Sex Show Pattaya

Thailand was once famous for the sex shows of Pattaya and Patpong. Naked girls were trained to propel banana through the air by the strength of their vagina. Ping-pong balls rocketed across the car via the magic of this female pneumatic gun and razor blades were withdrawn from private parts without any harm to the performers or customers. These ‘sex’ shows were a true wonder, especially if you weren’t trapped in the bar by bouncers looking to hit you up for a 1000 baht bar bill for one beer, which was an old Patpong trick.

The shows died out during the first years of the 21st century thanks to the natural prudishness of Thai authorities. Any attempts to revitalize this genre was stamped out by a police raid and I thought I had seen the last of them, until wandering into a bar off Pattaya’s Walking Street with Sam Royalle.

The place catered to overweight Russian couples with deviant sex tastes and even more perverted Hindu bachelors. The show was a step back into the illustrious past of the Last Babylon.

Cigarette smoking and the old razor blades.

The performer sat next to me and asked if I wanted to take her to a hotel for a brief encounter. She was fat, but said she would do anything. I was scared of ‘anything’ and paid for my beer and gave her a 100 baht tip. After all I am a patron of the arts.

I won’t tell you where this bar is, because do-gooders would shut it down and I’d hate to put my 100-baht protege out of work.

After all I’m a patron of Pattaya’s art scene.

Donald Trump On NASA

Last year in New Hampshire a young boy asked presidential hopeful Donald Trump about his opinion on the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.

The Donald always has an answer and said, “You know, in the old days it was great. Right now, we have bigger problems — you understand that? We’ve got to fix our potholes and you know, we don’t exactly have a lot of money.”

Not okay, because as my old friend Wayne Shephard said back in 1971, “When the shit gets a foot high, step a foot higher.”

Donald Trump had also commented on NASA’s plan to send men to Mars in the 2030. He responded: “Honestly, I think it’s wonderful; I want to rebuild our infrastructure first, OK?”

Infrastructure to Trump are prisons, roads, bridges, and a big wall on the Mexican border, because the only troublesome aliens in America are those south of the Rio Grande

He later added, “I love NASA. I love what it represents, I love what it stands for, and I hope that someday in the not-too-distant future, we can get that going. Space is terrific.”

Oh, Space, why have we forsaken you?”

Oh, yes, it’s the infrastructure.

And those damned Mexican rapists aliens.

In Heaven Above

Back in the 80s I was invited to fashion shows by Claude Montana and Azzedine Alaïa. My friend were models and designers. Some have become famous and I was lucky enough to have known some of the most beautiful women in the world. Few were more exotic than Marpessa.

She was half-Dutch and half-Surinam. Her beauty was frightening, but I seduced her into a dinner with the infamous art dealer Vonelli by saying that we wanted to exploit her beauty for NASA.


“Because NASA is broke and they want to hold a lottery to see who will be the first man to have sex in Space,” I told her this in Dave’s restaurant on Rue St. Roch. His BBQ ribs were exquisite and I piggyback their flavors to bullshit her about Vonelli being a NASA scientist. “He saw your photo on the cover of Vogue and said this woman could launch a Space Shuttle.”

“C’est Vrai?” Marpessa spoke four languages and a fifth was saved for her lovers.

“Absolutelment.” Vonelli was in his prime. He looked 50% CIA in his Brooks Brothers suit.

“Your face will grace posters across the globe. One night with Marpessa. $1.”

“$1?” Millionaires would have halved their fortune for a single night in the glow of her dusky beauty. Broke Paris artists would have bathed to paint her nude.

“Times one billion people. We will make you rich.” I couldn’t believe she was buying my hooey, but Vonelli dropped a card on the table. It was only partially stained by BBQ sauce. “We will guarantee you $10 million for your efforts.”

“And I’ll have to go to Space?”

Vonelli and I pingponged a glance.

“Yes.” He nodded like a senator okaying a secret assassination. “We call the project IN HEAVEN ABOVE.”

“I’ll do it.”

We toasted our future.

It lasted to the door of Dave’s.

Marpessa went her way in a taxi.

Vonelli and I repaired back to our table. Dave sat down and said, “You are mean.”

“And beauty is even meaner.” Vonelli ordered a bottle of wine. We drank it regaling everyone about Heaven Above.

Everyone wanted to believe, for when the shit gets a foot high the cool step a foot higher.

The Nearest Planet

Last week I met my friend’s son in the Meat Packing District. Alfred was a business graduate of Princeton. Magna Cum Laude. His parents considered him genius at 21. His father wanted me to introduce him to a big-time investment banker to whom I sold diamonds.

It was a small favor, although sitting amongst the shouting white crowd at a trendy bar was torture, but Alfred and his friends and he were glorious in their youth. They had their entire future ahead of them.

They twittered on their iPhones and discussed inane TV reality shows. The girls fiddled with dead hair. They all looked like underage divorcees. I refrained from any criticism of their behavior or appearance. I had once been young too.

Alfred was eager to start his career in finance and explained his big plans for these challenging times based on the collapse of the EEU. His bet on the dollar was not a risk, if Britain failed in the next week. I told him about my conversation with the head of the EEU bank.

“He considered stabilization of the Euro as the only true means to maintain peace in Europe.”

“The problem is that you think America needs Europe. China is the future.” Jeb, Alfred’s closest friend, had been recruited by a ruthless zombie hedge fund. “The Euro will collapse. The dollar will get strong. The trade deficit will shrink. I’ll work at an investment bank for ten years and retire a mega-millionaire.”

“That’s a good plan.” My friends in the investment field were stuck in the rat race of the elite, because wealth increased their desire for more wealth.

“You have something against money,” Jeb spoke with a southern accent. His clothing was Brooks Brothers. His drink of choice was a Cosmo. The girls at the table clearly thought that he was handsome.

“No, I like money fine.” My bank account was getting low, but my funds would last into autumn.

“You’re probably retired on a pension.” Alfred’s friend was showing his colors.

“I wish.” I had belonged to the Teamsters in my youth. Their retirement plan was still intact.

“And social security?” The word was poison in his mouth.

“Not yet.” I wasn’t going to get much.

“How old are you? A thousand years old?”

“Closer to 100 than 20.” I eyed Jeb and saw that Alfred was concerned for his friend’s safety. My reputation for violence was legendary. I winked to inform him that Jeb was on thick ice.

“Did they have electricity when you were young?” He actually guffawed at his own joke.

“No cell phones or computers and we had to get up to change the TV.” Five years ago I had gotten up from my sofa in Fort Greene and threw the TV out the window. Freedom from nacho ads was a good thing. “I’m just an old dude, but I’m old enough to know that you’re a smart kid.”

I slapped $100 on the table.

“What’s that?” Jeb viewed the bill with suspicion.

“A bet.”

“What kind of bet?”

“I ask you three questions that I think you should know and if you get them right, then I give you $100. If you don’t get all of them, you owe me $10. You have ten dollars?” Most young people traveled without cash. Plastic was their Mammon of choice. “10 to 1 odds and I promise you these questions will be easy. Put up your money.”

“If it’s a trick you get nothing.” He pulled out a $10 bill. It was all he had in his wallet.

“Question # 1. Who was the first president of the United States?”

“George Washington.” His eyes dropped to his iPhone to answer a SMS.

“Correct. I told you these were easy questions. Question # 2. Who won the last THE BACHELOR?” I didn’t know the answer, but Jeb replied with a smile, “Courtney Robertson. 2 out of 3.”

The young girls with the dead hair clapped for their hero.

“Okay, champ. One last question and it’s one everyone should know. What’s the closest planet to the Earth?”

“The sun.” He sounded so sure of himself and put down his iPhone.

“The sun is a star.”

“That was a trick question.” His face dropped as I took the $100 and $10 bills.

“Mars is the closest planet.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to use a lifeline. Anyone, but Alfred.” He had been a sky nut as a child.

“Yes.” A quick regard to his friends revealed their collective ignorance of the answer.

“The nearest planet is Venus.”

“Isn’t that a moon?”

“No, it’s a planet.” Only the once-planet Pluto had been rejected from the list of heavenly bodies.


“A planet.”

“Thanks for the fun, I call you tomorrow about an interview.”

“Thanks.” He knew if I said something to the banker then he would be set.

My friends were my friends.

I walked out without saying a word to Jeb, but a single glance dared him to mutter under his breath. He wasn’t that brave and outside I looked up to the western sky. Venus was low over the Palisades. It was the brightest star in the heavens for most people.

Except it’s a planet.

The second from the Sun.

And not the third.

Eat At Earth

Our solar system belongs to the Milky Way, a barred spiral galaxy comprised of billions of stars. Our nearest neighbor is the Andromeda Galaxy. Our sun twirls on the very edge of the swirling mass of stars ie the boondocks. No ETs are coming to this speck in the cosmic dust, yet as a young boy living in the southern suburbs of Boston I fell prey to the belief that ‘we are not alone’.

Flying saucers, UFOs, and little green Martians were real, while my ranch house existence with a two-car garage was a fake. Carnivals and circus were banned from my hometown, so the only escape offered to a 10 year-old boy was via the stars and every summer night once my parents were asleep I would leave out house to lie on the grass, praying for the ETs to take me away to Andromeda.

I didn’t even care if I was anally probed, after all I was an altar boy.

Sadly I remained on Earth.

The government declared UFOs a myth and anyone believing in flying saucers were mad. Little green Martians were a joke.

That was the 1960s.

Fifty years later the world governing body, the UN, announced that they had appointed an ambassador to celestial new-comers asking the time-honored question, “Take me to your leader.”

Their choice was a woman.

I hope that she had a good sense of humor, for laughter is the galactic equalizer and if so she might tell jokes such as this one offered by Mark King.

Two aliens enter a bar. One orders a single tequila shot with double worms. The other asks: why did you order double worms?

Because I’ve gone onto the Maria Callas diet… there’s so much to learn from these earthlings.


What’s E.T. short for?
Because he has little legs!


What’s the difference between a man and E.T.?
E.T. phoned home.

What’s the difference between a legal alien and an illegal alien?
Since 2002 – nothing. Both have lost their civil rights.

But no aliens have arrived on Earth.

At least none have announced their coming and they might never come, unless the UN puts a big billboard EAT AT EARTH on the Moon.

That announcement should draw them to the third planet from the Sun.

Fat people are so tasty at a BBQ.