Sexy Thai Valentines

Red red red.

More red.

Ready for red.

Red Lady Karn

More red Lady Karn

Ever red.

Thai red.

And just a redhead.

Ladyboys all red.

Joyous Valentine for UK Teenagers.

I can’t believe Hollywood came out with another FRIDAY THE 13TH.

I’m sure the teenage heroine doesn’t call the police at the first sign of trouble or use a condom like this 13 year-old boy. Thankfully someone is heeding the tenets of the Holy Roman Church.

The baby’s name is Maise.

At least they didn’t name her Damiene.

Valentine Globalization

Valentine’s Day has become a global holiday, although few people know the exact origins of why hearts are sent to loved ones. The tradition has been mainly attributed to a Roman priest Valentine who performed Christian marriages against the wishes of the Roman Emperor. According to Wikipedia Emperor Claudius took a liking to this prisoner – until Valentinus tried to convert the Emperor – whereupon this priest was condemned to brutal death.

The Imperial Guard beat the priest with clubs and stones; when that failed to kill him, he was beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate.

Supposedly before his execution Valentinus wrote a farewell note to his beloved inscribed ‘From your Valentine’.

The Holy Catholic Church has never mentioned of this marital anathema on Valentine’s Day.

Not that the priests of the Vatican are celibate.

Still the holiday is celebrated around the world and young people in Thailand vow to have sex with their lovers.

Puritan Thai authorities disapprove of this adaptation of the Valentine rites and officials post police near honeymoon hotels to prevent teens from acting on their desires. Contradicting this moral conservatism the Culture Minister has ordered his officers to distribute 10,000 condoms to teens in preparation for their civil disobedience.

In truth the boys are praying to be lucky and I know that when I was a teenager girls were thinking in the opposite direction. Most teens will go to eat with their friends and the boys dream about getting the green light as they pay for the meal.

Only a few will be so lucky and that’s only because they were lucky before.

So Happy Valentine Day youth of the world.

Being far from my wife I’m celebrating mine with my favorite lover.

A bottle of wine.

Valentine Day’s 10 Commandments of Love in Thailand

Back in 2007 anyone thinking that Valentine’s Day in Thailand was a purely commercial holiday for selling roses without a bouquet and red lingerie for your mia noi, the Culture Ministry’s declaration of 10 Commandments of Love must have come as a surprise, especially since you can’t find a complete list of the 10 dos or don’ts. Which won’t stop the coppers from enforcing these CIA-inspired Taliban rules.

So far my list is three.

#1 – Love with patience, so as not to become a young parent.

#2 – Love only one person.

#4 – Avoid the risk of sexually transmitted diseases.

I’ll guess the other 7.

# 3. Love the other person as you love yourself, but no masturbation.

#5. Respect the wishes of the other person, unless the request is too weird.

#6. Get home at a good hour. Sleep is better than sex. Remember no touching yourself. 

#7. School should come before sex, especially if it’s with teachers.

#8. Do not take rides from strange men or even men you know who aren’t strange.

 #9. Girls, don’t shine your shoes, because you know what boys are after.

#10. Boys, don’t means don’t, even when it doesn’t mean don’t.

Sounds good, until hearing that the Bangkok Police were ordered out of the barracks to foil any under-age couple from committing the sin of kissing, which the boys in brown consider tam nong klong tam – mai kao taa or inappropriate behavior.

That year of No the police patrolled after school ‘danger zones’ such as public parks, shopping malls and restaurants and evening risk like nightclubs, bars and love motels.

“If we find teenagers below 18 engaged in inappropriate behavior like kissing, we will give them warnings and report to their parents so they can pick them up.” A police moral authority stated before adding “Alcohol is definitely a catalyst for this kind of behavior, so we will keep an eye on underage drinking.”

Seemingly the police feel that sexual interactions are heightening due to the excess western influences instead of the more prosaic boy meets girl.

So following Valentine’s Day leads to kissing and then sex and the collapse of the traditional Thai values of sober modesty.

Better by your example you should lead the young into the future, especially since St. Valentine’s Day celebrates a bastardization of a Roman holiday, when the pagans beseeched Lupercus to banish the wolves from the city on February 15. On the Eve of the festival the names of young girls would be picked by the boys in hope they would become lovers for the year.

Sounds familiar?

Strangely can’t imagine the Catholic Church ever getting involved in the art of love except to tell people what not to do, as with the Bangkok police. But then the rites of the festival of Lupercas were hard for the Church to accept.

This abridged excerpt comes from http://www.secweb.org/index.aspx?action=viewAsset&id=260

Teenagers and young adult males would meet at a cave below the Palentine to sacrifice goats or dogs. The skins of the animals cut into wet strips called Februa (from which we derive the name February for the month) and males would take these strips into the heart of the city and use them to randomly beat people (particularly women).

On the second day of the festival, each man would draw the name of one of the women who had been hit with the Februa, and she would be coupled with him until the next festival. (This was a voluntary coupling; the woman was under no legal or social obligation to stay with the man.) It was basically just an excuse to sleep with someone for a year without commitment or obligation. ________________________________________________

The collapse of morality or young people having a good time?

The Church knows best and banished St. Valentine to pseudo-saintdom with St. Christophe and St. Patrick feeling they could no longer condone a role in the propagation of a pagan love festival.

Personally I saw no under-aged kids kissing in Pattaya that year.

But if I had I wouldn’t have snitched them out.

Boy meet girl

Romeo and Juliette

Is that so bad?

THE CLOSET OF LOST THINGS by Peter Nolan Smith

The Nuns of Our Lady of the Foothills taught their students math, English, religion, history, geography, and a scattering of other basic subjects. Their educational technique depended heavily on rote memorization and harsh discipline. The Palmer penmanship was beaten into our rebellious right hands. Laziness on small ts earned a wrap on the knuckles. The nuns were experts in teaching through pain.

A pinched arm opened our eyes to Math. The mysteries of adding, subtracting, multiplication, and division were boiled down to tables.

7 X 7 = 63.

How didn’t matter as long the charts were in our heads.

1 + 1 always equaled 2.

The flow of history was divided into dates important to the Holy Roman Church and America; 5 BC the Birth of Jesus Christ, 1215 the Magna Carta, 1492 Christopher Columbus discovered the New World, 1776 the American Declaration of Independence, 1914 the Start of the Great War, and the 2nd Vatican Council in 1961.

Questioning why the Birth of Jesus Christ was 5 years before Anno Domino or why Christmas was only four months later than the Immaculate Conception were grounds for a visit to the Principal. Sister Mary Eucharist corrected adolescence heresy with a yardstick. She expected the same iron hand from the nuns of her convent.

The mysteries of faith were solved by the memorization of the Baltimore Catechism; God made the world, God is the Creator of heaven and earth, and of all things, Man is a creature composed of body and soul, and made to the image and likeness of God and God made us to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in heaven. God reigned over man with capital letters.

There was no detour from these tenets, until my 6th Grade teacher Sister Mary Osmond ignored the dictums of her superior. The ancient nun had taught in Egypt and entertained her pupils with tales of Africa.

“We lived by the Nile. After the harvest the children ran barefoot over the sharp stalks without slicing their feet.”

Closing my eyes I envisioned her students gliding over the fields of razors. Sister Mary Osmond opened our minds to worlds beyond Boston and we followed her new approach to learning like sheep.

Sister Mary Eucharist hated her.

“Fear. That’s how the Church rules the faithful. Fear.”

Sister Mary Osmond nodded to her superior with love and we reciprocated by scoring the highest test scores in the Boston Diocese. Her knowledge flooded our senses and she had an answer for everything.

Not all of it was true.

One afternoon Connie Botari cried in the back of the class.

Sister Mary Eucharist would have ignored the silent sobs.

Our teacher put down her chalk and approached Connie’s desk.

“What’s wrong?”

“I lost my headband.” Connie had looked very cute this morning with it on her head. She was pretty, although not a pretty as Kyla Rota. Neither girl knew that I lived and breathed on the same planet. I wore glasses and sat in the front of the class.

“Is that all?” Sister Mary Osmond tenderly touched the young girl’s head. “Don’t you worry about that?”

She paused for few seconds and I expected the venerable nun to tell the same thing that my mother told me when her six children lost a favorite toy.

“If you lose something than it wasn’t yours to begin with.”

My mother had learned that lesson from her mother. Nana had come over from Ireland in the Year of the Crow. She had been 14. Losing things was bad luck and she expected her family to avoid bad luck. Only St. Anthony had the power to help us find things.

“St. Anthony, St. Anthony, Please help me. Something is lost and can’t be found.”

I had rejected the belief in God at age 8 after the drowning of my best friend, but remained true to the powers of the saints. Most of them had pagan roots and St. Anthony of Padua had at one time lived in Morocco, which rendered his faith questionable in my eyes.

Sister Mary Osmond had a different take on loss and explained to Connie, “In heaven there is a closet with everything you ever lost waiting for you.”

“Really?” The cute brunette sniffed behind the swipe of her wrist.

“The closet has your name on it in gold letters. Nothing is truly gone. It remains in your memory, so you will enjoy seeing it again in heaven.” Sister Mary Osmond gave Connie a handkerchief with our teacher’s initials embroidered in a corner.

“You keep it. All possessions are transitory on this Earth. The only thing you need is a pure soul to get you in heaven. That purity is the key to the closet with all lost things.”

I was on the verge of pubescence. Impure thoughts outnumbered evil deeds. Heaven was for only true believers. I was going to Hell and I was certain that Lucifer had a closet loaded with the things that I never wanted in the first place.

I lowered my head into my hands. My toy boat and teddy bear would remain trapped in their heavenly closet, but then I remembered what Sister Mary Osmond had said about lost things. They remained forever in your head and I smiled, because forever will be a long time in Hell without a teddy bear.

As I got older the number of lost things grew with my travels around the world. My possessions were scattered across two houses in Thailand, a mountaintop cabin north of Santa Cruz, two farms in upstate New York, my apartment in Fort Greene, and my sister’s house outside of Boston.

Upon my return to the States from Thailand in 2008 I emptied my storage space in the East Village.

Not everything was there.

I was missing paintings, first editions, color slides as well as my cowboy boots and collection of nightclub memorabilia or at least that was what I thought until visiting a good friend out in Easthampton several years ago. in 2009 I

“I have several boxes of your in my cellar,” Billy O announced on a bright sunny morning.

“You do?”

“Yes, you left them here after you gave up your apartment.”

“That was in 2002.” The rental management had offered $10,000 for my vacating the tiny apartment on East 10th Street.

“You were living in Thailand.”

“Remember what you said?”

“No.”

“You said that now I was just another guy from Boston who once lived in New York.” Twenty-nine years in the city didn’t make you a native to New Yorkers.

“Harsh words.”

“But true, I thought I put everything in storage.”

“Wrong, boyo.” Billy O and I celebrated St Padraic’s Day every year. We were both Irish in the right way.

“Damn.”

“You want to go check on them?” Both of us were recovering from LEAVING LAS VEGAS hangovers.

“No, let’s go for a swim in the ocean first.”

“You boys be careful,” his wife shouted from the pool. She came from the UK. Sara liked her ocean calm.

A distant hurricane was churning giant waves along the offshore sand bars. The water temperature was in the 70s. The salt air and danger of riptides had natural curative powers more important than a reunion with long-lost relics of the past.

“You boys be careful.” Billy’s wife shouted from the back porch. Two people had drowned the previous weekend.

“We’ll follow the buddy system.” The ocean was unforgiving to fools.

Amagansett Beach was ten minutes from Billy’s house via the back roads. His I-pod played John Lennon’s WORKING CLASS HERO, as we broke through the barricade of slow-moving SUVs and Porsche Reich sedans on Route 27. Billy is a local. He knows the back roads.

At the beach a parking space opened up next to the reserved handicapped spot. Billy grabbed it before an up-island vacationer could steer his Mercedes GL 405 between the white lines.

“Nice, huh?” Billy had a healthy disdain for the summer people, while recognizing his high-end real estate job survived on their largesse. He smiled to the irate driver of the luxury SUV and shrugged like he was sorry. It was a good act.

We walked onto the beach with towels over our shoulders.

Two men in their 50s wearing sun glasses.

The strand was crowded with weekenders enjoying themselves in the sun. Their blankets were surrounded by coolers. The sea air was tainted by a miasma of melting sun lotion.

“Straight into the water.” Billy was a good swimmer. He did laps at Guerneys three times a week.

“The only thing to do.” A single surfer bobbed on the waves beyond the nasty shore break. Few people were venturing farther than their knees into the sucking froth. I ran into the sea. Billy followed close behind.

The water was cold and the current grabbed our bodies like the Atlantic wanted us to see Iceland.

We ducked under the close-outs and stroked through the sets of double waves to the calm of the outer break. I couldn’t touch the bottom.

The lifeguard looked in our direction.

I waved that we were fine.

He nodded to say ‘be careful’.

Billy and I rode a few waves. One crunched my body into the sandy bottom, then tumbled me in an eddy of foam. My head bobbed to the surface. Billy was a few feet from me. We shared a glance and let the turbulent surge carry us to safety.

“I think I’m ready to look at those boxes now.” I was out of breath and exhilarated by the swim.

We returned to Billy’s house, listening to John Lennon’s IMAGINE. I was never much of a Beatles fan, but these two songs revealed the genius of John, although Billy and I had to both ask, “Why Yoko?”

My boxes were downstairs. One was covered in mould. A small carpet had rotted in the damp. There was no damage to the art work; cartoon series by Gaetano Liberatore, an oil painting from the Steaming Musselman Philippe Waty, two of Ellen Von Unwerth’s first photo or a suede jacket in a plastic bag.

“It still fits after all those years.”

“A little tight around the waist.” Billy’s wife said it in such a way that the truth didn’t hurt. The English are a polite people.

The next box was loaded with slides and photos from my travels around the world. Bali, Tibet, Laos, Peru, France, Ireland, China, Thailand, plus love letters dating back to 1976, the first year I moved to New York.

I read a few aloud.

“Sweet.” Billy’s wife was very sentimental.

The third box was a set of Wedgwood china from Bowdoin College. It had belonged to my Grandfather, who had graduated from the Maine College in 1912. I had served countless dinners on the plates at my old apartment on East 10th Street. The large serving bowl still bore the stains of a sauce. I guessed that it was tomato sauce for pasta.

The last box contained books; first editions of FRANNY AND ZOOEY, CATCHER IN THE RYE, MOONRAKER, and about twenty other classics. They would have been worth a fortune if signed or still in good condition. Thankfully I hadn’t put them in the box with the carpet.

“Thanks, Billy.” He could have thrown these out years ago.

“Well, we still have to discuss the storage fees.”

“Oh, Billy.” Sara was British. They had a different sense of humor from the Irish. “You can’t charge him anything.”

“I was just kidding.”

I wasn’t so sure. The Irish can be mean.

I told them about the closet of lost things.

“It was supposed to be in heaven, but there was one right here on Earth and it was in your basement.”

“Proving there is heaven on earth.” Billy O examined the copy of JUNKIE.

“And it’s where we find the things we love.”

Now if I could only find my lost teddy bear, my life would be complete.

I am a simple man.