24 Sept.2010.
A mad rush into the city after a near nervous breakdown waiting all morning in my house, waiting desperately for a winter breaking telephone call, permission from the city's finest for another three month winter stint in far-away Thailand...that mystic kingdom at the other side of the globe where I feel complete but at the same time a complete stranger...that crazy place where everything is Sanuk and the benefits of destuction have no meaning...where I have the nutty conviction I am seeing the world the way it is...
I cycle under an occult sun that should have seen me at my Plekkie at the Anne Frank House selling my games before the last of this late summer copper colored sun is giving way to the ravages of King Winter, forcing me once again to feel locked up inside my house hating the cold of the Dutch winter...
But no, this mad rush into the city centre is serving a higher goal, a well deserved three months of Thai Sanuk, cold beer, Khao Pad Khong the way I like it, or else a huge bowl of noodle soup with fresh vegetables, chicken, pork or beef, eaten out in the street among the locals and Farang wintering visitors, at bargain prices and under a warm and comfortable sun, Yings everywhere eyeing me shrewdly, keen interest in slant Asian female dark shiners that promise me the world and beyond...
Pattaya, where ladies of the night run down my New Star Guesthouse door, all so willing to pose for me, happy with a few hours of relaxation from the boulevard, who carry fried barbequed chicken legs and warm soya milk along, cold Leo beers for the crazy Ting Tong painter from ancient Amsterdam whose wallet is fat once again due to a whole long but pleasurable Dutch summer outside the Anne Frank House selling funny little games that they like to use as impromptu bracelets...
A well deserved ever lasting holiday far away from my beloved Mokum, my chaotic house near the Westerpark where Hot Momma knuckles are replaced by the insistent doorbell ringing of members of the Westerpark Brotherhood of Professional Drunks eager to borrow D'Argent for coffeeshop related purposes, cheap beer from Appie Heyn supermarket at the end of the street, strong bodily foul smells of stale alcohol and heavy tabacco accompanying their barging up my stairs, stained social wellfare papers to prove their financial status in the week to come...
Often making me feel like there are definite benefits to my eminent destruction...if it wasn't for my yearly winter stops in King Bhumipol's Asian realm...
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