Do Svidaniya AK47

The AK-47 or Kalash was the assault rifle of choice for insurgents, rebels, revolutionaries, and armed forces since its introduction by the Soviet Army in 1946. The weapon maximized close combat firepower with easy operational needs. Its silhouette graced the flag of the Red Army Faction and was considered the first choice of terrorists, because of its accessibility.

“Remember one man’s terrorists is another man’s freedom fighter, so we all sort of think, oh boy, we’ve got a little bit of Che Guevara in us. And this accounts for the popularity of the (AK 47) weapon. Plus I think that in the United States it’s considered counterculture, which is always something that citizens in this country kind of like … It’s kind of sticking a finger in the eye of the man, if you will.” Larry Kahaner, author of AK-47: The Weapon That Changed the Face of War

Not any more.

In 2011 the Russian army announced the cessation of orders for the AK47, while awaiting a better weapon.

An end of an era.

Only for the Russkis, because there are enough AK-47s around to last till 2030, which is a good thing, because we’ll need them for the apocalypse.

Slingshot Dragster 1954

The other day an old nightclub owner was denigrating the influence of Islamic thought on civilization.

“They really created nothing.”

“What you mean nothing?” I didn’t mention that algebra succinctly meant ‘reunion of broken parts’ in Arabic.

“No rockets, no telephones, no TVs.”

“That’s all crap.”


John and I liked to argue.

“Yes, plus everything man has invented is adapted from nature.”

“Nature?” John was keen to avoid a discussion about global warming.

“Yes, nature.” And I was trying to stay on subject.

“The car?” John had driven a DeLorean during his Danceteria years and rightly considered the automobile as the height of Western Civilization.

“I remember your cars. They were fast.”

“Pure American ingenuity.” John thought girls came with hot cars. He was right, but so was I.

“The internal combustion engine is derived from fire and the natural circle provided the wheel, but I have to admit the first dragsters were a sight to behold.”

“And a shock to your ears.”

“A volcano is louder.”

“If you’re standing on one.”

John had his beliefs and I had mine.

“Hot rods were the epitome of loud.”

“Especially Mickey Thompson’s first slingshot dragster.”

John knew his cars.

“You’re right about that.”

Mickey Thompson had broken the 400 mph speed limit at the Bonneville Salt Flats.

He understood that all hot rods shared the same problem of producing enough traction on the rear wheels.

Mickey moved the seat behind the back axle and widened the tires.

At the time a Santa Anna hot rodder Leroy Neumeyer said to Mickey, “You know what that beast reminds me of, Mick? A slingshot. You know, the way the driver sits back there like a rock in a slingshot.”

At the inaugural 1954 NHRA Nationals Mickey Thompson and Calvin Rice met in a head-to-head slingshot dragster final.

I couldn’t find any online mention of that result, but I’m sure John and I will argue about it one day. He is a master of getting the last word and I’m a good enough listener to drink the last beer.


To see the film of Mickey Thompson breaking the 400 mph speed record at Bonneville, please go to the following URL

A DELUGE OF KATHOEYS by Peter Nolan Smith

The mere mention of Bangkok’s Nana Plaza at a New York dinner table peaked the male guests’ interest of men and heighten women’s antipathy of me. To the former I was a Don Juan and the latter regarded me as Gary Glitter come to life. To be honest I can’t recall ever bar fining a go-go girl out of the notorious three-story sex complex on Sukhumvit Road Soi across from the ever-infamous Nana Hotel. I was more into Patpong in the 90s and by the 00s, Nana Plaza was too mercenary for my tastes.

The other night the Old Roué and I finished dinner at La Monita, a trendy Mexican restaurant. A meal with Coronas for two came to 1200 baht or nearly $40 or the price of a bar fine in Nana Plaza. It was early and the Old Roué suggested that we retire to a ground-floor bar at the wicked entreat.

“We can watch the changing of the guard.”

I was glad to get out of La Monita. The clientele was too farangs for my taste. At heart I was a race traitor.

I sat behind the Old Roue on his motorcycle and he expertly snaked through the parking lots and hotel garages and sidewalks to Soi Nana. Nine year in Krung Thep had etched the short-cuts of Bangkok into his brain like a sailor’s tattoo. He parked his Honda 250 next to a cart selling sum tam.

The owner nodded to the Old Roué.

They had a long-term relationship.

We entered the complex with flecks on rain dotting the pavement. The entrance bars had been moved back from the portal to provide access for fire engines. Nana Plaza was almost synonymous with fire trap. If a fire starts there, it will only because the property as a condo building was more profitable than the sex trade, but for the present Nana Plaza was safe since the sex entrepôt churned out more money than the Belgium steel industry.

The two of us sat at the first bar. We were the only farangs in sight. It was about 7. Post time for the go-go bars began around 8.

“This is better than TV.” The Old Roué ordered us beer. The interiors of the go-gos blared white light, as the staff hurriedly stocked the bars with beer, ice, and liquor. Mama-sans stood at the door awaiting their flocks. A few early arrivals wandered into the plaza and wai-ed the Buddha blessing their arrival. They laid flowers on the altar and proceeded to their respective places of employment.

“I like the transition.” Nana was coming to life with hundreds of succubii seeking farangs.

“Newcomers are the first to arrive.” The Old Roué had watched this ritual countless times. The spectacle never tired him and discreetly pointed to three older and dumpy farangs in shorts.

“They’ve left mother at home for the first time in decades to have a sex vacation with their friends. I make them for social workers or garbage men.”

“I see them more as English railroad workers.” The sweep-overs of these forty year-olds laid odds in my favor, except they passed us speaking an unknown foreign language.

“Serbs.” The Old Roué wrinkled his nose. “Momma’s boys to the man.”

“Better this than becoming sex predators.”

“Little danger of that from these boys. Look at how they walk.”

The Old Roué was right. He was 65 and I was 60. The trio shuffled with apprehension. The two of us could have beaten any of them in a 25-yard dash.

“Ah, the first beautiful girl of the night.”

“Wrong.” Old Roué shook his head. “Check the way she’s hurrying and fussing with her hair. That’s a kathoey. Big hands too means big feet.”

“Meaning big shoes.” I picked up my camera. The ladyboy would have stopped traffic on 5th Avenue for blocks. Her heels were five-inch spikes. The dress revealed a goddess body. Long curls serpented down a slim back. I recognized her from a ladyboy website. Her name was Areeya.

“No photos. Not here.” Old Roué admonished my absent-minded behavior.

“I know, I know.”

Nana Plaza had rules and we observed the influx of wasted and aged farangs. Hope and despair mingled in their eyes.

I ordered another beer.

Kathoeys showed up in clumps and I asked, “Where are all the girls?”

“It’s a Tuesday night. Most of the best girls have been barfined for the week. They’re sleeping with some old git, but they’ll desert him on Thursday to grind out money from the weekenders.” The Old Roué was right and I started to count the ratio between females and ladyboys. It was about 50/50 and I mentioned the numbers to the Old Roué.

“It’s all the same thing in the end. Farangs come here to answer a dream. Ladyboy or go-go girl. A young body makes them feel immortal at the gates of mortality.”

The two of us turned our backs on the show. A fat heavyweight fought a well-muscled boxer on TV. The butterball had to weigh over 350. His reach prevented any offense from his opponent. We made a 20-baht bet with the cute bartender. She lost and actually paid me. I gave it right back. 20 baht wasn’t what it used to be, but she could buy a coconut.

The stream of late-comers faltered and music blasted from the scores of bars lining the Nana Plaza.

“You feel like a go-go?”

I said no.


“I don’t want to make a mistake and end up with a ladyboy.”

Scores of the man-ladies were thronging into Nana Plaza. Their beauty shone in the flashing lights. I had drank three rhum-cokes. Even I felt handsome.

“You have something against shims?”

“No, they’re a lot of fun until your wife finds out.” The Old Roué knew Junior Mint. He thought she was special.

“And how would your wife find out your transgression?”

“I don’t know, but Thai women have an uncanny sense of a man’s willingness to be naughty.”

My cell phone rang. It was Mam.


I answered the phone.

“You at Nana?”

“Yes, have many ka-thoeys.”

“Suai at night. Naki-at in morning.”

They were beautiful at night.

I haven’t woken with one in the morning, plus I was faithful to Junior Mint.

“Lak khun.”

I hung up and the Old Roué said, “Uncanny is right.”

It was time to call it a night on Tuesday night.

Maybe on Friday night it would be different.

I am not scared of ka-thoeys.

Moral Dilemma of Ka-Toeys

Every year international transvestites flock to Pattaya for Miss Tiffany World Beauty Contest. The event was televised on national TV and hosted by the reigning Miss Thailand representative to the Miss Universe contest, something like this would never happen in the States, because Miss America is too much of a square to deal with a man more beautiful than she is.

“Dear, Jesus, there’s a she-male on stage.”

Actually Jesus had long hair and wore a dress.

Could the son of god be a she-im?

Here the kathoeys or ladyboys are genuinely gorgeous. They spend thousands of dollars to sculpt their bodies with plastic surgery. Breasts, noses, throats, butts. My wife thought many were more beautiful than women and said they are usually prettier than the Miss Thailand rep.

Many men first-timing to Pattaya found it hard to discern if they are women, but once they opened their mouths and squeak like a crow sucking helium, “Hey, handsome come here.”, then there could be no doubt about the gender of this gender-bender.

Some friends ignored the obvious. You have a choice here. Do I tell him or not? In the end you have to realize that he was a big boy and had heard the Kinks’ LOLA.

Walks like a woman but talks like a man.

There was the famous story about a French diplomat in China who lived with a TV for years. When their story became public, he said, “I didn’t know.”

The frog knew all right and so does your friend, so what’s the sense of telling him the obvious.

What weirded me out was a friend who had a katoey mia noi or TV second wife and said, “You should see her on Viagra. What a sex devil.”

“You actually want her to have an erection?”

“Yeah, and you know why?” His eyes gleamed with keen wickedness.

I fled before he could provide the answer, because some secrets are best left behind closed doors.

Melania Trump So Pretty

These days Donald Trump looks like a happy man. His election victory was a triumph of the Electoral College over the popular vote. His 45.9% total versus Hillary’s 48.0% of 57% percent of the possible voting public. Over 24% of the 43% of the unvoting public are excluded from the ballot polls by suppressive measures designed to guarantee the GOP victory in many frontline states.

Not saying that Trump or the GOP cheated in 2016, but he’ll never be my president, however recent rumors have arisen accusing his wife of being a transexual.

Her hands are bigger than those of the First Executive.

And what about that Adam’s Apple?

Then again I don’t have any problems with trans-gender people and seemingly neither does the 45th President of the USA.

That is if she was a ladyboy and that is only conjecture on the part of the lunatic fringe.

I think she is all woman and at least twice the man Small Hands will ever be.

To hear more please go to this URL

I wish the First Lady lots of luck.