It’s a sad situation, wouldn’t you agree reader? It’s sad. So sad. Although it seems to be getting slightly less absurd. There’s hope on the horizon, thanks to Prayut and a push by the govt to jumpstart the Thai economy by reopening in a series of baby steps over the course of the next few months. Like pets being fed scraps from a dinner table, morsels of good news have lately come in a weak, sporadic stream, not unlike my morning evacuations. This week, Shenanigan’s and Paddy Field indicated on their respective Facebook pages that they’ve begun to prepare for a tentative Nov 1st reopening. I passed by Paddy last week and saw an encouraging sign—the front door was open for the first time in six months. My heart actually skipped a beat. Supposedly, various police departments round town are quietly meeting to talk about maybe letting bars serve booze. Magnanimous of ‘em, ay?
Meanwhile, we mongers wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. And sit at home and drink, and go to 7-11 for ice, and in my case, entertain out-of-work gogo dancers at home. It’s feast or famine with my harem. Either out of town or on my doorstep, and either way I’m fed up. My only distraction has been going back through IMDB’s library of awesome TV shows.
This week, I re-watched all 6 seasons of The Sopranos, and I noticed a few things. First, when I saw the series the first time around, Tony Soprano was older than me. He was an aging fart falling apart both mentally and physically. He seemed to have one foot in the grave right from the first episode. Now, I’m older than Tony was when they filmed the show. I’m (slightly) thinner than him, but in one scene he eats a piece of cake in bed before going to sleep. I can’t eat after 6 pm without getting heartburn. It ain’t fair.
Second, I realized that nearly everyone in the show is a horrible piece of shit. Especially Tony. The only likeable characters are Furio, Silvio, and Paulie. Literally every single other person is a steaming pile of excrement.
The third thing I noticed is what unbearable cunts his kids were. At the time, I thought it was because they had a gangster for a father and it messed them up, psychologically. But in 2021, 99% of people under 30 are just as stupid, spoiled, entitled, talentless, and retarded as Tony’s kids. And yet, they didn’t all have dads in the mafia. What’s their excuse? Then again, there was the dichotomy between how Tony crushed anyone who disrespected them, but let his kids walk all over him. That walking all over part is what parents in the US did with their kids from the 90s onward. I guess that’s why the world is fucked now.
I also happened to catch the first half of a show that became my new favorite in the first episodes, but then hated by the 6th episode. It’s called “Y, The Last Man.” It’s based on a comic book, where some kind of biological weapon kills all the men in the world, except one. The reason I loved it at first is how candid it was about the depths of stupidity of the female race. The reason I stopped watching in the middle of episode 6 is the glaring idiocy of everyone associated with creating the show. Here are the high and low points:
The only man left is a useless beta cuck who only cares about himself…and getting back the girlfriend who rejected him, reinforcing the fact that manly men are the best kind of men. Oh, and all the women are super-skilled heroines.
Within 2 months, the women in Washington split into 2 cliques who peck at each other like hens.
The women quickly realize, “Without men, we have no future.”
A girl tries to chase some birds out of her back yard using a small shovel, falls down and cuts her leg open with the shovel.
The only lady who can fix the power plant refuses to work because she’s too emotionally distraught over the loss of her sons.
There’s a ridiculous number of trans men around—literally a gang of ‘em in every town in America—but none with balls or a Y chromosome, so they’re useless, and all the women hate them.
In Episode 5, a “geneticist” claimed there’s no such thing as gender and that the loss of everyone with a Y-chromosome was actually a good thing. Also, all the “men” didn’t die—a certain demographic of “people” died. Some were actually women who didn’t know they were men.
Episode 6 descended into shitball territory when it led off with a gang of chicks singing “Karma Police” as if it was a religious hymn, plus yet another randomly-met female-to-male transexual as if they don’t make up less than 1% of the population. Also in Episode 6, the women agree that all men are rapists and the only people who ever did anything bad were men. The chicks do weird ceremonial rituals that combine witchcraft and Catholicism.
I guess you can see why I stopped watching. And apparently so can everyone else, because the show’s been cancelled.
And so, I switched over to Squid Game—the Netflix Korea phenom taking the world by storm. I loved it, especially the scenes shot on the streets of Seoul. It was bitter-sweet, seeing the city again. I lived there for a year before relocating to Thailand, and while I hated every minute of it, the show made me both nostalgic for the past and appreciative of the present. It’s easy to love Thailand when compared to a shit hole like that. And speaking of the TV show itself, ‘twas a trip down trippy lane. Very inventive, original, and compelling.
Things are just as weird in my real life. At the start of the scamdemic I discovered a brand of ice cubes at Villa that were actual cubes—ice cut into perfectly symmetrical quadrilaterals—symmdrilaterals for short, copyright BKK7. Flashforward a year and a half, and I can’t make a cocktail unless the ice is cut into perfect three-dimensional parallelograms (dimensionelograms).
And my red-light withdrawals have been so bad, I’ve resorted to showing up to XXX Lounge in the middle of the day with my own bag of beers. I sit there and drink, chatting up the manager and the Hot Dogs and Hot Girls girls till the place closes, after which I walk home and start in on the vodka. The last few days, it’s been Fon and Saa from Black Pagoda, and Poo, Nan, Sai and Joy from XXX. Fuck, the red-lights better reopen soon or else I’m going to go crazy.
Speaking of crazy, here’s a handful of recent gogo dancer selfies my unemployed pole kitty pals sent to me. Let’s all meditate on them and hang on another week, shall we? And between now and next Sunday, keep your hopes lofty, your head high, and here’s to the beginning of the end of this shit. Cheers.