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27 Monday Aug 2012
Posted It's A Gay World, Monday Muscle
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27 Monday Aug 2012
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Dinner, for me, at the Sunday Night Market in Chiang Mai means Wat Phan On. The perimeter of the courtyard is lined with food booths, with just about any local market food you can wish for and all at incredibly cheap prices its the best way to start off an evening at the market. Out of all the wats in the area, Phan On has the biggest selection of food and there are lots of tables so you can sit down to gorge yourself too. I try something different on each visit, but always finish off with fried bananas. The lady who usually runs her booth there drizzles the piping hot fruit with a coconut icing that is to die for. Unfortunately she isn’t always there. That means a sad face and a quick jaunt across the street for a more run of the mill fried banana dessert (though being served in a small bag makes for a great treat to munch on while you wander through the rest of the market – at least until you hit another food vendor’s booth offering something too delicious to pass up).
Wat Phan On with its golden chedi and matching Buddha sitting under the tree is a more picturesque temple for dining. The one across the street is dark, small, and as soon as you get your food you want to leave. Even just walking down the street during the day Wat Phan On grabs your attention while it’s slatternly neighbor offers nothing to recommend a visit. Even a quick one. Even its sign on the dirty plaster wall suggests a temple in dire need of some attention. But then even the crummiest looking temple often holds a surprise or two, so late one afternoon strolling nowhere slowly I finally decided to drop in and check out Wat Muen Larn. Its hidden surprise was that it was exactly as advertised: falling down and headed for despair.
Wat Muen Larn’s claim to fame is that it is old, that it is built in the Lanna style, and that it has a minor reputation as a place for traditional Thai massage. In a city filled with old temples built in the Lanna style, and with more traditional massage shops than 7/11s that’s not saying much. That Google returned 1,930,000,000 search results was impressive. Until I noted 192,1500,000 of those were because the search engine preferred results with either the word menu or learn in them. Narrowing the search down, the wat’s name appears in long lists of temples in Chiang Mai and in an two sentence article that mentions the massage thingy again, repeated a few hundred times. On the plus side that means this article will undoubtedly become the #1 result for future searches, though I may have been the first, and last person to have ever searched Google for info on Wat Muen Larn.
Of the red roof / white wall school of Thai temples, and badly in need of a bath, the wat has a small wiharn, a small ubosot, a medium sized chedi with another smaller one next to it, and a tiny library. It also has the only dog in Thailand that has ever barked at me. Which considering how lethargic dogs are in Thailand could be a unique enough of an experience to recommend visiting the wat. There is also a lot of construction and renovation projects within the compound, begun in what looks like maybe the 1980s and still waiting for either funds or interest to see them completed.
Most of the paint, at least on those architectural details that were ever painted, is faded – a saving grace to my eye ‘cuz I like taking pictures of old weathered doors. And tucked away toward the back of the small compound is a set of doors and windows painted bright red and heavily decorated with gold leaf – not an unusual sight at Thai temples but considering how run down and beat up this wat is they look like they were pilfered from the much more ritzy Wat Phan On across the street. Which combined was reason enough to write an article about Wat Muen Larn.
Oh, and to warn you about the dog.
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26 Sunday Aug 2012
Posted It's A Gay World, Stay In Bed Sundays
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26 Sunday Aug 2012
Posted Bali, Bangkok, Cambodia, Travel Photography
inI love strolling through local markets in SE Asia. I mean those that the locals frequent. Vendors’ stalls are often nothing more than a space on the ground, even those with a roof over their head are still open to the elements – and the crowds – enticing shoppers with all the easily reached goods on display. Large bags filled with whatevers seem to be a favorite way to show off what’s for sale and they always catch my attention – and my camera’s too.
Originally these bags were made of burlap, and for awhile cotton. More recently they are constructed out of fiber made from recycled plastic, so these days they have a slight sheen to them. And are undoubtedly stronger too. At the Old Market in Siem Reap early one morning, a vendor’s massive display of rice – with more types than I ever knew existed – stretched along the sidewalk for what seemed like blocks. (Note: the bloody carcasses of freshly butchered livestock do not make for as pleasant of a photo.)
Later that evening I ran across a slightly different use of these bags at the Night Market, fish feed bags that had been recycled yet again and made into purses, duffle bags, messenger bags, and luggage of all types and sizes. Always in need of something to tote my purchases home from my holiday, I picked up a carry-on sized bag for under ten bucks. Lime green in color, it was unique enough I never had to worry about it being confused with someone else’s luggage. I’m thinking of getting a laptop version next time around, though probably not in pink.
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25 Saturday Aug 2012
Posted End of the Week, It's A Gay World
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Twenty of the hottest Singaporean pieces of male meat have just been shortlisted for the annual Manhunt Singapore contest whose grand finale will be held at Avalon in Marina Bay Sands on September 7th – just in case you are looking for someone to do that weekend.
Thailand survival skills 101: The 10 Commandments for Avoiding Ladyboys.
Well, whatdaya fucking know. Here I always thought I was just being rude when it turns out that swearing is good for what fuckin’ ails ya.
Up, Up, And Way Out There . . . You’d think as effective as all the fake Viagra sold in Thailand seems to be that there’d be no need, but if you want to be a man of steel in neighboring Malaysia Superman’s underpants are for sale on the streets.
Proving I am not the world’s solo practitioner of the sport of monk hunting: 7 Things You Never Knew About Monks (with the 8th being that reading about Buddhist monks will always link you back to my blog.)
Your head is pounding, your stomach is queasy and your skin is a deathly shade of grey. That means you are either a Pattaya sexpat, or had a bit too much to drink last night – with the former also being the latter of course. If the drinking thingy is the cause of your problem, fear not. There is now scientific proof that a bacon sandwich is a natural hangover cure.
Feeling your age lately? Wish you could do it all over again? Puberty isn’t just a state of mind, or an explosion of hormones, it’s nature’s demarkation for the point of manhood and the beginning of a life-long preoccupation with sex. Thanks to Mother Nature, there is a way to rewind back to puberty.
A shirtless Tom Daley adorkably posed as Clark Kent.
I keep running across this guy’s photography and his work always brings me to a dead halt. So I thought I’d link to his site for those of you who appreciate a well-taken photograph. A plus is that he seems to dabble in monk hunting too. Rather than pick a specific photo to link to, this brings you to his home page from where you can explore to your heart’s delight. (And at $65 – $225 per hour for a photography workshop, someone seems to have found a great niche for income as an expat!)
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25 Saturday Aug 2012
Posted Monk Shot!, Thailand Travel Tips and Tales, Tips, Travel Photography
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Hunting monks is one of my favorite pastimes. Like most who engage in the sport, I’ve narrowed down my choice of species. I tend to only hunt Buddhist monks. I prefer their bright saffron plumage over the drab coloring of Christian monks, and enjoy the warmer temperatures of the locales they prefer. Monks in other parts of the world tend to migrate during the colder winters months; Buddhist monks remain in their natural habitat making hunting them in SE Asia that much easier and more enjoyable.
Any time, any place within a Buddhist country it’s likely you will find monks. Okay, I can’t recall ever spotting one at night around Patpong, but other than that you have a decent chance of running across one on any street in SE Asia. Capturing a monk in its native habitat is the true goal, sighting the occasional stray monk at a shopping mall, airport, or in a taxi can be exciting, but nowhere near as satisfying as observing them while they are performing their intricate social customs in a natural setting. Since I understand monk hunting is becoming a more popular sport these days – and even heard it is being considered as an Olympic event for 2016 – I thought I’d share my vast years of experience and offer some of the tips and techniques I’ve found that may make your monk hunting efforts a more rewarding experience.
As the numbers of monk hunters increases, there is growing concern about the impact on the monks and their habitat. Monk hunting etiquette is evolving in response to this concern. Some examples of proper monk hunting etiquette include promoting the welfare of monks and their environment, avoiding stressing the monks by limiting use of photography, keeping back from nesting colonies of young monks; and respecting private property during your hunt. It is incumbent upon all monk hunters to observe these traditions to ensure the species’ survival so that monk hunters of the future too may enjoy this popular sport. Here are a few specific unwritten rules – that now have been written – that all monk hunters should follow to assist in protecting this pastime for decades to come:
First and foremost, the ethical considerations of monk hunting must be taken into account. The principles of fair chase have been a part of hunting traditions for over one-hundred years. The role of the hunter-conservationist, popularized by Theodore Roosevelt, has been central to the development of the modern fair chase tradition in monk hunting. Monks, especially younglings, are not as adept at protecting themselves as other game and it is incumbent upon the monk hunter to observe proper protocol. Techniques may vary depending on government regulations, a hunter’s personal ethics, local custom, and the age of the monk being hunted. The following hunting methods used primarily in monk herd size management are considered inappropriate for amateur monk hunter use:
Baiting: This inappropriate hunting technique involves the use of decoys, lures, scent, or food to entice monks to your area. Note that the giving of alms is not considered a baiting practice except in Luang Prabang.
Beating: This hunting technique should not be confused with monk abuse. It is the use of humans as beaters to flush out monks and/or drive them into an advantageous position for the monk hunter. Novice monks who have been beat by their elders do not fall under this prohibition and may be hunted to your heart’s content because that’s what the Buddha would want.
Dogs: The use of dogs to help flush, herd, drive and track monks is a contentious monk hunting technique. Fortunately most dogs in SE Asia are so lethargic that their use in monk hunting is not generally effective. The use of dogs in monk hunting is up to each individual’s morals but their use to pursue or retrieve monks should always be avoided as is ‘Persistence Hunting’ which is the use of running and tracking to pursue the prey to exhaustion.
Spotlighting: Using an bright artificial light to find or blind monks gives the monk hunter an unfair advantage and is considered an unethical monk hunting technique. Note that the inadvertent use of such lights, as with the headlights of a local’s hired vehicle at night, is acceptable but often results in a pedestrian fatality and any monk hunter involved with this method may find his monk hunting outing to be quite costly in appeasing the local constabulary.
Camouflage: The use of visual or odor concealment to blend with the environment is an acceptable monk hunting technique and hunters will find paying extra attention to camouflaging their natural scent by regular bathing can pay off immensely much as it does in the related sport of bar boy hunting. Note however that the use of saffron colored clothing to blend with herds of monks is not an appropriate hunting technique and its use can seriously piss of locals in your hunting area.
Driving: Herding monks in a particular direction, usually toward another hunter in your group, is both an acceptable and productive monk hunting technique. Monks are a skittish lot and will take off running whenever they spot a monk hunter in their midst. Using female hunters from your group to direct their flight toward waiting hunters is probably one of the most effective driving techniques available to the modern monk hunter. Some experienced monk hunters have also reported great success by having drivers wear yellow shirts.
Stalking: Sometimes referred to as still hunting, this acceptable monk hunting technique is the practice of walking quietly in search of monks, or in pursuit of an individual monk. It is usually combined with using tracking skills to hone in on monks on the move. The biggest obstacle to using this technique is that locals, in an effort to protect their monk population, will often block your passage by walking in front of you at a slow pace to allow the monk a chance to get away. The judicious use of throwing worthless coins on the ground will usually break up this blockage and allow you ready access to the passageway you are using to stalk your monk.
Chumming: There is a fine line between the established monk hunting technique sometimes referred to as ‘giving alms’ wherein the hunter stands quietly hands filled with rice outstretched waiting for a foraging monk to nibble, and those who use these feeding periods to lure masses of monks by throwing large handfuls of rice into the street. Scholars who have studied the historical basis for monk hunting techniques believe this practicer was borrowed from breeders hunting Thai gogo girls by throwing large buckets of ping pong balls into bars. Regardless, chumming for monks is considered both an inappropriate and ineffective hunting technique as it will often attract scavengers such as street urchins and the homeless instead of monks.
Bag Limits: Provisions under the law which control how many monks of a given species or group of species can be successfully hunted are called bagging limits, although there are often species of monks for which bag limits do not apply. There are also jurisdictions where bag limits are not applied at all, or are not applied under certain circumstances, such as those where the hunter has paid the appropriate tea money to authorities, or use fees to the local monk authorities. Bag limits may also regulate the size or age of the monks with special attention paid to younger ones. In many cases, bag limits are designed to more equitably allocate harvest among the hunting population rather than to protect monk populations.
Historically, especially on the European continent as well as world-wide during periods of conflict, monk hunting was used as a political means to reduce the population of troublesome monks. With the exception of some remote areas of South America, today monk hunting is not practiced as a blood sport. Instead, monk hunters are usually tourists with many participating in photo-safaris. The synonym “bloodless hunt” for hunting with the use of film and a still photographic camera was first used by the Polish photographer Wlodzimierz Puchalski and has gained popularity thanks to Steve Jobs and his efforts at providing new monk hunting equipment such as the iPhone. This had led to the rise in the number of monk hunters stalking the streets in SE Asia though successful techniques have not yet been well documented for the novice monk hunter. To rectify this oversight, here are several tips that will help make your monk hunting more productive:
As with real estate, location, location, location is all important. Novice monk hunters often make the error of assuming one of the best monk hunting locales is where they nest. In the local language monk nests are called wats. And yes, you can usually find a monk or two in or around their local nesting spot. But you’re just as likely to come up craps as monks have learned the hours hunters are usually out and about and have responded by limiting their appearance to the times of the day when hunters are likely to still be nursing their latest hangover or preparing for their next.
It’s not just about location, but about timing too. And like with most wild game, feeding time is one of your best opportunities to catch monks unaware. Throughout SE Asia you can find this sometimes elusive prey singularly and in small groups at the break of day as the forage for food in those neighborhoods close to where they nest. High noon too is an excellent hour to catch monks as this is the hours most herds feed at their nests; large groups of younglings are often spotted during this feeding period providing the monk hunter an easy opportunity of reaching his or her bagging limit in one shot.
Major waterways too are an excellent place for hunting monks. Like most game, monks are attracted to watering holes and rivers, often making several trips daily to their muddy banks. Many major nesting sites are located along the larger rivers in SE Asia and provide an excellent opportunity for spotting the saffron draped mystics demonstrating their migration patterns. Note however that some local authorities have establish monk hunting free zones – generally clearly marked by signage – that the ethical hunter will avoid using (though setting up a blind nearby is an excellent hunting technique).
Monk hunters differ in the techniques they use while pursuing their prey, with many novice hunters relying on luck and happenstance. Equipment costs can be minimal for those just starting with the sport, and the wide range of skill levels that all produce acceptable results is one of the things that has increased the popularity of monk hunting in recent years. If you are considering taking up this growing hobby your best bet is to just dive in with the equipment you have at hand. After bagging your first monk you’ll undoubtedly be hook as have so many others all around the world.
Happy Hunting!
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24 Friday Aug 2012
Posted Tales
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At four o’clock in the morning Bangkok is an exhausted prizefighter, recuperating after surviving another brutal round of ceaseless blows to the groin delivered by a night pissed off by its existence. Emulating tipsy touri returning to their hotel from unsuccessful forays into the less than salubrious neon-lit depths of the city’s after-hour clubs, cars swerve drunkenly along near-empty avenues, freed for a brief hour from the constant bullying of buses and trucks and the demolition-derby antics of crazed tuk tuk drivers who keep everything that is anything a safe distance from the road. The clear skies of recent days, now under siege from masses of dark clouds, promise an ineffectual drenching that will paint the city with muted water colors leaving the day’s break looking as though some giant dog slobbered all over the town.
Even at such a godless hour, like a seductive woman Bangkok hints at unparalleled delights while always keeping part of itself covered, hidden from view – a secret yet to be revealed – while cruelly offering tempting whispered promises of sexual fulfillment that would make a porn star blush. But that temptress (a goddess greatly revered by the local nut-brown skinned population) as with all those recently disembarked and spewed rudely into a toxic cacophony designed to stun the senses and make one and all easy pickings for government sanctioned scams, must wait its turn for a taxi driver to embody her promise with the lurid come-on of, “ You want girl? You want young girl?” the evil, puppy-drowning vileness of the pedophiliac offer disguised behind a smile so wide and warm it hugs your body that nonetheless prods some atavistic instinct deep within to decline participation regardless of the ensuing fine to be coughed up in lieu as fare for safe passage to lodging, where the registration clerk with an expression as blank as a dead man’s mind will echo the same greeting of happy endings to come, along with a reminder that the hotel has chosen to play the role of pimp and collect its share of the city’s sin tax in the form of a joiner’s fee, an act that decades later will remind you that despite the protestations of a more recent movie there is, and always was, a valid reason for the town to be known as Bangcunt instead.
But that is all fun yet to come, the Big Mango’s inaugural greeting is the welcoming arms of SE Asia’s oppressive humidity that makes you feel like you are walking around between two loaves of warm bread, a mind-numbing assault to the body afforded equally to both the travelling reprobate and the vice-free people who conflate a narcissistic instinct for self-preservation with moral superiority, whose knack for sucking the life right out of a party is no less noxious than the coming event of having the life-blood sucked from your soul by the sudden babble of foreign tongues and strange lighting coupled to create a frisson of excitement in the former and a feeling of well-deserved dread in the latter, encouraging both to readily accept fate as delivered by the first approach of salvation offering transport into the depths of a city known for its casual disregard for the value of human life in favor of the prospect of the more heady and intrinsic value of an orgasm bought and paid for.
Hurriedly dodging persistent, fat lazy drops of rain that pester like flies that can not be killed, accompanied by the miasma of bloated diesel fumes floating above the odor of unidentifiable dead things, zombie-like, travellers follow the local version of Charon to his clown car that, with an intricate clattering of gears and belching clouds of smoke, scurries onto dimly lit roadways to do battle with a kaleidoscopic army of four-wheeled beasts with no brakes, or piloted by taxi drivers with a strong superstition against touching them.
Flying past the same strange houses of worship, filled with gods whose long elegant fingers twisted in ritual shapes are reminiscent of gang members flashing hand signals, as those disinclined to pay for an equally lengthy tollway ride whose fare suspiciously duplicates the same coinage charged for a boat ride to Hades, forward and onward your ride breaches a coming dawn garishly illuminated by twisted flickering tubes of neon and a graveyard of 1970s fluorescent tubing that cast a pallor on the few denizens still awake, begrudgingly finishing up the task of cleaning their kill of the night, your chariot that no gods would ever deign to ride makes a circuitous route through one way streets being traversed in three directions, screeching past hasty flashes of the competing dioramas of a developed, world-class capital city and a third world slum reeking of despair, both equally enveloped in a smoky haze from fires lit for cooking or warmth, their often mixed use smoke permeating the city with the smells of an ill-conceived dinner of street food viciously hawked back up and splattered over the broken, crumbling paving stones that often serve as a bed for human and dog alike. There but for the grace of the gods, and the grand good fortune of not being born Thai, go I.
Crawling through small, poorly lit, twisted streets that mirror the morals of its residents, past mange-ridden soi dogs whose existence provides muse to the warning of letting sleeping dogs lie, with the languorously paced speed of your ride timed to provide yet one last flip of the meter, your arrival at what only in Bangkok would you willingly call home is announced by the sputtering attempt at life of a hundred light bulbs doing the job of one that fill the ceiling of a once grand portico now sentenced to guard the entrance to a slatternly hotel ominously reeking a sense of seediness and foreboding that would give Hitchcock a chub, it’s decrepit exterior recently refreshed with a new layer of grime thanks to the morning’s rain that is equally responsible for the cascade of liquid sewage blubbering off its eaves like a wound that bleeds afresh.
Past a somnolent, rail-thin guard wearing the uniform of a general, who’d be incapable of providing security against an ill-tempered child, the exotic, fetid odor of durian provides as welcoming of a greeting as the surly check-in clerk whose mind decided your worth was not justification for arousing from its two-day slumber, the only version of the world famous Thai smile that greets your arrival are those chirped your way by the bruised flesh colored geckos busily dropping their recently digested turds onto the counter below.
Formalities concluded, and with a final reminder of the pound of flesh soon to be owed for the flesh you’ll later be pounding that undoubtedly belongs to the clerk’s sister, brother, or child – or in some cases all three – your tired body beaten senseless by passage through a dozen time zones makes its way on autopilot to fill an elevator with the posted capacity of eight for a five minute ride to the second floor whose empty, dead silence is broken only by the buzzing of tiny mosquitos pulverizing the still of the night with the beating of wings in a frenzy over the scent of fresh meat, to a room decorated by the unskilled labor of a few dozen refurbishments in the hands of locals to whom your comfort is as unimportant as the plight of the deformed beggars who crawl the streets just outside your hotel’s door competing for space with the city’s rats, and a bed whose thin mattress is stuffed with the sins and shame of hundreds of sex touri who have come before, and came often.
Sleep, blessed sleep; your mind craves rest from the bloody assault you’ve put it through, all for the unbridled joy of the cheap sexual conquests and drunken binges you’ll fill your next two weeks of nights with, but for this morning the ankle high repository of 80 count man-made fiber sheets laundered stiff by chemicals banned in your country twenty years ago and the promise of awakening to a tepid shower of polluted water in which you’ll have to kneel to wet your head is all that matters, for you have arrived.
Ahh, those were the days.
[As of October 1st this year Don Muang airport, now officially spelled ‘Don Mueang’ will serve as Bangkok’s LCC airport for both domestic and international flights. The say you can’t go home again and in this instance I’m going to follow that sage advice; the ambiance of Don Muang in the days of old was a fitting greeting to the Big Mango, a slightly decrepit enormously cramped run down at the heels complex drenched in teak and filled with strange colors and even stranger people that hinted at the exotic delights that awaited just outside its doors.
It was a welcome partially responsible for my falling in love with Thailand, one that today would probably convince me instead to book the next plane out of town. Don Muang is a cherished place in my memories, one that I don’t wish to contaminate by revisiting the place in an effort to save a buck or two, no more than I’d want to track down the first guy I offed from a bar. That that gives me good reason to never set foot on an Air Asia flight again is just a happy bonus]
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