KenW

Phones. The mobile phone in Vietnam has reached plague proportions while politeness and good manners disappear in correlated fashion. I have sat in an eatery and seen four VNese at an adjoining table shouting down their respective phones at once, after which they're face to face only until either one of them got another incoming call, or they began to play with the bloody things, scrolling and all that crap of fiddling they go on with. And they shout so loud into them I'm darned sure the person at the other end could just about hear them without the device. Now they all have this stupid habit of moving off from their group to answer, then pacing back and forth, gesticulating and shouting all the while. Up and down. Up and down. If I want an uninterrupted conversation about something serious with my maid, something I want to explain to her, or she to me, I am best off to phone her, even if she is standing in the same room. For if I try face to face her phone will ring without fail and I am left ignored in mid sentence while she answers the bloody thing. So rude. Like we now see groups of smokers huddling outside work places - in civilised legislatures like Australia anyway - and special cancer (smokers) rooms in airport terminals, my prediction is in the future we will see pacing strips outside workplaces where call takers can go to pace up and down while shouting over the top of each other. In airport terminals a shouting room, where they can all go to bend back the walls. Far as I'm concerned they can all go to hell.

Never give up the fight Lung!

Right. It's cool Larry, still in place.

In my limited experience of the world, I have only ever heard of them called Shemales in the porn industry. That is, in and as titles for old fashioned video tapes for rent or sale at adult shops - where in Oz such shops always had gay and TS or TG sections. I guess now that's all DVD and download. TS - transexual TG = transgender So even in the marketing in the shops it was never Shemale. Only on the video boxes/covers and blurbs. In Asia I have only ever heard them referred to by indigenous language names (e.g. Thai = kathoey; Vietnam = be de; Indonesia, various terms but the main one is banci; Philippines many too, but mainly bakla.) or by our term ladyboy.

The funny thing was pacman, I knew the lesson even before I went into it. Call me weird, but for so long I wouldn't let myself give up on this one and just walk out. As you'll see soon, I had to eventually. But yes, I was blinded deafened and senseless. An old favourite song of mine Jim, that I've bastardised a bit here. Thank you kelly. And thank you too sean.

That giant brown head is unnerving. As you can see Larry I followed your instructions and got a jpeg to load. It appears in normal size, not much bigger than a thumbnail. (An Aussie LB who's making it in the overseas fashion scene)

That's the reason I could not live in Pattaya. After my most recent visit I was so down I thought I might never go back. But the LBs will win out, and I will. However, I'd like to find a way to avoid contact with those loud fat shaven headed singlet wearers and their hairy backed ilk.

Yes Larry, thanks. A jpeg worked as you can see.

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like ripe tomatoes.

As I age I'm finding an increasing tolerance to alcohol. When I was young my mother was wrathful and vexed at the amount I drank. Some wives and girlfiends of my mates were gobsmacked at the amount we used to drink. During my professional career my bosses and employers sometimes objected to the amount I drank (even though I never failed to deliver for them, never once). Then I retired. My mother died. I never see any mates these days. Those around me now couldn't give a rat's arse that I'm an old soak.

It's a bitmap Larry, but it's an image I got from this site, your site. In a thread. I copied it to my hard drive. Now I try to upload it back to the site, it won't play ball.

Thank you Larry, but I still have problems. Got all the buttons and steps you mention. Created my albumn. Then get to browse to upload an image. Tells me there is an error, I am not allowed to upload this type of image.

I'm currently reading Beckett's "The Unnamable" (for the second time). In my plans for after that are: Harry Frankfurt's "On Bullshit" Nabokov's "Invitation to a Beheading" Albert Bermel's "A Dozen French Farces: Medieval to Modern" (all 3 of which have just arrived from Amazon) Beyond that not sure as yet.

My mate bubba (an FM of this site for new BMs who don't know) always stays in Jomtien, but he rents a condo. Last time we were in LoS together (Nov 2010) I said to him we/I need a mini hotel right next to Sally's (see Bumblebee's thread). Som is such fun, Apple so cute, others I don't know yet no doubt so appealing. Then Bb put up that news about the Legs bar, I forget its name, Lovely Legs or Lucky Legs, or whatever, so somewhere between the two would be close to pretty good in my opinion. Hence I would also love to know a hotel suggestion from anyone. (It's a toss up next time between staying in that spot or near Corner Bar & Sunee - oops!)

As another with a bruised bum, I can only say you are the BEST host Larry, and the most reassuring, and this is the BEST LB site in the business. Long may it live, long may it reign (o-o-ver us! Cock save our Queens).

Thank you for all that Larry. Ever-Helpful as usual. Now I have another problem. On my Profile, I click the Gallery button wanting to add an image. Gives me a message option. I ignore and click gallery again on the bar above. It refuses to allow me in, saying I am not allowed to add images, or some such message I forget. Dogged, I persist. (I try Help and follow its instructions) I get back to a Category page Help says I will arrive at. But that page then tells me I am not allowed to add any albumns. (Help says you add images in albumns) What does it all mean Larry?

A woman goes to a medico, beaten black and blue. The medico asks: "What happened?" The woman says: "Doctor, I don't know what to do. Every time my husband comes home drunk he beats me to a pulp." The physician says: "I have a real good cure for that. When your husband comes home drunk, just take a glass of sweet tea and start swishing it in your mouth. Just swish and swish but don't swallow until he goes to bed and is asleep." Two weeks later the woman comes back to the clinic looking fresh and reborn. The woman says: "Doctor, that was a brilliant idea! Every time my husband came home drunk, I swished with sweet tea. I swished and swished, and he didn't touch me! How does the tea do that?" The medico says: "The tea does bugger all, it's keeping your mouth shut that does the trick"

Love at first sight (#51) The boygirl had never been allowed to experience childhood. He did none of the activities one would expect of a normal healthy teenager, coming from a decent home. He did not play games. He had never set foot in a library. He did not lounge around with school friends. He had never been infatuated with another of his own age or vintage. He had never been allowed to swim. He had been driven onto the streets to find for mother. Streetwise he was, but wise in the ways of procuring, picking pocket, picking up whatever was not nailed down. Taking it home. None of it was spent on himself. Mother took. Yet there in this boy was goodness. His life has come down to finding money, jewellery, goods, for mother, so mother will reward him with the affection and love he so craves. That’s a good boy, mother tells him when he brings home stolen small change and gives it to her. Mother wants. Mother gets. Mother is pleased. Boy brings. Boy gives. Boy is rewarded with affection. Mother cares not one trifle where and how the boy came by what he brings home to her. Boy learns quickly that morals are relative. To take or not to take, that is to say, to steal or not to steal, is not to do right or wrong, but to give to mother, is always to do right, to do good. No childhood for this working Bee. No childhood for this working girl Ruth. This girl boy, this ladyboy, whose childhood has been excavated from beneath him, surgically removed from within him, historically erased from the past of him, morally undermined from developing inside him. His life at fifteen years of age. Vietnamese poverty. Pleasure he seeks in the company of fellow faggot children, as dressing up, dancing they go. Then some time later: Ken comes waltzing along, Matilda. Do you think I’m beautiful, can I go with you? As children, sent to the streets by their mothers, not doting mothers like the do-gooder textbooks talk about in glowing terms, but mothers schooled in the hard knocks of hard life, steeped in pragmatism, knowing money talks, and it alone speaks the language of everyday Vietnam. Learn to speak that language like a native, give me, get for me, take for me, hand over to me, again, and again, do it, get out there and do it, what’s a faggot son good for, good for one thing that’s for sure, make it good sonny boy, sonny girl, make it good, bring it to me, bring it to mother. Life sacrificed to mother, as though he were but a mere extension of her, an appropriating appendage extending from her body, a robot child functioning as gatherer in her daily grubbing, give her this day her daily grub, forage this day her Brechtian das Fressen, cast unto her soul this denied life of a son, and reflect from it the unhappiness that he can only be allowed to procure through what can be got on the street, and given, with his childhood, to the cause of mother. Ned Kelly and Bay Bee Ruth, quite a couple, deprived of childhoods by wicked willful mothers ancient and modern. Can you see the parallel Discerning Reader?

Love at first sight (#50) His life at fifteen years of age. Tough rough care strewn. Police. Trouble. Nobody knows trouble we seen. Enter the famous bushranger Mr Harry Power. Enter the bed of Mrs Ellen Kelly the famous bushranger Mr Harry Power. The boy Ned, the eldest, and lots of littleuns. The family in dires. Men they came and men they went. All they brought was trouble and pregnancy. Life in the dirt. Split timber shacks in woop woop country. Country they now call Kelly Country. Relatives on the outside of the law. An uncle to go under the rope. The famous bushranger Harry Power who, Peter Carey tells us, favoured lamb pink and tender. Tree felling. Hard hands. Blisters to corns to rough tough leathery skin that was not like skin at all. The famous bushranger Harry Power whose feet stuck out the end of Mrs Ellen Kelly’s bed. A deal done. Mrs Ellen Kelly and Mr Harry Power traded in son and apprentice. A boy’s life taken away at fifteen. Sold in effect, for sold is not too strong a word, into a weird sort of apprenticeship so that Mrs Ellen Kelly the mother might have some brief financial reprieve. Childhood sold. Mother’s love manifested as mother’s pragmatism, a deal is a deal, and a son is what for, well, whatever for, whatever it takes, this way he’s some use to both, useful to the big bushman and for the coin that he is rendered worth, useful to his ma. Ned Kelly the boy is cast out. Ned Kelly the boy becomes Ned Kelly the apprentice bushranger. Indentured to Mr Harry Power, bushranger. It is only nine years from there to the gallows. Nine years is not much of a lifetime. Set to a life beyond the law, to a life beyond all hope, to the death of himself, for the deaths of others, would he eventually go swinging, but for now he had nine years, an old weary eyed dog’s lot, nine miserable years, nine unforgiving years, sent down by his ma, sold out by his ma, forsaken by his ma, rendered a commodity, brought into the world of objects, to be bought and sold, as one such as Mrs Kelly does treat her flesh and blood, her oldest son, her stock, her scion. No life did she give him save that one that squawked briefly upon emerging sealsliding from between her thighs, no life other than that did she ever allow, was she ever up for as mother, but send him down, make him a criminal before you make him a child, deploy him for venal gain, render his life over before it has but begun, destroy any childhood he might have held out faint hope for. Ned Kelly, Australia’s iconic bushranger, was hung for murder at old Melbourne Gaol on the 11th of November 1880. (His mother Ellen was in prison at the time of his execution.)

Love at first sight (#49) Tomorrow you buy me motorbike, he growled. When I agreed he doled out one mouthful of cum for me. That was it for my wedding night ration. He proceeded to wrap himself in the quilt, rolled up like a sausage in a pancake, me the bunny without a rug alone on my side of the bed. Tomorrow I went to the ATM and drew the loot to buy a second hand bike. I figured we needed a bike to get around anyhow, and it wasn’t such a big deal. By mid-afternoon he proudly brought it home. We went to market and some other places where he could show it off to his sidekicks. I am a glutton for punishment. Now and then, there’s a fool such as I am. Coming up with another ploy whose consequences I intended to help draw us closer together, as well as stop him pestering me for money, I suggested to him that now we were living together I would give him an allowance each month. One set amount – not much – but sufficient to terminate this continual whinging at me for handouts. He was delighted. Later that same afternoon – the day of his first allowance payment – he returned to the flat with all sorts of new clothes, shoes, trinkets, cosmetics. He laid them out and began trying them on. There was the de rigueur sidekick there to comment, poonce and praise. He informed me carelessly that he had used 60% of the money to buy his mother a washing machine, then spent the rest on this junk. To say I was pissed off was putting it mildly Unforgiving Reader. It meant that one day into his 30 day allowance he had blown the lot. To follow would be 29 more days of whining about being poor his mother poor that I had deliberately set out to put an end to. The idiot Ken. It’s a wonder you can even feed yourself. I held firm and gave him no more money, but of course I was still handing out for nosh and household bills. And the whingeing I had to cop. We went out to eat occasionally, but we also fell into a pattern of going to market in the morning then him cooking a VNese lunch at home for us. That was nice. But those times, and sleeping, apart, I hardly ever had him alone. When we were freed up and I figured I had time to enjoy his body, his mother called or texted on cue. Then he was off in a flash to her house. When he returned he would invariably have a sidekick in tow, or at times two or three of them. At least one of these slimey little arseholes tried – as was their wont – to play up to me on the sly, groping me and telling me the day I got sick of Bee, he was willing to move in with me. I bet, I replied. Bee never brought Wine around, causing me to wonder if he had read the meaning in my eyes when I looked at her. By that stage I would have readily traded her for him. I was vastly fed up. I had coped with and copped this living together shit for only a month, but the signs were no good, and consequently I decided enough was too much already. What took you so fucking long Ken, you dolt? (I can hear Stunned Readers exclaiming.) Each day I vowed was to be the last, that each time he did me down, stole my small change, picked my pockets, neglected me, put on a sob story for why we could not have sex, why he had to take food and money, clothes and trinkets, to mother, I decided that was the last straw. But I wanted to give it one more chance. Tomorrow I’ll leave, I told myself. Or the day after.

An Aussie truck driver walks into an outback cafe with a full-grown emu behind him. The waitress asks them for their orders. The truckie says, 'A hamburger, chips and a coke,' and turns to the emu, 'What's yours?' 'I'll have the same,' says the emu. A short time later the waitress returns with the order 'That will be $9.40 please,' and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the exact change for payment. The next day, the man and the emu come again and he says, 'A hamburger, chips and a coke.' The emu says, 'I'll have the same.' Again the truckie reaches into his pocket and pays with exact change. This becomes routine until the two enter again. 'The usual?' asks the waitress. 'No, it's Friday night, so I'll have a steak, baked potato and a salad,' says the man. 'Same,' says the emu. Shortly the waitress brings the order and says, 'That will be $32..62.' Once again the man pulls the exact change out of his pocket and places it on the table. The waitress cannot hold back her curiosity any longer. 'Excuse me, mate, how do you manage to always come up with the exact change in your pocket every time?' 'Well, love' says the truckie, 'a few years ago, I was cleaning out the back shed, and found an old lamp. When I rubbed it, a Genie appeared and offered me two wishes.. My first wish was that if I ever had to pay for anything, I would just put my hand in my pocket and the right amount of money would always be there.' 'That's brilliant!' says the waitress. 'Most people would ask for a million dollars or something, but you'll always be as rich as you want for as long as you live!' 'That's right. Whether it's a gallon of milk or a Rolls Royce, the exact money is always there,' says the man. The waitress asks, 'What's with the bloody emu?' The truckie sighs, pauses, and answers, 'My second wish was for a tall bird with a big arse and long legs, who agrees with everything I say.' An Aussie truck driver walks into an outback cafe with a full-grown emu behind him. The waitress asks them for their orders. The truckie says, 'A hamburger, chips and a coke,' and turns to the emu, 'What's yours?' 'I'll have the same,' says the emu. A short time later the waitress returns with the order 'That will be $9.40 please,' and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the exact change for payment. The next day, the man and the emu come again and he says, 'A hamburger, chips and a coke.' The emu says, 'I'll have the same.' Again the truckie reaches into his pocket and pays with exact change. This becomes routine until the two enter again. 'The usual?' asks the waitress. 'No, it's Friday night, so I'll have a steak, baked potato and a salad,' says the man. 'Same,' says the emu. Shortly the waitress brings the order and says, 'That will be $32..62.' Once again the man pulls the exact change out of his pocket and places it on the table. The waitress cannot hold back her curiosity any longer. 'Excuse me, mate, how do you manage to always come up with the exact change in your pocket every time?' 'Well, love' says the truckie, 'a few years ago, I was cleaning out the back shed, and found an old lamp. When I rubbed it, a Genie appeared and offered me two wishes.. My first wish was that if I ever had to pay for anything, I would just put my hand in my pocket and the right amount of money would always be there.' 'That's brilliant!' says the waitress. 'Most people would ask for a million dollars or something, but you'll always be as rich as you want for as long as you live!' 'That's right. Whether it's a gallon of milk or a Rolls Royce, the exact money is always there,' says the man. The waitress asks, 'What's with the bloody emu?' The truckie sighs, pauses, and answers, 'My second wish was for a tall bird with a big arse and long legs, who agrees with everything I say.'

No mate. No such implication. Just a drunken late night hello to Mr Nasty really, and couldn't think of anything else to say.

Well I guess you would if you lived at Lung's place. Meeeow!

Love at first sight (#48) Bee never wanted to be alone with himself. He always had to have a sidekick present. And, he wanted me to buy him a motorbike. I told him no, as he was doing nothing for me except treating me like shit. I qualified it, hoping to turn it into a morality lesson, saying that I was prepared to buy him a bike if and when we lived together, and that could only be when he was prepared to treat me nice. I sang to him: Make me feel at home If you really care Scratch my back and run your pretty Fingers through my hair If you want a motorbike then take my advice Treat me nice He sulked. Then he said: OK, we live together. I had and still have a strict rule whereby not one of my Vietnamese lovers ever gets to know where I live. Phone is alright, but address is always something I have denied them, often blatantly lying to them if they insist on knowing. So, if I was going to conduct an experiment of living with him, it could not be at my house. I had to move out. Any such decisions were going against all that I said before about only doing this if and when he treats me nice. I was so foolish and mad, Strict Reader, that I gave in on that demand, thinking (incorrectly) that if we lived in the one bed under the same roof, I may have control over him and eventually earn his genuine affection and nice treatment. The idiot Ken Blowing every time I move my mouth Blowing down the backroads headun south You’re the idiot Ken It’s a wonder that you still can move that pen. The next time we met he took me to see an apartment block not far from his mother’s house. I didn’t like it, but it was cheap, and I figured it was better for him being close to evil mother. So I agreed. It was unfurnished apart from a bed and a dining table. A couple of hangers-on accompanied us, a male and female aged about forty. I have no idea who they were, perhaps an aunt and uncle, perhaps friends. No friends of mine that’s for sure. Anyhow, Bee demanded I pay them 20 bucks equivalent for “helping us”. These two spoke occasionally to him in VNese. Never said a word to me, never once smiled. Punch and Judy scowled downright sinister in fact. I witnessed no help. But I was looking behind me for a crocodile, a string of sausages or indeed a noose. While they carried no slapsticks I still decided the “help” might be in facilitating retention of my facial shape intact without them seeing need to alter it violently. I protested meekly, but as the only hints of reply were decidedly unfriendly stares and mean grimaces, decided it was probably wiser to just hand over the loot. Bee & Me went shopping for rice cooker, crockery, bedding, the lot. Borrowed a couple of chairs. Later the next day we moved into our cosy little love nest. You know, I told him, this is now really akin to marriage, and you know what married couples do on their first night together: they usually fuck five or six times. He looked at me as though I had suggested we bathe in the sewer. The idiot Ken.

Thanks Bb, I know it isn't spectacular like the lots-of-pix threads - including your own superb recent account. But, as they say, it has its faithful followers. Ha! Thanx again.