracted followers and brought in big bucks.  Jones was no different from Jerry Falwell, Oral Roberts, Earnest Ansley and the Devil himself, Pat Robertson.  All the aforementioned preachers who are now legit and on TV, were tent preachers back in the 50s and 60s. They would roam rural America parking outside of  towns  and set up tents, like the circus.  Every night in every town miracles happened, people threw away their crutches and were cured of cancer as the money baskets filled up by the second.  Of course the miracle scene was bogus, partly staged using such paranormal aids as emotional pandemonium and self hypnosis. In the end thanks to short memory, the healed patients settled for a moment of glory in the spotlight of the Lord and hopefully were given their crutches back. 

Reverend  Jim Jones was of course  a master of the healing scam.  I can see him now in his  silk burgundy shirts, Croc skin boots and purple tinted specs, heavy vibes emanating from a potent mixture of Satan and speed, having the power to knock people to hell and back with one touch of his claw like hand. 

By 1970 the Feds were investigating Jone's "faith healings", and he was preaching about the end of the world and nuclear war. Feeling the heat from the Feds he moved his flock from Indiana to San Francisco and then LA. 

While in California the Rev started to have powerful hallucinations, thanks to his experience shooting  speed, smoking cocaine and eating demerol .  Jim would connect and talk to aliens as he astral projected into the universe beyond, space tripping, bringing home messages that went beyond scripture. Jones became a space cadet in the literal form.  He called the tripping out process "Translation"  and his vision qwest  told him to commit suicide with his flock in mass. And that all their souls would transcend planet earth and go to a new home in the galaxy living in perfect harmony and spiritual bliss. 

Meantime back on planet earth the Feds in LA were watching The People's Temple and the space prophet Jim Jones. This time they were wanted for selling illegal fire arms and dope in East LA. The Temple was facing a major bust so Jones leased 4000 jungle acres in Guyana and moved his flock there establishing The Peoples Temple Agricultural Project, a co-op, that by fate would become more like a concentration camp. As Jones became more paranoid the heavier the brainwash became and once in Guyana, the Rev began to practice the routine of drinking  Cool-Aid and having his followers lay down and play dead. 

After walking  through the jungle for a few days, Northeast, on the Cuyuna river I stumbled upon a dirt road. Without a compass or a map I decided to flip a lucky coin to determine my direction, heads was left, tails was right, it was tails so I started walking  East. I felt like puking from eating yage and drinking river water full of Croc shit . I was carrying a good supply of dope, but had no food or water. Only a junky thinks of dope first and food second. I rolled a bone and headed down the road with the blues in my bones to the promise land. 

At this point recollection is  hard for me. I have blacked out most my memories of Jonestown in drunken drug stupors. I was getting hungry and thirsty, talking out loud to myself, eating any mushroom in sight poison or not, who could tell? Then I heard a vehicle coming down the road. It was a dude in a Toyota pickup, oddly enough a White Canadian dude says hello and asked me what I was doing this deep in the jungle? I told him I was lost trying to find my way to Charity . He then said "dude you are 900 Kilometers from Charity and headed in the opposite direction". Then he started talking about a spiritual commune not far up the road that grew their own food and followed a very high (on dope) spiritual master named Reverend Jones.  It was called Jonestown, he asked me if I wanted to check it out?  I had no food or water so I didn't have much to lose. I didn't want to seem desperate so I asked the dude, " is there any pussy and dope at this place" ,  checking  to see if the cult was redneck or not ? And Dave said " yeah dude we got plenty of it!" So I jumped in the bed of the truck and we headed to Jonestown. As we rolled down the dirt road Dave opened the rear window panel and began to speak. He told me his Jonestown story, how he was wondering the streets of LA one day blasted, broke and on empty.  Then he heard screaming and odd noises, so he followed the sound. He could see white flame coming out of a marble building down the block on Picos Blvd. He felt a strong urge and went in. It was like a scene out of Hell, people were throwing Rattlesnakes, spraying vodka from their mouths like voodoo priest and talking in tongues. Dave said he fell into the fold, swept away bye the Holy Spirit , invigorated, he never looked back. Dave made the trip to Jonestown with Jim Jones and his flock.

At the entrance to the commune there was a red and white painted sign that read  " Welcome to Jonestown". Dave drove the pick up to a warehouse and we picked up some blankets and towels.  The one level housing was built of lumber, drywall, aluminum siding and cheap asbestos roofing. Men, women and children were segregated. Jonestown was like  a voodoo  summer camp. Dave told me to go relax until supper and I got a chance to meet my roommates.  There were four dudes of mixed race in there twenties, they nodded and started talking to me. One said he was the keeper of the poison snakes used in worship, the other said he worked in the vegetable garden.  Then one of them said he worked in the temple pharmacy. I asked him what they had in the pharmacy and he said " you name it we got it, if you want to come by after chores and sample pharmaceutical grade shit you are welcome". And then to my amazement he said  "if you want buds it is grown up the hill in a jungle clearing". At this point The Peoples's Temple, weirder than weird, began to feel like home. My  new roommates were  speaking but I knew their minds were detached from their bodies. They were vapid, their speech was vacant of emotion, flat. I knew I couldn't fuck these dudes up anymore than they were, so I rolled a bone. As we were smoking the killer shit, I realized that even good dope couldn't bring these zombies back to life. 

Supper was very plain, vegetables, pork, chicken and potatoes all boiled together in the same pot with no seasoning of any kind. Then  slopped on your plate. The gathering of the flock gave me a chance to check out the ladies. There were some hot Black and Latino babes cleaning tables.  They looked ready as they bent over flashing cleavage. I knew they would put out easily because they were in a trance. Usually blissed out chicks are not good lays, but as they say, any port in a storm. After dinner a temple lieutenant told me I would be working in the banana field the following day.   

Then he said "the Reverend wants to  talk to you".  I was extremely  nervous  and wondered what my fate would be. I felt as though I was asked to visit Colonel Kurtz the evil special forces officer who "went rogue" as played by a wasted Marlin Brando in the film Apocalypse Now.  So the dude pointed to a well lit house on a small hill and said " the Reverend lives up there". I walked up a erie path and knocked on a large carved wood double door. Two Black Chicks and a Latino Women, all three with huge Afros and major tits and ass answered the door and said " we have been expecting  you sweets". The three were wearing see through blouses and short shorts.  When I entered the house I immediately saw a man sitting in a dark wood chair that was designed to look like a Cobra. I recognized the Satanic figure as the Rev Jim Jones. He wore the usual garb but this time he was wrapped in a black cape, also wearing  a upside down silver cross and heavy chain around his neck, very bizarre for a Evangelist.  Then he asked, " what's your name partner"?  I told him "Victor Burgundy" .  The nasty smell of freebased cocaine and sulfur filled the room, the vibe felt as evil as Hitler's bunker . Jones then asked me " where's you home mister" ? I said  " ah nowhere dude, like nowhere man". Jones then switched the subject to more important things, " what kind of shit are you carrying Victor" ? I said  " got some killer weed and coca leaf ". The Reverend gave me a  look like he couldn't be bothered with weed and leaf and pulled out a kilo of pure cocaine and a kilo of "China White". Jones then said  "do you know how to cook a speedball son"? I told him "sure Rev".  At this point the bitches wanted to join in on the fun so they walked over and laid next to Jones. I started refining spoonfuls of dope mixed with glycerol, cooking it down over a church candle, then locking and loading  Jone's works ,a large black syringe with a silver celtic cross on it.  One of his bitches  was strapping and tightening a red patent leather belt around his arm, struggling to find a vein that hadn't collapsed.  I was happy to just snort cocaine and China White with a  rolled up old Peso while  "cooking up the sauce " for the Reverend as he shot up speedball after speedball. The dude made Sid Vicious look like a light weight.

After awhile we were  totally blasted, moon walking in outer space. One of the girls came over and sat by me and I buried my head in her  hooters and started sniffing like a dog.  Her Afro looked as though it had vines that were growing upwards into space, like a hundred sprouting beanstalks. At this point Jones became expansive and said "as we speak I am in another galaxy negotiating with the masters of the universe. My flock and I will be mind traveling to our planet of love and peace". Going on to say "Victor tomorrow is going to be a special day for planet earth, 900 souls and I are going to commit suicide by drinking  Cool-Aid  laced with cyanide , sedatives, liquid valium, pentagram and chloral hydrate, ( wow man, if you took out the cyanide that would be one awesome mother fuckin cocktail!).  I realized that Reverend Jones wasn't kidding and had been doping so long that he believed his own hallucinations . I then told the Rev a tale of how my loving mother used to force feed me Cool-Aid when I was sick, and that it made me puke. Then I thoughtlessly said " Reverend, what if your travel plans don't take off  as planned and you end up killing  your flock for no good reason" ? Jones  screamed " Boy, come on over here and kneel before the Lord",  I thought he was going to take confession , but he pulled out a 45 caliber hand gun and put it to my head.  He said " Son do you want to be the first to go" ? and I said, "  No sir Reverend dude, but ah…. who will cook your dope for you" ?  The Rev was passing out but I asked  " you know that Cool-Aid makes me puke, and I haven't been initiated into the cult, so could I take a pass on the trip to the galaxy" ?  Then Reverend space dude  passed out, I thought about shooting the fucker with his own gun! Then a group of  temple guards walked in, armed with rifles, and told me to get the fuck out!  I passed out in my bunk feeling, "10,000 light years away from home."  The following morning I woke up to the sound of loud speakers blaring at unnatural decibel levels. I looked out of my window and what I saw was not reassuring. 


The people of Jonestown were being and herded by the Reverend's enforcers and lieutenants carrying carbines. Some folks went on their own volition and others had to be forced at gun point and even shot if they refused.  The enforcers still hadn't seen me so I took a run for it in the jungle and of course ran into a goon with a rifle. The man put his gun to my head so I said, "cool no problem, I was just out here taking a piss cause I didn't know if there were any lavatories on the space ship." When I got to the lift off area I could see people lined up to drink the poison Cool-Aid. 

They knew it was for real and looked resigned for one reason or another. The fucker Jim Jones was so full of the himself that he looked as though he was in a convulsion, like James Brown dancing, speaking in tongues and preaching scripture. What happened next has no explanation, Jones said looking into the crowd of people, " Victor is that you? come on up here and help mix the Cool-Aid". The crowd  parted and I made it to the Cool-Aid, I took one whiff of the stuff and immediately puked in the barrel. The Reverend looked back and saw what happened, he said " come here son", I knew it was the final curtain. Then Jones says to me " Victor go get a bundle of coconuts in the jungle and bring em back to mix with the Cool-Aid". Well, you know what happened next, I walked away from the Cool-Aid cool and nonchalant and once I stepped into the jungle, I bolted, setting  a Olympic speed record and never looked back till I made it to Georgetown. 

Once in Georgetown I checked into a "love motel", turned on the TV, took a shower and snorted some cocaine I ripped off from the Rev. Not to my surprise every channel had the news of the Jonestown cult of Death. They were piecing together the story as the authorities looked for survivors. Well I didn't want anything to do with the  Georgetown cops, because cops seem to like to keep folks from having a good time.

So I kept my mouth shut and staid in my motel room for a couple of weeks, only going out to eat.

My only thought after escaping death at Jonestown is, I hope the Rev Jones and his flock made it to were ever it is they were soul traveling. 

Love and Fest on the Sinai.

I was working as  night watchman in Nama Bay, on the  point of the triangle were the Red Sea meets the Bay of Elat. Sorry to say for you surf monsters who read Demon Factory there were no waves in Nama Bay, or much wave action in the Red Sea to my knowledge, there was a major wave when Moses parted the fucker though. Here is a vision of insanity, a rag head with a suicide bomb duck taped to his chest on a wind surfing into Tel Aviv to become a martyr. He wants nothing more than  50 virgins (what a bloody mess, the virgins I mean). I am finding it harder to control my thought waves, mental synapse, sparking problems at the nerve ends, a jumper cable might help. Anyways, the attraction of Nama Bay was for divers, the coral is the most colorful in the world, intense blues, yellows, pinks. I went snorkeling on acid one day, dude it was like floating in a rainbow. Early pre Avatar, 30 years ahead of Avatar.

At the time, in the late 70s(before the Israelis gave the Sinai back to Egypt)the Sinai beaches on the Bay of Elat side were just one big doping, boozing and fuck fest. The geography was like Mars, treeless hills, red mud iron ore color. People lived in straw huts, module housing units and caves. My preference was sleeping on the beach. Even the Nama Bay Inn was module. For entertainment there were cafes and bars made of straw that had names like Mosha's or The Lost Oasis. They served grilled Parrot Fish, coffee, beer. I tried to put a beat joint together, I wanted to serve hash brownies and blast Coltrane and the Rolling Stones from the loud speakers. I planned to call my place "Moses Stepped Here" (who the fuck knows maybe he did part the fucking Red Sea and step into Nama Bay  years ago, BC).

  

The Israelis new they would lose the Sinai in war or through diplomacy, so they built Nama Bay to be dislodged in the future. The scene was total primal insanity mixed with  "Lost Horizons on Mars". Nama Bay was invaded by people who wanted to party and get lost. United Nations soldiers, Bedouins, Israeli soldiers, German scuba divers, nomadic hippy expats. The UN people would bring cases of Heineken and Irish Bristol Crème as well as hash. The UN dudes were unreal, they had more dope and booze than the Amsterdam  Hells Angels. God knows were they got it all? If I had to venture a guess, I would say the borderless organization is and was the biggest smuggling network in the world. They move everything from Heroin to contraband Toyotas, weapons too.  The Bedouins (also smugglers) would bring hash and sell it. Then the Israel Defense Force would bring more hash (the IDF puts hash in coffee to prime for battle). The hippy expats, who were broke and lost, brought nothing with them and were scammers, but would provide entertainment for handouts, food dope ,and booze. The hippy chicks and the Israeli soldier girls would show tits and ass with little provocation. When it came to tits and ass the Israeli soldier girls had the hippy chicks beat. You could get any of the girls drunk and high and you had em man. Go find a spot in the red desert and fuck like junk bunnies. Every night was a party, smells of fish cooking on grills, Pink Floyd " "Shooting the Dark Side of the Moon" also Bob Marly, Peter toss "Ja Fuck a Rasta Man" tripping till dawn, all night long baby. People would go naked during the wild evening dope parties. Guys would just pass women around , there were orgies, it was insane(I can't tell u how many blasted Israeli soldier girls I poked on the beach). The only thing that was missing was Charles Manson. I was overwhelmed as the Night Watchmen, trying to keep order, so I just joined in.

As I said I was  night watchmen for the Nama Bay Inn. The guest were mostly Euros who came to scuba dive in the Red Sea. All kinds of shit went down in Nama. Bedouin fisherman would often throw hand grenades off of boats, blowing fish to the surface and harvesting them, also blowing the bi-jesus out of the beautiful Coral. The Arabs didn't give a fuck, the Coral was Israeli. I once saw a Beduin fisherman drop a hand grenade and waited. When he didn't pick it up I walked over to the grenade and grabbed it. It was stamped IDF (Israeli Defense Force)the Beduins were clever smugglers, using camels to move goods, they were famous for hiding stuff. The Beduin traded Heroin to a junky Israeli soldier for the grenade. In the day time and I was off work, of course "work" meant, partying all night. So I was hungover bad most mornings. Always needing a drink, (I am no goddamn Chinowski, but I drink and drug). So I took the grenade,  and walked to the the Lost Oasis bar. The owner a Israeli, Palo, was cleaning his grill. I went up to Palo with one hand on the pin and the other on the grenade, I threatened to pull the pin if he didn't give me a bottle of Jack Daniels. He went to the bar and and threw a bottle of Jack and ran. I happily walked into the desert with my prize Jack and my grenade. Latter, dead drunk, I pulled the pin and threw the grenade at a hill thinking it was a invading tank. The grenade went off and left a crater size hole, I felt like goddamn John Wayne.   

I was on my rounds and saw the Red Sea diving center on fire, it was made of straw with a separate room for filling diving tanks. The fire started in a grill left burning by divers shit faced drunk earlier. A Beduin boy passed out on the floor was suppose to be the watchmen. I connected a hose to the kitchen sink and put the fire out before it reached the scuba tank area. There would have been one major explosion if the tanks caught fire and the Beduin boy would have fried like a burnt piece of bacon. The maniac German divers would have eaten him for breakfast. The diving center was owned by a Druse dude, Rafi. In the morning I asked Rafi for a case of Macabe beer as a reward for my heroics. He drew a gun (some cheap pistol) pointed it at me, then this cheesy little fucker had the nerve to say to me. "Victor (swearing in Arabic) you probably started the fire, get out of my office" If I hadn't have set off the hand grenade earlier that day, I would have brought it to the diving center and blown up the diving tanks. The explosion would have killed Rafi with little problem, with no parts of him left to bury. He had no family and was such a wanker, the IDF would have applauded me for the job.

One night I was in the hotel kitchen with the cook, Boaz, we were eating cous-cous and falafel, washing it down with beer. When I walked out of the Inn to leave the hotel I felt a sharp pain on my lower calf. I was bitten by a Scorpion. I saw the creature dead on the sand so I picked it up and put it in a styrofoam cup. I felt a buzz but noticed in the ensuing minutes that I was not dying. I went back to the kitchen to ask Boaz what to do. Boaz said, " Victor you crazy fucker you got it all wrong, usually when u are bit by a Scorpion you die not the Scorpion "!

There was a crazy British Expat living on the Beach, Bryan. I will never forget him. He was half in the bag mentally. His only possessions were the clothes on his back, a pair of one white overalls with one pant leg cut off, slippers and a shoulder high walking stick with a plastic baby doll head (that had washed in from the Red Sea) perched on on the top of it . He was Pre Road Warrior for sure. Bryan who could have been the inspiration for “Life of Bryan" would organize poetry readings for the Israeli soldiers, he would read the same poem by Browning over and over, it was a endurance test. Byran was always preaching about something, but you couldn't understand him half the time. It was obvious he was losing his mind slowly, he enjoyed living on the edge and losing his mind. People said that he was love lost or broken hearted. He was the leader of all of the nowhere hippy expats because he was the furthest out on the edge, that counted for allot. This dude was a total speed freak, I have no idea where he scored, but people said he was screwing a Beduin transvestite for speed, the dude had it made with that Beduin punk taken care of him.

By the time I left Nama Bay to go to Greece I had slept on beaches and in the desert so often that I had trouble sleeping inside a room or in a bed. I would stay in a cheap hotel room and sleep on the floor. When I visited a Kibbutz I would go to a open field and sleep looking up at the stars on a grassy field. Finally the day came after a long time in Israel, the Immigration Service would no longer give me a visa, not being Jewish. I could have lied to stay by saying I was Jewish, but I would have taken a chance on being drafted in the Israeli Army. Being in any Army is not my idea of a good time. So I decided by default to leave Israel.  When I got to the docks in Haifa to catch the ferry to Greece there was a small group (a hundred or so) of Israeli soldier girls that I had fuck there to see me off . They were weeping and pulling their hair out by the root, many holding my bastards in their arms, begging me not to go.  

My plan was to take a slow boat, car or train, destination Amsterdam, dope haven of the world!  I took the ferry to Olympus. As usual I sniffed out a group of German free love acid freaks in Corfu. They lived on a deserted strip of beach, naked men and women, fucking, talking, eating, doping, smoking rolled Drum tobacco with hash inside.(I puked the first time I smoked hash with tobacco) Before I knew what hit me I had been on the beach naked and shit canned for 6 months, my mind went blank, time to go North!

This is a hard story to close, because it just goes on man. But I think I will close like a true Socratic philosopher with a question. What was the purpose of two years in the middle of a fuck and dope fest? I certainly didn't leave Israel and Greece a enlightened soul. The answer is, it was a test of limits, he who can party and screw the longest and hardest before he drops, WINS! 

Better than Hemingway or Faulkner

Being a film buff in Thailand can be frustating. But I found a street vendor in Silom neighborhood of Bangkok selling bootlegged avande garde and art films for 100 baht, that's about 3 dollars US.

We get maybe 15% of world film here in Thailand, art value, great screenplay has nothing to do with the films served up on Thai Cinemas. It is a matter of luck to see the great ones, and sometimes you can find them bootleged even if they don't make it to the Cinema.

Thai film is another story, very loud, like soap opera, with lots of flash, migraine headache stuff.

Living in a Thailand, a western film wasteland, you have to lower your film viewing standards. So in a downtown a Bangkok mall I reluctantly chose a film to watch, just to waste a couple of hours, called "Love in the Time of Cholera". I expected very little from a film with 'Love" in the title, but the idea of linking "Love with Cholera" was intriguing.

I did see the name Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I had heard of him, he won The Nobel Prize for Literature, but how do you take someone seriously that writes in Spanish? And the Nobel must have given Gabriel the prize because it was the year of Latin affirmative action, or because Spanish writers were hip that year.

English is of course the language of great literature, and maybe you could throw in a German for a the prize, a Gunter Grass or the like.

But great literature coming from a person who writes in Spanish, that's a second or third world language.

I entered the theater and after standing in respect for the King of Thailand, and the Thai National Anthem (written by the King who is a Jazz lover). I settled into my seat expecting hot Love and Cholera in the jungle.

What unfolded on screen was one of the most amazing, human, insightful , deep, wise, soulful, fun, magical screen plays and films I have ever seen.

I immediately went out and bought every book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez I could find in Bangkok, and am of the opinion that if I wrote for another 2000 years or wrote forever, I would never be able to write like this giant. He is better than Hemingway, Faulkner, comparable to Mark Twain and Tolstoy, but much more fun than Tolstoy. Reading his work leaves me feeling like a mosquito looking at a a literary elephant, awe struck, wondering how he got so big)?

Someday I am going to dig my way out of the hole I am in here in Thailand, and move to South America. I will fuck dark women with huge asses, great titas, long curly black hair and bushes to die for. Sit in in outdoor cafes day and night, read books by Latin authors , eat Coca leaves and drink coffee while savoring Bosa Nova riffs. This is my dream! I think I have one left in me maybe, if Thailand and the world doesn't kill me first.