Baseball season is in full swing. The Yankees and Mets are disappointing their fans and the Red Sox are going nowhere, but these teams’ mediocrity will not interfere with baseball’s greatest tradition of men never washing their hands after going to the toilets.
A 2008 survey conducted at the Atlanta Braves stadium revealed that while 95% of female Braves fans washed their hands while only 54% of their male counterpart completed their visit to the men’s room with a manual ablution.
A diehard Yankee fan told me that at the old Yankee Stadium less than 20% of men put their hands under a faucet after retreating from the urinal. 8000 men out of 40,000 Yankee fans. After hearing that information I always washed my hands at any sporting event, even if other men think it’s effeminate.
“I don’t piss on my hands.”
“I don’t want to touch the faucet, if someone’s touched it with their pee-covered hands.”
“I was in too much of a hurry to watch the game.”
These are only three of the excuses heard from Yankee fans and I’m sure that their reasons are no different from Red Sox supporters, but now I never shake anyone’s hands at a game and I certainly don’t make eye contact. Lastly I never touch anything in Yankee Stadium. There’s no telling who has touching it.
The same is not true in Pattaya’s go go bars.
On my last visit to Walking Street, I hired the one-armed bathroom attendant from the Carousel Go Go to keep count on the number of men who washed their hands and was surprised by her revelation that almost 50% of the men washed their hands, then again she was going for tips, which might jaundice free-style piss and wash statistics.
Me, I always wash my hands, just because I’m such a bad shot.
A caveat to travelers; not washing your hands after peeing is a crime in Singapore and the government has trained special agents to sniff your hands after exiting from the toilets, so wash your hands or else expect a caning.
Only 5 strokes for 1st offense.
What a bargain.
PS according to that capitalist rag THE WALL STREET JOURNAL all Yankee players must wash their hands after photo sessions in the dressing room.
One of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen in Pattaya was Ann. Her beauty lasted longer than most, as she bathed in the fountain of youth created by her countless sponsors’ generous donation of cash and clothing. The veteran mistress managed these farangs with the skill of a circus juggler yet she was always broke, for beauty has its costs.
Several years ago one night at the Marine Disco a French marine asked Ann to go home. Her refusal evoked an expletive in his native language. Ann had had many frog beaus in her career and told the dejected garlic-eater, “Fuck ta mère.”
The Frenchman reacted to this insult to his mother by throwing a glass of beer in Ann’s face. The impact shattered the glass and a shard tore an inch scar behind her jaw. Blood splattered on the dance floor. Ann was taken to the hospital. Angry Thais wanted to kill the farang. The police arrested him. The chief inspector said that he was looking at 6 months in jail, but after coming out of the hospital Ann settled for 500,000 baht plus medical cost to drop charges. After the French marine paid the money, he was freed from the monkey house with a warning to be nicer to young girls.
Ann’s scar was no threat to her beauty. Friends congratulated her good luck. The police took their cut on the action leaving Ann with about 400,000 baht.
The average annual income in Ann’s Isaan village is about 60,000 baht. If she retired to Bannok, that money could last years, but Ann was too young to quit the game, so she sent home 50,000 and spent his punitive reward in less than a week.
10 baht of gold = 100K.
New motorcycle = 50K.
Partying for a week = 50K.
New clothes = 50K.
Lending money to friends = 50K.
Money goes quick when you’re having fun, but even Ann was surprised how fast 400K evaporated with the pedal pushed to the metal.
Jamie Parker, a man of little wisdom, heard this story of riches to rags and said, “The Midas Touch works in reverse for a Thai bargirl. Any gold they touch turns into lead, but it doesn’t matter because they think, “There’s plenty more where that went.”
Jamie was right, because a week later Ann was seeing the French marine.
They were in love.
Kwahm Lak 100%., because a girl has to live.
The roots of this need to spend is highlighted in an article from this 1928 article featured in 2bangkok.com
Bangkok, Siam… It has always been a moot question in all minds as to why people of Siam are never over-burdened with riches. Now the answer comes in the form of a series of pictures which demonstrates in graphic way how surplus riches of the people are disposed of. When a man of Siam thinks he’s too wealthy to go to heaven he promptly goes out and purchases as much food, clothing, fruit, etc. as will relieve him of his surplus money. He then mounts a high platform built for the express purpose and throws his gifts down to members of the poorer class below. Since all have a right to the food and clothing offered a merry battle goes on for possession of the offerings. Hooks are even made which might tend to give the seeker a better chance to make a good haul. However, before the foodstuffs and clothing are given away, prayers and praises to the king of the devil or “Phya Yomaraj” are sung. The prayers insure the donors of recognition when they dies and are led before the king of the devil for entrance to heaven. After the prayers are said and the food distributed, the huge image is burnt, and residents of Siam must wait until they pile up more coin of the realm before they can stage another similar celebration.
This article was published by a Thai newspaper in October 23, 1928.
Easy come, easy go.
Something things stay the same and the same is sometimes good.
In 2004 my cousin Sherri called before my planned departure from Bangkok. She was living in LA with her fiance. Michael seemed like a nice man. Anyone was an improvement after her last husband, a speed freak bank robber.
“I want you to meet him.” Sherri considered me her closest cousin. We weren’t family, but saying that we were cousins saved time otherwise wasted on explaining our serpentine connection. “We’re thinking about getting married, I want your opinion.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” LA was off my usual route of Bangkok-Narita-JFK. My trips to the States lasted no longer than two weeks. I had a business to run in Pattaya.
“We’re living up in the Hills and he’ll pick you up at the airport.” Sherri was playing a siren’s song with finesse. “You haven’t been out here in years. We’ll make it nice for you.”
“I’ll come out.” I had met her beau the previous year on their visit to Thailand. Michael managed rock bands. Most of them were household names. He had contacts with Hollywood. I had finished a screenplay about a diamond heist on 47th Street. This was a good shot at making the big time. At my age shots at the big time were rare. “I’ll detour for you
“We look forward to seeing you.” Sherri added the ‘we’ to accent her commitment to Michael.
“I’ll be seeing you.”
My travel agency PanExpress re-routed my ticket to Bangkok-LAX-JFK at no extra cost.
The flight to LAX lasted 13 hours. My only upgrade available was to oblivion class through a bootleg roofie.
Michael met me at the LAX in a 1967 Corvette. The light metallic blue convertible was an impressive ride even for LA. The engine sounded in tune. The speedometer went up to 140. The traffic on the freeway was rolling at 40.
“How was your flight?” Michael looked tanned and important behind the wheel of his ride. Other motorists stared with admiration. He certainly was a deserved departure from Sherri’s usual bad boy fixation.
“Brutal.” I lay back my head, feeling like I was in a re-make of the 60s TV show ROUTE 66. “Two drunk sex tourists relived their exploits the entire way.”
“Did you get to sleep?” Michael flew 1st Class.
“A few minutes. The only available upgrade to economy passengers is oblivion with a bootleg roofie from a Thai pharmacy. I forgot mine.” My eyes were heavy from exhaustion.
“Sherri is looking forward to see you.” Michael was older than me by a good ten years. The bearded manager had been successful for more than thirty. He was smart.
“You know I went to visit Sherri’s mom in Jersey.”
“Really?” His line of questioning was headed to one destination.
“You don’t look anything like the rest of the family.” His suspicion was well-founded if based on facial features, because we had been lovers back in the 70s and 80s and some of the 90s. Nowadays if someone asked how we knew each other, we said we were family. It saved a lot of time.
“That’s because Sherri was adopted from Italy.” Sherri and I had our story down and a lie was best backed up with the truth, especially since my mind was operating on about one hour’s sleep in the last 30 hours .”I’m from the New England side of the family. Irish Wasp. You knew that, right?”
“That’s what Sherri says.” Michael hid his frustration and blew his horn at a SUV straying into our lane. “You don’t mind, if we stop at the Sony Soundstage for a while?”
My driver didn’t give me time to say no.
“Sherri’s at work in the Valley.” She ran a health clinic for sex workers. “We’ll be meeting her later for dinner.
“Oh.” I had been dreaming of bed more than food or Sherri.
“Van Halen’s getting ready for their summer tour.”
“Van Halen.” I loved ATOMIC PUNK. “Will they be playing?”
“They’re rehearsed the summer concert. I’ll ask if they can play that song for you.” Michael wasn’t promising this 100%, but the way he said it made me believe Van Halen owed him. Bands loved anyone who made them look better than good
“Great.” A small adrenalin surge charged through my veins. The buzz died within seconds. I suppressed a yawn. “I’m all yours.”
LA hadn’t changed in my absence. The palm trees waved under a cloudless sky. Traffic off the freeway was tolerable. People on the sidewalk were exercising rather than walking. Michael drove to 10202 West Washington Boulevard in Culver City. The Sony guards waved in Michael like he was Steven Spielberg. They shared a likeness, however Sherri’s beau had his own clout.
“You ever been here before?” He parked at a numbered slot.
“No.” I got out of the car. My legs were wobbly from the trip.
“These studios had belonged to MGM. This was the birthplace of GONE WITH THE WIND, THE WIZARD OF OZ, and SINGIN IN THE RAIN. Now it’s better known for WHEEL OF FORTUNE and JEOPARDY.”
“My father likes both shows.” He wouldn’t miss WHEEL OF FORTUNE for all the tea in England.
“If he ever comes out here, I can get you tickets.” It wasn’t an idle offer. Michael had pull. Two technicians waved to him, as if he paid their salary. “You ever have any business out here?”
“Never.” I had been waiting for a call from Hollywood for decades. Only my cousin Sherri ever contacted me, although right now I didn’t care if I was sitting with the head of a studio. My body was collapsing into a black hole of sleep deprivation. “I’m too well-unknown.”
“Your cousin says you’re a good writer.”
“Nothing special.” I had written a script about International Write Off Day, where everyone in the world blows off their debts. It was a comedy. No one had read the screenplay. I admired the size of the sound stages. They built them big back in the 20s.
“Nothing sometimes is a good story.”
Sherri had informed me that Michael knew agents. A phone call could get my script read. We walked through a door. Feedback blasted from gigantic amps. Van Halen was on stage. A few techies stood behind the sound board. No audience but me. I suppressed a yawn.
“Tired?” Michael waved to Eddie Van Halen. The guitar god returned the gesture with a scorching lick from a red and white guitar. A signature major 3rd ramped for distortion.
“It was a long flight.” My limbs were as powerful as a zombie’s outstretched arms. A long couch was behind the sound booth. I sat on it. Several seconds later I lay down. The decibel level rivaled the take-off of the space shuttle. My ears were blind.
I heard Michael suggest ATOMIC PUNK to the sound engineer. I gave him ‘thumbs up’.
Then I faded to black fast.
Michael woke me with a violent shake.
There was smoke.
At first I thought the sound stage was burning down.
“Pyrotechnics for the show.” Michael explained, as I sat up ready to run for the exit.
The stage was empty. No one stood the sound board.
“Everyone has left.”
“Was I asleep long?” I hoped so.
“Out cold. Eddie finished the set and looked at you. He couldn’t believe you had slept through his set.”
“Sorry.” I wished that I was still in my jetlag coma.
“He was hurt a little.”
“Why?” We had never met in this life.
“Because they put you to sleep.”
“It was jetlag.” I hoped Eddie didn’t think it was drugs. I had stopped them years ago,unless they were available. Michael wasn’t the type. Reefer maybe, but then reefer is a herb, not a drug. “Fuck. I missed Van Halen.”
“Sherri’s waiting.” Michael looked at his cellphone.
They were a luxury in Thailand.
“Let’s go meet her then.” I noticed a stagehand talking on one. Everyone else seemed to have one. For a second I thought everyone was talking about the man who slept through Van Halen, but I was too big a nobody for anyone to care what I did.
And being a nobody was a luxury too, especially in LA when all you want to do is sleep.
To listen to El Ten Eleven’s I LIKE VAN HALEN go to this url.
