Slices of Temple Mount

“… congressman Wilbur Mills, often called “the most powerful man in Washington,” was a married man from Arkansas. Unlike Clinton, he didn’t settle for Lewinsky or Trump. Sex and war is a permanent 69 in the American psyche…”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

(R): Washington DC, 7/27/17

Jewish Crusade! — Nov 28, 2025.

Besieged, Trump is momentarily saved by two West Virginians barely out of their teens. On duty in DC illegally since August, they were shot near Faragut West, the safest part of the capital. Just a block north is K Street, known for its lobbyists. Half a mile away is Mpire Gentlemen’s Club, DC’s classiest. Camelot, also on M Street, is long gone. I poked my head in there a few times. DC has always had the nation’s best strip bars, where everything is shown. Do you expect the most powerful and corrupt to stare at pasties? They have no patience for glimpses of bushes and gashes niggardly flashed every few minutes. They want everything yesterday.

When I first got to know DC around 1980, the sleazy 14^th Street scene was still going strong. It’s not unlike NYC’s 42^nd, best known to outsiders through Taxi Driver. Like M Street, 14^th was also a short walk from the White House, the mayor’s office and, of course, K Street. Powerful lawyers and lobbyists needed dancing white flesh plus alcohol to relax a bit. Tentatively, I prowled 14^th Street. Working at McDonald’s and just learning how to drink, I was too young, innocent and broke to know anything about the Silver Slipper on 13^th Street, with its legendary Be Be Sweet, Gi Gi Lamour, Bubbles Seville and, of course, Fanne Foxe, “The Argentine Firecracker.” Caught with congressman Wilbur Mills right by the Jefferson Memorial in 1974, Foxe jumped into the water to save his reputation and her ass, so later became known as The Tidal Basin Bombshell. Sex and war is a permanent 69 in the American psyche.

Twenty-seven years older than Foxe, Mills was a married man from Arkansas. Unlike Clinton, he didn’t settle for Lewinsky or Trump. As drunk as Hegseth, Mills staggered onto the stage of Boston’s Pilgrim Theater as his Tidal Basin Bombshell was stripping. To the disappointment of all, Mills didn’t perform any Bangkok number. Just a month earlier, Mills had retained his seat with 60% of the votes. No gadfly, Mills served 19 terms [!!!] in congress and was often called “the most powerful man in Washington.”

What’s known is barely an icicle on the iceberg. DC has always been a cesspool of depravity. Two miles from Faragut West is the Georgetown Starbucks where 25-year-old Mary Mahoney was murdered. Though cops claimed robbery, not a dime of $10,000 sitting right there was taken. Just three days earlier, Newsweek announced a “former White House staffer,” believed to be Mahoney, was going to come out with stories of being sexually harassed by Bill Clinton.

Midway between Faragut West and Georgetown is Foggy Bottom. It’s a name both poetic and creepy. DC should really be called Foggy Bottoms. Counting presidents, senators, congressmen, military brass and an army of journalists, DC has more whores, each one certified kosher, than anywhere else on earth or in history.

Washington DC (L): 2/22/17 ; (R): 3/10/15

In mid-19^th century, the capital’s best known whorehouse was run by one Mary Ann Hall. It had around 25 rooms with up to 17 “substitutes.” Young bodies substituted for aging wives. Some mulattos were always available. Then as now, rich, classy white men needed variety. On Maryland Avenue within sight of the US Capitol, this bawdy house lasted for +40 years!

DC’s power center is also its playground, so must be well protected. National Guards sent in by Trump are meant to be seen, it’s a PR stunt, for now, so they’re around the White House, Faragut West, the National Mall and Union Station, America’s best and safest train terminal. They’re not in ghettos since no tourists go there. To pass the time, uniformed soldiers pick up trash. Unlike ICE psychos, they’ve pretty much behaved very well, for they didn’t sign up to terrorize fellow citizens. Now that two of their own have been shot, at least some will behave like ICE assholes, so hope Trump, Hegseth and, above all, Stephen Miller.

As for the alleged shooter, 29-year-old Rahmanullah Lakanwal, he loved America enough to work for the CIA in his native Afghanistan. He believed Devious Samuel’s promises of freedom, democracy and the rule of law. Settled in Bellingham, Washington with a wife and five children, Lakanwal supposedly drove all the way to DC not to shoot Trump or any politician, but two National Guardsmen, though they can easily be found in nearby Portland, OR. Driving 10 hours daily, it would have taken Lakanwal four days just to reach DC, so he had plenty of time to rethink his rash decision, if that’s what it was.

Since the Jewish operation of 9/11, whites serving Jews have destroyed one Muslim nation after another, as well as themselves, by the way. The day before the DC incident, some whites even showed up in Dearborn, MI to taunt Arabs with a pig head on a spear. In another incident this month, the Koran was stomped on. Biden then Trump have enabled the ongoing genocide in Gaza. Hundreds of thousands have been murdered. With all these provocations, it’d be perfectly understandable for Muslims inside the US to retaliate. What Lakanwal supposedly did serves neither Muslims nor himself, however, but only Trump and MAGA.

Laura Loomer spoke for millions when she tweeted, “That’s it. I want a King.” MAGA morons have treated Trump like one all along. Paranoid or enraged soldiers will now flood into American cities.

(L): Saint Paul, 7/5/14 ; (R): Minneapolis, 7/4/14

Homeland Wrecking Globalists — Nov 29, 2025.

Pete Hegseth’s American Crusade begins with this quotation, “There is not room in the country for any fifty-fifty American, nor can there be but one loyalty—to the Stars and Stripes.—Theodore Roosevelt.” Immediately, I think of Jews First Jews, but not Hegseth, of course, or Trump. When you’ve gotten so many Christian children to rape and torture, you must be grateful to your Jewish benefactors.

Chapter five is “GLOBALISM: THE WORLD’S WORST CITIZENS.” Hegseth’s ghost writers and editors need some English tutorial from this fifty-fifty American, or you can just call me a 100% Vietnamese who speaks, with embarrassment and strains, some English. It should be, “GLOBALISTS: THE WORLD’S WORST CITIZENS.”

Since the most powerful globalists are Jews, as we all know, including dimwit Hegseth, this word must be sidestepped, but globalism is an ideology or mindset, so can’t be citizens of any kind. That makes as much sense as saying, “Capitalism: The World’s Worst Citizens,” or, “Judaism: The World’s Best People.”

In chapter 5 is “THE MOSQUES OF MINNESOTA.” There are mosques everywhere, and churches, too. What Hegseth is warning about, though, is his home state being swarmed by Muslim fanatics, “Instead of embracing Minnesota and American culture, most Somali Muslims have maintained a highly insular existence. As FOX News has reported—and as I saw for myself during multiple trips to Minneapolis for FOX & Friends—for Somali residents in large urban neighborhoods it’s possible to go about day-to-day business without ever interacting with a non-Somali.”

That was true of Poles, Irish, Italians and Jews, too, just a century ago. More recently, older Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laos and Hmongs, all refugees fleeing the aftermath of American “engagement” in their native lands, could function without much interaction with white Americans, but their children have only been too eager to become more white or Nordic than even Pete Hegseth.

Hegseth, “I walked the streets of ‘Little Mogadishu’ in Minneapolis for hours, encountering Somali Muslims, many of whom have lived in Minnesota for years and most of whom did not speak English. When I asked a local Somali teenager whether his Islamic school taught about American law and the US Constitution, he looked confused and said, ‘Actually, I have no idea about that one.’ When asked if it teaches Sharia law, he quickly said, ‘Yes, Sharia law.’”

Most white teens also have no idea about the US Constitution. They can name dozens of rappers and hundreds of athletes, few of whom are white. Who dominate the music industry, professional sports and the media, Hegseth? If a Somali teen is going to an Islamic school, of course he’s getting religious instructions, just as a white kid is half paying attention in Bible classes. With his earbud, he’s listening to Diddy diddled Justin Bieber or “Mutt” by Leon Thomas. On his phone is a cornucopia of coochies liberally dispensed by Jews. It’s an honored tradition and, by now, believed by billions to be heaven on earth. The Second, Third and Fourth Comings are here! Screw Magazine’s Al Goldstein, “The only reason that Jews are in pornography is that we think that Christ sucks. Catholicism sucks. We donʼt believe in authoritarianism.”

Hegseth’s arguments about mass immigration, woke culture and America’s social ills have been amplified by his child raping and cock sucking boss. Trump on 11/28/25, “This refugee burden is the leading cause of social dysfunction in America, something that did not exist after World War II (Failed schools, high crime, urban decay, overcrowded hospitals, housing shortages, and large deficits, etc.). As an example, hundreds of thousands of refugees from Somalia are completely taking over the once great State of Minnesota. Somalian gangs are roving the streets looking for ‘prey’ as our wonderful people stay locked in their apartments and houses hoping against hope that they will be left alone. The seriously retarded Governor of Minnesota, Tim Walz, does nothing, either through fear, incompetence, or both, while the worst ‘Congressman/woman’ in our Country, Ilhan Omar, always wrapped in her swaddling hijab, and who probably came into the U.S.A. illegally in that you are not allowed to marry your brother, does nothing but hatefully complain about our Country, its Constitution, and how ‘badly’ she is treated, when her place of origin is a decadent, backward, and crime ridden nation, which is essentially not even a country for lack of Government, Military, Police, schools, etc…”

It’s hard to believe the incontinent moron could write all that, but he signed off on it.

Let’s get real here. The most powerful nation on earth hasn’t been ruined by backward Hmongs, Somalis, Afghans, Iraqis, Syrians, Libyans, Venezuelans and Cubans, etc., but by those who wrecked their homelands, then let them into the USA to 1) exploit their labor and 2) weaken the dominant white culture and cause, to whatever degrees, social chaos.

Could all American leaders going back at least half a century be this stupid? Of course, not. Most eagerly, they kissed Jewish asses and covered their own. It’s a win, win. Trump, Hegseth, MAGA Mike, Biden, the Clintons and Obama, etc., are doing just fine.

With a minimal Jewish presence, Oriental nations are more coherent and intact, so better equipped to move forward. Though many have suffered from Jewish Marxism and American bombs, they’ve retained or regained their identities, religious beliefs, age old habits and even superstitions. What’s useful from the West, they’ve absorbed and even improved upon, and I’m not just talking about Japanese cameras and Korean fried chicken. White worship is still too prevalent, however.

Since Jesse has just arrived at Ông Bầu, let’s ask him about being terrorized by roving Somalis, “Yo Jesse, were you locked inside all the time to not be killed?”

Inexplicably, the tall Minnesotan just laughs. Living among savages must have driven him mad. Calming down, Jesse remembers, “The first time I saw a Somali must have been 1994. There was a woman waiting at a bus stop. She was dressed in traditional clothing. They all do. They hold tight to their traditions. You rarely see them in jeans. I was with a friend. He had a 32-ounce Big Gulp. He just threw the whole thing at her!”

“You’re kidding me!”

“He’s very proud of it for the rest of the day.”

“Not for a whole week?”

“No, us Minnesotans have a guilt complex because we’re Lutherans!”

“What about Somali gangs, man? Have they taken over Minneapolis?”

“Hell, no! That’t so funny. Sometimes they take over a street corner. It’s usually in their area. They don’t go into white neighborhoods. They don’t even do donuts. They just play loud music. When a very rare fight breaks out, it’s Somalis against Somalis. There were a couple of shootings, but in the Somali shopping malls. I’ve never met anyone who’s been robbed by a Somali.”

“Every immigrant community had gangs, man. Jewish ones were among the worst! You don’t hear about that.”

“The Somalis were attacked by blacks, so they had to defend themselves. Most of them lived in these two buildings called the Crack Stacks. It’s this hideous brutalist architecture.”

“Like all projects.”

“Now, their neighborhoods are normal. They’re clean. They mow their lawns. I lived in West Bloomington. There were Somalis all over. They went to Normandale Community College. Somali kids sat at the public library, studying. They worked at the blood donation place. Many of the women got into nursing. They’re entrepreneurial. If you go into their malls, you see hundreds of stores, not just restaurants but travel agencies, jewelers, perfume shops, computer repair shops, clothing stores, whatever. Because of their link to Italy, they import Italian shoes. I heard two old guys speak Italian to each other. Djibouti was colonized by France, so some of those Somalis speak French. They brought Europe to Minnesota!”

“That’s hilarious.”

“My biggest problem with Somalis is their littering. They leave bottles on basketball courts. My mom even loves them. I even had a Somali girlfriend.”

“For how long?”

“Two years.”

“So it wasn’t a hit and run,” I laughed. “I had this and this, so let’s try this!”

“No, no.”

It’s OK, then, for Jewjerked Uncle Sam to generate millions of refugees yearly, just don’t let them into the greatest white Christian nation ever, with its soldier occupied streets, tent cities and citizens shivering in storage units. Even legal immigrants should be rejected. As for seditious citizens like the Democrat Six, why shouldn’t they be executed, as urged by Trump? Law and order must be maintained.

Despite Somalis “completely taking over the once great state of Minnesota,” Trump is in charge, so don’t you worry. He’ll fix everything in two weeks. Lining up at food banks for expired cans of baked beans and Chef Boyardee, Americans just don’t realize how rich they are. If George Washington and Abraham Lincoln came back from the dead to run as president and vice president, they’d just get their wrinkled, sagging asses handed to them by the greatest American ever.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life, #16

“People robbed of their past seem to make the most fervent picture takers, at home and abroad. “As humans, we’re born naked and will leave with nothing,” yet another monk speaks.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

Bill Gates, Primo Levi and Max Beckmann in Vietnam — Nov 13, 2025.

Just before 5AM, I got a call from Sơn, the NaLi Beach security guard. Come out, he urged. Sơn was sitting at a newly opened café just five yards from the disappeared Coffee Seven. I sat there once and hated it. Maybe tomorrow, I told him.

On the way to Ông Bầu, I noticed an old white guy in a “Good Morning Vietnam” T-shirt. On Thủ Khoa Huân, there’s a bar, Black Sheep, meant for them. Most Vietnamese don’t care to sit on high stools. In Macau six years ago, I hung out with an international bunch. At the bar, though, there were just me, a Chinese-American and an Indian who had spent decades in the States. We were the Americans. Others sat at tables.

Though other businesses on Thủ Khoa Huân have English names, they’re still designed for Vietnamese. Their names are telling. There’s Củi Warehouse, The Góc, Nomad Café and NBNB Bakery. It’s ultra cool to mix English with Vietnamese. A block away is Salt Water, where all those dressed up girls are snapping selfies.

In this week’s Tuổi Trẻ Cuối Tuần, a magazine aimed at the young and cosmopolitan, there’s an article by Willow Dương Liễu. Four of the seven global news pieces focus on the USA. “Salaam New York!” one screams. There’s also one on Bill Gates and AI. Sipping my second cappucino, I’m browsing this pretentious rag. (Kabu, as it’s called here, is found all over, and is even more ubiquitous in Cambodian cities.) On the back cover is some freak with a chest tattoo. He wears something like a crusader hood crossed with a keffiyeh. Words fail me.

Most curiously, there’s a translation of Primo Levi’s “Cena in Piedi.” First published in La Stampa on 1/22/77, it’s about a kangaroo at a dinner party. Of course, this springy beast feels very out-of-place until some chick comes by to stroke and caress him. Unfortunately, her hands never reach his tails and thigh. Is this kangaroo a Jew about to be sent to Auschwitz? It’s bad enough to be a minority anywhere.

To help Vietnamese readers understand, here’s the beginning of Levi’s accompanying bio, “Primo Levi (1919-1987), an Italian chemist and writer of Jewish ancestry, survived the genocidal Holocaust. He became famous through works about his camp experience.”

There’s also a reproduction of Max Beckmann’s Die Nacht, perhaps his most famous canvas. Unforgivably, it’s not attributed. Worse, this scene of sexual sadistic torture with a capped man who looks very much like Lenin is meant to suggest Nazi horrors. Painted in 1918-1919, Die Nacht depicts a Jew dominated Germany. The Weimar Republic lasted from late 1918 to 1933.

a shot of that Beckmann illustrating a Levi story

In the sports section, Mahathir Mohamad is quoted, “It’s a real shame that non Malaysians are representing Malaysia. Though we crave victories, we should do it correctly, without resorting to cheating or fraud.” Sounds like Hitler! At one hundred years old, Mohamad is just senile. Vietnam’s star striker is Nguyễn Xuân Sơn, a Brazilian who was born as Rafaelson Bezerra Fernandes. He’s even less kosher than Stephen Miller. At least Miller speaks English.

With another world war looming, consider this Levi passage, “Most of them weren’t monsters, idiotic lechers, or perverted dandies: they were functionaries of the State, more pedantic than brutal, effectively indifferent to the daily horror in which they lived, and which they appeared to get used to quickly, partly because, in agreeing to oversee the Lagers, they avoided being sent to ‘cover themselves with glory’ on the Russian front. In short, they weren’t elegant, stylized beasts but vulgar, cowardly little men.” (That’s from his “Movies and Swastikas,” as translated by Alessandra Bastagli and Francesco Bastagli.)

Levi is describing SS men who would rather terrorize helpless women, children and the old. Beats being maimed or killed at the frontline. ICE agents are exactly like that. All you vulgar, cowardly little men better sign up with ICE before you’re sent to a real war. There’s no higher calling than serving the most vulgar, littlest man ever.

On the way to Ông Bầu, some woman on a bicycle said, “Happy birthday, uncle!” so words got out. Before encoutering the West, Vietnamese paid no attention to birthdays, only deathdays, ngày dỗ. Even years after a relative’s death, this is solemnly remembered. In Stung Treng, Cambodia, I met a woman who would rush back to Vietnam each year for her parents’ deathdays.

I’m all for the primacy of deathdays. Its only drawback is you can’t celebrate yours with those closest to you, if you had any.

As a 12-year-old retard in 1976, I saw my first Beckmanns in New Orleans. In 2002, I caught his retrospective at Paris’ Centre Pompidou. His canvases aren’t just brutal but contemplative. They also employ age-old techniques like glazing. He’s a better draftsman than Otto Dix, and his colors are better tuned than Kirchner’s. The latter was aiming for something else. It was a frightful, hysterical era, and unspeakably tragic. Somehow, it got even worse.

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

Give Us This Day Our Daily BeerLao! — Nov 13, 2025.

About two decades ago, Americans were introduced to customer service agents from India. Nearly all US companies adopted this cost saving solution. Calling your bank over some minor issue, you’d be greeted by “Rachel” or “Chase,” but with a distinctly Mumbai or Chennai accent. After ten minutes or so of frustration, many people simply gave up.

Now, there’s an AI anything to not help you out. They include doctors, psychiatrists, teachers, tutors and financial advisors. There must be AI priests. God, it’s proven, was the first Artificial Intelligence. Jesus being nailed to the cross was the first Deep Fake. It was a huge hit.

Living outside the US since 2018, I still have a US bank account. This is necessary for many practical reasons. Two days ago, I had to call Wells Fargo. Since its numbers for Vietnam didn’t work, I dialed the USA. As a cellphone adverse person, this was rather trying, but I managed to reach some guy who sounded reasonable enough. It was still a disaster.

Reached this morning to grade Wells Fargo’s service, I gave it a zero star out of ten, with this considered explanation:

Terrible customer service. Staying overseas, I was locked out of my account due to a wrong password entered. When I called the US to get this resolved, it couldn’t be done! The man online said his name was “Varney,” but would not give his last name. I doubt that’s his real name. He also gave me this as the number for my case, “k101192315.” He probably just made it up. That’s how much faith I have in Wells Fargo.

Soon as I get back to the States, I will cancel my account and switch to a more professional bank. I remember Wells Fargo being heavily fined a while back for fraud. Should have switched my bank then.

I actually signed up for Wachovia because it was in my Philly neighborhood. Wells Fargo bought it when it went bankrupt.

Before leaving for Kathmandu two weeks ago, I used Xoom, a PayPal linked service, to withdraw $1,400 from Wells Fargo. With a fee of $12.99, I paid $1,412.99. Though I had no problem receiving my money from a Vietnamese bank, I was alerted while in Kathmandu that Xoom never got $1,412.99 from Wells Fargo. Contacting PayPal immediately, I was told by an AI that everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Yesterday, I called Xoom to straighten this out, only to be told I needed to contact Wells Fargo. I’m not calling another Varney, man. Fuck it.

Given up on Xoom, I used Western Union to send money to myself. At Agribank on Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa, the teller refused this transaction, however. Though I had my passport, Vietnam visa and Western Union’s code number, she said “LINH DINH” is not “LINH HOANG DINH,” as stated in my passport. Though everyone there could see she’s being preposterous, I had to walk away without losing my cool.

AI, Varneys and ditzy bank tellers are in our future. At least I’m not living in a land lorded over by moronic tyrants like Trump, Hegseth and Bessent.

At Ông Bầu, my BeerLao bottle from yesterday is displayed on a shelf. If only I could drink one or two a day for the rest of my life!

At the licker store yesterday, there was a poster for Budweiser. Buy many cans to possibly win one of ten grand prizes to next year’s World Cup. Nothing is said about securing a visa from Trump’s regime. It’s a time consuming and exasperating process for citizens of many countries. Once in, there’s no guarantee you won’t be harassed or even arrested by Trump’s goons. Knowing this, foreigners are increasingly shunning the USA. Worse than isolated, it’s becoming a pariah nation.

Bud is also dangling 200 consolation prizes. Free Bud for a year, it promises or, rather, threatens.

Eating much more sanely and walking barefoot on hard ground as much as possible have undoubtedly improved my liver and kidney. I don’t need doctors, real or AI, to tell me this. My body, especially my skin, says so. Having mostly abstained from alcohol over two years, I’m also ready to ease, ever so gently, back into BeerLao! Give us this day our daily BeerLao should be a universal prayer.

taken by Troy Skaggs (L): Marion, Indiana on 11/6/25 ; (R): Kokomo, Indiana on 11/13/25

Checking In With Troy Skaggs in Kokomo, Indiana — Nov 13, 2025.

In your group house, how many people are relying on government programs to get by? How many are working? In what jobs, for how much an hour?

-I’ve been in Kokomo since the beginning of August. After losing my VA pension while in South Bend, I couldn’t afford the room I was renting. I was in Kokomo last summer before returning to Michiana for tomato season and the winter. It’s a smaller, quieter place. No rainy day saver, I stayed a month in my folks’ basement before heading here.

I spent just over a month at the Kokomo Rescue Mission. It’s an evangelical Christian organization. I’ve been in a few others so knew what I was getting into. The Protestant work ethic goes hand in hand with salvation from sin. Six day work weeks in the kitchen and their warehouse weren’t conducive to seeking outside employment and services, but that’s how it works. I was there when Charlie Kirk was dubiously assassinated. The response at the Mission was to be expected. Prayers for Kirk, his family and this fallen life on Earth. A persecuted believers vs. the sick, sick world kind of vibe. It was hard to swallow. I always appreciate a warm meal, bunk and shower. They provided and I’m grateful for that.

I left the Mission on good terms with the understanding that the work schedule was just too much. I was accepted into the CAM (Coordinated Assistance Ministries) Center, a smaller men’s shelter. No prayers for Chuck or excessive work requirements, just guys playing video games and bullshitting all hours of the night. Patrick, a dorm mate, was a piece of work. He’d survived a drunken car/tree collision and had completed three back to back in-patient rehabs. When he asked if I was interested in smoking cocaine in the laundry room, his espoused philosophy of “radical acceptance” took on a new light. Birds of a feather flock together. I declined. Maybe that’s why he called me an asshole and a pussy on the day I moved out. Bill, in the bunk below me, just chuckled, “Hey, it’s Kokomo, man.” That made me smile.

I haven’t been able to attend to my health so the babesiosis I’d partially recovered from has returned. It’s a bitch and I’m running ragged.

I left the CAM center after signing a lease at Jackson Street Commons, a subsidized complex for military veterans. I was hesitant at first since requires some form of disability. Though I’ve had my go rounds with addiction, mental illness, physical sickness and existential uncertainty, I still like to consider myself an independent operator. Backing into the parking space Jackson Street Commons, my power steering blew.

Most of our residents are subsidized and aren’t working. Kokomo is doing better than some Indiana places thanks to Chrysler, but it’s still struggling. Most available jobs are in the service sector. That’s always a concern. We all know healthy economies don’t run on services alone. I’ve seen similar poverty in South Bend, but so far Kokomo’s a safer choice. Buttoned down factory towns can make for freak undercurrents. My buddy Steve calls it the 50-year-old wigger on a BMX phenomenon. I saw a dude a couple of blocks from here on a riding mower towing a trailer with two refrigerators and his wife on board. I always have to remember that there but for the grace of God go I. For all of my religious misgivings, I still believe that we’re all on Mr. Sky’s watch. It helps to keep that in mind. Part of me wants nothing more than to be a BMX dude. At this point, why not?

I’m in a one bedroom apartment on the third floor. The Veterans Service Officer got my pension reinstated, so I pay just over $400 a month, 30% of my pension. It’s a sliding scale, so no section eight. The unit is handicap accessible. From another resident, I learnt that at least one of my room’s previous occupants left in a body bag.

JSC houses a variety of veterans with a range of mental and physical issues. Of course, there have been many overdoses. Brandon next door has been here nearly a decade. He told me about two fatal OD’s within two weeks. That’s just the circle of life around here. I have some survivor’s guilt considering how I was able get housing in Kokomo within three months. Some of the guys at the Mission or CAM have been stuck there for months, even years.

I’m extremely fortunate. It’s a weird scene here, but it’s a scene. Time will tell. Just a few yards from my window is the flagpole. I can see the Stars and Bars, plus the POW/MIA flag right below it. A ways beyond is the Martin Luther King Memorial. I can just see the back of Doctor King’s concrete head.

taken by Troy Skaggs in Kokomo, Indiana on 11/13/25

The poor are often exhausted from overwork and worries. Still, they must socialize, so is there a bar nearby where you and those you know hang out? How much does it cost to drink there for a couple hours? In Kensington, a Philly neighborhood, I once sat next to an old woman who kept lifting an empty beer mug to her mouth. She couldn’t afford to buy another one. She did that regularly at Jack’s.

-I can’t really tell you about the bar scene here. I’m within walking distance of Tom Thumb Tavern, Elbow Room, The Hoosier Bar and The Handle Bar. I have seen a lot of activity at the Legion a few blocks away. I’m guessing these places are cheaper than in most American cities. Sadly, that isn’t saying much if alcohol prices have increased along with groceries and everything else. The Coterie, a downtown hipster place, does host some decent live music. On a summer night, you can sit anywhere downtown and listen to the bands. Most of these places are your basic, shabby working-class establishments. With plenty of bliss, torment and everything in between under the same roof, bars can be fascinating. I do like seeing folks coming and going. Due to my alcoholic history and present circumstances, I hesitate to enter bars by myself. I can have a pint or two of Guinness once or twice a year with a close friend who was born in Ireland, but that’s about the extent of it lately. My worst drinking days ended twelve years ago. I spent a lot of time in bars in my twenties. Some good times, but by the end of it all, I’d been to jail and accidentally set my car on fire outside Corby’s in South Bend. This was prior to the Army. I did a few rounds of bar hopping in Colorado Springs, but by then, I was a pretty solitary drinker.

I’m still in contact with Michelle from Philly. We got pretty close. She had some good bar stories. Miserable but tough, she’s still at the rooming house in South Bend. I think you have to be in places like Philadelphia, probably more so than the rural Midwest. Reading about the woman from Kensington says it all. It’s sad, but sometimes an empty mug is better than being alone.

taken by Troy Skaggs in Kokomo, Indiana on 11/13/25; (R): graffiti says “BOBBY KNIGHT IS A HONKY”

It’s too depressing to drink alone. It should be social, with much talking and laughing. I know of a Vietnamese nail salon guy who would sit at his kitchen table to down many Buds, fall asleep and, often enough, piss in his pants. That’s his social life, pretty much, in East St. Louis. It’s too dangerous to walk outside. Finally, is Kokomo still solidly MAGA? Is no one doubting the greatest American ever and infallible one?

-The kind of despair and isolation you mention is something I still struggle with daily. I’ve made inroads, but it’s still a problem. Budweiser was my beer of choice at the end. Much like your East St. Louis acquaintance, I’d sit in front of the TV and drink myself into a stupor. Pissing myself became a common occurrence. I was pushing the boundaries of late stage alcoholism. Towards the end of 2013, things got pretty hairy after I got discharged from the Army and booted from the oil fields for excessive drinking. Not being unable to walk safely in your own neighborhood is one of the worst aspects of living in today’s USA. I see it everywhere, in myself and others. It’s a feeling of defeat. I try to fight it because it plays into the hysteria and isolation playbook.

Again, I’m pretty lucky. There are places and situations where getting out is easier said than done. Marijuana is my surrogate crutch right now. Like many Americans, I find it difficult to function without a buzz. It is what it is. That’s the problem. Alternatives exist, but immediate gratification is the easiest option for the worn and overworked. It’s the option that many choose. A vicious cycle.

I’d place Kokomo in the MAGA camp by a margin. In the Mission’s defense, they didn’t push politics too hard besides their veneration of St. Kirk. Since Evangelicals are captured by the MAGA cult, they didn’t need to. One guy on an adjacent bunk was always on his phone talking to his girlfriend about Trump and how he needs to reinstate the Insurrection Act, to take care of business. The TV at the CAM center was usually tuned to FOX News. Vince, one of the guys there, calls it trailer park conservatism. A Stockholm syndrome of sorts. I think the desire for political salvation crosses the political divide. Like the controlled asset stripping of this country, it’s a bi-partisan affair disguised as politics.

We’re in Team Red phase. This freaking joke is on all of us. I remember reading your take on Trump in 2016. You got it right, Linh. Most didn’t. I got fooled the first time around myself. I’ve never voted. I can’t t endorse more war, more debt and less freedom each time around. Still, I had my hopes. Ten years later, it’s easier to see.

What really saddens me is that, as deluded and unhinged as MAGA has become, it’s an obvious reaction to the rhetorical and physical abuse that conservatives and traditional values took at the hands of the Woke crowd. It was nasty. I’d be pissed, too, and that’s why anger and fear are such wonderful tools for political control.

Controlled we are and controlled we will be, I’m afraid. Woke, MAGA, same monster. I’ve tried to point it out, but for my own sanity, I now leave it alone. When we outsource our minds, bodies and communities to transnational interests, why be surprised at the state of things?

Good intentions and bad habits are a toxic combo. I’m a walking example. I’m a fan of Sade, the smooth jazz chanteuse, not the perverted Frenchman, yet a smooth operator I am not. Time to smoke a bowl and think about it all.

taken by Troy Skaggs in Kokomo, Indiana on 11/13/25

Fearless — Nov 14, 2025.

Having told Sơn I would see him at his new spot, I went there just after 4AM to find it still closed. Across the street was one just opening up, so I’m there. It’s an entirely new universe. Tables and chairs are placed on the dark sidewalk. I’ve claimed someone’s regular seat, I’m sure. The guy sharing my tiny round table is listening to a Buddhist monk. Instructions on how to live is interspersed by a woman singing.

Tired of one monk, he switches to another. “Don’t be greedy, don’t steal, don’t lend money at exorbitant interest.” Then, “Get along with everybody, respect all religions.” Another woman, much older, sings.

The coffee here is not quite hot, and there are no frisky dogs. Coming from Bến Đình, Sơn on his motorbike will pass by, so should see me. At 4:22AM, that café is still closed. Now, my table mate is listening to a didactic woman. Religious or ethical instructions are his drug of choice. Five other men, all regulars and older than 50, must also be edified, if not enlightened. Nirvana is just a band whose lead singer shot himself in the head. The guy at the next table has suffered a stroke, it seems, for he has one of those three pronged canes I never saw half a century ago.

No one is talking.

This café’s owner is a squat woman with a dull face. She almost grunted when I showed up.

“As humans, we’re born naked and will leave with nothing,” yet another monk speaks.

At 4:35, I see light over there, so will head over. The owner’s daughter married an older Aussie. Let’s hear what she has to say.

That didn’t last long. After five minutes of sitting with Sơn plus another woman, Quý, we decided to vacate that joint. Its coffee wasn’t just bad, but dubious, and they refused to turn off the music. I’m at my third café, Anh Trần. Each cup here, very good, is served with a tin filter, and the tea is also fine. Across the street is a hotel, Hoàng Yến, built in the 70’s. Such buildings recall the Vũng Tàu of my childhood.

Vung Tau, 11/14/25

A white haired guy just praised a younger woman’s buttocks. “That’s like two chunks of silicone!”

“My ass is money!” she laughed back. Her cushy tushy looks real. Clearly, they know each other well enough.

A boastful man with a Hanoi accent, he’s lived in Germany and England, he tells me. He’s been all over. One hundred and seventy five countries, to be exact.

“How do you manage that?! There’s not enough time. Plus, there’s the paperwork.” A Vietnamese passport doesn’t open many doors.

Smirking, he adds, “I have two sons in the US, two in London and one in Australia. I see them whenever I want.”

“How can you afford to travel so much?”

“People give me money.”

“Who?”

“People.”

“What’s your business?”

“None. I have never worked. All my life, I’ve just enjoyed myself, and gotten into fights.”

Laughing, I turn to another man, “And he hasn’t been killed!”

“Now, I’ve hung up my sword. If I get pissed off, though, I will still fight.”

“Have you been jailed?”

“No.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“When I was 15, I survived bombs. My shelter was blown to bits. Other kids were killed. Chunks of flesh were dug out with bare hands. I survived.”

“In 1970?”

“72.” Executed with B-52’s, it’s Operation Linebacker. “Those bombs taught me to be fearless.”

Even now, not one out of a hundred Vietnamese knows what a linebacker is. The best Vietnamese-American athlete ever is Dat Nguyen, a middle linebacker for Texas A&M and Dallas Cowboys.

“You were lucky. You were spared.”

“I do whatever I want.”

“I just look.”

“I see your laptop. You’re filled with words, with knowledge. You think.”

“I just look. You do!”

“Everyone is different.” Turning to two other men, he remarks, “Look at his forehead. Flies would have trouble landing there!”

“I’ve done nothing. I only have my brain. The rest is paralyzed.” This drew laughs from the owner. She’s in her mid 60’s.

“Nearing that hole, I’ve slowed down,” continues the braggadocious. “Each man has three holes he must deal with. The hole from which he was born, his wife’s hole then the hole he’s tossed into.”

“Many people don’t even get that middle hole.”

“We’re not talking about freakish exceptions, but generally.”

Coming to Anh Trần, I didn’t expect any of this, obviously. Sơn and Quý left a while back. Since it opens at 4AM, this wouldn’t be a bad place to sit. Braggadocious has asked nothing about me. It’s fine.

He speaks Mandarin, Cantonese and English comfortably, he claims. He can do whatever and go anywhere. Vietnamese gangsters across Europe are terrified of him. Even top cops don’t dare to mess with Braggadocious. Saigon whores can’t empty his pockets.

“They’re like sharks and alligators,” I say.

“They can’t bite me. I bite them!”

Though living with any braggart must be hell, there are those who adore bombastic boasters. So sad this constant need to prove you’re not worthless.

Shut up already about all your awards, prizes, ribbons, medals, books published, contests won, pussies or dicks “conquered,” world records, championships, countries visited, weird dishes eaten or famous hands shaken. Every winner finishes last! How’s that toothache or cancer treating you? Just be thankful you weren’t slapped around, nuked or neutered decades earlier! Everyone or his grandma could have been a contender! You’re making me sick! There’s no weight division too low for you.

At 8:20AM, I finish this at Ông Bầu. Soon, I must go to Saigon to get a five-year visa, meant for overseas Vietnamese. There’s an agency that can arrange this, I think. With that, I will only need to leave every six months, instead of three.

Interviewing Troy Skaggs about small town Indiana made me want to go there, but that would mean flying into O’Hare, a state away. There are so many steps and miles before I can sit inside Handle Bar or Tom Thumb. Close enough to that hole, I should just take it easy.

There’s a desolation peculiar to the USA. It’s especially striking in rural areas and suburbs. Car culture isn’t solely responsible. No other population is as leery of mingling. More than macho DeKooning, Kline or Pollock, Edward Hopper is the most representative American artist, for he’s best at isolating this desolation. In movies and music videos, the opposite appears. That’s the American con.

Edward Hopper art

As for being fearless, I must mention Mo, Cà Phê Cà Pháo’s kitten. Yesterday, I saw him for the first time since returning from Kathmandu. There he was, sleeping on a cushioned chair.

“I’ve been away nearly a month, but he hasn’t gotten any bigger. He’s shrunk!”

This provoked much laughter, for it was a different cat. For a week, Mo disappeared. Whoever found him had replaced his collar, before Mo ran off again. Thanks to an online notice, he’s finally recovered on Nam Kỳ Khởi Nghĩa, a good mile away.

Back home, he didn’t even open his eyes when touched. Strange voices couldn’t disturb his sleep. In his brief life, he’s been lost twice, hit by a motorbike and gotten so sick, he had to spend a week at the vet. Even when half conscious, he fears nothing.

“Amazing,” I marveled. “It’s as if nothing happened.”

Like a proud parent, his owner smiled.

Such quiet assurance Braggadocious has never known. Lowered into that hole, he’ll still be terrified of ridicule. With rotting ears, he’ll hear mocking laughter. At least he doesn’t need to print his name on every piece of clothing, building or plate.

The weakest men must screw the smallest bodies. Virginal, they can’t compare him to any other. Even then, he’s still terrified.

(L): Kōji Yakusho in Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days ; (R): Hiroshi Sugimoto’s “U. A. Play House, New York,” 1978

Naked and Barefoot — Nov 18, 2025.

Three mornings at Anh Trần were enough. The Hanoian braggadocious wasn’t just tiresome but menacing. Bombastic boasters are often like that. People who admire them are like squirming worms, not necessarily with red hats. Though I have a high tolerance for all types, I must focus on my thoughts and writing. This morning, then, I began typing before 4AM while sitting outside Ông Bầu in the dark. From the house next door, a woman could be heard coughing several times.

Talking about Perfect Days, I forgot to mention Hirayama’s habit of never picking up his watch when leaving his flat. He only takes his keys and coins. Hirayama doesn’t just know exactly what he must do with his day, but how long each task should take. Neither impatient nor frantic, he’s serenely focused.

Eating lunch on the same park bench each day, Hirayama always takes photos of swaying leaves above him. Since it’s the same tree, Niko, his niece, asks, “Is that tree your friend?”

Though surprised by this question, Hirayama has to admit, “Yes, this is my tree friend.”

Hundreds of these leaf photos are kept in tin boxes. Those that don’t turn out well are thrown away. His film camera, an Olympus Stylus, is not just amateurish but old fashioned. It has no screen. Held so low, Hirayama can’t even look through its viewfinder. Only after each roll is developed does he know how many keepers there are.

Though Hirayama is admired for his zen like composure, there’s something neurotic about his picture taking, no? He takes hundreds of photos to not really look at them. Worse, he must document his enjoyment of komoberi. Defined at the end of the film as “the shimmering of light and shadows that is created by leaves swaying in the wind. It only exists once, at that moment.” All too human, Hirayama must capture and solidify such fleeting phenomena.

Like most of us, Hirayama is radically alone. Sure, he has a few friendly acquaintances at Asakusa Yakisoba Fukuchan, his noodle shop, and Beni no Akari Novu, an atmospheric old school bar whose owner can sing so soulfully, but he sleeps alone and has no deep conversations with anyone. Unable to confide his pains, fears and infinite sadness, Hirayama must stay calm. His most intimate and steadfast friend is a rustling tree.

Note that Hirayama always buys the same coffee drink from a vending machine just ouside his door. Why doesn’t he stock up on a bunch, thus save a few pennies? Always waking up alone, Hirayama needs this machine to give him, without fail, some sweetness before he’s thrust, again, towards an infinity of shitters. It’s also the only neighbor he has any meaningful intercourse with. We’re not introduced to any other.

(L): Hiroshi Sugimoto seascape ; (R): sketch by Hà Quang Đại

It’s no accident Wenders made this film in Tokyo. At the end of WWII, its destruction by the U.S. Air Force was greater than in Nagasaki and roughly equal to what happened in Hiroshima. Much of what America failed to raze, the Japanese did, in their rush towards progress and economic recovery. Even Donald Richie, who loved Japan deeply and spent 65 years there, had to admit Tokyo was “unusually ugly.” This is because much of its past is gone.

Regarding the past, photography and the Japanese, Susan Sontag has this to say, “People robbed of their past seem to make the most fervent picture takers, at home and abroad. Everyone who lives in an industrialized society is obliged gradually to give up the past, but in certain countries, such as the United States and Japan, the break with the past has been particularly traumatic.” Bombers and bombed share this unspeakable loss.

Robbed of family and community, Hirayama can only cling to images no one, not even him, cares to look at much, plus songs he can’t fully understand. Hirayama tearing up over Nina Simone is mostly fiction. Only you and I cry for real.

Before I slink off somewhere to bawl, wail and gnash my remaining teeth, I must point out Hirayama’s appreciation for tiny shifts in the mundane is very Japanese. Check out Hiroshi Sugimoto’s photos of oceans across the globe, for example, or his images of abandoned theaters. In these gorgeous temples to mass hallucinations, the big screens are still lit up, but nothing is shown. We’ve seen it all so many times, we see nothing.

Wenders’ inclusion of bathhouse scenes evokes Japan’s disappearing past. It’s striking, and exotic, to see naked men sitting on low stools to soap and wash, then soak together in a hot pool. Relaxing in a common room, Hirayama is even seen fanning a dozing old man, a beautiful touch. Most foreigners may not realize these bathhouses were, not even a century ago, unisex.

Consider this 1927 passage by Akugatawa, “He had previously been quite unperturbed about undressing in Kōno’s presence when he entered the bath located next to the kitchen. Recently, however, he had not allowed himself even once to appear to her in such a state. He was now undoubtedly ashamed of his body, which resembled that of a plucked rooster.” A pioneer writer during an unsettling era, Akugatawa killed himself just a year later.

Such inclusion and exposure are gone. Contemporary men must be screened off from each other, if not masked. His isolation ever increases. Listening to cassettes and reading complicated books in silence, Hirayama is a dinosaur, if not freak.

Sitting in Ông Bầu, I’m feet away from Mr. Đại, painting from life. He’s inserting me, though, walking barefoot past the altar to the Goddess by the banyan tree. While painting, he’s singing a Phạm Duy song from 1971. At age 50, that great song writer, a poet, really, recalled a girl he fell in love with as a teenager. Like so much else, those sweet, gentle sentiments are lost.

Vung Tau (L): 11/24/25 ; (R): 11/22/25

Westminster, Vietnam To Begin With — Nov 25, 2025.

This morning, I woke up Hùng around 5AM to get his phone number. He was sleeping in his cyclo cab, of course. “I have a Westerner who will probably hire you. He’ll call you today or tomorrow.” Groggy, Hùng looked older than his age. He’s a most gentle man, or perhaps just thoroughly defeated. Before something went terribly wrong internally, Hùng was a falling down drunk. He’ll die without ever seeing his parents, siblings or hometown of Da Lat again.

“How’s business?”

“Bad.”

“Yet you won’t make that sign!” I had urged Hùng to clearly list his price for ½ an hour and an hour. “You’re so stubborn!”

I then bought two toothbrushes from a Circle K. Since it was so early, I didn’t feel too self-conscious about walking in barefoot. With Ông Bầu not open for an hour, I decided to go to Mrs. Hạnh. She’s the one married to an impotent American for six years.

Riding past me was a woman in cycling tights and listening to a Buddhist chant on her Bluetooth. Nam mô a di đà phật, she had to hear over and over. The idea of Buddhist chanting is to empty your mind of bullshit, I think, but this chick has turned it into bicycling muzak. On that street is an ex drug addict who always sits alone before dawn to listen to Eminem. People who can’t stand silence are lost to themselves and, thus, understanding of anything, from the most trivial upward.

Since Mrs. Hạnh and her husband were still setting up, I headed to Front Beach, where hundreds of people were exercising or jogging. I sat by two young women who chattered, giggled and laughed as they loosened their joints and got their blood flowing. Doing a forward thrust, they joked about diving onto the jagged rocks below. Lights flickered along the shoreline. Some people rubbed their belly in a circular motion as they walked quickly. I used a fingernail to groove into my flesh around my ankles and soles.

Finally sitting down at Mrs. Hạnh’s, I asked if she enjoyed her eight-day Singapore vacation so many years ago.

“Of course! I also have dozens of relatives overseas.” In Bolsa and Canada. Bolsa is a Vietnamese area in Westminster, CA. Its mayor is Chi Charlie Nguyen. All three council members are Vietnamese-Americans.

Whatever happened to the annexation of Greenland and Canada becoming the 51st state? I, for one, think Westminster and Santa Ana must be ceded to Vietnam immediately, with an additional city added yearly until at least a third of California belongs to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Its residents of all races will enjoy more freedom, including economic, than under President Trump, J.D. Vance or Gavin Newsom, guaranteed.

Twice, I’ve seen a young woman helping out at Mrs. Hạnh’s. She’s not her daughter but a 34-year-old homeless woman who sleeps nightly at Trưng Sisters Park. Trưng Sisters were warriors who fought against the Chinese two thousand years ago. Think Boudica times two.

As a girl, she was taken in by a noodle soup seller at Old Market, now demolished. As a pretty young woman, she started sleeping with Westerners, so her adoptive father kicked her out. He still brings her food, and she’s paid nearly $2 daily by Mrs. Hạnh, who also feeds her. It’s charity, more or less, since Mrs. Hạnh and her husband can do everything themselves.

“Where’s your puppy?”

“He’s big!” her husband answered. “He’s at home.”

“Why don’t you bring him here?”

“He causes too much trouble,” he smiled.

There was a tiny kitten in the grass. I picked him up and caressed the beast. He started purring. When I put him down, this cat rubbed his head against my foot.

“You know,” I said to Mrs. Hạnh, “a woman sleeping alone in a park in the US would be raped in no time. Homeless people there often cluster together for protection. A woman like that cannot sleep alone outside.”

“I wish I could sleep alone,” Mrs. Hạnh joked as her husband stood by her side.

I laughed hardest. He only smiled.

Now at Ông Bầu, I just ordered a second cappuccino. Mr. Đại is painting a nude from some photo he got off the internet. It’s totally pointless, but whatever. Wouldn’t some aging whore, at least, be willing to pose for him for phở money? To be exposed and stared at for an hour might be too much.

Checking my email, I see one from Max, whom I met in Albania. In his rented car, we went to Montenegro. On his first visit to Vietnam, Max is in Da Nang. I’m pretty sure Max is Syrian. He spends most of his time in London. Go to Hội An and Huế, I just told Max. Even a side trip into Laos would be fantastic. If you decide to come down here, I’ll show you around.

Near death, I have less energy to take photos, but yesterday, I did catch two lovelies outside The Góc. One, with her butt cheeks just peeking out, was taking photos of her friend in a mini skirt. Nothing exists unless it’s photographed.

Maybe 15 years ago, a woman told me this joke in Philly, “What looks like shit and feels great?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“A pussy!”

Now, we must ask, What looks great and feels like shit?

Come on, man, give me the punchline!

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Emmanuel Todd: Defeat of the West – Collapse of Power & Values

with Glenn Diesen

Emmanuel Todd is a historical demographer, a best-selling author, and a leading intellectual in France. Emmanuel Todd predicted the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1976, predicted the exhaustion and decline of the US Empire in 2001, and now predicts the irreversible defeat of the West in his new book: La Défaite de l’Occident

Richard D. Wolff & Michael Hudson: Trump Is Blowing It Up: Dollar Is on the Edge of total collapse!

Slices of Life, #15

“No life is boring if properly recounted. His given name, Quyết Chiến, means Determined to Fight. Quyết Thắng means Determined to Win.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 11/3/25

Nguyễn Quyết Chiến — Nov 05, 2025.

An extraordinary story imperfectly told is better than one simply ignored. I will now tell you about a Vietnamese-American in Oklahoma. If alive, he’d be at least 75. His given name, Quyết Chiến, means Determined to Fight.

In 1972, Chiến was tasked with diverting ARVN troops away from the main thrust of an NVA assault. Basically sacrificed, all men in his unit died, but Chiến was captured. Weirdly enough, the ARVN officer recognized Chiến’s Nghệ An accent. Not only that, they had attended the same school. Instead of turning Chiến over to an ARVN prison camp, where at least beatings awaited, he reported Chiến as a “Chiêu Hồi” defector.

Spared, Chiến made broadcasts for the South Vietnamese, then he became a spy. In groups of three, these elite commandos were airdropped into North Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, to collect information. Of course, many were detected and killed, but Chiến survived.

Just before the Fall of Saigon in 1975, Chiến was in Vũng Tàu. As everyone, including armed ARVN soldiers, scrambled to get onto anything that floated, Chiến noticed a hysterically sobbing boy. Grabbing this kid, Chiến was determined to take him along, but they didn’t manage to get onto any boat. Now, Chiến was stuck. Death seemed certain when he’d be caught by the North Vietnamese. He’d betrayed them, after all.

Chiến’s father had fought under General Võ Nguyên Giáp at Điện Biên Phủ, and his younger brother, Nguyễn Quyết Thắng, had died during the Vietnam War. Quyết Thắng means Determined to Win. Chiến had also betrayed his family.

Again not shot, Chiến was sent to a reeducation camp way up north. Even more miraculously, the warden took a liking to Chiến, so made him a barber. Though he barely ate like everybody else, Chiến wasn’t really beaten up or put into solitary confinement. After just over five years, Chiến was released. This, too, was a stroke of luck. ARVN soldiers jailed under five years weren’t allowed to emigrate to the US under the Humanitarian Operation program.

Before leaving, Chiến had another frightful encounter. His old man had come south to look for him. Instead of giving Chiến a sound beating, his dad was shocked at how thin and poor Chiến was, so all was forgiven.

“You don’t even have an extra bowl!”

To feed his father, Chiến had to borrow one from the house next door.

I have no idea how Chiến survived in Oklahoma, but he made enough money to revisit Vũng Tàu at least once.

Vung Tau, 11/5/25

Worst To Be Safest — Nov 05, 2025.

Two days ago, I told Mrs. Seven I was headed to my grocer to get some cucumbers. Immediately, she handed me 10K (38 cents) so I could buy her the same. Hating to go anywhere, that’s mostly how she shops. Another time, she asked me to get her mosquito repellent lotion. Years ago, she risked going to those five-story buildings where many Russians lived. Somebody there sold killer sausages, she’s told. On the way back, Mrs. Seven got seriously lost, so never again.

She’s “hai lúa,” or “two harvests.” That’s a slang for hicks. They don’t know anything beyond their two harvests. And yet, a much younger Mrs. Seven went as far north as Hanoi and crossed into Cambodia to dance. Once she had to perform outside a theater filled with corpses, freshly butchered by the Khmer Rouge. Many were decapitated. When Mrs. Seven was a star at the Palace Hotel, a Taiwanese and a Frenchman fell in love with her. Others, too.

Even lives not so eventful are filled with turmoil, perhaps more than usual. No life is boring if properly recounted. Though I’ve talked much shit about the painter at Ông Bầu, his story is astounding, so let me sketch Mr. Đại, as he did me today.

His father is from Cẩm Giang, a village in Bắc Ninh, a thousand miles north of Vũng Tàu. In 1883, they converted en masse to Catholicism. During the First Indochina War, it was occupied by the Việt Minh, however. From there, they shelled French troops around 1950, so Cẩm Giang was in danger of being wiped out by French bombs. Them Frogs had planes. Since Đại’s dad was about the only one who could speak some French, he was tasked with saving his village. Approaching them with a white flag, he shouted, “We’re all Catholics! We’re not Communists!”

When the Việt Minh occupied Cẩm Giang, they forced each house to display a portrait of Hồ Chí Minh. Now, those were put away. In their places were crucifixes and portraits of Mary, Joseph and Jesus. Seeing these, the French were satisfied these villagers were indeed Catholics, so they didn’t bomb, rape or steal. They paid for every chicken, duck or pig. Unfortunately, they couldn’t stay. When the Việt Minh returned, Đại’s dad was in deep shit, so he had to flee way south, alone. Left behind was his wife and oldest son. Dead, he would have been useless anyway.

Ending up in Huế, 430 miles south, he joined the army of Bảo Đại, Vietnam’s last emperor. With a steady salary, he decided to remarry, but suddenly, his wife and son showed up. Hearing this from Đại, I protested, “What’s the chance of that?! How did your mom end up in Huế? Plus, it’s a huge city, even then. What were the odds of her running into your dad?”

“But she did,” he shrugged. “They were still in debt to each other.” It’s a Vietnamese expression meaning intertwining fates haven’t finished their courses.

In Huế, then, a second son was born, then his parents came to Vũng Tàu. Here, Đại appeared. Except for a dozen years in a New Economic Zone, he’s never lived anywhere else. As a city dweller thrust into the jungles, Đại didn’t have an easy time, obviously.

“I had been in the Boy Scouts, so that helped. Plus, I was befriended by a peasant from Quảng Ngãi. He showed me what to do. I also got help from an ARVN who spent years in jungles.”

Most incredibly, Đại still had his art supplies. In the middle of nowhere, he kept drawing with charcoal and pastels. Though Đại had no idea when his ordeal would end, and he had no audience, art kept him going.

In the late 80’s when most Vietnamese were still abjectly poor, Đại somehow went to China. He’s also been to Cambodia.

(L): Vung Tau, 11/5/25 ; (R): Saigon, 10/30/25

Had Đại been exposed to oil masterpieces over decades, he would likely have become a much better painter. Even most Americans have never seen an actual Manet, Vermeer, Hopper or Lucian Freud, etc. In the entire USA, there’s just one Da Vinci. Though books could be had anywhere, few bother to read even the best their culture has produced. Belligerently, defiantly and gleefully savage, millions march towards their Golden Age.

Finishing this at Ông Bầu, I see Morose at her laptop. Two days ago, I told her about La Gi, a town just 60 miles north. She’d never heard of it. “Go to Bình Châu, have lunch, then head to La Gi. It’s fascinating!”

Everywhere, everyone and everything is, but you’re not going to catch much if you’re always glued to a screen, masked and earplugged. Landing in Saigon after a three-hour flight from Guangzhou six days ago, I photographed one such man. From Chicago, he’s always well protected. It’s worst to be safest.

Vung Tau. (L): 11/8/25 ; (R): $3.65 on 11/10/25

Cecil Hotel in LA? — Nov 10, 2025.

This morning, I bought four cucumbers, four tomatoes, ten brown eggs and three fistfuls of shiitake mushrooms. Charging me $3.65, my grocer was apologetic, “Produce prices have gone up. There have been all these storms and floods.” Days ago, the tomato crab soup lady, Mrs. Tím, also lamented about prices. As with nearly everywhere else, Vietnam is increasingly slammed by natural catastrophes, with Hội An, its best preserved historical city, deluged with a record 42 inches of rain in 24 hours just two weeks ago. Huế, a capital city in the 17^th and 18^th centuries, suffered the same. Most horrible are houses or boats destroyed. Many thousands of people simply lost everything.

Several climate engineering techniques were tested, refined or perfected during the Vietnam War. Chemical weapons, too. Agent Orange is still deforming babies and killing people here, plus in Laos and Cambodia. Though made in the USA, Uncle Sam has always denied any responsibility. That’s just how he is. Boastful, bombastic and gleefully genocidal, Trump is the perfect personification of Uncle Sam. Those who love Trump aren’t ignoring his worst traits. They admire and envy his sadism, selfishness, shamelessness, vulgarity and infantilism. They wish they were Trump. MAGA men who must lie nightly next to aging wives can only fantasize about grabbing underaged pussies. Life isn’t fair.

A barista at NaLi Beach has just died from complications of Agent Orange. Telling me this at Coffee Seven, Sơn said he was surprised to find out this man was 36-years-old. He was so stunted. As NaLi Beach’s security guard, Sơn saw him each day until two weeks ago. Even gravely sick, he couldn’t afford to quit. Since he served me just once, I can barely visualize this man.

Bet you’ve never heard of Agent Purple, Agent Blue, Agent Pink, Agent Green or Agent White? Only God knows what else Sam sprayed here so liberally. What cute names, almost like a child’s crayon set.

Typing this at Ông Bầu, I notice another customer, in her late 40’s, clipping her toenails. A feeble young man with slender, easily breakable fingers is texting. Đại the painter was here sketching. Two days ago, he brought his four-year-old granddaughter. Sitting very still, she drew birds, cats, the sun, a cloud and a tree.

When I complained about everyone staring at phones, Đại said his wife has a 20-year-old nephew who’s so addicted to the small screen, he barely eats and has no actual friends. Responding to TikTok challenges, he taped his face, then genitals. He’s now on medications.

Just now, a man in his 60’s walked in with a retarded girl of about nine. Like me, they’re sitting in Ông Bầu’s small courtyard. Their low table is just a circular board resting on two truck tires. It’s so sweet to see this old man so patient and gentle towards his granddaughter. She’s eating a pretty good looking bánh mì. On her back is a cartoon cat. Now that she’s settled and enjoying herself, he starts focusing on his cellphone.

Coffee Seven is no more! Mrs. Seven has just been evicted by her half sister. Let’s call her Lanh. Though Wikitionary only defines it as fast or quick, shiftiness is implied. Devious and ambitious, Lanh is at least 20 times richer than Mrs. Seven. When her mom and stepdad got old and messy, she maintained social distancing, all right. It was Mrs. Seven who had to wash their asses thousands of times. Instead of thanking or reimbursing Mrs. Seven, Lanh is showing her the door. In months, that property will be converted into another mini hotel. Vũng Tàu already has hundreds.

Knowing she was leaving, the neighborhood loanshark came by to embarrass Mrs. Seven. Like many people up and down this street, she still owes him some money. This 68-year-old with a pot belly exuded smugness. Speaking loudly so all could hear, Pot Belly smirkingly said Mrs. Seven wouldn’t be able to close her eyes at death. This ugliest curse, he repeated several times.

Finally, he turned to Liệt, the retired teacher, to talk about Trump. Without the Donald, China would have swallowed up Vietnam already, Pot Belly sneered. This idiot with a third grade education was only drafted into South Vietnam’s Regional Forces near the end of the war, so saw no fighting. He wasn’t reeducated in any prison camp.

His first break came when his daughter married an old Aussie, then his son wedded an ethnic Chinese with some means. From his kids, then, he got enough cash to become a loanshark.

With her two dogs, Nọng and Milk Cow, Mrs. Seven has moved into her older daughter’s house half a mile away. I kept urging her to set up a sidewalk café on Đồ Chiểu, but who knows if I will ever see her again. Sơn, too, must find a new morning spot.

Left behind is a tree her dad planted decades ago. It wasn’t even on his land, but across the street. “It’s still your tree,” I joked, “so cut it down to sell the lumber!” As a parting gift, I gave Mrs. Seven some Nepali green and black tea.

Seriously thinking about returning to the US to take care of some business, I’ve looked into hotel prices in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle and El Paso. I’ve even considered staying in Juarez, across a short bridge from El Paso. In LA, the only reasonable priced hotels are around Skid Row. Stay on Main where Melissa Lam was found dead in a rooftop watertank is now called Cecil. That’s affordable. For weeks, its water tasted funny. We still don’t know what happened to Melissa.

In that fabulous land, there are no truths, only fairy tales about Lincoln, Roosevelt, JFK, RFK, MLK, Malcolm X, Moon Landings and 9/11, etc. Nothing ever said about it is remotely true, except when uttered, tweeted or pontificated by that radiant and anointed being who’s always right about everything.

Trump, Miller, Schumer and Dinh — Nov 11, 2025.

The sadistic mastermind behind ICE is Stephen Miller, a Jew whose real name is Glosser. He’s greenlit masked thugs to attack even citizens in broad daylight. There’s no transparency about the thousands kidnapped. Many were plucked from inside courthouses as they obeyed American laws. Racial profiling is rampant. Trump and Miller creamed their pants Christening one concentration camp “Alligator Alcatraz.” Judeo Christianity rules! I’d not be surprised if many victims have been tortured or murdered. Not realizing they may be next, MAGA morons cheer. In the meantime, they’re just bankrupted or starved.

Trump’s Democratic opposition is led by Chuck Schumer, the highest ranking Jew ever in the US government. Though enjoying a surge of support due to revulsion to Degenerate Donald, Schumer’s Dems have given up fighting for affordable healthcare. Us vs. Dem in US politics is always smoke and mirror.

Trumpers, though, will laugh off street protests or online outrage.

Darth Shredder, “Dems literally had NO REASON to cave… They had the polls in their favor… huge election wins to solidify it and momentum on their side. Republicans were seen as the villains, trump was losing support and getting desperate by taking away SNAP. What was the frickin point of even shutting it down in the first place? They not only got nothing… they lost the narrative and shifted all the blame to them. I’m done.”

Love One Another, “Chuck Schumer orchestrated this Kabuki Theater. He’s a lying TRAITOR! WE WILL PRIMARY YOU, CHUCK. MAGA NOT DEMOCRAT. HOW DARE YOU! Chuck just killed over 50,000 of us each year, who can’t stay alive without medical care.”

SkyP1e, “I started dialysis this year the cost comes to about $80,000 annually. I’m on disability and my private insurance dropped me right after the dialysis started so I applied for Medicaid. I eventually got approved but it took about six weeks of constant attention from me to get there. Chuck might have just killed me tonight. Thanks a lot scumbag.”

Seriously, though, how can you take people who call themselves SkyP12, Love One Another or Darth Shredder seriously? They’re no more real than Catdompa, Gigolo Joe, Mister Charlie PhD, Trinity or Arbeit Macht Frei, etc. Passing impotent gas, pseudonymous commenting perpetuates tyranny.

Genocides and economic collapse must go on.

Trump’s lead negotiator in the Middle East is Steve Witkoff. This Jew misled the Iranians into thinking the US was negotiating in good faith, but Trump colluded with Jews to attack, before bombing them himself. Though holding no official position, Trump’s Jewish son-in-law Jared Kushner has just met with Netanyahu to sort out what to do with the remaining Palestinians in Gaza.

Israeli real estate firm Harey Zahav cheerfully chirps, “Wake up, a beach house is not a dream!” Jews are salivating at moving into a Gaza free of Arabs. Trump envisions his golden statue, hotel and casino lording over them. How many prepubescent shiksas will be imported? Pain is their ultimate aim. Trump’s fingers still work, at least. Dumpster diving MAGA morons can follow the action on Truth Social or TikTok. Since they can’t afford to fly an hour to see dying grandma, they won’t be anywhere near Trump Gaza. Jews don’t care to see such vulgar red caps or T-shirts anyway.

“JESUS IS MY SAVIOR. TRUMP IS MY PRESIDENT.” “GOD, GUNS AND TRUMP.” “Liberty Guns Beer Trump” for LGBT. “IT’S GONNA TAKE A FELON AND A HILLBILLY TO FIX THIS.” Show up with any of these in Tel Aviv to be spat on.

Speaking to the Republican Jewish Coalition on 10/31/25, Lindsey Graham proudly declared, “I feel good about the Republican Party and where we’re going as a nation. We’re killing all the right people and we’re cutting your taxes. Trump is my favorite president. We’ve run out of bombs. We didn’t run out of bombs in WWII.” Graham has been a senator for 22 years. Before that, he was a congressman for eight years. Though usually less crude, most US senior politicians have exactly the same posture, ass up, that is, towards Jews.

Last Sunday, Trump appeared at a Commanders vs. Lions game. Though he was loudly booed or given the finger by nearly everyone present, a White House video of this humiliating incident shows Epstein’s best buddy given a hero’s welcome. It begins with Air Force One flying slowly over Northwest Stadium. A football with “TRUMP—COMMANDER IN CHIEF” and a jersey with “TRUMP” are shown. The latter, framed, is presented to him by the team’s owner, Josh Harris. This Jew with a shady business history has had much dealing with Jared Kushner.

It’s a nation of scams, lies and spins. Still thinking about a brief visit back, I checked Las Vegas hotel prices. With delight, I discovered 14 nights at Excalibur, right on the Strip, was on sale for just $359.74. The normal cost is $1,269.33. In small print, though, there’s this easy to miss bit, “Not included in price (collected by the property): Resort Fee (Pay at property) USA 714.28.” How many foreign visitors only discover this when checking in? No other country tries to pull off such a stunt, but then, again, no other nation is ruled by Donald Trump, Stephen Miller, Jared Kushner and Bibi Netanyahu.

Yesterday, I also got this email:

Though a bit long-winded, it sounded exactly like Trump, so of course, I immediately sent all my savings to The Donald via PayPal.

Forget San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, El Paso or Las Vegas, I will fly straight from Saigon to Dulles Airport, then take a limousine to the White House. To its swarthy driver, I’ll bark, “Trump has me covered. I’m his Official White House Advisor, so step on the gas, motherfucker! Any delay and I’ll have you deported. Where are you from anyway? Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen? Go back to where you came from, dickhead. Crawl back into your Bin Laden cave!”

Since it’s nearly freezing in DC, I will need to buy a cashmere coat, for the occasion, you know. In this tropical climate, a Binori or Canali would be very tough to find. Plus, I just sent all my cash to Trump. Enthusiasm, fanaticism or just stupidity can even lead to suicide, or at least death by a thousand cuts.

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

22,630 Days — Nov 12, 2025.

On my 62^nd birthday, I’ve allowed myself to go mad, or, rather, to revert to a madder, more irresponsible self. At 9:35AM, I’m on my second BeerLao, though the first was somewhat shared with Như. She hardly drank her iced glass. Now, I’m sitting outside a liquor store that has maybe 30 types of beer. Four feet from me is a masked crone no taller than 4’9”. Across the street is Mrs. Tím, the crab noodle soup lady. Under her conical hat, she’s cleaning up and putting her tables and chairs away.

Until a minute ago there was a recorded song from inside the licker joint. It’s played for the owner’s 21-month-old daughter. I first heard it nearly 60 years ago. It’s about some frog sobbing in a corner. Tagged on stanzas include a dog, monkey and other animals. There’s an obscene version of a girl pissing in a corner.

Come out here, what’s that sitting in the corner?
Only her back is shown. Oh, it’s a girl!
It’s a girl pissing, with only her back shown.
Oh, she’s a bad girl!

That didn’t just leave a profound impression on me at age 8 or 9, it has defined my entire life, I’m sure. Without this ditty, I could have been a venture capitalist, five-star general or president of the United States of America. Now, I’m permanently traumatized.

A couple months ago, I challenged Như to finish her book in a year. It’s coming along. Two weeks ago, I said I’d give her a serious spanking if it’s not done on schedule. I was born to coach, mentor or just be an asshole.

This morning, I told Như about Raymond Carver and Harold Brodkey. Over decades, details may slip. Recently, I insisted to D.W. Shumway my Mariners lost to the A’s by identical score, 6-0, on consecutive days in 1976. Problem is D.W. was at the fuckin’ first game! I only heard it on the radio in Salem, Oregon. It was the Angels, and not A’s.

Me this morning, “Carver wrote about being in some Yakima laundromat and feeling rather sorry for himself. That really resonated with me. I was living in Grays Ferry, this shitty neighborhood in Philly. Though I didn’t know it at the time, Grays Ferry kids, these Irish, Catholic boys, were selling soiled underwear to this creep, Uncle Eddie. He lived in Center City’s best neighborhood, Rittenhouse Square. Just the name alone, you can tell. Though he was a UPenn graduate and had a wife, Uncle Eddie was a closet faggot, with a shit fetish. Lying under a glass table, he enjoyed staring at shit oozing from these boys’ assholes.”

I’m not sure Như wanted to hear all that around 7AM. I did have a point. Uncle Eddie had a vision, which he followed. He was more artist than most artists. If eating shit is intrinsic to who you are, don’t overmask it.

Me on Brodkey, “This guy was so heavily promoted, and he was excellent. His prose is much better than Carver’s. Brodkey has the most amazing passage about pussy licking, and it went on for four or five pages! He seemed so honest and candid, but it turned out Brodkey was a queer. He had to admit this because he got AIDS.”

Như, “Queers can be amazing at pussy licking because they don’t like penetration. They must focus on that!”

“You must write about that, too!”

Như said that as a child, she was always screaming inside her head. As a kid, all I wanted was to grow up as quickly as possible, so I could escape.

“We’re all helpless children,” I said. “You’re not really in your 30’s.”

“I feel like I’m 23.”

“Bullshit! You’re about 8-years-old, at most. I’m 4 or 5.”

Of course, writing is one way of dressing yourself up, to sound more intelligent and in control, you know, but if your baby, malformed or monkey self cannot seep out, you’re a waste of time, if not a criminal.

“We’re always dressed up.”

“Even when naked, we’re dressed up.” She’s trying to outdo me!

Not willing to concede defeat, I cited Andre Dworkin’s Intercourse, “She has some of the most amazing insights into being naked I’ve ever read.”

At age 70 or so, poet Stephen Berg pulled down his pants at a gathering of maybe six people. “Look at that,” he shouted. I wasn’t there, though. Versions of this story must be circulating around Philly, at least. “Why did he do that?” I asked Như. “What’s the symbolism of that?” Berg’s infant or beast got loose, and not for the first time. This time, he wanted to be caught.

Như talked about sabotaging every relationship. Having turned away from everyone, she felt a perplexing guilt.

“But you’re not going to change.”

“I’m not going to change.”

“You’re getting even.”

Like me, Như decided early on to never have children. We can’t justify passing on our despair, resentment and horrors. Unhappy children are most trapped.

Without that frog song, I could have been a Vince Lombardi or, at least, a Pete Carrol, but instead, I’m just a canceled, wrinkled toddler drinking a $1.50 large bottle of BeerLao in perfect weather. Imbibing nothing but perfectly content, at least in appearance, that masked mummy keeps turning her vigilant skull with its murky eyeballs back and forth, as if there’s much to look at on this drowsy, terribly boring street.

All week, I thought about returning briefly to the States, but my US banking and Vietnam residency issues have mostly been solved. A visit to Guam, the first US territory I entered way back in 1975, is still a possibility. As the native land of the Chamorros, all of the Marianas should be one nation, I’d think. Instead, Guam will likely be the first territory to be completely wiped out during the next nuclear war. The Chinese DF-26 missile is even nicknamed “Guam Express” or “Guam Killer.”

The rest of the Marianas would be uninhabitable, but that’s probably true of everywhere else, too.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices ov da Trumpocalypse, #5

“Belligerently, defiantly and gleefully savage, millions march towards their Golden Age.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Leavitt for President! — Nov 07, 2025.

Trump on 11/6/25, “2025 Thanksgiving dinner under Trump is 25% lower than 2024 Thanksgiving dinner under Biden, according to Walmart. My cost are lower than the Democrats on everything, especially oil and gas! So the Democrats ‘affordability’ issue is DEAD! STOP LYING!!!”

White man in his 30’s, “We’re now at the point of, you can finance your food. Like, people are so poor that you can actually finance your food! We went from being able to finance a house to financing a burrito. That’s insane! […] The unemployment rate is 4.2% or 4.9%. Like, give me a break! […] There’s no chance that 96% of people are employed right now [….] Most of my college friends are either vastly underemployed or unemployed now, so that number is just completely wrong.”

Sobbing white woman in her 60’s, sitting in a car, “I don’t even know where to go anymore. All I keep doing is driving back and forth on highways. We spend all our time in the car. I can’t even cook for him anymore, because it’s getting colder outside. I try to do my best, but where am I going? Where am I going? I’m either driving to a friend’s cabin, which is three hours away, or I’m driving to a campground, which is $38 a night and has a shower. Either way, I’m spending money […] Working decades, you think retirement is a time of peace and quiet, you’re rewarded for all your hard work. For so many, it has become a complete nightmare […] There are so many people right now that are one rent, one medical bill and one bad month of being homeless out on the streets.”

She had started a new business, but it flopped, like thousands across the USA just this year, then she and her husband were evicted. Her property taxes were jacked up, like her utility and grocery bills. Even with jobs, millions of Americans can no longer afford to live.

Those employed are overworked and underpaid. Thousands of nurses and teachers are quitting. The latter must deal with increasingly stupid, distracted and belligerent students with their minds and emotions wrecked by screen addiction. The moronic and deranged are easier to steer and cow. Just look at MAGA fanatics.

Nurse, “It got to the point where I was crying on my way to work every day. My mental health was just so bad, I knew I needed to leave, so I did. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life and it took me a long time to finally find the courage to leave. I had studied nursing and worked in healthcare since I was 17 years old.” If native nurses can’t hack it, there’s an endless supply from the Philippines, India, Mexico and Africa to replace them. All speak enough English. They’ve been bringing them in for decades. Ditto, Trump. A diseased oligarch, he can’t help but squeeze hardest from the bottom. Biden sniffs and squeezes. Trump grabs. Nearing the end, he’s squeezing and grabbing even harder. Melania flinches. She got hers.

Trump on 11/5/25, “Our Economy is BOOMING, and Costs are coming way down. Affordability is our goal. Love to the American People!”

Since all these panicking Americans are saying the opposite of Trump, they must be lying. Chaos at American airports are fake news or deep fakes. Thanksgiving dinner under Trump is really 25% lower. So what if this year’s Walmart version only has 15 items instead of 21, with a smaller turkey. No one will miss the Southern pecan pie, sweet potatoes or cranberry sauce, etc.

This morning at Coffee Seven, I said to Liệt, the retired teacher, “Obama was excellent at lying. Trump is just naked. He has no shame!”

Liệt just laughed.

In a new video, Trump depicts himself as a rising sun, crowned king, the pope and a muscle man holding a laser sword. His approval rating still stands at 37%.

Trump has birthed a new YouTube genre, FAFO, for “fuck around and find out.” MAGA farmers, welfare queens and truckers, etc., are mocked when they suddenly find themselves broke or starving. Especially ridiculed are the browns, blacks and yellows who voted for someone who clearly hates them. I, for one, don’t think Trump’s cabinet is MAGA enough. It should only be filled with well stacked blondes. Don’t you think Karen Leavitt would look fantastic as your next president? Sure beats Hillary, Ocasio-Cortez or Pocahontas. I’d fly back just to vote for Leavitt.

Meanwhile, they moan, and not orgasmically.

El Pais on 11/5/25, “‘I’m angry with my president:’ Trump voters in Florida confront the fallout of his policies a year before the midterms—Reeling from aid cuts, the immigration agenda and a government shutdown with no end in sight, those who supported the Republican in the 2024 elections feel a mixture of guilt, anger and bewilderment.”

Suck it up! And suck it good.

Vung Tau. (L): $47.35 on 11/7/25 ; (R): 11/8/25

Intergalactic Trillionaires — Nov 08, 2025.

Petronius, “So the little man suffers, while those grinders of the poor never stop celebrating.” They do it often enough at Mar-a-Lago. This 126-room property on 17 acres was built by Marjorie Merriweather Post, the richest woman in the USA, just before the Great Depression.

In The Satyricon, Trimalchio leaves his feast to take a dump. In Fellini’s version, this is even announced, “Vado al vaso,” to heighten the obscenity of the entire scene. The fat man needs help from two near naked slaves just to get up. Later, he cracks a lame joke, “What’s a poor man?” Still, his guests laugh. They’re elaborately, almost grotesquely made up, with their blueish or grayish faces ghoulish in that dark, orange walled room.

At least Trump’s Great Gatsby Halloween bash was well lit, and he didn’t need to leave his chair to go al vaso. Remarkably, MAGA morons still think Trump’s jokes, including those on them, are hilarious. He’s still fighting a court order to feed starving Americans.

In Vung Tau, even that Cambodian who sleeps outside Ông Bầu each night isn’t starving, and neither is Hùng the cyclo driver who’s been homeless for four decades. With the weather always warm, they’re also in no danger of freezing to death.

Having lost much weight in two years, I’m still a fat American, figuratively speaking. Yesterday, my shopping at Lotte Mart cost $47.35. I bought three jars of Cucina and Amore spaghetti sauce from Italy, two bags of frozen dumplings from South Korea, three Black Angus burger patties from Australia, cream cheese from the USA, wasabi paste from Japan, five small boxes of Vietnamese chocolate, 100 bags of Phúc Long green teas, 30 frozen meat balls and a tray of ready-to-eat tuna with mayo kimbap. Had this haul been in the USA, all the imported stuff would have been slapped with Trumpian tariffs. I would have had to pay twice as much. For basics like cucumbers, tomatoes, okras, hot peppers and eggs, I go to a neighborhood grocer, where I rarely spend more than $3!

Having lived here and there, my diet is eclectic, but even Viets who haven’t traveled are becoming fond of foreign dishes. Kids now demand donuts, hot dogs, spaghetti with red sauce or sushi for breakfast. Poorer ones, though, must stick with sticky rice with peanuts, lotus seeds, coconut shavings or pork floss, etc.

For Americans, peak eating occurred during the 80’s and 90’s. In the 70’s, they were still tricked into ingesting Wonderbread, American cheese, Tang, Yoo Hoo, Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Miracle Whip, Chef Boyardee, Oreos, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, Country Crock of Shit and Pop Tarts, etc. Their ancestors’ culinary heritages were nearly wiped out, so words such as prosciutto, chorizo, pecorino and terrine, etc., hadn’t just disappeared, but considered pretentious, nearly obscene, unlike Funyuns, Lachoy, Koogle or Mountain Dew. This was bizarre. Empires are supposed to gather the best from all over. Americans mostly ate garbage.

Working in DC in the 80’s, I would get Greek rice or moussaka at a food court off Farragut West. Immigrants and refugees from all over enriched the local food scene. Ethiopian cuisine was hot. In Santa Clara, CA, my father opened a Japanese restaurant.

In 1989, the Berlin Wall collapsed. In 1991, the Soviet Union dissolved. America wasn’t just on top, but seemingly the only solution to everything. Offshoring had already started, however. As always, profits had to be maximized.

Vung Tau, 11/7/25

Those grinders of the poor need that separation, that contrast, to be as stark as possible. Subsidized by chumps like you over decades, Elon Musk is now a trillionaire. Trump family’s net worth has more than doubled since his reentry into the White House. Though he’s parlayed this penetration into 3 billion bucks, he won’t dispense just $188 per SNAP recipient, and it’s not even his money, but yours!

At Walmart, a loaf of Wonderbread is just over $3, with taxes. Two slices, though, will give you as much calcium as an 8 oz glass of milk! Since each loaf has 26 slices, four a day, equal to two glasses of milk, will keep you going for 6.5 days. Just keep eating Wonderbread, then, as you wait for Elon Musk to rocket you into heaven. The genius, “With AI and robotics, you can actually increase the global economy by a factor of 10, or 100. There’s not, like, an obvious limit.”

There’s no ceiling to your imminent wealth. You, too, will be a multi-trillionaire, and an intergalactic one! Stop thinking so small. Those penny counting days are over. No more Ramen Pride! On Mars, Saturn or wherever, there will be so much of everything, filet mignons and lobster tails, plus underaged tails, too, everything your massas are enjoying. Why shouldn’t you live like Soros or Trump?

(L): The Gold Office’s Golden Calf ; (R): still from Fellini’s Satyricon

Naked Degeneracy — Nov 09, 2025.

Netanyahu’s paternal grandfather was Nathan Mileikowsky. The Argentinian president is Javier Gerardo Milei.

At a Miami synagogue in 2024, a kippah wearing Milei or Mileikowsky spoke about his grandfather. Only near death did he find out he was Jewish, Milei claimed. Still, “He was very close to his mother and his grandfather was also a rabbi. That is to say, all the education he had received from them was deeply linked to Judaism and all the values he transmitted to me were Jewish.”

All the values, mind you, so Milei was either pandering or lying. John Kerry, too, said he only knew he wasn’t Irish, but Jewish, late in life. His real name is Cohen.

Though a supposed Catholic, Milei has a personal rabbi, Shimon Axel Wahnish, with whom he’s studied the Torah. At the Western Wall in 2024, Milei didn’t just pray but sob. Following Trump, Milei plans to move Argentina’s embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, just to say fuck you to Arabs. He also fully supports Jews butchering Palestinians in Gaza or wherever.

After visiting the Miami synagogue, Milei flew to Texas to meet Elon Musk, a self-proclaimed “aspirational Jew.”

Since 10/7/23, the US has given Israel at least $16.3 billion to ethnically cleanse Gaza. Last month, Trump’s regime gave Milei’s Argentina 20 billion bucks, with 20 billion more coming “from sovereign funds and the private sector.” Sovereign funds are just American tax money invested.

In what other country could a leader be so generous with his citizens’ cash? Trump is also starving millions of Americans while forcing millions more to work without pay. Limp, stinking and near death, Degenerate Donald really enjoys twisting that knife.

The world notices. Times of India on 11/3/25, “Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago Halloween party, featuring half-naked dancers in a giant martini glass, drew sharp criticism as millions lost food aid during the government shut down […] Internet compared the scene to ‘Epstein Island,’ as, just like the late paedophile, the party also seemed to have similar vibes of wealth, secrecy, and moral decay.”

Of course, Trump won’t tone it down. A Conservative Political Action Conference bash at Mar-a-Lago had guests gushing over its seafood spread, ice sculpture and even majestic bathrooms. Entire families can comfortably sleep in there, even on the floor. A $64,000 beach vacation in Thailand was auctioned. An opera singer is dressed like a belly dancer. The highlight, though, was Milei doing a Trumpian, stiff white man dance to roars and cheers. His 55-year-old, undiapered hips did sway, though, unlike Trump’s burdened behind. With a $40 billion bailout, why shouldn’t Milei be giddy?

(R): hot singer Halsey

Daily, grotesque displays pile up. Most emblematic, though, is Trump standing stiffly at the Resolute Desk, staring ahead and not giving a shit while just feet away lies a collapsed man. Everyone else, alarmed, is showing concern. Not seen is Trump’s Secretary of Health and Human Services, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., for he has run off. That, too, is emblematic.

Trump pulling out a chair for Netanyahu will be also be remembered. With so many days left before Donald drops dead or is assassinated, for real, we can count on many more lowlights. In a decade, perhaps, there will be a traveling exhibit of such photos. This is what America has become.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

America’s in Silent Free Fall

By Epic Economist.

Video Description:
“The American economy is crashing right now, and it’s worse than most people realize. From banks refusing cash withdrawals to nearly a million jobs lost to automation, from healthcare premiums doubling overnight to stores packed with inventory nobody can afford, the warning signs are everywhere.

In this video, we’re looking at what’s really happening on the ground. Not the official numbers or media spin, but what everyday Americans are experiencing: being interrogated at banks for their own money, losing jobs at profitable companies, watching healthcare become completely unaffordable, and seeing the retail economy grind to a halt.

This isn’t just a recession. Multiple systems are breaking down at once, and most people don’t realize how connected it all is. The crash is already here, the question is whether you’re prepared when it hits your situation directly.”

Act now while still have options:

• Families need to be extremely selective about spending as every dollar needs to go further in what’s coming
• If have income, built savings fast
• If have a job, create backup income streams
• If have a house, make sure can afford it if your income drops
• Keep cash accessible
• Cut unnecessary spending immediately
• Built relationships locally with people you can count on
• Learn skills that cannot be automated
• Face reality; elites behind this government abrogated the social contract and are engaged in uncontrolled demolition

see: our Prepping and Survival Thread

Slices of Life, #14

“I walked past a McDonald’s, Starbucks, 7-11 and Kentucky Fried Chicken, all lined up, cheek to cheek. America’s icons will survive its collapse.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Kathmandu. (L): 10/29/25 ; (R): 10/28/25

Go There! — Oct 29, 2025.

Walking a couple miles, I got a last look at everything, that square with the serene stupa and Tibetan temple, KTM Burger, Fire Café, Bueno Burrito, the early morning chai place that made me feel so at home on my first morning, 4 Square with Sumitra mopping the steps, the Indian beggar in his NIKE knit cap, Saroj’s store, founded in 1943 by his grandad, where I bought more treats and yak cheese. I passed too many gorgeous neighborhood temples to count. I moved too fast for stray dogs to say goodbye or curse me for leaving them.

With plenty of time before my flight, I asked the taxi driver to leave me outside the airport’s gate. Thirty-seven years old, he’s been driving 15 years. Though his village is only 100 kilometers away, he doesn’t have to go there since his parents are dead. Only his 55-year-old brother remains.

“Does he want to come here? To work?”

“He was here.”

“No job!”

“No job.”

“At his age, it’s better he stays in the village. When you’re over 45 or so, no one will hire you for anything. They don’t want experience, only young, strong bodies.”

He chuckled in agreement.

“In Vietnam, too, it’s like that.”

“It’s like that everywhere.”

“For women, it’s even worse. They only want young, pretty women in the restaurants and cafés. Hey, how come your English is so good?”

“I practice.”

“No classes?”

“Four classes!” he chuckled.

That’s all he could afford, obviously. He pays 15,000 rupees ($106) a month for rent. His taxi costs 3,000 a day. That’s also the monthly tuition for his five-year-old-son. Since his other son is only 1 ½, his wife must stay home to take care of this baby. Food for four costs 20,000 per month.

“I have no savings,” he said. “Sometimes, I take out loans.”

“But the interests are so high!”

“There are no jobs.”

“Too many people from the villages, and not enough tourists. I’m very surprised.”

“They’re scared.”

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

“But that was what, six or seven weeks ago? It’s perfectly safe here. Even then, there was no danger. If you see a protest, you just walk the other way! Did you see anything?”

“No, just on the mobile,” he chuckled.

“The protests were in a tiny area. Tourists, though, are always nervous. In Kathmandu, they stay inside a tiny area, where they can eat burgers and pizzas!” I laughed. I didn’t confess to pigging out at Bueno Burrito several times. Vung Tau has no Tex-Mex.

Just now, a guy about 50 looked over my shoulder to see what I was typing. We smiled. I’m sitting outside a cheerful and perfectly skanky eatery with dirty dishes on the concrete floor. Waiting to explode, an old gas canister lies on its side. The young waitress looked very nervous when I said, “Chai,” or when I threw up an index finger, meaning one more. Smartly dressed in his school uniform of button-up shirt, neck tie, creased shorts and dress shoes, a boy of eight eyed me as he walked past. Ten feet away, blue and red plastic bags of food garbage lean against each other. All I smell, though, is the curry being cooked. Since I don’t feel like sweating in agony, I’m not going to order anything. Tall bottles of Gorkha are certainly tempting.

This time tomorrow, I’ll be on my last leg to Saigon. Suddenly, I’ll be in balmy weather again. Snow is expected across Nepal within 48 hours. “4,982 escapees are still on the run,” announces the Himalayan on its front page. Also, Cameroon has just elected a 92-year-old president. Since Trump is just 79, Americans should expect 15 more years, at least, of winning big, no inflation and having so much money, they won’t know what to do. Unlike Elvis, Trump won’t ever leave the building.

At 10:16AM, I’ve cleared immigration and security check. There was a long line to just enter the airport. With boarding still an hour away, I rewarded myself with a 500 ml can of Nepal Ice. With its licker content at 6.1%, I’ll be groovy on that plane. Maybe I’ll sing Elvis.

Already, I miss Shree Gha Vihar, but here’s a deep, original thought. You can’t be everywhere at once! I should have been a hash pushing guru. It’s never too late. That’s what they all say, even as they’re lowered into the ground.

That thought just now is but a limp riff on what my long lost buddy, Aziz Vargha, said. When I visited Aziz on the 8^th floor of Pennsylvania Hospital, America’s oldest, he lamented, “You know what’s funny, man? You can’t just be somewhere, you must go there! That takes time.”

Born in Iran, Aziz was raised in Germany then the UK before ending up in the USA. He had “MADE IN USA” tattooed on his forehead, back when tatts anywhere was still rare. Sitting in McGlinchey’s among whites, Aziz shouted, “I’m white, man, just like you!” Soon after, he said to a table of blacks, “I’m black, just like you!”

One snowless Christmas, we headed to Kensington to get lots of the white stuff. Doing lines, we laughed so hard. If alive, Aziz would not being do well, I’m sorry to say. He was already a mess four decades ago.

Just sitting still takes time. That’s all we have. Even if it’s just a hundred yards, I’d rather go there.

After my laptop went dead, I rushed to a charging station. Seeing my heavy machine, a woman in her mid 50’s asked in a Germanic or Dutch accent, “Do you want to sit here?”

“No, no, I just need to charge my laptop. Thank you!’

Immediately I thought of an old woman on the Rome subway from 26 years ago. “Chi vuole scendered?” she said in the gentlest voice imaginable. She even smiled slightly.

Such sweetness or civility is what we live for. OK, must run now. Boarding time. I must go there!

Guangzhou, 10/29/25

Too Heavenly for Words — Oct 30, 2025.

If still in Nepal, I would have been in bed by the time I landed in China. Though exhausted, I was also elated at finally entering China, so I headed into town. Getting a transit visa was relatively painless and not too time consuming. After changing $100 into yuans, I found my way to the Metro. Though I had visited Macau and Hong Kong, and saw Chinese streets from across a thin river in Lào Cai, only now was I inside!

Having no Google Maps, I didn’t know which station to get off. One that connected to two other lines sounded like a transportation hub, so must be busy at street level? Outside, there were just vendors selling assorted sausages on sticks, mostly, taxis and motorbike taxis. No stores or cafes were within walking distance. This was Guangzhou at its grubbiest. The station, though, was well appointed. After ten minutes, I headed back in.

Guangzhou, 10/29/25

Since the ticket machine didn’t accept my 100 yuan bill, a uniformed employee went out of her way to get me change. She also suggested a more lively station. This young lady couldn’t have been nicer.

On the train, all but a very old, tiny woman were looking at phones. Whether in Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Thailand or China, Asian subways are new, safe, clean and on time. The squeaking horror shows that still chug along in NYC or Philly are certainly cinematic. Since DC’s Metro must serve swamp dwellers, lobbyists, lawyers and Pentagon staffers, it’s cleaner and safer, though still dark and almost spooky in its cavernous design. DC go-go bars have nicer dancers, too, and they show everything. No coquettish peekaboo. Powerful old creeps don’t have time for subtleties.

Of course I forgot the recommended station, so got off at another drab neighborhood, but this one had stores and restaurants. I walked past a McDonald’s, Starbucks, 7-11 and Kentucky Fried Chicken, all lined up, cheek to cheek. America’s icons will survive its collapse. 7-Eleven has long been owned by the Japanese. Sears, once a symbol of America’s abundance, is mostly dead at home. There are three in Mexico City. I ran into one.

Standing outside McDonald’s, I heard John Denver’s “Take Me Home,” though sung in Cantonese, with only bits of English. “Country roads take me home, to the place I belong. West Virginia, mountain momma. Take me home, country roads.” Arriving in the US in 1975, this was one of the first songs I could almost sing.

Further on was a local fried chicken joint where sat three Chinese and an African. I noticed two pizzarie and several convenience stores. At a bright stand selling lottery tickets, a young female employee slept with her head slumped on a table. I entered a lit up Cantonese restaurant with uncleared tables and beer cans on the floor. To compensate for my suffering, I ordered too much food. I was nearly comatose. Grabbing a takeaway container, I then exited to look for a taxi. Before leaving, I did notice adds for prostitutes inside the toilet. In London, they lined phone booths, with exotic chicks from Spain, Russia, Ukraine, Scandinavia and Brazil, etc., especially popular. Dom leather, water sports, pussy licking, uniforms, toys and spanking were all available.

At Kathmandu’s airport, there were about 30 English high school kids. I heard one say, “I’d be very sad if you were to die on the way back.” Deadpan Brit humor. My favorite is what an Englishman says to his wife after their very first night, “I sure hope you’re pregnant, dear, because I don’t want to go through all those ridiculous motions again.”

Reentering Guangzhou’s airport, I knew my can of Nepal Ice, saved for Sơn in Vũng Tàu, would likely be confiscated, but there’s no way I could drink it myself. I had a can of clam sauce taken in Philly, a bottle of wine snatched somewhere and a jar of confit nearly filched from me at Heathrow. Global madness amplified after 9/11, the Anthrax scare then the Shoe Bomber, all hoaxes. In case you haven’t figured it out, Covid was an American bio attack on China, then Iran. Already a totalitarian state, China didn’t need a fake virus to paralyze itself. It was real enough for them to way overreact. Trump’s economic war against China should also be seen in this context. Xi, and Putin, too, certainly knows who’s his main enemy.

Exhausted and irritated, I made a beeline for those sleeping pods I had seen two weeks earlier. At just 138 yuans ($19.44) for three hours, it was absurdly cheap. Inside, there was a comfy seat that could be reclined nearly flat, lights that could be dimmed, a quiet fan and a TV. I assumed when my three hours were up, some alarm would go off or there would be knocks on the locked door, but nothing happened. I slept two extra hours. This, I only realized after emerging outside. Last night’s employee was asleep at her counter.

Since it wasn’t quite 6AM, restaurants were just setting up. Arabica, though, was open. A latte was just what I needed. Even before my first sip, I took photos of this elegant café. Their baguette sandwiches seemed proper. Nearly all Asian and European airports are more comfortable, better organized and civilized than American ones. At Guangzhou’s, hot or cold water is available for free, and you can sleep well enough even outside those pods. There are also free shower stalls. Even today, you cannot take a train from JFK to Manhattan.

At Mi Cang, I ordered rice gruel with just bits of minced pork and century egg, a peasant breakfast much beloved by my buddy John, an ethnic Chinese in Malaysia. It’s his ultimate comfort food, what his mama must have made often. It’s akin to oatmeal for many Americans. In Macau, I met a Chinese-American transplant who was delighted to find a store selling oatmeal. He needed it to feel at home

At $5.92, Mi Cang’s rice gruel was much fancier, for it came with four Japanese fried dumplings. On the menu were also Vietnamese phở, Japanese ramen with tonkatsu and a burger combo that looked pretty good, but they all do in photos. Eating my grub, I thought of a Nam Cao story where a woman feeds slop meant for pigs to her kids. Her calling it chè, a sweet, cold soup eaten as snacks, doesn’t fool them.

Looking up, I noticed a line at my gate, earlier than expected. Joining it, I asked a young white man if this was for Ho Chi Minh City, but he didn’t answer. Overhearing me, a Chinese said, “Yes, Ho Chi Minh.” The other couldn’t hear because he had earbuds on. To block out the foreign, many tourists must listen to familiar songs and check, constantly, websites from home.

With Guangzhou’s airport so vast, you must often take a shuttle to your plane. Getting on, I immediately looked for Vietnamese faces, but there was none. I also strained to hear Vietnamese, without success. Two weeks earlier, the flight from Saigon to Guangzhou had few Vietnamese. It’s that human or animal instinct to identify your own. Forever, life and death could depend on it.

Guangzhou, 10/29 – 30/25

With more money, and many more people, Chinese are much more visible everywhere. With increasing economic and political might, Chinese tourists and immigrants will be even more ubiquitous. JD Vance’s characterization of them as peasants exposes his hickishness. In Canada and Australia, rich Chinese have made real estate prices in many cities unaffordable for native peasants, workers and even the middle class.

After failing repeatedly to log on to Yahoo! Mail or my SubStack, I realized they were blocked. Everything Yahoo! is inaccessible there. Same with Google, Wikipedia, New York Times and Washington Post, etc. China doesn’t want any American information or disinformation for its citizens.

Rejecting most American products, it’s also prepared to ditch the American consumer. That righteous and pushy slob has been buying on credit for decades, from China, Japan, South Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia and, literally, every country you can think of.

Landing in Saigon, I will leap immediately onto a mini bus for Vung Tau. Failing to bring Sơn a Nepalese beer, I thought of getting him a Chinese one, but busy writing, I never got round to it. Those remaining yuans I’ll use, hopefully, on a proper trip to China.

Cloudy paths, zap me home! To that place, I sorta belong! Ocean mamas, they’re singing and dancing, all right. It’s enough to steal glimpses of them every so often. Why should they sing to me?

On the Kathmandu to Guangzhou leg, two babies on my row screamed or cried often. Others elsewhere did the same. Now, I only hear the slurping of noodles from the guy two seats away. Since there’s no broth, I’m not sure how he does that. Behind me is a well masked American from Chicago. Risking death or long Covid, he did manage to take it off to eat.

I finish this at 6:58PM in Vung Tau. It’s as if I never left. This is Như’s last day at Ông Bầu Coffee, she just told me.

“Where will you go next?”

“I don’t know.”

I don’t either. At some point, I should return to the US to experience, at least for a couple weeks, its Golden Age. I must catch Honolulu, El Paso or San Francisco before it becomes too heavenly for words. As for Philly, I won’t even recognize it, I’m sure.

Guangzhou, 10/30/25

Shrinking Brains and Dwellings — Oct 31, 2025.

On 5/29/25, a garbage truck stopped a Kings Park, NY middle school to empty its dumpster. There, a school janitor saw an injured, garbage draped man trying to climb from the truck. After it emptied its load, another was discovered, but well dead. Since this happened at the back of the school, no student witnessed the horror. Learnt of it from television news, how many thought this could ever happen to them? Much more likely, they envisioned their future as a president, astronaut, NBA star, Hollywood actress, trophy wife, rapper or, at the very least, YouTube influencer. On that date, the low was only 55, so these unfortunates or human garbage had slept inside the dumpster not for warmth, but to be safe. This was conditional on them getting up before the arrival of the garbage truck.

In Santa Monica, bums, especially female ones, dwell inside locked toilets. Further north, you can rent a tent pitched on someone’s backyard. Storage units are more solid, but illegal. Still, thousands of Americans must be dwelling in them. So loaded, they don’t know what to do with their heaps of cash. Those who freeze outside in the winter must be alcoholics or drug addicts, according to conventional wisdom. Don’t say it’s too funny a word in Trumplandia.

Sleeping quite well in my tiny pod at Guangzhou’s airport, I thought these compact solutions should be scattered everywhere. Herding American peasants into cities, huge parks were built to give these factory slaves imitations of their lost landscapes. Thus, we have Central Park in NYC, Prospect Park in Brooklyn, Fairmount Park in Philly and Grant Park in Chicago, all built in the 19^th century. Now, all these and more can be filled with sleeping pods, imported from China. Spinning in his grave, Frederick Law Olmsted will appreciate the exercise.

Convicted of any crime, the offender’s sleeping pod can just be locked. With bread sticks tossed in daily, he won’t starve. His shit and piss can be eased out through a hole. Capital punishment will be applied quickly and cheaply by denying him of bread sticks. After the stinking corpse is extracted, his sleeping pod will be sold at a slight discount, after a few sprays of disinfectant.

Just a few hours in China yielded so many solutions. Must be in the air.

In China, porn is banned. In the West, it’s freely available as the last bastion of free speech. Since jerking or stroking nearly nonstop is the best means of social control, it must be made mandatory. TVs inside sleeping pods must show only porn. Wouldn’t this lead to more rapes? Quite the opposite. Men who’ve shot their wad several times a day can only grab, at most. Most Americans are already fine with this, at least in principle. It’s also egalitarian. Why should bottom dwellers be denied some Trumpian perks? “When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.” MAGA chicks are turned on.

Guangzhou, 10/30/25

The last photo I took in Guangzhou was of a white enough man in a LAS VEGAS hoodie. Next to him was his exhausted wife. Bent over, she held her head. His or her wrinkled, white haired mom looked stunned. On 5/26/25, more than 8,800 flights were delayed in the USA alone. The next day, nearly 7,000.

Flying from Chicago to Frankfurt on 10/28/25, a 28-year-old Indian stabbed two sleeping American teens with a metal fork. He then slapped a woman and a crew member. One teen told investigators he had only exchanged pleasantries with the Indian. This non-immigrant had just finished his studies at Moody Theological Seminary.

Since 42 million Americans will lose food aid tomorrow, proactive cops across the USA have increased patrols around grocery stores, convenience stores and shopping centers. America’s Golden Age has just begun.

Yesterday at Saigon’s airport, I joked with the immigration officer, “Coming back, I’m just waiting to die!”

“You’re not that old, uncle,” she smiled slightly.

“I’m exhausted.”

On the minibus to Vung Tau, we passed a young man with this on his hoodie, “SMILE! IT WILL ONLY GET MUCH WORSE.” His helmet said, “WE WILL ROCK YOU!”

The young lady next to me wore a Covid mask and earbuds. When not dozing off, she stared at her cellphone. Born into universal madness, she’s well lost. After she dropped one earbud, we all helped her to find it. When it was discovered, there was universal jubilation inside that mini bus.

Ông Bầu Coffee’s evening barista just gave me a free glass of hot tea. In a minute, I will head home to eat some yak cheese with Nepali biscuits. This morning, I was too pooped to show up at Coffee Seven before 5AM. Tomorrow, then, I will see Mrs. Seven, Sơn, Liệt, Nọng and Milk Cow.

Vung Tau, 11/1/25

Fish in Teapots — Nov 01, 2025.

At Ông Bầu Coffee, one barista is a rather morose 20-year-old I first talked to only yesterday. It turned out she’s a third year student in logistics. With lots of shipping through Vũng Tàu, she’ll get a job easily, she believes. AI won’t bump her into any dumpster.

Though born after the Boat People crisis, Morose knows about corpses being washed up regularly on Vũng Tàu beaches. She also knows about Vietnamese trying to enter the US illegally during the Biden years. Someone approached her family to propose this. $70,000 per head was all it took, he said, and you’d make that back within two years, working in a nail salon, as if the US wasn’t oversaturated with these Vietnamese businesses. As a clumsy newbie whose English or Ebonics wasn’t good enough to interact with customers, who would hire you?

After eight years, you could return to Vietnam loaded with cash. He didn’t say anything about crossing seven countries before reaching the Promised Land. After entering Panama from Colombia, you would be an illegal for over 3,000 miles while being transported by criminals from various nations.

“What’s stopping them from robbing, raping or killing you?” I said. “People who could afford to fly to South America were rich! They sold everything here, thinking they’d never come back. Now, they’re being deported by Trump!”

Morose has never been outside Vietnam. She didn’t even know you could easily reach Cambodia by bus.

Village explainer, “You can go from Saigon to Bavet in just two hours! Cambodia opens all these casinos for Vietnamese. They want as many to come as possible, so go to Bavet, but without entering the casinos! You’ll just lose all your money! Phnom Penh is much more interesting, but it takes six hours to get there. Go to Bavet first, just to get a taste, then go to Phnom Penh later.”

Here three years, Morose started out making 18K, or 68 cents an hour. Now, she earns 23K. Working 200 hours a month, she takes home $129, though the shifty owner often deducts $27 for unexplained reasons.

Morose never protests. When business is slow, she just stares at her phone, like right now.

Morose lives with her parents just two doors down. At least her school is six miles away. She does visit occasionally a married sister in Saigon and has gone as far north as Nha Trang.

Fancying himself a painter, the owner has set up an easel right at the café. He’s so vapid and timid, you can’t talk to him about anything. It took me less than a minute to find out.

Before me, Như tried to mentor Morose, but it’s useless, she said. This girl is just incurious.

“She never had a chance!” I protested. To invigorate her, I will nudge and shove Morose some more, give her a few kicks in the ass.

Once, I overheard Như telling Morose about a new café that paid better. I’m not sure she applied. Begging for acceptance is always intimidating and dispiriting.

Ông Bầu Coffee has a new regular. A Siamese fighting fish is living, all alone, inside a teapot. Its diameter is four times the length of the fish’s body. There are pebbles at the bottom. Though it’s always lidded, I’ve been reassured there’s enough oxygen for this displaced creature. It could be much worse. Next to this teapot is a glazed ceramic planter with a cartoon cat and “cute” above its head. Taking frequent breaks, Morose would sit next to these exiled beasts.

In the next room, someone is strumming a guitar and singing. Surrounded by kitschy paintings, he and his listeners are soaked in an artistic environment.

Out collecting plastic bottles, that homeless Cambodian will return in the evening. He uses Ông Bầu’s bathroom and sleeps each night just feet from where I’m sitting. Lately, he’s refrained from disturbing that garish altar to the goddess beneath a banyan tree across the street. As long as he doesn’t go berserk, he belongs here at least as much as that fish.

Splotchy and discolored, he’s a piss poor representative of his species. With any residual self-respect, he should be deeply ashamed of himself, but I shouldn’t talk. My dorsal, pectoral, pelvic and anal fins are sad and feeble enough. Still, they’re sufficient to propel me home. After paying for my cappuccini, I’ll swiftly swim outta here.

That yak cheese is nearly gone. That cheerful, repetitive hymn to Ganesh I heard dozens of times daily so recently has faded. Soon enough, I’ll remember nothing.

(L): Vung Tau, 11/1/25 ; (R): Trump’s Golden Lincoln Bathroom

Bloodbaths and Bashes — Nov 02, 2025.

Too much excitement this morning at Ông Bầu. Using her thin jacket, a woman swatted at a bee in mid flight, then stepped on this buzzer after he had dropped to the floor. His squashed body now oozes whatever. His stiff, broken wings are stuck up. No one knows what he could have accomplished. He might have been a great bee poet. For this gratuitous display of unfathomable viciousness, she’ll be reincarnated as a bee, wasp, fly or mosquito, I’m sure. Placid, Morose inspected the fleeting carnage. As she walked by, I had to refrain from expressing my entirely justified indignation. I only thought, “What were the odds of the innocent, intelligent looking bee stinging that smug, still smiling broad in the fuckin’ twat?!” Oblivious, she’s yakking away. She does have a melodious voice.

Before Ông Bầu, I stopped at Mrs. Tím’s stand for a $1.52 bowl of crab noodle soup. As I slurped away, a security guard on a motorbike stopped to ask for a 95 cent bowl. After he left, I said, “You still make a profit with that, no?”

“No, but what was I supposed to do?”

“Does he come by often?”

“Only rarely.”

“A security guard’s salary isn’t too bad.”

“But he also has a wife and children. What was I supposed to do?” Mrs. Tím, then, makes nothing selling to this man. Her name means Purple, by the way. One of her two sons is nearly always in drug rehab. This widow has maybe four front teeth left.

Worst are those who stuff some change into their bra or up their long sleeve, then say Mrs. Tím has short changed them!

“They have so many tricks. When you sell stuff, you see everything.” She said this without rancor, only a touch of amusement.

Before Mrs. Tím’s food stand, I was at Coffee Seven. Today, Sơn told me more about his experiences in Cambodia. I had asked Sơn about soldiers who freaked out. Of course, that happened. Losing their minds, some even shot at their comrades.

On a lighter note, Sơn told me about Vietnamese troops visiting Cambodian whorehouses. They were dim and sordid, and the girls were so poor, their panties were pitifully or laughably threadbare. Worst were Viet soldiers who refused to pay after service. “They’d leave a hand grenade on the floor to chase the girls away.”

made in Thailand jeans and T-shirts

Even Viet officers barely had cash. Some sold used artillery shells, illegally, of course. With this profit, they could buy made in Thailand jeans or T-shirts. Both were highly prized back in Vietnam. Even in 1998, I had some rural guy touch my Levi’s with something like awe. They were called cow pants, quần bò, short for cowboy pants.

Underfed Viet soldiers stole chickens, ducks and pigs from Cambodian peasants. Like American, Australian or South Korean soldiers here, they raped. Unchecked aggression or rage is intrinsic to every war, as is wetting or soiling your pants from ungodly terror. Clean uniforms and impeccable discipline are only meant for parades, to fool civilians, draftees and recruits.

Last night, I finally bought a new phone. With a sim card, it cost me just $125. Don’t even know what brand it is. Last phone I bought before this was in Albania four years ago. I need this gadget to take care of some business.

Last night, I also went shopping at Lotte Mart, Vũng Tàu’s fanciest mall. Viets who can afford it treat it like an amusement park, almost. Better dressed kids run around screaming. With burgers, pizzas and fried chicken available in futuristic settings, they’re in the USA of their imagination. KFC Vietnam has a new dish, Migaxuxi. It’s slices of hotdog in an overly sweet red sauce on too soft spaghetti. On KFC’s wall was a nearly life-sized Colonel Sanders, with that first KFC in Harland, KY in the background. Most Viets think this America still exists.

When the entire White House is destroyed, replicas will appear across Asia, I’m sure. Even if all of the USA becomes like Gaza, its highlights will be preserved in the East. There’s nothing to worry about, man! Thousands of Statues of Liberty will sprout, just not in America.

In each Oriental burger, pizza or fried chicken joint, wholesome white families as wax figures will be installed to give yellow diners the impression they’re practically in Sacramento, Cincinnati or Youngstown. In fancier diners, waitresses with their hair already dyed blonde can wear white masks and speak in a cute, flirty English they’ve learnt from movies like American Pie or Grease.

For a while, Michael Bordenaro has done an excellent job of tracking America’s collapse. Three days ago, he said, “As of September, employers have announced over 1 million job cuts, which is the largest number that we’ve seen since the pandemic in 2020 […] So this job market collapse is getting real.” Walmart, Amazon, Ford, Microsoft, Target, Starbucks and McDonald’s, etc., are all firing thousands of workers this year.

When Bordenaro asked his viewers about how they’re coping with this new grim reality, they’re saying they’re buying less or inferior food, driving less, selling more to pawn shops, delaying or avoiding medical care, saving less or nothing, using less energy, including taking cold showers, not traveling or seeing distant relatives, not going to restaurants or movies and, perhaps, most depressingly, having to move back home after decades of living independently.

One man, “I’m 45 living in my parents’ basement again, not because I’m irresponsible, but because of the economy.” Over 57% of Americans between 18 and 24 are living with their folks. You’d have to go back decades to find a higher percentage. Millions of Americans are also side hustling. One, “I’m doing DoorDash after my full-time job just to keep up. I’m exhausted and still falling behind.”

Another, “I barely leave the house anymore because I can’t afford gas to drive to work and see my family.”

All these testimonies, though, must be fake news disseminated, or rather, jerked off, by far-left agitators.

As Trump cut off food aid to over 40 million Americans, he hosted a Great Gatsby themed Halloween bash at Mar-a-Lago called, “A little party never killed nobody.” So cute, the bad English. Shows his common touch.

Posting photos of his glitzed up shitter on 11/1/25, Trump crowed, “The Refurbished Lincoln Bathroom in the White House—Highly polished, Statuary marble!” Let them eat shit is right.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

The 7-Stage Collapse Pattern

The parables of Spain, Britain, USSR… USA Is At Stage 5

“…. Just economic implosion. The military couldn’t be paid, the government couldn’t function, the [dollar] became worthless. A superpower with 30,000 nuclear weapons collapsed from internal economic failure. The pattern [had] played out again:

1. Military over-extension,
2. Currency Debasement & Failure,
3. Debt Spiral,
4. Loss of Productive Capacity,
5. Social Decay,
6. Loss of Reserve Currency Status,
7. Collapse”

note the rapidity of cycling by Pax America. It took the British until 1931 to concede and come off the Gold Standard. It took the next iteration only until 1971…. and here we are

Slices of Life, #13

What matters is Thầy Thím’s perseverance against tyranny and misfortune.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 10/8/25

Holy Water Puddles — Oct 11, 2025.

I’m typing my first words at 6:03PM. Yesterday, I ate beef wrapped in piper lolot leaves dipped in a fermented fish sauce, mắm nêm, which is very salty. This morning I woke up with a headache it took all day to recover from. My system can no longer forgive even small indiscretions. Today, I ate just spaghetti with olive oil, black pepper and cayenne pepper. At age 19 or so, I read about DuChamp eating just spaghetti with butter near the end of his life, and he wasn’t poor.

I had come to Ông Bầu hoping to run into Như, but she’s not around. This afternoon, I did send her an eBook version of my Postcards from the End of America. I have no hard copies. Since she did study anthropology, my book would be of interest. For more than four years, I took trains and buses all over the United States or, more often, just around the Philly area, to simply look and listen.

Just shut up and nearly everyone will tell you nearly everything.

Of course, they’re not likely to open up about their abject yearnings or weird lusts, though clues may seep out. Jerking and stroking their secrets to the last, the old finally croak, relieved at having never been found out.

Some, though, are exposed. Just look at your Dear Leader, suicidal soybean and corn farmers! As an extra fuck you, he just sent twenty billion of your “In God We Trust” greenbacks to Argentina! Since you laughed off his puckering sickness slobbering over virginal white flesh, you’re complicit in the raping of your own children! Be proud in your red hat. Unlike those coastal elite creeps, you’re the heart and soul of America!

Had I more money, I would have stayed longer in distant cities. I spent just one night in Portland or Cheyenne, none in Youngstown, Salt Lake City or Charleston. Too often I slept on buses and trains. I slept at the bus station in Kansas City, Denver and Pasco. You do what you must with what you have.

In Boston, I met Katie, who tried to avoid sleeping indoors. This was outright dangerous for a young woman. Even in Alaska, she had curled up outside. Katie also walked everywhere, for hundreds of miles, sometimes, over days. Though most people would dismiss her as foolish, if not mad, Katie had to act this way to recover something essential in herself. Last I checked, Katie had become more fixed and cozy.

Since the lesser known is always caricatured, many Westerners believe Orientals are conformists incapable of creativity. Don’t let me dissuade you. To Như, though, I would point out Vietnam has never lacked for individualists or eccentrics.

Just 12 miles from Vung Tau is Long Sơn, the realm of an anti-French fighter turned holyman, Lê Văn Mưu (1855-1935). His followers still adhere to unusual practices, such as being buried within 24 hours in unmarked graves, with no funeral to speak of. They don’t look for auspicious days for weddings. They don’t set up altars to divers gods. Lê Văn Mưu is simply called Ông Trần, or Mister Bare (head and feet). Live most simply was his message.

Sixty miles north is a holy couple, Thầy Thím, or Master and Mistress. Unjustly persecuted by King Gia Long (1762-1820), they had to flee to this remote region. Tigers still abounded. Among their miracles was the appearance overnight of an elaborate village hall. Of course, it’s nonsense. Those villagers, like Borges’ Yahoos, had to have built it themselves. What matters is Thầy Thím’s perseverance against tyranny and misfortune.

Just now, Như showed up, so I ranted on about Ông Trần and Thầy Thím, plus the Coconut Monk of Mỹ Tho. There are so many of these weirdos across Vietnam, throughout history. I also talked about poets Bùi Giáng (1926-1998) and Nguyễn Đức Sơn (1937-2020). Here’s a Sơn poem:

Holy Water Puddle

I will come who knows when
mouth parched nirvana path distant
oh one night bush like a body coiled
you haven’t pissed yet my soul is wet

Educated in the US since grade 9^th, Như never knew about these figures. I cite them to show she’s not alone.

Vung Tau, 10/9/25

Before the Fall of Saigon, Nguyễn Đức Sơn was a teacher. From 1979 until his death, he, his wife and nine children barely survived in remote Lâm Đồng. A third Saigon eccentric poet, Phạm Công Thiện, fared much better. From 1970 to 2011, he lived in Israel, Germany, France and the US. In Toulouse, he taught Western Philosophy. In Los Angeles, he lectured at the College for Buddhist Studies. At age 23, Phạm Công Thiện did have a nervous breakdown. He recovered at Nha Trang’s Hải Đức Pagoda.

Since Ông Bầu closed at 9PM, I had to run to Coffee Seven, where I was ecstatically greeted by Nọng and Milk Cow.

“Where were you this morning?” Mrs. Seven asked.

“I woke up with a headache, so couldn’t get here.”

With Mrs. Seven’s bedtime at 10PM, I only managed a couple hundred words before moving on. Now, I’m back at Ông Bầu. Sitting in the dark outside, I can still use its wifi.

That homeless Cambodian guy is going on, “I was too slow to be hired by the fishermen. They wouldn’t let me onto their boats. My brother carried bricks [back in Trà Vinh]. For a hundred bricks, he made 100K ($3.80). I just couldn’t do it. My legs nearly fell off. My father yelled at me and beat me up. I just couldn’t do it.”

With his pillow and a thin blanket, he wanders away. He’s been told to stop sleeping right outside Ông Bầu. He had on a newish navy blue polo shirt, “HAVANA COFFEE.”

These words, then, are what I’ve salvaged from a day I thought wasted. Now, I will head home. Như has fascinating stories I’ve urged her to write down. “Try to be as honest as you can,” I said, but she already knew that. There are so many layers. Don’t just park your fat ass so smugly on the surface.

Image Psychosis Detoxification — Oct 13, 2025.

According to the Harris Poll, 41% of Americans under 44-years-old, or Gen Z/Millennials, would consider hiring witches, astrologers, etc., for major life planning decisions. 63% of Gen Zers and 52% of millennials are also thinking about getting the fuck out. The youngest Americans, then, are the most disenchanted about the American Dream.

If you must stay, it’s past time to research which witch doctors are most reputable in your area. There must be a Djinn Wolf, Rebecca Nurse, Higuayagua Taino, Karen Rose, John Proctor, Martha Carrier or Juliet Diaz within driving distance? Going to the wrong one, just like voting at all, will have you standing on a chair sporting a clumsily knotted noose. Kicking it, the last sound you’ll hear are four or five pennies jangling in your pocket. Since there’s nothing in your small, large or whatever the fuck intestine, nothing will squirt out, so your underwear will be clean, at least.

Wisconsinitos, a white woman in her 40’s, shares, “My husband and I were sitting on the porch this morning, and we were just discussing the culture in the United States, and how there’s always this undercurrent of violence and hostility, and it’s everywhere all the time, and you feel very vulnerable to it.” Is it that bad? You tell me.

Wisconsinitos, “When you go to a movie theater, do you assess who’s in the room, and who might be a threat, and who might be hiding something in their coat, and what you would do if they stood up and started shooting? How are you going to get out of the room?”

I’d say she’s a bit too paranoid, but even without anyone ready to shoot you in seconds, it’s bad enough to feel simmering hostility or insecurity all the time. It’s a natural byproduct of being hyper self-conscious. From infancy, Americans are conditioned to carefully curate their self-image, and to read, immediately, anything that’s off about anyone. Any US eight-year-old can detect, from clear across any room, the wrong dot, stripe, sneakers or haircut. Although its brand has been severely tarnished by Trump, Hegseth, Vance, Biden and Harris, etc., image is still America’s best selling commodity. With even its “rebels” minutely calibrated, it’s the most image psychotic culture ever.

Noticing this yearning to escape among America’s youngest, its future, 30-ish Zach Abroad asks, “Who’s going to be left in the country if all the young people want to go somewhere else?” Trumpers, Bernie Bros, Hillary-bots, AOC freaks, Groypers, Christian nationalists and all the hardcore illegal immigrant criminals ICE cowards are too scared to track down?

They’re a lot harder to gang tackle than septuagenarian grocers or schoolgirls with braces. If you can’t even grab their pussies, Trumpian fashion, what’s the point? Still, with such a promising foundation, why would anyone want to leave?

Zach Abroad, “Where do these people want to go, you might ask? Well, the top five countries that they want to move to are Canada, the UK, Australia, France, and Italy.” I’d say those nations must soon erect barriers for blue passport holders.

Would you want a guy like this? Adam.c, “I move to Sweden I can’t wait I’m disabled and I’m 25 with 4pets and my partner I’m so exited I figured Sweden would b a great fit BC of prices rent and grocies and the country and ppl stick to themswlf witch is what I like [blue heart].” A man so disrespectful of his own language can’t be expected to give a flying fuck about any foreign one, or its culture, so good luck to Sweden, with its affordable “grocies.”

Witches breed witch hunters. With 99.999% of Americans now functionally illiterate, contemporary Cotton Mathers must appear in YouTube videos or TikTok skits. Audio books, too, overtax shriveled heads, and shit like this must be updated, “They which lie, must go to their father, the devil, into everlasting burning […] When they bed and pray in hell fire, God will not forgive them,” and you can’t use words like “impudent,” “scurrilous” or “wicked,” bitch!

Keep it simple. Hairless hoo ha hopheads must have their hoses slowly hacked. Did you know the most popular Netflix movie ever is K-pop Demon Hunters? Yo masters are way ahead.

Who’s the most awesome witch alive? With the answer so obvious, you’ll get no heart shaped or fly imprinted fentanyl cookies! Who’s bewitching millions, if not billions?

Sitting at Ông Bầu, I’ve just been approached by an old head who said he wanted to draw my face. He’s sitting with another trauma survivor who, twenty minutes ago, was strumming on a guitar. To not be rude, I will go talk to them, so will cut this short.

Mrs. Tim’s crab noodle stand this morning

Yesterday, Như let me sniff some leaves that smelled like root beer. Not everything is fake. The Vietnamese name for root beer, xá xị, is exactly what they call the cinnamomum parthenoxylon. Keeping it simple will increase your chance of survival.

Walking to Ông Bầu, I passed Mrs. Tím’s crab noodle soup stand. With a light rain coming down, she had the crudest canopy propped up with three thin branches against the splotchy yellow wall right behind her. White smoke rose from a wooden fire. At home, I still have a small bottle of BeerLao. I should drink it before heading to Kathmandu.

Vung Tau, 10/14/25

Amor Fati or Else! — Oct 14, 2025.

Centuries ago or just yesterday, Mrs. Seven almost went to Japan with her dance troupe. All the girls were warned to not get an abortion in the land of salarymen, too often drunk. Dental care would also be too expensive. With minders always watchful, their chances of getting pregnant with a broken tooth, to boot, was nearly nil. Still, one had to warn these gorgeous and nimble girls on a very rare trip overseas, but it didn’t happen anyway.

Hearing about my trip to Nepal, Mrs. Seven told me this amusing tale. Since men can also get pregnant, as we all know, I should plan for a possible abortion in Kathmandu, though how this can happen without my having sex is a mystery, or conundrum, I’ll address on another day. When is sex not a conundrum, whatever that means?

The exercise music at Morning Star Kindergarten is nearly loud enough to cause brain damage. Stumbling about, trapped toddlers half lift their limbs. Looking lost, they sway. Smiling brightly, their teachers break out moves.

On the way to Coffee Seven, I noticed the homeless Cambodian was still sleeping outside Ông Bầu, his usual spot. His dark feet stuck out, corpse like, from his clean Tweety Bird blanket.

Inside Ông Bầu, there’s a new exhibition of paintings, all terrible. The artist is a man in his 60’s with a pony tail, wire framed glasses and pensive expression. Duly artistic in appearance, he’s devoted his entire life to these pointless canvases. Getting a preview last night, I told Như about Jim Shaw and his thrift store paintings. Those are interesting because they reveal the goofy or even bizarre personalities behind them. The ones at Ông Bầu betray nothing.

Vung Tau, 10/14/25

Not even funny some dog with a flowing scarf on a motorbike or a timid odalisque with hazy Islamic domes in the background.

“These are bad not because of poor technique, but because he sees very poorly. Hands, breasts, water, boat, everything he paints is very poorly observed!”

Ears are rarely painted well, but there are no reasons for breasts to be so ugly! Their shapes aren’t overly complicated. If a man can’t appreciate specific breasts, or their variety, he’s legally blind.

The homeless Cambodian needs his spot outside Ông Bầu to feel anchored. Just now, I checked with satisfaction the score between my Mariners and the damned Blue Jays. That I should care at all is entirely irrational. When the homeplate umpire cheated Logan Gilbert on two clear strikes, as graphed on my screen, I was outraged. Arriving in Kennewick, WA years ago, I was cheered and calmed by the Seahawks pennants on the walls of the first bar I entered. I had recovered a portion of my childhood. For over a century in the USA, team loyalty has mostly replaced a genuine sense of community. It also patches over divisions within each.

Toronto’s defeat of the New York Yankees in this year’s playoffs must have deeply satisfied all Canadians. They’re sick of the endless insults from Trump. The Blue Jays do have a Canadian star, Vladimir Guerrero Jr.. Of Dominican ancestry, he’s born in Montreal.

In Kennewick, I found out about Thai farm laborers imported into the US, for they were even cheaper than Mexicans, and also easier to abuse. MAGA farmers didn’t vote for Trump because they wanted to replace dirt cheap illegal immigrants with Americans. Wake up, man! Even American employers don’t want American workers.

MAGA farmers believed Trump would bring them virtual slaves, in the form of legal immigrants, through the little scrutinized H-2A visas. If mistreated, illegals can just walk away. Legal ones are trapped on farms, to be underpaid, overworked and abused, even sexually. Your Heartland farmers aren’t these Norman Rockwell sweeties, but slave drivers. Promising them slaves, Trump delivers bankruptcies and suicides, so he does have a sense of humor after all.

In Cairo and West Jerusalem, Trump just delivered two rambling, self-centered speeches. The second is wrily described by Al Jazeera as “stream-of-consciousness,” with the diapered fool having the “the time of his life,” since he was showered “with applause, laughs and too many standing ovations to count” from Knesset members. Jews consider genocides orgasmic celebrations.

As for the fake ceasefire that, to my surprise, even Kevin Barrett terms a “crushing victory for the Resistance,” Jews are just taking a much needed breather before resuming their assaults on Palestinians, Lebanese and Iranians. The ethnic cleansing of Gaza will continue. Sending at least 200 American soldiers to Israel, Trump still envisions Trump towers, plus a giant golden statue of himself, in Palestinian-free Gaza. Lounging by a pool next to another aging blob, Trump will sip some mocktail not quite blood red.

[ “… Initially, President Lyndon B. Johnson sent about 33,000 American military personnel to Vietnam, primarily as non-combat advisors to assist the South Vietnamese Army…”]

During five years in power, Trump has waged wars against Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Somalia, Yemen, Iran and Venezuela. Plus, he’s threatened Canada, Mexico, Panama and Greenland. Still, Trump expected a Nobel peace prize! Most pathetically, nearly half of Americans shared his delusion. When Trump confused Albania with Armenia, or said Iran borders Qatar, most Americans didn’t flinch either. It is an insular society mired in self-infatuation.

Today, I cleared out my fridge. For breakfast, I ate a tomato, onion, cucumber and egg salad. I finally drank that small BeerLao. Even though too many BeerLaos in Pakse edged me closer to the precipice, I remember with fondness my several months there. The café across my Pakse hotel was called Amor Fati, or Love Your Fate.

Before Laos became a fabled drug destination, it was Nepal. Within walking distance of Hotel Pristine, where I’ll be staying, is Freak Street. Two of my closest high school friends, Phil Brenner and Brian Robertson, were freaks. Brian, though, became a hardcore Republican, and even served under Trump.

Married to an anti LGBTQ crusader, MAGA Mike Johnson has just been exposed as a Tinder cruiser who loves to be butt plugged! Almost nothing is as it seems.

With still hours left before I must board that van for Saigon’s airport, I might just go for another BeerLao. The Mariners up 2 games to 0 will be my excuse. Another reason is the demise of Sammy Davis Clemens. That outstanding author didn’t even last two weeks! Canceling me again, gazillionaire Jeff Bezos also stiffed me of 50 measly bucks. Making no rules, we can only watch, so watch it well, you hear?

Kathmandu, 10/15/25

Back Home in Kathmandu — Oct 16, 2025.

Around midnight, I woke up knowing I was in Kathmandu. Still, it was surprising to open my eyes to see a completely strange room, and it was cold, too. I hadn’t had to use my blanket in a long time. Going back to sleep, I woke up around 3AM, my usual time, so was out on the street shortly after. Of course, I had no map and no phone, but if you keep walking in circles, you’ll end up inside your childhood home in no time. With the earth so small and your life so short, it’s impossible to get lost.

Coming from the airport yesterday, I had two phrases, “Chhetrpati Chowk” and “Hotel Pristine.” I hadn’t even learnt downtown Kathmandu is called Hamel. Though my taxi driver spoke minimal English, he got me where I needed. With clipped sentences, we still had a meaningful conversation.

“How long have you been driving, taxi?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Do you live inside city?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your village?”

“Three hours.”

“Three hours away! Very far!”

Twice a year during festivals, he goes home to see his parents. His wife and kids are here. He won’t celebrate the next festival, however, because a relative died less than a year ago. A Hindu, he must mourn for a year, he said.

Of course, he assumed I was Chinese. There are many here. “Vietnam,” I told him. Then, “Have you been outside?”

“No, I am poor man.”

“Not even to India,” so close.

“Only border, not inside,” so technically, he’s been outside.

Though his brother runs organized tours, he, too, is poor. Everyone and his grandma run trekking tours here.

My room is on the 5^th floor, so trekking up and down several times a day is equivalent to climbing Mount Everest, I’m sure. Let’s not overdramatize every little gesture, OK? Sherpa guides my ass. I must contact the Guinness Book of World Records to tell those losers about my superhuman feat.

Getting out of the taxi, I was exhausted, but also exhilarated. Despite all the burger or fried chicken joints I had seen on the ride, plus English language schools, I was in a new universe. Before this, I had spent just a month in South Asia, in Bengaluru and Chennai. Nepalese, though, are more varied in appearances than southern Indians. There are folks who look almost like me.

Without wandering cows to piss and shit all over, Nepal is certainly cleaner than its southern neighbor, and much less congested, too. Sadly, perhaps, pot is now legal only one day a year. Though I myself have never inhaled, snorted or dropped anything too unusual, people should be free to unwind with natural enough assistance.

Failing to find an atmospheric café to get my bearings, I settled for GHR Pizzeria and Coffee House. Despite its indifferent name and sterile appearance, it introduced me to an excellent ruby lager, Gorkha, and a fantastic plate of buffalo meat momos. My grand prize, though, was the presence of a radiant waitress whose constant smiles made me so happy, I couldn’t help but tell her, though this made this angel so self conscious, she stopped smiling so much. Worse, she retreated to the next room for a while.

Guangzhou, 10/15/25

On the layover in Guangzhou, there was a psycho security lady who barked one word commands to all passengers. Her English was so bad, it wouldn’t have helped much had she spoken more slowly and calmly. There was no reason for her not to smile, though. “Very strange, that lady,” I said to a South Asian man. “Mentally ill!”

Since he only smiled back, he may not have understood. He may have been Nepalese. Already, I can tell English is not as widespread here as in India, but this country was never colonized by the Brits.

So in the dark this morning, I wandered into the unknown, past small temples, wooden balconies, ancient wells and even graves. Pedaled by a skeletal man in the dark, a bicycle rickshaw rolled past. Another, just as bony, used a broom with too short a handle to sweep the street. Having done this for decades, he’s folded nearly in half, so that must be his preferred posture. Since this was still Asia, I had no fear of being mugged. Seeing a small group huddled at a tiny store, I headed over to ask for chai.

“Cha?” the old lady answered. In her sari, she was sitting with folded legs behind a portable gas stove, on which rested an aluminum pot and a huge tin kettle, with its spout like an elephant trunk, so charming. There were only three other customers. With my hot glass, I was at home. Soon, a Korean looking man showed up, but he was no tourist. Speaking fluently to the lady, he settled snugly into his usual spot.

The tiny store had instant noodles, eggs, candies, cookies, salt, MSG and Lay’s potato chips, so rush here when the bombs go off before everything runs out. You can never have too much of Smoky Popping Candies or Monaco Biscuits, especially in pizza flavor. Suddenly, there was a tallish Oriental who called to two dogs in the middle of the street. Surprisingly, they came. After petting them, I headed to our, notice how naturally I say that, neighborhood café to sit right next to me. Together, we represented Chinese imperialists, perhaps, ready to overwhelm Nepal. Though its Maoist government has just been deposed, we, notice how naturally I say that, have backup plans.

Paying 60 rupees or 43 cents for my two glasses, I headed off again, so am now sitting at KTM Burgers, with my fourth cup of cappuccino. On the way, I passed all these Chinese restaurants and hotels catered to Chinese. I also noticed a Japanese restaurant and a South Korean flag outside a nightclub. With so many Oriental men here, there must be prostitutes, of course. I spotted a thick thighed one in a skirt not quite mini.

Entering KTM, I saw an old black dog lying near an uneaten momo, so he’s not starving. At a nearby table, a young man listened to rap. Typing this, I was interrupted by a beggar who squatted at my feet. In exchange for a photo, I gave him 70 rupees or 50 cents, which made him very happy. Smiling, nearly laughing, he waved those bills at the waiters as he walked out. Had I given him too much, it would have pissed off the waiters, for they must work hard for their daily momos and kati rolls. Although he had a scab on his grimy knee, the beggar’s teeth were better than mine ever were.

Kathmandu (L): 10/15/25 ; (R): 10/16/25

Wanting nothing, the half dead dog approached to see how I was doing. His phlemy eyes clearly said, “I’ve seen it all, too, motherfucker.”

A white bearded man with weary eyes and an earring stirred his coffee with a hand too soft to have ever been familiar with a hammer, screwdriver or rifle. He would head home to write more poems no one will ever read, I’m sure. Just burn those batches, bitch. Don’t even try to publish them on Amazon or Kobo.

I finish this at The Nook. Walking between cafés allowed thoughts to surface. Yesterday’s Gorkha was so good, I actually thought, too many BeerLaos nearly killed me in Pakse, so maybe I’ll die in Kathmandu, more than happy, clutching a bottle of Gorkha.

All the recent unrest in South and Southeast Asia made me think Uncle Sam must be up to his tricks again. This isn’t to downplay local dissatisfactions or outrages. “All political parties here are bad,” someone has already told me.

At 7:38AM, I will wrap this up. Though paying just $9.40 a night, I get free breakfast, so will head back to Hotel Pristine, if I can find it before the Second Coming. My Rapture Sit Rep has also been rejected by Kobo, by the way, so my disappearance continues. Chattering in the background, the waiters and baristas sound cheerful, but laughter is actually much more common outside the angry USA, believe it or not. They’re chuckling now.

Smiling, I will reenter a familiar enough street whose name I don’t even know.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life, #11

I can’t think of any country more disunited. So appropriately, it’s ruled or at least fronted by a master divider. The self-adoring psycho is enjoying every second.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

MAGA Situation Report — Sep 08, 2025.

First off, I want to thank Ling Ding Dong for allowing me to come on here to counter, point by point, his endless bullshit. As a free subscriber to this asshole’s SubStack, I haven’t read most of his articles in full, but his name alone is enough of a clue. This motherfucker also lives in Communistic Vietnam, when he’s not panhandling in South Africa, India or Albania. He’s obviously too broke to travel to any First World or white country.

Rejected by America, he’s missing out on President Trump’s Golden Age. This explains his seething bitterness. This lost loser is too poor to fly back, not that we want him. Landing at Philadelphia International Airport, he’d be arrested within five seconds, then placed on the next flight to South Sudan, where he could mingle forever with other savages of color.

Just now, he’s gloating over the supposed collapse of Las Vegas. Foreign tourists are boycotting it, he claimed. Fact is, we don’t want Chinks, Japs, Gooks, Dotheads, Ragheads and Spics to ruin that beautiful city. Shit, man, we don’t need Frogs, Krauts and Puckheads either. Europeans are freeloaders and Canadians have stupidly refused to become our 51^st state. Shunning California, Florida, Arizona and Las Vegas, they’ll just freeze their nuts of.

More good news: Singapore Airlines, Japan Airlines, Korean Air, Lufthansa, Air France, KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, British Airways, Air Canada, Emirates and Qantas have all cut back flights to our beautiful country, thus making it even more gorgeous. Nothing is more breathtaking than empty streets with boarded up stores, such as we’ve seen for decades in Normal Rockwell type burgs across America. Soon enough, Las Vegas will look like Welch, West Virginia.

Having never flown, I didn’t even know there were more than ten airlines, but why, you ask, should we celebrate fewer British Airway flights? Doesn’t MAGA Land need many more white people? Each flight from London is packed with child raping dotheads, who the Brits call Asian groomers. No, thanks.

Any second now, Ling Ding Dong will announce Vietnam Airlines has stopped direct flights from Ho Chi Minh City to San Francisco! Until a minute ago, I didn’t even know there were such outrages. Kenyan Obama must have greenlit that human trafficking pipeline!

Our country is already overrun by Viet Cong run nail salons and dogmeat pho joints. You can’t pay me to even sniff a fuckin’ bowl. What’s wrong with a $12 Bacon Quarter Pounder with Cheese Combo at some ghetto McDonald’s? Haven’t had one in a while, I must admit. We have a family of four. A hearty eater, my wife must have her $24 Classic Big Mac Pack. Two more bucks for a large Coke. Don’t even try to steal one of her fries. Can’t complain. More cushion for the pushin’, my daddy always said.

Having chased most of the yellow, brown and black tourists away, we must do a better job at keeping them out of our colleges. All the Chinese kids are spies anyway. With President Trump flipping off China for years, slitty eyed nerds are no longer so numerous at Ivy League schools, MIT or even Georgia Tech, so that’s a start. These schools have tried to replace them with Indians and even Nigerians, however. That’s seriously fucked up.

Since each Chinese student spent twice as much as an Indian, and thrice as a Nigerian, many more of these savages must be brought in to replace the Chinks!

Where are the white students?! There must be enough who can handle plasma physics, molecular biology, rapid prototyping, neuro science, ordinary differential equations, computational linear algebra, combinatorial analysis and advanced applied probability courses? I have no idea what any of those words means, not one! Gave me a fuckin’ headache just typing them. In 12^th grade, I did get a C- in geometry.

Under President Trump’s firm and erect leadership, this previously flaccid nation is finally ejaculating in the right direction. Don’t let pussies like Ling Ding Dong tell you otherwise. One last bit of good news: our corn, soybean and wheat farmers are all in deep shit. Thanks to ICE, their Spic laborers have disappeared, and those Chinks ain’t buying. This is fine, actually.

Like President Trump wisely pointed out, farm work is for black, brown and yellow peasants. Even fat face JD Vance knows this. Us whites have no business growing food or raising animals. With trillions flooding in from Trump’s tariffs, we can just cash our dividend checks.

Didn’t our greatest president ever say, “We’re going to become so rich, you’re not gonna know where to spend all that money. I’m telling you—just watch!”

Freezing my white ass off in a used RV after losing my fuckin’ farm founded by my great, great, great grandfather, a passenger on the Mayflower, I’m watching away, daddy!

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam (L): Coffee Seven on 8/25/25 ; (R): 9/4/25

Lovable Messes! — Sep 08, 2025.

Matthew Rossman is beyond nauseated by my Trump coverage. Having escaped North America, he doesn’t want to hear about that monster. A long time resident of Vietnam, Matthew worked for years in Saigon, and is now in Vung Tau. Typing at Cóc Cóc, I would see him ride by on his motorbike, sometimes with his teenaged daughter. I think she takes violin lessons, and is also in a badminton club.

Vietnamese kids in blue martial art uniforms are studying Vovinam. When still fighting in a boxing ring, MMA star Cung Le would use its signature scissor kick takedown.

Anyway, as a Canadian Matthew is especially disgusted by Trump. To spare him further pain, I will now talk about some Vung Tau characters. Since Matthew isn’t Vietnamese, his access to this culture must be limited. Though I’m not working in this economy, and can’t even ride a motorbike, I can dig out stories Matthew can’t. Plus, I’m a lurker. Even if I wasn’t a writer and photographer, I would still lurk.

For at least two weeks, Mrs. Seven has been obsessed with the K-pop singer Lisa. Since most YouTube videos on this Thai-born singer are in English, Mrs. Seven must sometimes ask me to translate a caption, such as, “Lisa’s sad and tearful moment back home.”

Seeing this 28-year-old chick crying on stage in Bangkok, I couldn’t help but blurt, “Look at her! She’s faking it!”

Wrong, wrong, wrong! Sixty-seven-year-old Mrs. Seven walked away, looking hurt. Her beloved Lisa can’t be a phony! Even her obviously fake nose must be real!

Other times, Mrs. Seven can be very tough. Yesterday, she decided one of her two dogs needed the hair around his asshole trimmed. Since Milk Cow had gone through this routine, he was cowering under a table. Holding her scissors, Mrs. Seven shouted for him to come out. As she clipped away, I observed, “You’re not even an inch from his balls! Click, click, click, click! He’s traumatized for life!” She thought it was hilarious.

I’ve already told you about Mrs. Seven cutting the tail off all her puppies and kittens, just after they’re born.

Just as important as hygiene is obedience. When her younger daughter was in the 12^th grade, she came home near midnight once, so was caned three times on her ass while lying face down in bed, sobbing. When her older daughter, already 21-years-old, came home in the morning after a night out, she was slapped, hard, three times at the door. When Mrs. Seven was told her husband was seen with some slut, she went looking for them with a barber’s razor. As an organist playing at restaurants and nightclubs where booze was served, he must have had many chances.

Telling me these stories, Mrs. Seven boasted, “I’ll knock you out, send you flying with a kick.” As a girl, she practiced her punches on her dad’s heavy bag. Even today, there’s a five-foot-long hard plastic pipe she keeps by the door, just in case there’s trouble.

This morning, Lisa was again mentioned. Mrs. Seven does concede K-pop stars are all sliced up and reconfigured, every single one of them but her Lisa. Like most people, she knows South Korea leads the world in plastic surgeries. To my surprise, she added, “But if you need to fix things down there, you must go to Thailand! They can cut if off and give you a hole. They can go the other way, too.”

“But it won’t work!” I retorted.

“Of course, it will work.”

I turned to Sơn the security guard, “How does Mrs. Seven know so much about this?”

He just grinned.

In five months, NaLi Beach’s lease will run out. Though Sơn could be assigned somewhere else, he will likely work for his son-in-law as a manager at a construction site. Sounds like a better gig. When Sơn showed up in Vung Tau in 1991, he didn’t even have a thousand đồng [three pennies]. His first job here was at a lumber mill. Though Sơn earned next to nothing, he somehow got married soon after to a woman not so destitute.

“How did you manage that, brother?”

“Technique,” he smiled.

“Did you hear that, Mrs. Seven?! Brother Sơn has technique!”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t tried.”

In just six hours, I will see those two again, plus Nọng, of course. She’s always ecstatic to see me. Sometimes this bitch disappears into the kitchen, way in the back, to lie quietly in a dark hovel. Like everyone, she’s more complex than we can imagine, so preoccupied, each of us, with our laughable, or lovable, if you will, mess.

(L): Manila, 4/19/25 ; (R): Vung Tau, 9/4/25

Nation of United Races?! — Sep 09, 2025.

In late 2019, I showed up in Vung Tau to stay for a month, then disappeared for 2 1/2 years. From mid 2022 until now, I’ve spent two more years here, so I’ve had a chance to see Vung Tau change. There are many more itinerant sellers of lottery tickets and recent rural transplants wandering around peddling food or dirt cheap items. Most alarmingly, some beggars have reappeared. From 1975 to 2000, there were so many. During that span, I spent nearly three years in Vietnam, with trips to very remote areas of both north and south, so I saw these beggars. I’m not speaking from statistics.

Last night at Cóc Cóc, I gave money to a woman in her mid 40’s. There’s something off about her. The young barista sensed this too.

This is the seventh month of the lunar calendar. In Southeast Asia, it’s calculated from the year of Buddha’s death, so we’re in 2568. (Basically, I’m living 543 years ahead of you.) This is when dead souls are allowed by Yanluo Wang, the ruler of hell or just the afterlife, to return to their old haunts. Setting up altars with food offered to these spirits, many businesses also give food to the living. This attracts scammers. Mrs. Seven, for example, saw a woman who kept changing blouses and hats so she could return to the same charity line as a different person. Another woman she knew went all over Vung Tau to collect food, then bragged about how much she got. This goes against the spirit of neighbors helping neighbors or the truly destitute.

Last night’s beggar complained the bills I gave her were too old. Overhearing this, the young barista suggested I stop giving her money again.

“Have you seen her before?” I asked.

“Just once.”

“She’s weird, but who knows? Maybe she’s really hungry.”

At Cóc Cóc recently, some guy was caught on camera stealing its plastic plant pot. I can’t imagine it selling for more than 10,000 đồng, or 38 cents. This is enough, though, to buy sticky rice with mung beans, lotus seeds, peanuts, gấc or even pork floss. Six years ago in Dak Lak, I would get shit faced with three other guys on just 10,000 đồng’s worth of moonshine. No longer sipping socially, I can’t recommend any rice wine that may kill you for next to nothing, but you can certainly feel fine after work for five or six days on just two bucks, or just 10,000 đồng a day. Turn off your TV, then, and scour your neighborhood for plant or flower pots, even huge, ornate ones. What’s the worst that can happen? Running from bullets is great exercise. Ding dong ditching is for kids.

“You don’t know how bad it was 25 years ago. You weren’t even born!”

“I wasn’t, uncle.” She smiled.

“Look at these.” I then showed her five photos on my laptop. “Just look carefully at each.”

She stared at people, including children, sleeping on sidewalks. One image had a pantless boy standing next to a woman in a beatup wheelchair.

“Where do you think this is?” I asked.

“Africa?”

“Africa?! Look at them! They look like us.”

To many Vietnamese, a Cambodian is black enough, so he’s just black. Those images, though, were of Manila. Sleeping on sidewalks for months or even years would darken your skin, too, so the barista thought she was looking at Africa. Ignoring their hair, eyes and lips, she only saw skin color. For millennia, we were conditioned to detect the smallest differences, for life and death might depend on it. Even before he could open his mouth, we could tell he wasn’t from our tribe. Even today, many Vietnamese will insist they can differentiate, by sight alone, a Mekong Delta native from a Red River one. Genetics, climate, food, history and culture must leave clues, often obvious.

Working at least 360 days a year, the barista hasn’t traveled anywhere, so you can’t really blame her for confusing a Southeast Asian nation for Africa. Africans rarely show up in Vung Tau. If he’s tall and well dressed enough, most Vietnamese would just call him a Westerner, ông Tây.

As a child, I still heard the USA referred to as Hiệp Chủng Quốc. Derived from the Japanese 合衆国, it’s supposed to be a translation of United States, but 衆 is clearly mass or crowd. Hiệp Chủng Quốc or 合衆国, then, is literally United Crowd Nation.

Smart asses will point out that 衆 is really chúng, and not chủng, which means race and not mass. What we have then, is a Japanese mistranslation further mistranslated, at least colloquially, by the South Vietnamese, perhaps willfully. Dimwit South Vietnamese like me imagined the United States as the Nation of United Races.

Speaking of race and crowds, South Korea just beat the US in soccer by 2 to zero in metro New York. At MetLife Stadium, South Korean fans far outnumbered US fans. It was the visiting Orientals who had home field advantage. For decades, this has also been true of Mexico vs. US on American soil. Who cares, you say, but the world cares more about soccer than just about anything else!

Roger Bennett, “South Korea, Bong Junho, BTS, New Jeans just turned the US men’s national team into Bibimbap!” Just a decade ago, so many Korean references strung together would have been impossible. There is indeed a cultural shift.

This game came right after that ICE raid in Georgia where over 300 South Koreans were arrested. Even when foreigners bring jobs to Americans, they’re treated like enemies.

On the same day in the same city, Trump was loudly booed at the US Open tennis final, and this blustery clown is a New Yorker! This June, Trump was also booed at the Kennedy Center, the nation’s premier space for the performing arts. He’s also despised in LA, San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia and just about every other American city. His only remaining supporters are the farmers he’s bankrupting and depressed blue collar types who think wearing a red hat will transform their lives.

I can’t think of any country more disunited than this Nation of United Races. As its economy collapses further, this seething hatred between Americans so divided by race, national origin, class or favorite TV station can only get much worse. So appropriately, it’s ruled or at least fronted by a master divider. The self-adoring psycho is enjoying every second.

Such absolute self-love leaves no room for affection or just basic awareness of anything else. Nothing means anything unless it serves him immediately. Fortunately, madness so pure and public doesn’t plague every nation.

(L): Chuck Workman’s Superstar: The Life and Times of Andy Warhol (1990) ; (R): Mickey Rourke as Charles Bukowski in Barbet Schroeder’s Barfly (1987)

Post Siesta Thoughts on Global Cultural Collapse — Sep 10, 2025.

In hot countries, taking a nap in the afternoon is most natural, as is getting much done early in the morning, even before dawn, when it’s coolest.

Finished with an article by 10AM, I walked around a bit, cooked, ate, washed dishes, gathered news, thought about this and that, then fell asleep. Getting up much later than usual, I didn’t leave my room again until past 5PM. Just getting dressed, I thought about Chuck Workman’s Superstar: The Life and Times of Andy Warhol and Robert Altman’s Short Cuts, a film based on Raymond Carver’s short stories. These flicks I saw in theaters more than three decades ago. For some reasons, they made me think of Barfly, a 1987 film about Charles Bukowski I never saw, and Paul Schrader’s Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters. I did catch that in 1985. Still in college, I had a classmate, a black girl, who was a Mishima freak. Another girl, a Canadian, turned me on to Andrei Tarkovsky.

Walking to Cóc Cóc, I thought about Nguyễn Huy Thiệp’s 1986 short story, “Tướng về hưu.” In my translation as “The Retired General,” it was published in the American Poetry Review, then Crossing The River. Twenty-three years after publication, this Curbstone book has but nine reviews on Amazon. A JD Vance sideway fart generates more critical attention, including PhD dissertations.

With increasing excitement, but also rage, I thought about the Tennessee Williams stories made into movies, and of his drunken interview with David Frost in 1974. Despite all its problems, hypocrisy and violence, that was America’s Golden Age. Those plopped into Biden’s wokedom then MAGA’s cesspool have no ideas.

As led by the USA, our global cultural collapse occurred over decades. Within 24 hours of arriving in Hanoi in 1995, I had a heated discussion with strangers about Nguyễn Huy Thiệp at a random café. Granted, most of them were only familiar with his fiction through film versions, just as Americans could watch Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958), The Rose Tattoo (1955), Baby Doll (1956), Suddenly, Last Summer (1959), Summer and Smoke (1961), Sweet Bird of Youth (1962) The Night of the Iguana (1964), and two versions of The Glass Menagerie (1950 and 1987). Now, most people would prefer a lethal injection over being stuck on a comfortable chair in an air conditioned room next to a tub of popcorn to endure over two hours of any film made from a serious work of literature. That’s infinitely worse than death by a thousand cuts!

Ashland, Oregon was famous for a Shakespeare Festival where MAGA types would pay to get their perfunctory dose of high culture. Once a lifetime ain’t so bad. It spared them from driving five hours to Portland just to sidestep Antifa freaks, either panhandling, bent over from heroin or dead from Fentanyl, lying weirdly on the sidewalk. Maybe those plays in incomprehensible English are still being staged? At least the costumes are cool. Getting fucked up beforehand also helps.

Before Warhol, there was Salvador Dali, but the Spaniard did paint. Warhol mass produced his art in studios he called, most tellingly, The Factory. Having assistants do most of his work allowed the artist to spend nearly all his time just looking cool. Warhol’s main task was self-promotion. With his magazine, Interview, Warhol also made money by turning whoever into superstars, at least for 15 minutes. Before dropping dead, Warhol lent lotsa shine to Jean Michel Basquiat. With his black face often white with coke, Basquiat actually died from smack at age 27. His Whitney retrospective in 1992 was mostly financed by Madonna! Basquiat was the last American artist to receive any sort of general recognition.

In fiction, Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho (1991) hit the big screen in 2000. By then, movie theaters were barely hanging on. Denis Johnson’s excellent 1992 collection of short stories, Jesus’ Son, hardly made a splash as a film in 1999.

I can’t claim to be a huge fan of Raymond Carver, but he’s heavily promoted when I was just learning to write, so I read pretty much all his stories. I even endured fiction by his pusher, Gordon Lish. When Short Cuts came out, I immediately went to the Theater of the Living Arts on South Street to see it. What struck me then was how all the female stars had to be frontally nude at some point, so porn was used to sell literature. Hollywood as a sexist whorehouse couldn’t have been more naked. Only in 2017, though, was serial rapist Harvey Weinstein arrested.

(L): Bùi Cường as Chí Phèo in Phạm Văn Khoa’s Làng Vũ Đại ngày ấy (1982) ; (R): Ken Ogata as Mishima in Paul Schrader’s Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985)

Arriving at Cóc Cóc, I saw only one customer, a man in his 50’s I had talked to several times. Let’s call him Tuấn. After the army, Tuấn went to the Soviet Union to study, then work. This northerner has traveled a bit. Now he works at Vung Tau’s small airport. Helicopters to oil rigs and Côn Đảo take off from there.

Already frothed up, I started to rant about cultural collapse, including in Vietnam. I mentioned how in nearly three years in Vung Tau, I saw just one person with a serious book, a collection of Nam Cao short stories, how in Dak Lak, I quoted a Hồ Xuân Hương line, “Spread me to three points, there’s not enough skin,” only to have it not understood, much less recognized. It’s a vagina talking. I mentioned how a motorbike taxi guy had never heard of Nguyễn Du. He’s only Vietnam’s greatest poet, with schools and streets named after him all over. In Phnom Penh, there’s even a Nguyen Du Aesthetics Plastic Surgery Center.

Sitting outside the Walt Whitman house in Camden, NJ one July 4^th, I talked to a panhandler who claimed he did odd jobs for “Mr. Whitman.” His grave in the same city is nearly as forlorn as Ivana Trump’s.

Understanding me perfectly, Tuấn agreed something must be done. He mentioned how cultured Putin sounded when interviewed by Tucker Carlson. We laughed at Trump’s illiteracy.

We discussed the Philippines. “They have a slave mentality,” Tuấn actually said. Their English proficiency is actually a mark of this. Minalonan born Carlos Bulosan’s best known work is America is in the Heart, written in English. Manila native Jessica Hagedorn’s Dogeaters is about Manila, but in English. Their national hero José Rizal’s Noli Me Tángere is in Spanish. F. Sionil José wrote in English but had a Manila bookstore with a Spanish name, Solidaridad.

Of course, there’s also a Saigon chump who wrote about his native city in English. Worse, he has four books with America in the title, but massa, I was airlifted to Guam as a chide. Growing up on your bountiful and beauteous plantation, I gorged on Shirley Temple, Leave it to Beaver, Donny and Mary, Happy Days and The Gong Show. I wrote a fan letter to Slick Watts. Please don’t whip me, massa, though I gone bad!

“You know, I used to sit at Ca Dao.” The name means folk poetry. “The music played is from Saigon before 1975, plus some songs from Hanoi before 1954. Over half of their songs, though, are American, so what’s being evoked here? Almost none of their customers can understand a word, so they’re in there only to relive American occupied Saigon! Most Saigonese at the time had no interest in American culture, however. Only bargirls listened to American music, because they had to. Yes, there were a few bands influenced by American music, but most people ignored it. Growing up in Saigon before 1975, I didn’t even know what a hot dog or a pizza was, I never ate fried chicken, and my dad wasn’t poor! No one wore a hoodie. That’s for a much cooler climate. It’s so hot here!”

As Tuấn’s eyes glazed over, I waved at the stores in front of us, “Look at the English!” Actually, it’s much worse further on Ba Cu. “Our kids make all these mistakes,” in Vietnamese, I meant, “and their vocabulary has shrunk! Whenever I’m in the library, I’m the only one in there!”

I did shut up long enough to hear Tuấn talk about the importance of national pride, with respect and love for one’s culture a key component.

“What Vung Tau needs,” I ranted on, “is for its writers, painters and musicians to be recognized by people living here, and for them to write, paint and sing about being here.”

Though Tuấn agreed, I suspect he doubted it could ever happen. We’re too far gone.

In days, my three Vietnamese books will arrive in the mail. Each has a print run of 200, more than I need, but 100 would have cost only slightly less.

Emailing Saigon poet Lý Đợi, I said, “I don’t see how I can give so many books away. Those boxes will go into my coffin then,” not that I’ll have a coffin.

We’re not too far gone. Since respect for one’s language, history and land, for one’s nation, in short, is essential for having a meaningful life, it must be cultivated continuously. If eroded over centuries or raped away overnight, it must be recovered.

The second half of this piece was written the morning after, at Coffee Seven. At 5:36AM, the sun is up. This morning, the sky has a pale pink tint. Across the street, Morning Star Kindergarten’s gate is open, but no kid has arrived. In an alley, someone is sweeping.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life, #10

it’s all about sticking it to your political enemy even as your nation is imploded and you go bankrupt. Over a century of professional sports has conditioned the American mind for such fanaticism.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Images of America’s Golden Age — Sep 06, 2025.

The Smithsonian or any other major museum should mount a monster exhibition to chronicle how Trump is depicted, by himself, his admirers and his detractors. Never before has anyone exerted so much energy in crafting his own image. This, in turn, has provoked a fierce backlash, so there’s a dizzying array of Trump images online. Being virtual, they’ll disappear unless printed out then preserved. A thick coffee table book would do, too.

The White House’s TikTok account’s images of Trump are weird and provocative enough. Standing at a podium next to an unguardedly smiling young woman, Trump with his puckering mouth and scanning, leering eyes doesn’t spell wholesomeness, I don’t think.

There’s Trump, in a McDonald’s uniform, waving from a drive through window, Trump in a hard hat at a construction site, Trump looking very serious, even menacing, from the passenger seat of a heavy truck. All these images are meant to convey how down to earth and close to the working man is this silver spooned lover of virgin flesh and gold leafed cherubim. Jackie Parker comments, “I voted for this. Trump 2028 [bookended by two flags].” So a third term is in order. Screw the Constitution! Clanker has Trump laughing over a red map of the USA, “PLACES WHERE TRUMP IS STILL YOUR PRESIDENT AFTER ALL OF YOUR PROTESTING.”

At Amazon, there are all these “WOKE TEARS” or “LIBERAL TEARS” mugs for sale, so it’s all about sticking it to your political enemy even as your nation is imploded and you go bankrupt. Over a century of professional sports has conditioned the American mind for such fanaticism. Nothing feels better than backing your team, especially when it’s winning.

For just $19.99, you can get your MAGA grandpa a tumbler with Trump’s face, plus this mess, “YOU ARE A REALLY, REALLY GREAT GRANDPA. THE BEST, REALLY TERRIFIC. JUST FANTASTIC. OTHER GRANDPAS? LOSERS! TOTAL DISASTERS, EVERYONE AGREES [three stars] YOU ARE THE BEST [three stars] BELIEVE ME.” Trump’s bombastic style spreads.

His praises are generic and disingenuous. His insults are more creative yet prepubescent. They’re not even juvenile. Trump is reshaping American English. Mocking Trump, Gavin Newsom is outtrumping Trump.

In 1858, Lincoln debated Stephen A. Douglas seven times. Each lasted about three hours, in front of crowds averaging 13 thousand people. Of course, there were no microphones, so manly voices had to carry. With no YouTube videos to rewatch later, everyone had to pay closest attention. In November of 2024, Trump mimicked giving a microphone holder a blow job as his fans laughed and cheered. He’s praised the size of Arnold Palmer’s penis. Even gayer than Obama, he’s obsessed with interior decorating.

Most comments at TikTok are intensely negative, with many accompanied by a computer generated image. One shows Trump, Weinstein, Epstein, Bill Cosby and Diddy on “Mount Rapemore.” Another has Trump as “The Lying King.” An X-ray of his head shows a minuscule brain. On that preposterous banner at the US Department of Labor with Trump’s “big beautiful face,” Epstein is added. Behind this Satanic child rapist, then, lurks his Jewish pimp.

Meant to hype the Trump cult, the White House’s TikTok account has become a survey of how much he’s despised. The Mount Rapemore response has 1,930 likes, more than any other on that thread.

With everything a joke, it’s often hard to detect irony, but perhaps there’s none in a “MAGA DYNASTY” image showing Vance, Rubio and Hegseth as presidents after Trump.

Billions across the globe are astounded that Trump’s approval rating is still at 41%, as of 9/6/25 according to The Economist, hardly a left wing or liberal bastion. It’s a damning indictment of the American brain. At TikTok, there’s a fine image of five MAGA cultists licking Trump’s boots as he stands on stage. Obscured by his legs is the US flag.

Before I had published my first poem, story or article, I posed as an art critic. I published reviews at the now defunct New Art Examiner, out of Chicago. I curated a show, Toys and Incense, at Philadelphia’s Moore College of Art. I was critic in residence at Art in General in New York City.

Sitting ugly in Vung Tau, I await that urgent call from the Smithsonian, so I can start assembling that blockbuster show of Trump images. After DC, it will travel to New York, LA, Paris, London, Rome, Tokyo, Shanghai and Sydney. Jostling crowds will laugh their nuts off.

(L): Madison Zhao ; (R): International Kid

Flexing Fools — Sep 05, 2025.

Yesterday, I ran into Dzuy, that habitual liar. I met him just days after moving into DC HomeStay in January of 2024. A housepainter, Dzuy told me was a retired highschool teacher. The girlfriend he was staying with, he introduced as his wife. Working in Germany, she comes back for a couple months each year.

When Dzuy told me he had just returned from Germany, I said bullshit! “Let’s go for a cup of coffee,” I suggested, “so you can tell me all about Germany.”

As we sat at this leafy sidewalk joint on Nguyễn Tri Phương, Dzuy couldn’t say anything.

“You must have taken some photos in Germany?”

“Many!”

“So show me a few.”

Cornered, Dzuy put his phone away. Months ago, he said he had visited Cambodia. When asked, Dzuy couldn’t even name that town or city. Always boasting, Dzuy claims women look for him because he can last over an hour. I know who you’re thinking of, but unlike that frantic chest thumper, Dzuy doesn’t have 500 bucks to his name, and he’s not stinking up each room with his loaded diaper.

Having claimed Trump as thinker is more influential in Vietnam than Confucius, Laozi and maybe even Buddha, I must clarify. Confucius stresses temperance in action and modesty in speech, so the exact opposite of Trump’s behavior. In the Orient as elsewhere, boasting has become so easy thanks to the internet, but there’s a twist. Nearly always, yellow flexers flaunt how ultra Western they’ve become. There’s no Confucianism, Taoism or Buddhism in any of this.

Consider, for example, just two famous Chinese influencers, Madison Zhao and International Kid. Their names alone say much. In appearance, too, they’re straining to be not Oriental. Madison’s hair, eyes, nose, lips and even skin are desperately Occidental, and she only wears the most expensive Western brands. International Kid is the same. To mostly swooning audiences, they crow nonstop.

Judge for yourself. Madison Zhao in a typical TikTok video:

Here’s a breakdown of all the money I made and spent in a day as a public company CEO and content creator. On this day, I started work at 8AM and worked for 16 hours. My hourly rate is $5,000 per hour, so I made $80,000 for my main job.

I mean, this is kind of ridiculous because I get paid the same rate even I work overtime, while everyone else in my company gets paid 1.5 times more. Can you believe that? But luckily, I made around $1.3 million from the stock market today, so it kind of offset my underpaid salary. Now, let’s talk about the money I made from my side hustles.

I made $719 from one video on TikTok and $1,587 from my course. My lunch was around $900 and my dinner was around $1,000 because that’s usually how much it costs when we dine out, even though it was the worst dinner I ever had in my life. Literally tastes like shit!

Then I went shopping and spent around $500,000 in the LV store. But here comes my biggest expense slash investment of the year. I ordered a $2.5 million Richard Mille Watch that only have 50 pieces in the world, but my shareholders paid for it, so the total for that was zero.

So I made $1,380,000 and I spent $502,000, which leaves me a positive $878,000 for the day.

Even worse, International Kid sounds like parody:

My name is Jay Ma, and I’m the richest international student at NYU. This is how we spend our break time between classes. I need to buy new gym clothes, so I went to shop on everyone’s favorite fitness brand, Celine.

I bought this nice track jacket, but they did not have the matching track pants in my size. Next, I need the new headphones, because the AirPod Max is too basic for me. How’s everybody supposed to know my music is more expensive than yours?

Snack time. I rent out the whole restaurant for me and my friend, to keep me as safe from the people with a low credit score, so I can enjoy a black caviar in peace. I go to Gentle Monster to buy new sunglasses, but there’s no time left to try them on, so I just asked them to ship it all to my penthouse at 432 Park Avenue.

Vung Tau, 9/4/25

At “my friend,” there’s a brief shot of a white girl. She never reappears. In Japan, there are host and hostess bars where fake boyfriends and girlfriends can be had. Fake families can also be rented in Japan. Having modernized much later, Chinese aren’t quite as lonely, but they’re catching up fast, I’m sure.

Last week, I sneaked into Salt Water in Vung Tau. Those preening girls I encountered were but silly hicks compared to Madison Zhao.

Of course, Vietnam also has internet flexers, including AI ones. E.M ƠI [roughly O.H. HONEY] promotes domestic fashion brand, Môi Điên [Crazy Lips]. From its English only website, “Môi Điên Studio was founded in the heart of Saigon, Vietnam in 2016 by Tom Trandt Minh Đạo—a Parsons graduate […]” Trần, or Chang in Chinese, is now vaguely Germanic. I’m sorry, but fick dich, Trandt!

Those who flex or worship flexers, then, are Trumpian in spirit. Luckily, most Vietnamese can only afford the cheapest T-shirts or pyjamas ridiculously emblazoned with Channel, Gucci or Dolce n Gabbana, etc.

Impotently, old heads mourn. This morning at Coffee Seven, I talked for the first time with an actual retired highschool teacher. We lamented the deterioration of our language, including comical misuses of common words. We also noticed the disappearance of eyes from boat prows and phoenix flowers from school yards. Also, fruit bearing trees are no longer planted at schools because wimpy, fried chicken fattened boys might fall climbing them. Hard to believe their forefathers defeated the Chinese, Mongols, French and Americans.

Boats needed eyes to scare away sea monsters, by the way. Viet fishermen also forbade all women, including their wives and daughters, from stepping on their vessels. With amusement, the teacher recalled when a famous actress, Thẩm Thúy Hằng, showed up in Vung Tau around 1960 for a photo shoot. Every local hick chased her from his boat, however.

“Some progress is necessary,” he concluded.

Soon enough, such appalling or amusing tales will be forgotten or whitewashed, here, there and everywhere.

Child Rape Privilege — Sep 06, 2025.

In 2008, a 76-year-old Saigon professor, Nguyễn Văn Ân, was put on trial for marrying a 15-year-old. Then as now, Vietnam’s age of marriage for a female is 18. Though this is often ignored among Highland tribes, this case occurred right in Vietnam’s biggest city. Of course, what made it sensational was their enormous age difference. Plus, the professor was fairly well known.

The old creep said he had taken her in a year earlier to be his housekeeper, and to keep him company. With her family so poor, this was also an act of charity, more or less. How could he be blamed if this peasant girl fell in love with such a towering Saigon intellectual who spoke several languages? It was she who suggested marriage, Ân claimed.

The girl’s mom had a different story. So destitute, she had agreed to sell her daughter to Ân for 50 million đồng, or less than $3,000, to be payable in two installments. After paying her 30 million, he returned the daughter, and refused to pay the rest, so he stiffed her, she declared with justifiable outrage. Both sides concurred this marriage was never consummated, since the professor’s crane no longer lifted, but what is sex, really?

Decades ago, I read Kawabata’s House of the Sleeping Beauties. In it, old men pay to sleep next to a drugged woman, so there’s no interaction. I don’t remember any description of fondling or molestation, though, you’d think, it has to happen. When the protagonist is assigned a different beauty on a visit, he balks by saying, “I’m not so promiscuous as that!” Something like that, I sold that book long ago.

With Ân so feeble, the court showed mercy by not jailing him, and the girl, it is said, betrayed no trauma. Returned to her village, she was training to be a makeup artist for brides.

This case reminded literate Vietnamese of Nguyễn Công Trứ (1778-1858). This poet, mandarin and general had 13 wives. The last was a 17-year-old he married at age 73. Clearly proud of this fact, he celebrated and even joked about it in a poem, “Marrying in Old Age.” Its best two lines:

Bride asks groom, How old are you?
Fifty years ago, I was just 23.

Its last line is still repeated in conversations, “The older the more pliable and long lasting!” Càng già càng dẻo càng dai! Most who do it has no idea it comes from this poem.

Like Ân’s bride, this unnamed 17-year-old had to be destitute, for why else would she want to be the 13^th wife of an old man?

Nguyễn Công Trứ died at age 80. Trump is 79. Melania is just 55, so 24 years younger. If alive, Trump’s first wife Ivana would be 76. Dead three years, she’s buried in a pitiful, minimal grave at a forgotten corner of Trump’s golf course in Bedminster, NJ. A typical Vietnamese peasant is interred with more dignity.

It’s horrible enough for any teenager to be in bed with someone old enough to be her grandfather. It’s much worse when she’s raped.

(R): Ivana Trump’s grave in Bedminster, NJ

Three weeks ago, I mentioned testimonies on 6/3/25 by Israeli girls raped and tortured by some of the most powerful men in that society, including members of the Knesset. On 9/3/25, victims of the Jewish pimp and blackmailer Jeffrey Epstein appeared in Washington DC to demand, finally, transparency into that evil network.

Though deeply involved, Trump declared this Epstein scandal was “a Democrat hoax that never ends.”

Victim Haley Robson countered, “It feels like you just want to explode inside because nobody again is understanding that this is a real situation. These women are real. We’re here in person.” This registered Republican has offered to meet Trump to hash everything out. I wouldn’t bet on it happening.

Another victim, Jena-Lisa Jones, said, “I’m a Republican. I voted for him. I voted for Trump. For him to say what he’s saying is beyond me. Because I put my hope in him, and he’s supposed to protect us. And for him to say that this is a joke…”

Victim Chauntae Davies, “Epstein surrounded himself, I’m sorry, with the most powerful leaders of our country and the world. He abused not only me but countless others, and everyone seemed to look away. The truth is, Epstein had a free pass. He bragged about his powerful friends, including our current president, Donald Trump.  It was his biggest brag, actually.”

Everywhere throughout time, old men near death have fantasized about sleeping with beauties decades younger, but most don’t act on it, especially with force. When they do, there should be severe consequences. The more corrupt or Satanic a society, the more they can get away with this. Trump just might. Many have.

Trumpocalypse Now! — Sep 07, 2025.

Before, Mrs. Seven opened around 4AM, with her first customer, nearly always, Mr. Sơn the security guard at NaLi Beach. He rarely arrived before 4:30, however. Since she had wifi, I started to show up as early as 3:10AM. Sitting in the dark on her only bench, I would read the news, do some research and think about that day’s article.

Sniffing my scent, one of her two dogs, Nọng, would go berserk inside Mrs. Seven’s bedroom. Having no choice but to get up earlier, she now opens around 3:30AM, just to serve me a 38-cent glass of black coffee, plus free hot tea. Some days, though, I may not arrive at all.

Sitting in a lit up Coffee Seven, Nọng would look anxiously down Lê Ngọc Hân Street. Behind her display case with its cigarettes, soft drinks and talismans, Mrs. Seven also waits.

Though I didn’t disappoint Nọng or Mrs. Seven this morning, I couldn’t get anything started, so left early.

“I’m still so sleepy.”

“So go home and sleep!”

Moseying home, I passed a baby girl in the cheapest stroller. As I smiled at her, her grandma said, “Behave yourself or grandpa will yell at you!” This was said in a gentle, playful way. The baby simply stared at me.

“Who’s so pretty? Who’s so well behaved?” To not alarm her, I only touched her shoulder lightly. The Vietnamese adjective for well behaved is ngoan.

“She’s very ngoan,” the old lady said. “Now greet grandpa!”

A child greeting an old person should fold her arms and bow slightly. This gesture is called ạ. As a kid, I did this all the time. It’s rarely seen these days. So ngoan, this baby ạ me properly.

“So pretty! So well behaved!” Smiling, I walked away. I had never seen them before, and may never see them again.

(R): Vung Tau, 9/7/25

Turning left on Thủ Khoa Huân, I noticed a snail in the road, so picked him up to place under a tree. He would have been crushed within an hour or two. Since it was only 6:25AM, cocky bastard thought he was immortal. Just days earlier, I had run into another snail on the same street. If the same one, he’s dumber than me.

Resisting the French, Thủ Khoa Huân was exiled to Cayenne, French Guiana, where he spent five years. Released, he resumed his guerilla activities, so was finally decapitated in 1875 at age 45. Vietnamese history is filled with such fearless nationalists.

Before leaving Coffee Seven, I did have a quick chat with that retired highschool teacher.

“What do you make of this?” I asked while showing him a Truth Social post by Donald Trump.

It flaunts this draft dodger in shades and a black cavalry hat with its crossed sabers. Behind him is the Chicago skyline, five Vietnam era helicopters and flames, suggesting war. “I love the smell of deportations in the morning…” it says at the top, then “Chicago is about to find out why it’s called the department of WAR.” Three cartoony choppers serve as exclamations. “Chipocalypse Now,” it says at the bottom.

Few Vietnamese have seen Apocalypse Now. Those who have would have laughed hysterically at Coppola’s declaration, “My film is not about Vietnam. It is Vietnam.” Based on Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and filmed in the Philippines, there’s no Vietnam in that flick, but don’t let any Vietnamese persuade you. Americans know best.

Though the retired teacher could read English, he couldn’t decipher any of the referents, so I had to explain, “There’s this famous film, Apocalypse Now. In it, there’s this famous line, ‘I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.’ It’s written by a Jew. Americans think it’s funny. Trump is using Vietnam War imagery to threaten an American city!”

We also talked briefly about Trump’s decision to kill 11 Venezuelan fishermen while claiming they’re drug traffickers. Nothing about it makes sense. Even if true, it’s illegal, but what do you expect from a child raping supporter of Jewish genocides?

Just now, Trump’s masked assholes also raided a Huyndai plant in Georgia. Most of those arrested were South Koreans. With short term visas, they only came to the USA to bring jobs to Americans, but whatever, man. Trump is pretty much at war against the entire world, including Americans. Even white tourists are staying away.

South Koreans are appalled at photos of their businessmen treated like gangbangers or drug dealers. Cheering MAGA cultists don’t realize their nation, under Trump, is committing suicide. They’ll find out soon enough.

Finishing this at Pato’s Bingsu, I’m surrounded by screaming children, running around. They’re just having a good time. At nearby Triangle Park, the ladies are dancing to upbeat music. The sights of people doing anything together always cheer me. Only those addicted to idiocy on tiny screens are depressing.

“Stop running around and stop screaming!” a woman says, but these kids can’t stop. Life is just too exciting. Of course it is, but only if you’re swimming in it. Knowing this, grandpa will now run outside.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life, #9

I never thought I’d hobble into that sunset so limp.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Nuisances and Genociders’ Last Gasp — Sep 02, 2025.

American Dale James West after his arrest in Da Nang on 8/27/25

In South Korea, American Ramsey Khalid Ismael, better known as Johnny Somali, has been stuck for a year, awaiting his conviction, after committing a series of crimes, including playing obscene audios near children at a theme park, fondling a Comfort Woman statue, disseminating an AI video of himself with a Korean woman whom he claimed was his girlfriend, terrorizing an old employee at a convenience store, on and on, for the guy’s a famous “nuisance streamer,” an American specialty.

In Manila, another American nuisance streamer, Vitaly Zdorovetskiy, has been jailed for five months. With the Filipino legal system moving quite leisurely, he won’t see a courtroom for a while. Like Somali, Vitaly can count on many years of free room and board in an exotic locale, not that he’ll see much. In dreams, they’ll return often to Florida and Arizona. Wearing their MAGA hats, it will be just like before, but suddenly, they’re fucked from behind by a new foreign friend. Before his arrest, Vitaly joked his asshole was ready. It will speak fluent Tagalog by the time he’s released. You’d think Somali is too ugly to demand much erotic attention behind bars, but he, too, will get his share of prison love. Lighter, humbler and grayer, each will stumble out to a much changed world.

For decades, Westerners have considered East Asia to be a place to find cheap, unusual fun, you know, like little brown fucking machines, even underaged. After fucking little girls in Cambodia, Glam rocker Gary Glitter showed up in Vung Tau, where he was finally arrested. His rented house is within a 20 minute walk of where I’m sitting.

An American sexpat living for decades in Chiangmai claimed he had never heard of “little brown fucking machines.” He also thought Trump was a great president. Perhaps “irritable farmer” or “western lands” is that innocent.

Not so innocent is Dale James West. Here’s Dân Trí on 8/31/25”

On the evening 8/26, Dale James West (29 years old, a foreign citizen), masked, wearing a Grab uniform and a helmet, attacked a security guard with an iron pipe then barged into PNJ store (455 Núi Thành, Đà Nẵng) to smash a glass case with a hammer to steal gold and diamond jewelry worth 833 đồng [$31,619].

After his crime, the suspect escaped on a motorbike. On the morning of 8/27, the police captured James, along with all the incriminating evidence.

It took less than 12 hours for Vietnamese cops to snag this American. If convicted, a near certainty, he’ll spend from 18 years to life in prison. Since that’s the standard penalty for such a violent crime, let’s hope the Vietnamese authorities won’t show any leniency just because he’s an American.

A video posted by the New York Post shows bystanders on a busy street trying to block his escape, but this tallish armed man proved too intimidating. Violent crimes are extremely rare in Vietnam. The Post also states he’s only 26 years old, and from California.

The West has long exported its degeneracy to the East. With economic collapse, this trend has only accelerated. Here’s news.com.au on 4/28/25:

A wannabe Aussie influencer has been slammed online after “desecrating” a grave in Aokigahara, also known as Japan’s suicide forest.

Sydney man Lochie Jones posted a clip earlier this month titled “Suicide Forest Japan Pt 2 Graveyard Flip”, showing himself entering a burial site on the outskirts of the notorious forest.

“So it looks like there’s a cemetery here with a whole bunch of dead people,” he told his camera.

After climbing into the cemetery he can be seen touching graves, saying: “I wonder how many of them died in the forest.”

He then approaches a headstone with a can of popular Japanese beer Kirin on top of it.

“Look at this guy,” he laughs.

“A whole can of Kirin. Should I drink it?”

“What do we reckon?,” he asks himself.

After setting his phone up against the headstone he decides to do a coin flip to “leave it up to chance.”

More insidious are “educators” like Mark Ashwill in Hanoi who spreads his globalist and woke ideology. Marxism itself is a Western poison still being detoxed by the East.

Nationalism has sustained Oriental nations for millennia. Just below it is Confucianism, then Buddhism, but mixed with assorted folk beliefs. Though Orientals have learned much from the West, they must stop looking towards it for standards.

At Coffee Seven where I’m sitting, there’s an octagonal Taoist mirror over the entrance, a money frog biting a coin, a small golden plate showing a Thai woman kneeling over two fish and a Japanese Maneki-neko cat waving in customers. Of course, Mrs. Seven can’t explain any of these, but her confusion is harmless. In her bedroom, there’s a crucifix and a photo of Father Trương Bửu Diệp. Her late husband was a Catholic. Though converted, she never attended church regularly, and hasn’t been in one in over a decade.

I used to be bothered by Vietnam’s cultural confusion, its mindless hodgepodge, but it’s exactly this ideological inconsistency that’s its saving grace. Vietnamese are too incoherent to be fanatical. I don’t suggest this would work anywhere else. I only think it’s fine for Vietnam.

Walking towards Coffee Seven in the dark, I paused to ask BlueTooth, “If you could live in another country forever, which would it be?”

Though I fully expected him to say USA or, much less likely, Australia or Canada, he answered, “Nowhere. I love it here!”

“Every interesting. You’re unusual! How about if you could spend two weeks in another country? Where would that be?”

“Nowhere. I love it here!”

Last time I heard that was in Lebanon. Ali, my regular driver, said he loved Lebanon too much to go anywhere. Even better was some guy Paul Theroux met in Sicily. When Theroux said he was a traveler, this guy declared that he, too, traveled, then he rattled off all the towns he’d visited. They were all in Sicily. Goofball had never even been to the Italian mainland.

After several delays, it appears my three thickish books in Vietnamese will be published, albeit privately. All I need are 50 copies of each, so some will survive, if only for a few years, my exit. It’s less vanity than the need to complete what I’ve started. After becoming a real homeboy, I’ll give a reading somewhere in Saigon, to a handful of people and, hopefully, two or three dogs, a dozen geckos and one attentive frog.

Ghosts all, we must strive to not be nuisances while barely alive.

Halo Evans

Cool Missiles Bursting in Air! — Sep 03, 2025.

Yesterday, Vietnam held a monstrous military parade in Hanoi. Watching bits of it on YouTube, I couldn’t help but think, What if just one of these impressive looking young men and women falls down? Worse, what if an AK toting soldier needs to use the bathroom? It wouldn’t do to perform a quick number two in front of the whole world, just as you’re passing a grandstand filled with big shots. Some old lady next to General Secretary Tô Lâm licked her lips rather obscenely. At least she didn’t fall asleep.

Off camera, even generals crap in their pants from a too-close explosion. War is all about being acutely aware of your animality, of how meatlike and shit filled you are. It’s anything but an inspiring display of unity made for television. In Beijing, there will be an even more asskicking parade today. Moscow just had one. Such military flexing is designed to steel pussified civilians for the escalation of war, no?

One glaring exception was Trump’s joke parade in DC. As the rest of the world hardens, Americans become self-mocking clowns, with the only tough guys those masked assholes in unmarked cars kidnapping busboys, gardeners, shoppers, grandmas and retarded schoolkids.

Just now, Mrs. Seven showed me a photo of her daughter in a national flag T-shirt, saluting. Behind her is a patriotic sign with soldiers. There’s also a video of about 12 young women, all employees of Shinhan Beauty, looking ready for a military parade, at least. They’d soil their panties at the first incoming.

Buying groceries at Lotte Supermarket, I was given a nylon flag with a plastic stem worth 19 cents. It’s sticking from my never watched TV.

It’s amazing this patriotic eruption across Vietnam, as shown on clothing, cars and at private businesses. To amuse Mrs. Seven, I shared with her a video of a cheeky and boobilicious American waving the Stars and Stripes, as the Star-Spangled Banner plays. Bitch means business.

With “the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,” war is, again, reduced to an inspiring spectacle. One can argue that this is absolutely necessary. Without such manipulation, nations are lost.

As Trump crows of how hot and rich the USA has become, we get entirely different accounts from ordinary Americans.

The Functional Melancholic’s “The United States of Collapse: The End of Empire” begins, “Have you noticed this feeling in the air? A lowgrade tension like the faint smell of smoke in a building where the fire alarm never quite goes off, or maybe the subtle smell of rot under the bed perfume. You walk down any major street in the US and you’ll see it in the eyes of the people pretending not to notice the growing tent cities pitched under the overpasses. And you’ll hear it in the way conversations have basically turned into shouting matches about whose version of the facts are true. You’ll taste it in the food that somehow costs twice as much while containing half as much food and even less nutrition. The roads crack your suspension. The bridges look like relics from civilization long gone. And it’s not just the cracks in the sidewalk, it’s the cracks in the soul.”

After 24 hours, it got over 2,250 comments, with nearly all offering their versions of how the US has collapsed. Also viral is a poem-like declaration from Halo Evans. I’ve inserted linebreaks:

I’m an American.
I pay $1,600 for a flat that has no bedroom.
That’s 2/3 of my income.

I’m an American.
I work 50 hours a week.
I don’t have health insurance.

I’m an American.
I couldn't afford to have a child
Even if I wanted to.
I’m $7,000 in debt.

I’m an American.
My health is declining because
I can’t afford Whole Foods, because
That’s too expensive for my life.
I am very overqualified for my job,
But no one else is hiring.

I’m an American.
I make my boss hundreds of thousands,
If not millions of dollars, while I can
Barely keep myself alive.

I’m an American.
I have never been out of the States.
I have never been on a vacation.

I’m an American.
I make 20 some dollars an hour.
A livable wage here is, like, 30 some. Yet,
I don’t qualify for government assistance
Whatsoever. On the days I don’t work,
I’m so tired I just sleep all day.

I’m an American.
My electric bill is so expensive,
I sit outside in the heat because
I can’t afford to turn the AC on
In the damned house.

I’m an American, and I fear
I’m just an average American.
I’m living the American dream.

Since her Instagram page is filled with self-adoring portraits of herself looking cute, one may wonder how depressed she really is, economically or psychologically? What’s really important is that millions of Americans are seeing themselves in Evan’s self portrait. They’re also overworked, broke and have never taken a vacation.

Unfortunately, it’s not just an image war. Trump just posted, “Earlier this morning, on my Orders, U.S. Military Forces conducted a kinetic strike against positively identified Tren de Aragua Narcoterrorists in the SOUTHCOM area of responsibility. TDA is a designated Foreign Terrorist Organization, operating under the control of Nicolas Maduro, responsible for mass murder, drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and acts of violence and terror across the United States and Western Hemisphere.”

This lawless psycho is attacking another nation on false pretexts. Battered by so much madness daily, it’s nearly impossible to grasp how fast your society is imploding, especially when you must deliberate forever before buying a loaf of bread or a dozen eggs.

Phoenix in Flames at Haunted Hotel — Sep 03, 2025.

Having been a semi-regular at Coffee Seven for nearly a year, I had assumed until this morning Mrs. Seven lived alone with her two dogs. Whoever else I had seen coming out of her house I thought was a visiting relative. Now, I know she has a sister and a nephew living upstairs, but they never talk. Her sister was a heroin addict, bad enough to be jailed. Now, she just drinks herself stupid, as much as her tiny budget allows.

Her 38-year-old nephew was a gang member who was never sober. So messed up, he had a stroke nearly a decade ago, so is now bedridden and in a diaper. From the government, he receives 1.5 million [$57] a month, and his mom gets 500K [$19] to take care of him. Even in cheap Vietnam, such stipends are jokes, but luckily, the nephew gets an additional 3 million [$114] a month from his gang leader, the notorious Vũ Cách Mạng. Just typing his name made me tremble, I’m such a pussy. Sure hope I won’t run into Revolutionary Vũ any time soon!

“If you come by in the afternoon, you’ll catch my sister. She’ll be sitting right there, drinking beer.”

Sure sounds like my kind of gal, except I only drink black coffee, cappuccini, soursop smoothies and avocado smoothies these days. I never thought I’d hobble into that sunset so limp. Just three years ago, I could still knock them down for 12 hours straight while blathering about Nguyễn Huy Thiệp, Hồ Biểu Chánh, Max Beckmann and Walt Whitman. Now, I just look forlorn while scratching my deflated balls.

“I had this cat,” Mrs. Seven continued. “My sister was always complaining about it, then one day, she just picked it up, right in front of me, and rode away! I couldn’t react quick enough. She just tossed that cat somewhere! It still hurts me to think of how it must have starved and suffered.”

A chick that hard up for drinking money must have sold the cat to one of these “mini tiger” restaurants, I thought immediately, but said nothing. Though pets are generally safe in southern Vietnamese cities, you still have these drug addicts riding around at night, hoping to catch anything.

Also today, I found out her house is worth at least 300K in US Dollars. Four years ago, it could have been sold for half a million. Though so run down, it’s still very close to the ocean, in a city not far from Saigon. With five siblings, all proceeds must be divided by six, so Mrs. Seven has to get by on selling 38 cent black coffee to the least fashionable crowd. With condensed milk, it’s up to 57 cents! Everyone gets free hot tea.

This old broad never complains, however. Yes, there are hints of regrets, such as when she talks about being lusted over by all these foreign men, Taiwanese and Westerners, when she was a star dancer at the Palace Hotel. Since she couldn’t talk to these white guys, she had no idea if they were Russian, Polish, German or whatever. She’s mourning, just a bit, her lost youth.

Sitting at Cóc Cóc, I look up to see too many fat thighs riding by. Most Viets are still thin, though, which is great. Not so great is the replacement of newspapers, books and conversations by smart phones. Covid lockdowns heightened this addiction. Passing through nine countries during that hysteria, I was never quarantined. For 2 ½ years, I lived as normally as possible.

Bringing me my avocado smoothie, Nga is masked. Thảo the receptionist at DC HomeStay is also always masked. Both young, they’re already half dead. If you fear oxygen, you ain’t open to anything.

Done with this article, I will leisurely browse through 300 Years of Poetry About Ba Ria-Vung Tau. I’ve had this for a while. Every city in the world must have a similar anthology, and one for fiction, too. Though this leaves out some key poets, it’s still an invaluable document. Many eyes and souls have experienced these very streets, alleys and buildings.

Done with my reading, I will trek through Vung Tau for miles. Just five minutes away is the Victory Hotel, where Mrs. Seven’s dad worked as a chef. One of his creations was Phoenix in Flames. It was just some wok tossed chicken. Still looking fine on the outside, Victory smells bad, apparently, and might even be haunted. I don’t doubt Mrs. Seven’s dad is still in the kitchen, cooking away late into the night.

Wherever you are, there must be an infinity of stories to be dug up, to dig, dig, dig away! You’ll feel saner, for sure.

So Rich, Smart, Powerful and Ripe — Sep 04, 2025.

Influenced by China, Vietnam had imperial examinations. Any educated boy’s goal in life was to pass this exam so he can become a mandarin, thus gaining social status, wealth and the ability to help his entire family. Like China, Vietnam also had four social classes. From top to bottom were intellectuals, farmers, craftsmen then, finally, merchants. Though a shopkeeper may be much richer than, say, a medicine man, the latter was considered an intellectual, so technically held in higher esteem. If you’re a mandarin, however, you had everything.

To pass the imperial examination, one had to master classic Chinese literature. Mandarins, then, were super literary. This had its drawback. A bookish nerd may not make the best administrator. This glitch in the system bred a bureaucracy that couldn’t stand up to the West. It was also corrupt, since each mandarin’s extended family had to be taken care of.

Even after imperial examinations were abolished, dumb peasants still expected top officials to be intellectuals, so both Mao Zedong and Ho Chi Minh, for example, posed as poets. So crude, Mao would say to his female underlings, “How were your bowel movements this morning?” He also said, “If you must fart, fart! If you must shit, shit!” That is Confucius wise, I must say. The sage did advise, “When you enter a room, raise your voice and lower your eyes,” so whoever is in there can stop masturbating or farting, I suppose. Gandhi was also very concerned with clean assholes, especially among his female followers.

These thoughts I have this morning because even in Vietnam, there are Trump worshipers. How can they not admire this wealthy chief mandarin of the world’s most powerful nation?

At Viet bookstores, there are translations of Trump’s The Art of the Deal, Think Big and Kick Ass: in Business and in Life, Never Give Up, How to Get Rich, Think Like a Billionaire: Everything You Need to Know About Success, Real Estate and Life, Trump 101: The Way to Success and Midas Touch: Why Some Entrepreneurs Get Rich—And Why Most Don’t, the last co-written with another famed hustler, Robert Kiyosaki. There’s also Michael D’Antonio’s Never Enough: Donald Trump and the Pursuit of Success.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Trump has become Vietnam’s leading thinker! His wisdom is more valued here than Confucius’, Laozi’s and maybe even Buddha’s! Mary Trump’s Too Much and Never Enough: How my Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man is also available, but only in English, so its readership is minuscule.

Countering this mass psychosis, I tell people, “Trump loves to fuck little girls. He’s a degenerate. There’s this Jewish guy who had an island where Trump, and other top Americans, went to fuck kids. With everything recorded, these politicians must do whatever they’re told by Jews. Other foreign leaders are also trapped this way. Let’s say you’re invited to some party in New York or Washington. They’ll have these girls there. Just leaning into one and you’re fucked! You don’t even need to fuck them. I have an American friend, a white guy, who attended these parties in NYC. He told me, ‘You don’t know how degenerate these guys are!’ His boss used to go to that Jewish guy’s island. When his name appeared in that guy’s black book, a friend of my friend emailed him, ‘Hey, your boss went to that fuckin’ island!’ Though my friend didn’t say anything, he got fired, but his boss also gave him six million bucks! Now, he just travels. In Bangkok, I asked my friend, ‘Did your boss fire you directly?’ ‘No, he had somebody do it,’ he answered. ‘How close were you to your boss?’ I then asked. ‘We fucked girls in the same room!’ he answered.”

Even now, there are millions of Americans who think Trump’s Epstein connection is fake news or an Obama plot. That’s how degenerate the US has become. Even most of those who are outraged don’t dare to call it a Jewish blackmail operation. Very few have spoken up.

On 9/3/25, Kevin Barrett reminded us “the media has studiously avoided the most important aspect of the Epstein story: That the disgraced pimp and his accomplices, starting with Maxwell, were Israeli spies tasked with blackmailing the American political and financial elite.”

This sinister setup enables genocides. Barrett, “Given that Trump is the most abject slave of Israel ever to occupy the Oval Office, and that Epstein (Trump’s best friend for ten years) was a Mossad blackmailer, the world has been practically invited to connect the dots: We are witnessing what historians will describe as the Jeffrey Epstein Genocide, in which the only power that can stop Netanyahu from exterminating hundreds of thousands of innocents—the American executive branch—refuses to do so because its chief officer has viciously raped teenage virgins in front of Israeli spy cameras.”

Vung Tau, 9/3/25

Complicity with Jewish crimes hasn’t just destroyed most Western nations morally but economically. Endless genocides are expensive. Angry white pussies who are terrified of doxing themselves deserve no less. Same with white nationalists who worship Jew sucking Trump. Outside the sinking West, dumbshits who swoon over Trump or devour his books don’t really matter. Ignoring that farcical white jester and all others, their leaders are coalescing.

Done at 6:29AM, I will get some breakfast then stroll towards the ocean. It’s delightful to see people exercising or just daydreaming. Though Trump’s immense stench has wafted to all corners of the world, it’s much less intense here. Pity if you’re not so lucky.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life, #6

Cambodian dictator Hun Sen’s level of corruption and depravity is also instructive, since it’s mirrored by other leaders, including the world’s most visible. 

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Thy Sovantha — Aug 24, 2025.

Though Hun Sen’s official title is President of the Senate, every Cambodian knows he’s still their dictator, as he’s been for 38 years. On 8/3/25, Hun Sen announced 30-year-old Thy Sovantha had been kicked out of the Cambodian People’s Party and fired from her job as vice mayor of Arey Ksat, a city of just 76,000 people.

His explanation, “We don’t have time to educate undisciplined cadres when national matters demand attention. Time and again, Thy Sovantha has posted inappropriate messages on FaceBook. I’ve personally called her to request she delete two recent posts. Today, she again posted a message that’s harmful to our military even as our soldiers are defending our nation.”

A day or two later, Hun Sen also stripped Thy Sovantha of her citizenship, and booted her entire family out of the country. She’s lucky to not be murdered. What has this minor Cambodian politician done to incur such wrath, and why should you care?

Off the coast of Sihanoukville is Koh Tang, a paradisal island that houses thousands of forced laborers and sex slaves of many nationalities, according to Thy Sovantha. She has even compiled names of victims. Those no longer useful are killed for their organs. Since a heart is worth one million bucks and a liver $560,000, nobody should be wasted. Vietnamese already know Koh Tang as where 513 of their compatriots perished, after being kidnapped by the Khmer Rouge in 1975 from Thổ Chu, an island 65 miles away. After being worked to death, their corpses were used to fertilize jackfruit, coconut and mango trees. So quaint, such a primitive solution.

With the Kingdom of Cambodia technically a democracy with the king just a figurehead, such horrors are supposed to be passé, but slaves are still trapped across Cambodia. Mostly controlled by Chinese, they enrich the Hun Sen clan.

Before this episode, Thy Sovantha was already famous for her stunning looks. At age 18, she emerged as a supporter of Sam Rainsy, a flamboyant politician now living in exile. When Thy Sovantha switched her allegiance to Hun Sen, it’s assumed she had been bought off. No one really cared, since she was so soothing to stare at. Unlike Kristi Noem, she hasn’t been cut up every which way, then nervously reassembled like some thrift store jigsaw puzzle.

Hun Sen’s level of corruption and depravity is also instructive, since it’s mirrored by other leaders, including the world’s most visible. To these monsters, young women and girls are only useful for sex, young men are to be worked to death or sent to battles, with the rest just useless eaters to be murdered, with their organs harvested. Jewjab was a particularly cute solution, since people were charged to be injured or even killed. Those with “long Covid” can be fleeced for years until death.

With Thy Sovantha so visible, Hun Sen couldn’t just zap her. This decision may prove fatal. Humiliated by Thailand and abandoned by China, he’s already in deep shit. From overseas, Sovantha will speak out even more. Perhaps the old creep is also smitten by this beauty.

Whenever in Saigon, Hun Sen stays, for some reason, at the middle-brow Tân Lộc Hotel by Bến Thành Market. Frequenting nearby eateries, he’s well known for squeezing waitresses’ shoulders. Near corpses can’t help but grab.

In Jordan last month, I thought often about Ghassan Kanafani. Married to a Dane, this Palestinian could have fled to safety. Instead, he stayed most outspoken in the Middle East, so was murdered by Jews, along with his 17-year-old niece, in Beirut. Challenging Cambodia’s most powerful man, Thy Sovantha also flirted with death. There’s also the example of Albania’s Musine Kokalari. Educated in Italy, she could have just stayed there. Instead, Kokalari came home to write in her native language and become politically involved. Though this wrecked her life, her courage and integrity still inspire.

Nations that lack Kanafanis, Sovanthas, Kokalaries or Nam Caos don’t survive. A life’s worth shouldn’t be measured in years, but in meaningful, decisive acts, whether honorable, cowardly or merely misguided. These considerations are moot, however, if men are on auto pilot. With ChatGPT, Chatsonic and whatever else, half dead brains can just drift. In self driving cars, they can just text or ogle at porn.

For a week, I had this stubborn cough, runny nose and slight headache. Only yesterday did I get some pills from Pharmacity. Done with this article by 7:33AM, I will trek a few miles, just to wade into tactile life again. Unmediated experience is never a waste of time. I’m lucky to be in a society with streets still alive.

Couch or cubicle bound serfs can keep mooning at Thy Sovantha, but remember, she’s not just a pretty face!

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 7/22/25

Ah, Life! — Aug 25, 2025.

Doing nothing, 29-year-old Vinh gets 200K [$7.60] a day from his parents. After high school, he did enter college to study tourism management. He lasted just one year. Like millions of similar youths across this globe, Vinh’s defeated lifestyle is enabled by the internet. Its free music, porn, video games and TikTok skits give his life meaning. He’s entertained.

Walking to Coffee Seven this pre dawn, I paused to chat with BlueTooth. As always, he was listening to Eminem. That sonic monotony defines and anchors him.

“I don’t know any Vietnamese who can rap that rapidly,” I said. “Do you?”

“I met this kid who claimed his crew could do it.”

“Could he?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“What does it mean, to rap so rapidly?”

“It means you can sing without thinking!” He sounded awed. “We can’t do it yet.”

When BlueTooth said that rap must be authentic, I pointed out the obvious. Most rappers are broke assed pussies who pose as loaded gangstas. Like Trump or Uncle Sam, they’re fakes. Since I must think before singing, I couldn’t be so elaborate or exact. Still, I got my point across.

Arriving at Coffee Seven, I noticed a Chevrolet Orlando parked outside. Though an American brand, it’s made in South Korea and never sold in the USA, so a fake, basically. It belongs to Mrs. Seven’s niece. As the Assistant Post Master General of Ho Chi Minh City, she can afford these nice wheels. Nearing 50, she’s never married. Her two sisters are also unmarried career women. This global progression towards isolation is accelerating, and mostly welcomed.

Tribes in the Vietnamese Highlands used to live in multi-family long houses. The Hakka of southern China dwelled in enormous circular fortresses, so a vast home, basically, for each clan. Now, there are charmingly named cage apartments and coffin homes in Hong Kong. Five years ago in Seoul, I stayed for nearly a week in a tiny room that cost just $24 a night. It was fun as a novelty. Many South Koreans, though, must live that way. Four decades ago, I had friends who rented NYC closets they converted into bedrooms. Any space wide enough for a single mattress can be leased, obviously, with a first month, last month and security deposit, plus a background check. Your live in landlord wouldn’t want you to slide open that closet door at 3AM, so you can, you know, snuggle a bit. Tennessee Williams has fond memories of such encounters in New Orleans rooming houses. His best account of aroused strangers clawing for love is “Night of the Iguana,” of course.

Despite herself and almost unconsciously, a spinster manages to seduce a queer, but not to consummation. Just before coitus, she flees back to her room, so is, again, alone. Still, she has glimpsed a novel universe.

Consider this masterful passage, “Now she was sleepy. But just before falling asleep she remembered and felt again the spot of dampness, now turning cool but still adhering to the flesh of her belly as a light but persistent kiss. Her fingers approached it timidly. They expected to draw back with revulsion but were not so affected. They touched it curiously and even pityingly and did not draw back for a while. Ah, Life, she thought to herself and was about to smile at the originality of this thought when darkness lapped over the outward gaze of her mind.”

There’s nothing original about seeing semen as life, but it certainly feels that way to each virgin. There’s no mockery in Williams’ acknowledgement, only tremendous empathy. By adding pity to her wonderment, he’s also showing pity for all lonely bodies, including his, of course, for how many times did Tennessee touch that damp spot on his own belly?

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 7/24/25 ; (R): 8/24/25

Two weeks ago, Gina Schrank commented, “I loved hearing about your coffee lady caring for someone or other constantly.” After her mother’s stroke, Mrs. Seven had to wipe and wash her daily for 12 years. For a much shorter time, she had to do the same for her dad. “He used to clutch at his pants like this!” she told me. “But I had to do it. I couldn’t let him be so dirty.”

This morning, I found out Mrs. Seven also took care of her mother-in-law whenever she popped in for coffee, which was often. After escaping Vietnam by boat, this lady settled in California, but came home after two decades without her husband.

“She lived with her son, you know, so she wasn’t properly washed. A woman had to do it. I took her to the back. Her pussy was all slimy,” she chuckled at this memory. “I washed it.”

Her term for pussy is chim, by the way. It literally means “bird.” Makes no sense. Vietnamese also call cows “crawling animal,” con bò. They’re beyond goofy, man.

Though subjected to each deranged trend emanating from that Flaming Babylon on that distant, unreachable hill, almost no Vietnamese is tatted up, pierced and strutting down the street, acting tough. Even those in “cool looking” hoodies flaunt cutesy slogans and cartoon characters in pastel colors. The most clueless wear pyjamas all day long. The more image conscious, the more narcissistic thus insane you are.

Once upon a time Gore Vidal, Truman Capote or Tennessee Williams could be spotted on American television. That civilization is hardly remembered, much less missed. Now, there are only waves of cool zombies brushing against confused troops, freshly deployed. Their endless war has come home.

China’s Tang ping, South Korea’s N-po generation, UK’s NEET and Japan’s freeters are all descendants of Herman Meville’s Bartleby, that pathetic yet sublime Wall Street quitter. Steered towards a soulless, machinelike existence, they’ve all decided to mumble, “I’d prefer not to.” It would only be a passive suicide, though, if you’re not saying yes to anything.

For several years, I’ve photographed people staring at phones. Uploading my latest, I was struck by how insane they’ve become. It’s useless to say this can’t go on.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/26/25

Stragglers in the Night — Aug 27, 2025.

Passing BlueTooth in the dark, I said, “We’re like ghosts. While other people sleep, we just…” I checked myself from saying “function.” Half an hour later, I still don’t know what verb would have been better, but perhaps “straggle”? You, me, him, we barely straggle, for we’re the luckiest.

Hearing me sneeze, Mrs. Seven’s bitch barked from behind her rusting steel door. Only today did I learn she’s called Nọng, a hideous name, and unique, too. Nasty Flannery O’Connor has a character named Hulga Hopewell. Mrs. Seven’s other dog, a male, is called Milk Cow, Bò Sữa. She also refers to him as “missus,” as in, “Missus always hides when it’s time to take a bath.” With our quirks, secrets, shameful solutions or perversions we get by, hopefully without being humiliated or jailed.

Before leaving my high ceilinged, French built room, I listened to a monologue by The Functional Melancholic. Witty, thought provoking, well read and with a good delivery, he’d have drawn live audiences 30 years ago, like Spalding Gray, but today, he must earn his keeps on YouTube. “Civilization’s Inevitable Collapse” has provoked 1,500 comments after just a week, so he’s raising urgent yet all-too-familiar issues. From Thoreau to John Zerzan, many have articulated the despair and horrors of being trapped in conformist America.

The Functional Melancholic, “While most of us are staggering under debt and spiritual emptiness that’s become so routine and ubiquitous, it might as well be direct deposited with our paychecks at this point. The question, ‘Do you like civilization?’ is about as absurd as asking, ‘Do you like your nervous system?’”

A typical response, “I was sitting in my cube today, trying to be grateful for still having a decent job, when a realization hit me. The world just feels.. wrong. Everything about it is wrong. Nothing is the way it should be. It’s all backwards and upside down. It’s like Morpheus said: it’s like a splinter in the mind. It’s suffocating.”

I heard Spalding Gray around 1985. Going to the Painted Bride, I passed through Washington Square. Thousands of Revolutionary War soldiers, plus a few Brits, are buried there in unmarked graves. Seeing me with a white girl, some dude, perhaps homeless, started chasing us with a fallen tree branch. I’m betting he’s a Vietnam Vet who suddenly spotted a Viet Cong. Brushing off this goofy episode, we enjoyed Gray’s performance. In 2004, this Manhattanite jumped off the Staten Island Ferry into the East River, so that’s that.

During my 35 years in the USA, I never got a credit card, so never spent cash I didn’t have. I bought two used cars, which I drove for less than two years altogether. I never got a mortgage. There were times I counted pennies at checkout counters. With such a minimal lifestyle, of course I was a loser to most eyes, but so what. Once I was paid to talk to a class at the Philadelphia Community College. The very next day, I was washing windows at Rittenhouse Square. The term gig economy hadn’t been invented. With buckets of hot water, squeegees and scrunched up newspapers, I roamed through Center City with Lee Goldston. Despite his name, Lee was just this black dude from North Carolina. Lee’s business card said, “Associated Philadelphia International Company,” but my own father, with a single restaurant in Santa Clara, CA, called his backwoods operation “Kobe International.”

“How is it international?” I asked him.

“That’s for the future. Kobe will be international!”

That’s Trumpian or Muskian logics. Since you can’t absolutely rule out any possibility, you can just say anything, but only to morons, of course.

With Klarma, afterpay and affirm, Americans are postponing paying in full even their fastfood burger, burrito or reconstituted chicken. They’re also skipping payments on their houses and cars. Even if your blood pressure is spiking and your nuts are freezing, everything is cool, sort of, as long as there are deep fried calories in your belly.

By early 2018, Tony and his sister no longer had electricity or heat, but they were still eating and, most importantly, drinking. With Latinos taking over his kitchen, Tony became just a parking lot attendant, but his furtive stealing finally got Tony fired. His aging sister was only given the worst tables at her waitressing job. All Friendly Lounge’s regulars gave Tony money so he wouldn’t starve. His last words to us before disappearing for good, “This is your last chance to lend me money!” That wouldn’t be a bad line in any monologue.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/26/25

Since it’s 6AM, I will wrap up today’s monologue. Straggling home, I will cook up some spaghetti, to eat with a beef burger patty. A recent indulgence are cubes of sugar free dark chocolate, bought at Lotte Supermarket.

One last detail before I forget or get struck by lightning. During the Vietnam War, Mrs. Seven’s dad made good money selling pot to American soldiers. Getting to know them, he even converted this very house into a mini bar. That’s why there’s a Minnie Mouse, playing the harp, on Mrs. Seven’s bedroom wall. When she was distracted chatting to a neighbor yesterday, I sneaked into her room to photograph it.

To survive, you must be resourceful, sneaky or freakish, whatever it takes, man, as long as you’re not hurting nobody.

With her tail chopped off, Nọng only has a comic stub to wiggle, but she’s never felt one second of self-pity, I don’t think. As she came by to check on me just seconds ago, I felt so much admiration, from me to her, of course. You’re a pitiful shit, she’s probably thinking.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life, #5

What crime did I commit in a past life to end up like this? To feel anything, numb sacks of meat must go online to cultivate their sadism.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/18/25

Bird Wings Under Sunshine — Aug 19, 2025.

Noticing her frog so immobile, Mrs. Seven thought maybe it was pregnant. Now, she thinks it’s just starving. “Look at its flanks,” she frets as I peer at the darkened lump, parked in a puddle, with its rump against the splotchy wall. What crime did I commit in a past life to end up like this? it must be thinking.

Give this animal a sprig or two of raw watercress, I suggest. With all that’s wrong with the world, why am I concerning you with this inconsequential being? I’m not, really. Like y’all, I don’t care about anyone, ultimately, but as a SubStack hack, I must come up with amusing tales, and pretend I give a shit about anything. It’s grueling and dangerous work. Why didn’t I choose a much softer career in some coalmine or sewer, or on a tsunami battered offshore rig?

Mrs. Seven’s husband’s death anniversary is coming up. Her two daughters and two grandchildren will be here. Her two pregnancies were separated by 15 years. In between, she had three abortions, of the kind performed very early. She explained it as having a blood clot conveniently sucked out, more or less. As a dancer, she couldn’t prance around on stage with a bulging belly.

By the late 80’s, Mrs. Seven was performing at the Palace Hotel. It’s only half a mile from Cóc Cóc, where I’m sitting. On 4/30/75, Palace was the site of the very last Vietnam War battle in Vung Tau. Surrounded and vastly outnumbered, more than 400 ARVN soldiers had to surrender after several hours.

Mrs. Seven’s recollection of Palace is mostly pleasant. When food was still scarce, her troupe could occasionally enjoy all-you-can-eat buffets, with even leftovers to take home. Twelve members were northerners, with several from Nghệ An, Ho Chi Minh’s home province. It’s long famous for its poverty.

“They wouldn’t just take food home, but steal plates and glasses,” she remembers. “When I visited their homes, I’d see all these Palace Hotel plates.” She laughs. Their homecooked meals were pitiful, but that’s just Nghệ An. “They don’t eat like us.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/16/25 ; (R): 8/15/25

Foreign companies would have catered parties at the Palace. Not until these Westerners or Taiwanese finished feasting could her troupe begin its dubious folkloric performance. Mrs. Seven’s star turn was impressively labeled “Bird Wings Under Sunshine.” As her agent, I’m ready to book this slightly stooped and creaking old broad for Trump’s new ballroom at the Whitey House.

Most annoying were the French, for they sure took their time eating. They’d leisurely suck every sliver of meat from the thinnest crab leg and lick the last drop of whatever soup from a spoon. When they’re done, there wasn’t a speck of gravy left for a baby gnat. Forget frogs.

For a single performance on a cruise ship on Phú Quốc Island, Mrs. Seven made enough for a used washing machine. “The toilets on that ship were better than what we had on land!” A booking for three months in Japan fell through, however. This was when Vietnamese needed exit visas. With that secured, Mrs. Seven already bought, in her mind, a sound system for her husband’s band. He’s an organist.

My Scranton buddy, Chuck Orloski, won a Fulbright Fellowship to Bulgaria in the mid 80’s. Before Chuck could board a plane for Sofia, the US imposed sanctions on that nation, so that’s that. He’ll also die without ever seeing his ancestral Poland.

Sơn the security guard reflects often on his brushes with death in Pol Pot’s Cambodia. In her dim café, Mrs. Seven remembers arching her back and holding her pretty hands, just so, under stage lighting.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/8/25 ; (R): 8/18/25

Walking home decades ago, she was hit by some asshole who didn’t turn his light on. Was he saving some gasoline, he thought, or extending the lifespan of his headlight? For over a month, she couldn’t even kneel properly, much less dance. In hellish pain, she had to force her buttocks to touch her heels. “It hurt so bad! I was sweating!” Alone in her room, she had no choice but to keep trying.

When Sơn showed up late, again, this pre dawn, we asked why his wife didn’t wake him up on time? They don’t even sleep in the same room, he explained. She was still sleeping.

Again, I quote Stanley Kunnitz, “Those who were strange born, those who’ll die tomorrow, dance here today,” and alone, too, of course.

With this piece at only 725 words, I must scrape harder for very last bit of coal, crabmeat or soup. Looking up, I see yet another itinerant seller of lottery tickets. She’s short with sticklike legs. Also more numerous are old women from the provinces. Selling not much, they must wander around stoically all day long.

At Cóc Cóc, there’s a taped flyer telling thieves to stop stealing its plastic plant pot. Even brand new, it’s worth less than $3. Closing up each evening, Mrs. Seven must remove a junk electric fan from an outside wall.

We’re old enough to remember necklace snatchers swooping by on motorbikes. Those too clumsy or inexperienced risk smashing their victim’s face or skull on asphalt. Such two wheeled muggers have shown up in the West.

Listen, I’m not here to persuade anyone of anything. If you’re convinced you and yours are cruising through a Golden Age, then happy sailing! You deserve it.

No less deserving are MAGA farmers losing workers, markets and, now, even farms and family homes passed down through generations. American democracy can’t be more perfectly illustrated.

With my back against a wall, I sit in the shade of a midget palm. On the underside of one leaf is a dozen black and orange insects. Just born apparently, they’re clustered around their now empty eggs. Eight yards away, a red bus has just stopped to dislodge aging white tourists. One woman wore a skirt of a dozen colors. Her giddiness at being repackaged is fetching. In her youth, she may have danced nearly as well as Mrs. Seven.

Intertwining Satanists — Aug 20, 2025.

Clarity in thinking or writing is extremely rare. Nearly always, we get ducking, dodging or just plain lying, with the entire US political establishment especially adroit and shameless at these practices. American writers, even dissident ones, are also expert at dancing around obvious truths.

How bracing, then, to wake up this morning to these statements from Kevin Barrett, “Everyone agrees that God hates the wanton mass murder of tens or hundreds of thousands of innocent women and children. Those who stand with God, with their faith, with the values of the New Testament (or the Qur’an or Mahabharata or Analects or Lotus Sutra or Tao Te Ching for that matter) are bound to oppose genocide. Acquiescing in genocide, or even supporting it, amounts to opposing God.

“[…] Jews, by definition, are the people who rejected Christ. That means the self-proclaimed Jewish state is the ‘anti-Christ state’—the State of Antichrist. And the Jewish state of Israel is committing a genocide against the descendants of the family of Jesus, namely the Palestinians. The satanic Zionists, who spit on Christians and burn and bomb their holy places, are crucifying Gaza out of hatred for Jesus and his followers (Muslim as well as Christian).”

Bravo, my man!

As Satanists, these Jews don’t just lapse often into violence, but sexual violence, for the worst violation on any human, and by extension, God, is to inflict sadistic pain on his naked person. You enjoy reducing him or her to a screaming, sobbing animal. As Satanic Americans look the other way, Jews commit thousands of Satanic sexual crimes against Arabs. They’re doing it right now.

With their Satanic sadism so insatiable, powerful Jews also prey on Jews. Just two months ago, some Jewish victims were finally able to make public their unspeakable suffering.

Yael Ariel, “I experienced ritual abuse over many years until my late teens and was forced to harm other children. I chose to speak out and make my voice heard. I received threats after revealing my story. From age five to age 20, I was harmed in these ceremonies. I filed a complaint with the police that was closed after a few months, and I know of other cases that were closed.”

Yael Shitrit, “You have no idea what ritual abuse is. The human brain cannot comprehend it. You can’t imagine what it means to program a three-year-old girl through rape and sadism so they can do whatever they want without anyone knowing. Their trafficking of me happened all over the country. They moved me from ceremony to ceremony. Naked men stood in a circle. My therapist, her husband, and her son harmed me, and there were dozens of other girls and boys who harmed me.”

Unnamed victim, “At 14, he took me to sadistic clubs. I endured torture and starvation at the hands of well-known and prominent individuals. I suffered harm in endless ways. There were public events, and there were internal ceremonies where I was tied to a tall post with handcuffs. Around me, there were other handcuffed victims with rituals of drinking menstrual blood and the slaughter of cats and other animals. They told me no one would believe me if I spoke out.”

My ex-publisher, Dan Simon, just released a French book on sexual crime, “Sad Tiger is built on the facts of a series of devastating events. Neige Sinno was 7 years old when her stepfather started sexually abusing her and at 14 or 15 the abuse stopped. At 19, she decided to break the silence that is so common in all cultures around sexual violence.” I should propose to Dan an encyclopedia of Jewish sexual violence. Just sitting here in Vung Tau, I can already name Jack the Ripper, Louis B. Mayer, Dan Schneider, Harvey Weinstein, Clive Davis and Jeffrey Epstein.

One recent entry is Tom Alexandrovich. A division head at the Israel National Cyber Directorate, Alexandrovich was in Las Vegas to meet NSA officials. Since spooks spy on each other, good old Tom should have known better than to use his cellphone to hook up with a 15-year-old. Armed with condoms, Tom headed to this date via Uber, which left another trail. Caught in a sting operation, he’s safely back in Israel. You think this 38-year-old will show up for his court date on 8/27/25?

In 2008, a principal at Adass Israel School in Elsternwick, Australia was investigated for sexual abuse against three girls. After fleeing to Israel, Malka Leifer was only returned 12 years later to face trial. It only took a decade for Gershon Kranczer to be extradited. Though sexual crimes are common to all nations, only one openly harbors such criminals. Times of Israel on 3/12/21, “Israel has become a haven for dozens of Jewish sexual abusers fleeing charges in recent years, particularly those in the ultra-Orthodox community who are aided by Israeli friends or relatives.”

What do you expect, though, from those whose God advises, “Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. But all the women children, that have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves.” It’s OK to commit genocide, but spare enemy virgins, so you can rape them. Though this is also the Christian God, I can’t imagine Jesus talking like that.

The Jewish state is intertwined with the leading white nation, so both are sinking into hell. It’s sickeningly poetic.

Trump the supposed savior of downtrodden whites spent years raping white children, along with other white leaders. Bill Clinton on their leading pimp, “Jeffrey is both a highly successful financier and a committed philanthropist with a keen sense of global markets and an in-depth knowledge of 21st-century science.”

Of course, you should trust the science. Supplying rape victims to top whites, Epstein also joined in the fun. Finally caught with so much dirt on everyone, Jeff had to be killed, or maybe he’s just lying low in Israel. In the Anti-Christ State, those with the sickest appetites are hardly rare. Just for laughs, they shoot teen boys in the testicles.

Vung Tau, 8/21/25

Walking Corpse Running Meat! — Aug 21, 2025.

There’s a useful and amusing Chinese phrase, 行尸走肉. Pronounced as shing shi zoo roo, it means, literally, walking corpse running meat. This can also be applied to nations. Rotting, it still struts.

With my flesh only slightly putrefied, I tickle my maggot burrowed and fly specked brain this morning since it’s the death anniversary of Mrs. Seven’s husband. Later, his musician friends will gather to sing and play his favorite songs. Saigon Beer will flow. Her younger daughter, Mi Mi, arrived last night from Bình Dương, 80 miles away, where she’s working at a beauty salon.

Just now, a neighborhood loser, Vinh, dropped by. A staggering corpse, he still thinks he has a chance with Mi Mi. Unemployed and untraveled, the 29-year-old still suckles his dying mama’s dry titties, so to speak. Mi Mi has worked all over Vietnam, as far north as Pleiku. She has had a steady boyfriend for seven years. Repeatedly, she has turned down his marriage proposal. Still pretty, she doesn’t lack suitors, and she’s making her own cash. She’s seen friends burdened with kids in marriages already sour.

“This boyfriend has relatives in Australia. They want to bring him over there.”

“So your daughter can go with him if they get married?”

“She says, ‘Why would I want to go to Australia when I can go to the USA?!’” Mi Mi has an aunt in Texas who can hook her up. This lady hasn’t been back in eight years, however.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/19/25 ; (R): 8/21/25

Near death, each trip across the globe becomes more untenable. Strapped to a narrow seat between rotting strangers, you’re hurled through cold space in an aluminum tube that may, and perhaps should, break up any second, to put all those over the hill stewardesses out of their earthly misery. No more squeezing those widest hips through the thinnest aisles to serve crappy food to sullen passengers who don’t even speak English. “I said chicken or pasta, you fuckin’ moron!”

Only the most attentive foreigners notice the proliferation of incense sticks all over Vietnam. They jut from bases of trees and fronts of buses. Spirits everywhere must be honored and appeased. Since the dead aren’t quite dead here, every Vietnamese living room is a shrine to the dead. Dead grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles and siblings often eat and watch television with their living relatives until they, too, drop dead.

Born in 952, Dương Vân Nga died in 1000. She’s the only queen in Vietnamese history to be married to kings from two dynasties. Soon after Đinh Tiên Hoàng was assassinated, she wedded Lê Đại Hành. Many people suspect she may have colluded with the second to kill the first. They were likely lovers.

The only statue of Dương Vân Nga is in a temple dedicated to her second husband. Each year, this effigy is taken to a temple honoring her first, on his death anniversary. Before being transferred, she’s whipped ten times. This corporeal punishment of a wooden statue is deadly serious. Even after a thousand years, the people of Hoa Lư cannot forgive at least her unfaithfulness.

To remember is to imagine that something of you, too, will linger. Of course, it’s nonsense. Alive, you’re already ignored and forgotten.

Vung Tau, 8/21/25

Sharper than me, Google AI Overview defines 行尸走肉 as a man living without a soul, goal, determination or creativity. That’s a bit harsh, wouldn’t you say? Defines just about everybody, especially today. Now at Cóc Cóc, I’m surrounded by zombies staring at phones. It wasn’t like this just three years ago.

To feel anything, numb sacks of meat must go online to cultivate their sadism. A 46-year-old French live streamer has just died after months of “physical and moral humiliation.” With half a million followers, Raphaël Graven had up to 15,000 dorks watch his degradation, as executed by two “friends,” at any moment. For a fee, anyone could suggest a specific torture. With no talents or looks, Graven couldn’t have asked for a better gig. With death, he’s achieved immortality.

After British Lily Phillips slept with 100 men in one day, she was topped by Australian Annie Knight, who bedded 583 within 24 hours. These blushing maidens were put to shame by another Brit, Bonnie Blue, who scored 1,057 retching blokes in 12 hours. Only a nuclear bomb can fumigate that bedroom. Rule, rule, Britannia! Britons never shall be slaves! All these lovelies rake in big bucks as stars at OnlyFans, a platform owned by American Leonid Radvinsky. Unlike Pornhub’s Solomon Friedman, Radvinsky is no rabbi, however, so don’t give me any of that anti-Semitic shit!

Man can’t live by porn alone, unfortunately. After the last paragraph, I walked home for lunch. Afterwards, I listened to A Homestead Journey video. Only through citizen journalists like this “Barbara” can you get a true picture of what’s happening. Black or white, Americans are incredulous at their jacked up bills. Just to eat, many have stopped paying their mortgage, utility, student loan or credit card debts. For at least a decade before I left the US for good in 2018, this reality was already too common. Just to drag their corpses through another day, all my stressed and exhausted friends relied on drugs and/or alcohol. Only Felix Giordano had it easy. He got a check each month for being mentally ill. Working for years in an insane asylum where patients smeared shit on walls or jerked off nonstop, Felix himself went mad. Most of us aren’t so lucky.

With the vaguest, dimmest and sketchiest approximations of a soul, goal, determination or creativity, they stagger from one porn site to another, for that’s the one resource this world has in luxurious abundance. Humanity has never been so blessed.

At age 26, Mi Mi still has a few years before realizing that she, too, is just another shing shi zoo roo. Suck it up, bitch! There’s no shame in belonging.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life 4

Like the US itself, Trump is nothing but his image, so when he looks weak, confused, ridiculous or petty, the world can see exactly how his eviscerated nation is doing

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Image War — Aug 16, 2025.

Since American presidents are now at risk of stumbling headfirst going up or down Air Force One, it’s only logical for them to use stairlifts and evacuation slides. Why chance having the Defender of the Free World crack his denture and skull, just heading to another golfing vacation, or some global summit where he will be mostly ignored, if not mocked? Sliding down, each POTUS should be without pants or Depend. With a splash, he’ll plunge into a kiddie pool as journalists cheer. After being washed, perfumed and sedated by two illegal immigrant nurses of color, he’s ready to hit the red carpet to shake hands with foreign dignitaries.

For transparency’s sake, this entire process will be broadcast live on CNN, Fox News and the BBC, with appropriate color commentaries. “For some reasons, that brown bitch is taking too long to soap the president’s balls. Soon as we find out why, we’ll give you an update. Meanwhile, President Putin of Russia patiently waits, his only sign of exasperation a barely perceptible sigh.”

These patriotic and constructive reflections were triggered by the alarming yet endearing spectacle of Trump zigzagging in Alaska. Was he trying to find Cook Inlet? Since Putin took his time descending, Trump had to wait. When the better man finally appeared, Trump erupted with three bursts of applause. Receiving no equivalent affection, Trump looked positively forlorn when they finally shook hands. With his palm up, Trump was a beggar, and for seconds, his left hand even joined their manual coupling in an unmanly, needy threesome. In our image obsessed world, these spectacles aren’t just significant but emblematic. Like the US itself, Trump is nothing but his image, so when he looks weak, confused, ridiculous or petty, the world can see exactly how his eviscerated nation is doing.

This stinking and stumbling psycho is strapped to thousands of nuclear warheads, however. Without them, the US would just be one vast Skid Row, begging to be divided up by Mexico, Canada, Russia, China and Greenland. Here and there in the Heartland, there may still be MAGA republics, though impoverished, irrelevant and worse off than today’s Lesotho, Eswatini, Tristan da Cunha or Bir Tawil.

Rwanda and Gabon have joined Israel, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Pakistan and Cambodia in nominating Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize. No major European, Oriental or South American countries have done so. Even the most servile US vassals can’t risk embracing a genocidal child rapist.

Demanding peace between Thailand and Cambodia, 2,500 monks marched through Phnom Penh on 8/10/25. Over a dozen hoisted large photos of Trump, with “Thank You! Mr. President.” Though the US likely had a hand in starting that war, these cloistered doofuses credited the Donald with stopping bloodshed.

Right in downtown Tirana is George W. Bush Street. Though short, it passes Mosque of Namazgah, Albania’s largest. Maybe Trump will have at least an alley named after him in Phnom Penh? He’s winning the image war in Cambodia!

In 2020, I was astounded to discover Trump Kids Kindergarten in Lào Cai, a Vietnamese city of 130,000 right on the Chinese border. In an obscure spot high up in the mountains, Trump was idolized by ignorant Communists. This state run school is still there.

(L): 2,500 monks march, Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 8/10/25 ; (R): painting of Bill Clinton in Jeffrey Epstein’s Manhattan mansion

The US as a brand is most seductive to those with no chance of experiencing the Tenderloin, Skid Row, Philadelphia’s Kensington, Camden, Gary, South Bend, Youngstown, Scranton, St Louis, Oakland or all of New Orleans outside the French Quarters. They’re like those middle-aged guys in Amman, Jordan who are mesmerized by one Hollywood movie after another at cozy yet grimy Pop Café, a place no tourist but one has ever entered. They don’t know what it’s like to endure social distancing nearly every waking hour for decades. I’ve never experienced a population more atomized.

Let’s examine one photo of Zelensky’s visit to the White House on 2/28/25. With his arms folded, the Jewish clown is being scolded by two suited idiots, with Trump flaunting his trademark pucker. Like his boss, lapdog Vance is waving his hands in disapproval. Basic manners dictate you don’t bully a guest, even in private, but this was a staged spectacle, performed for Trump’s Budweiser and Miller High Life swilling base. The setting itself is laughable. Behind Trump on the mantel are the tackiest golden urns and figurines, and “TRUMP” is on some booksized block on the coffee table. Trump must always push his brand. Of course, there are no real books within sight. Flags of the US Army and US Marines flank this draft dodger. If only Liberace had become president!

If only we were just talking about taste. Just now, photos of Epstein’s Manhattan mansion have emerged. Though we see the same level of pricey tackiness so beloved by Trump, there are much darker notes. Vigilant Citizen describes a work of art, “Everything about this sculpture is creepy and unsettling, especially considering that young girls were being raped and abused in this very mansion. White gowns worn by brides are meant to represent their purity and virginity. This particular bride is seemingly attempting to escape something awful… like maybe an old pedo trying to abuse her. They like to mock their victims.” Inside this pedo rape paradise are sweet photos of Epstein with Bill Clinton, Trump, Melania, Bill Gates, Mick Jagger and Elon Musk, among others. A long letter from Woody Allen includes this poetic line, “Add to this that Jeffrey lives in a vast house alone, one can picture him sleeping in damp earth.”

There’s a lovely painting of a saucy Bill Clinton in a blue dress and red heels. Draped across a French Empire chair, he’s showing off his cleavage and flashing a pink thigh.

Long before death, they’re hell dwellers, and proud of it. Why not? Indulging in the worst acts imaginable has reaped them the greatest benefits. Most of their victims even consider them gods.

Baltimore, Maryland, USA: (L): 5/26/11 ; (R): 12/18/11

So Far Gone! — Aug 17, 2025.

The mysterious animal living in Mrs. Seven’s house turned out to be a large green frog. Dwelling behind her coolers, it had standing water on the concrete floor to drink, plus mosquitoes and gnats, one must assume, to feast on. Worrying about this beast’s poor diet, she left a hunk of bread by its side. Since it remained untouched days later, she removed it. Content, this solitary exile will stay right where he is, a silent, brooding presence, unmolested by men, dogs or God. That’s a better fate than most men’s. His options beyond this house aren’t great. Escaping, he’d likely be squashed or gently lowered into a boiling pot of rice gruel with mung beans.

At Vietnamese wet markets, you’ll see skinned frogs still alive. I’ve also written a poem about a turban wearing and gum chewing “sadistic climbing perch monger.”

Here’s the killer part, “Keeping these fish in a tin basin, she takes out each one and snips, with a scissors, its tail, anal fin, dorsal fin, pelvic fin, ventral fin, pectoral fin, then, finally, head. If only she would reverse this order, the climbing perch would not thrash about during the entire process.”

All travelers know no two nations do anything the same. Of course, if you only hop from one global enclave to another, you’ll miss most of these stark or subtle differences, but that’s not traveling. Landing in Timbuktu, Nakhchivan or Qaanaaq, they look immediately for a McDonald’s and a Starbucks.

Baltimore, 5/26/11

Recently, Trump cited Oakland and Baltimore as examples of cities “so far gone,” they need federal intervention, as just happened in DC. Since Trump doesn’t drive, much less walk, anywhere dicey, he has no direct experience of Anacostia or Deanwood in DC, much less Baltimore, but that’s true of his critics also. Whether conservative or liberal, most Americans know better than to stray into black ghettos. Here are the five deadliest American cities, Memphis, Oakland, St. Louis, Baltimore and Detroit. Four are majority black, with St. Louis nearly so.

Just pointing out these facts will get me charged as a “racist” by many upstanding Americans, but consider this hateful passage, “In the city of Philadelphia the increasing number of bold and daring crimes committed by Negroes in the last ten years has focused the attention of the city on this subject. There is a widespread feeling that something is wrong with a race that is responsible for so much crime, and that strong remedies are called for.” It was written in 1899 by that famous Nazi, W.E.B. DuBois, when he was best buddies with Adolf Hitler. Growing up in adjacent rowhouses, they’d split even a pretzel. So poor, they had to pool money over months to buy one Tastykake.

When Trump talked about solving urban crimes, his MAGA base plus many others immediately understood it as a resolve, finally, to tackle black crime, so they cheered, though not at work or in polite company. With Trump, though, it’s just another con and misdirection. He’s using black crime to normalize the presence of soldiers on American streets. Having engineered the worst economic collapse, he’s preparing for its attendant chaos and violence.

Baltimore, Maryland, USA: (L): 5/26/11 ; (R): 12/18/11

As a high school kid in Northern Virginia, I’d drive my Mustang II to Baltimore to catch my Mariners play the Orioles at Memorial Stadium. I’d head straight there from my McDonald’s job on Little River Turnpike. In my M’s jersey and waving a pennant, I once screamed so loud while sitting alone in the outfield, a player turned around to stare at the freak. I’d like to say it was Ruppert Jones, but he must have been retired by then.

As an adult in Philly, I’d take a Greyhound to Baltimore to spend another relaxing, near suicidal day. Away from its Inner Harbor, the city looked bombed. Wandering around Charm City, I started to understand why John Water’s Divine thought eating dogshit was so wonderful. With so many murals honoring murder victims, you also feel close to God, as in, “I’ll be there in a second, Jesus.” It’s a spiritual city.

You, too, should drop everything to visit Baltimore at the first opportunity. Its tourism slogan, “You won’t get it till you get here.” A preview, “A 13-year-old boy with 18 prior felony arrests has been apprehended again, this time for a series of armed carjackings and robberies that took place across Baltimore from July 26 to 27, according to the Baltimore Police.” Similar youths are liberally sprinkled across America.

Under Biden, there was a noticeable uptick in anti social behavior, including street takeovers, flash robberies, smash and grabs, dine and dashes, porch piracy and nuisance streaming. Far from going away, these have only increased under Trump, since their root causes, alienation, pathological self absorption, community breakdown, unaffordability of basics and meaningless existence, have only been exacerbated. Plus, Trump is himself a worldclass felon. Crime exudes from all his pores and orifices effortlessly. Trump emanates crime.

In 1992, Camden Yards opened in Baltimore. Now, there are retro ballparks all over. Inside these exclusive environments, the USA is still safe and wholesome. The cheapest seat for a game five days from now goes for $23, with the most expensive at $153. With the added cost of hot dogs, soft drinks, beer and parking, a typical family of four can’t come here. Triple locked inside some ghetto rowhouse or a suburban duplex, they can still enjoy this American mirage, on their bought-on-credit flatscreen. That’s how it will be, then, as their world cracks, crumbles and burns.

New York, 8/4/09

John Rocker, Prophet — Aug 18, 2025.

Twenty five years ago, an Atlanta Braves pitcher, John Rocker, said, “I’m not a very big fan of foreigners. How the hell did they get in this country?” With his team in NYC to play the Mets, Rocker observed, “Imagine having to take the 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you’re riding through Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It’s depressing.”

It’s clear this 26-year-old had never been to Beirut or anywhere in the Middle East. Even today, you almost never see in Muslim nations purple haired kids, queers with AIDS, obvious felons or 20-year-old moms with four kids. Unlike in the USA, their criminals, degenerates and misfits don’t advertise themselves. Even American nerds pose as gangstas, for their culture glamorizes all crimes, including genocides.

When Rocker was born in Statesboro, GA in 1974, it had roughly 17,000 people. In high school, he lived in Macon (pop. 130,000). Though a city, it’s still in the same state, then he was drafted by the Braves. Nearly his entire minor league career was spent in the South.

There were plenty of Latino players in his organization, however, and the big club’s roster for 2020 included players from Venezuela, Curacao, the Dominican Republic, Panama, Canada and Cuba. Even with so many foreign teammates, Rocker had plenty of white ones to socialize with, however. The appearance of everyone working together towards a common goal disguises the fact that, after the game, most players stick with their own race or at least those who speak their language comfortably. Even on the airplane home, they self-segregate.

New York, USA: (L): 10/8/11 ; (R): 11/3/17

Rocker’s disgust, fear and hatred of NYC is all too common. It’s not just the natural reaction of any bumpkin towards the city, but of every child when forced to enter school, or of any man on his first trip abroad, even if he’s going voluntarily, for pleasure. To be uprooted is always violent, but without this, almost no goals are achievable, especially today. Very few are allowed to be housewives or simply shopkeepers in their hometowns. Thrust into alien, bewildering environments, nearly everyone seeks to reclaim his hickishness by frequenting the same bar, café, cheesesteak joint or Chinese takeout, or he can watch the Braves or Phillies for 200 times a year, including the playoffs and Spring Training. Compulsive, addictive behavior is nearly an inevitable reaction to the terrors of displacement.

Retired, Rocker must be living in some Southern town, so he’s no longer displaced. Most people don’t have that option.

Trump’s decision to send National Guardsmen from Ohio, West Virginia and South Carolina to Washington DC made me think of John Rocker. Unlike the pitcher, they won’t be armed with fastballs and sliders, but M4 carbines and M9 pistols. Nothing will go wrong, I’m sure.

Deployed around Union Station, Georgetown, Chinatown and 14th Street, they’ll make a show of arresting sandwich throwing drunks and public urinators, but their real tasks, make no mistake, is to sow fear and disorder. When American cities go up in flames, American hicks will cheer.

Though the worst kind of New Yorker, Trump, with his red cap, is posing as a John Deere tractor driving peasant. You’d never find him plopped next to a John Rocker, though, at any good ol’ boys tavern. Served a pickled trotter, the Donald would retch.

Before college, I had been to NYC just once. At 15-years-old, I went there with my mother, stepfather and half brother on a day trip, a very long drive from Northern Virginia. That day’s highlight was a visit to the top of the World Trade Center. Applying for college, I was accepted at Pratt and Parson, but visited neither. Wanting to become an oil painter, I knew I’d have to confront NYC at some point.

New York, USA: (L): 10/8/11 ; (R): 11/3/17

From Philly, I’d take two local trains to NYC. At first, it was only to visit its museums. Eventually, I’d get to know many neighborhoods, including those across the Hudson in New Jersey. I gave poetry readings at St. Mark’s Place, the Nuyorican Café and a few other venues I can’t quite remember. I was paid to talk to a class at Yeshiva University, I’m not kidding. I was on a panel at NYU with Susan Sontag and Carolyn Forché, among others. I was a critic-in-residence at Art in General. Many of my college friends moved to NYC. My main publisher was there. On my last visit, I was interviewed by Chris Hedges for Russia Today. I wrote a long poem about Yankee Stadium. Despite all this exposure, I never warmed up to Manhattan. It’s too much about image, with every transplant remaking himself to be more worldly, even freakish. Even their speech changes.

At Philly’s Friendly Lounge, there was a regular, Johnny AC, who made it a point to never visit NYC, and he had been to Japan.

For thousands of years, we lived in villages. Now, 55% of the world’s population dwell in cities, with millions packed into cubicles suspended in smog. Last week, some tattooed asshole in Hanoi was caught on camera beating up a female neighbor by the elevators. He clearly didn’t care who she was, or even where he was. His soulless, arrogant face exudes alienation.

When I was born in November of 1963, Saigon had a population of 1.6 million. Now, it has 14. That’s why I’m living in a drowsy city by the ocean. At 4:06AM, I’m again sitting at a sweetly shabby café in a quiet alley. Mrs. Seven is still living in her childhood home. Through the open door of her bedroom, I can see an elegant pastel portrait of her late father. On her wall is a peeling mural of the Vietnamese countryside. Her two dogs’ one big trip was to the wet market, a quarter mile away. Behind her red cooler, a large green frog contently squats. Like everyone, he has had enough harrowing life experiences to brood over.

Clearly, our species’ existence is unsustainable. Though we know and sense this, there’s nothing we can do. Our elites, though, have firm, definite plans they’re already executing. Meanwhile, there are still baseball games to be stared at on our droning televisions.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life 3

Like a much more famous billionaire, this pitiful man is boastful, exaggerates numbers and loves to play with girls. Insane people are lost in their fantasized greatness.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Well Prepared for the Worst! — Aug 13, 2025.

Washington DC, 12/6/11

This pre dawn at Coffee Seven, there’s a new half face. The other half is hidden behind a mask. With his mouth muffled, it’s not easy to understand what he’s saying. Plus, he’s speaking very rapidly.

Sơn, “You have a new vehicle!”

“Yes, just bought it, for three billion.”

Since $114,000 doesn’t sound right, I ask him, “Why so expensive? Why not buy a plane?” I tease. “Or a house?”

“My house is a hundred billion! I just bought a cemetery.”

Sơn grins, “A cemetery.”

“Why?” I ask. “You only have one body.”

“To sell lots.”

“How many?”

“A hundred.”

“That’s nothing. You need a plot for a thousand!” Then, “How much is your motorbike, brother Sơn?”

“Three billion.”

I say to Mrs. Seven, “Since all your customers are so rich, you shouldn’t be selling coffee for 10K,” or 38 cents. “Sell it for 100K.”

“He’s so rich, but sometimes he drinks my 10K coffee on credit.”

Already this insane in his early 30’s, he’ll just get worse, for sure, though his agitation will likely decrease with age.

Washington DC: (L): on 3/2/15 ; (R): on 7/28/17

For a nation, too, unchecked madness must increase. Even with violent crime down in DC, Trump has called in the National Guard. Preceding this by days was a photo of Big Balls sitting on the ground with a bloody face and body. Sure looks like he smeared it all over himself for the most dramatic shot. Why was this 19-year-old out, partying, perhaps, at 3AM? More mysterious is his hiring by Elon Musk for DOGE, that personal data harvesting scam that saved no one a dime, but why dredge up ancient history? We’ve so moved on.

Daily Beast on 8/12/25, “White House Wants Big Balls to Get Same Medal as Rosa Parks—The move would appeal to Trump’s MAGA base.” Who can deny Swollen Testicles has done much more than Mother Teresa and Martin Luther King?

Meanwhile in LA, masked goons arrested a handicapped 15-year-old at gunpoint, right outside his high school. This boy was standing next to his grandma’s car, with her inside. In their excitement, ICE agents dropped bullets on the ground. Warriors so professional must be sent immediately to Ukraine, Syria or deadly Washington DC, so they can return to claim a modest lot in a discount cemetery. As with thousands of other cases, this kid was targeted because he was brown. Handcuffed, he was whizzed away as terrified classmates looked on. After an hour, he was released without even an apology. Who are the retards here? With a moronic commander in chief, they’re free to terrorize.

Four decades ago, DC was America’s murder capital. Going there often, I was never mugged, however, because I didn’t wander around drunk at 3AM. I attended Bullets games before the team changed its name to Wizards. I had second row seat for a spectacular performance by George “Ice Man” Gervin. Fourteenth Street right in Northwest was as seedy as NYC’s Broadway. Taxi Driver’s Travis would have been perfectly at home. Since America’s rich and powerful didn’t care to live in shitholes, DC and NYC were much gentrified. I imagine Manhattan below 116^th and DC’s Northwest are still fine.

Washington DC: (L): on 11/30/11 ; (R): on 8/28/10

Meanwhile in Gaza, “Al Jazeera journalist Anas al-Sharif, 28, has been killed along with three of his colleagues in a deliberate Israeli attack on a media tent sheltering journalists outside the main gate of Gaza City’s al-Shifa Hospital.” Al Jazeera also claims, “Israel has killed nearly 270 journalists and media workers since it launched its war on Gaza.” The Jerusalem Post begs to differ, “IDF kills Hamas terrorist doubling as journalist.” Unlike Israel, al-Sharif hasn’t killed one innocent civilian, but he’s the “terrorist,” while the genocidal Jewish state must be defended by the entire West.

After Kevin Barrett interviewed me recently, he posted our 1 ½ hour conversation at Unz with this headline, “Linh Dinh: ‘It’s a very systematic program to destroy opponents of the Jews’—Is the Great Replacement driven by economics—or by Jewish hatred of Esau (Europeans) and Ishmael (Arabs/Muslims)?” Nearly all 72 comments after it concern Barrett’s suggestion Europe would be better off by converting to Islam. Unlike Jews, Kevin isn’t advocating for Middle Eastern and Northern African Muslims to invade Europe, after their own societies are destroyed. That’s a Jewish project, gleefully executed. In any case, neither Kevin nor I have the power to effect anything. As American “influencers,” we’re a thousand tiers below Johnny Somali or Ice Poseidon. Big Balls wouldn’t spit in our direction. So invisible, we can walk through walls.

True to their Angry White Pussy code and calling, none of those enraged Unzians dared to say Jews. Quaking whites proudly wave white flags.

Going to meet Putin in Alaska, Trump said, twice, he was headed to Russia. A man this confused can’t be expected to formulate policies on Cambodia, Armenia or Azerbaijan, so he’s obviously not in control, so who is? Perhaps Big Balls. Just never say Jews. They’re the most misunderstood and discriminated against do gooders in history.

When a woman across the street asks our billionaire to help her lift a heavy pot, he simply says, “I can’t,” so creaky and slightly stooped Mrs. Seven has to do it. I’d have, of course.

Seeing his gaudy watch, I blurt, “That’s nice!”

“It cost eight billion!”

“So expensive! You should use that money to go out with your girlfriend.”

“I’m married.”

“Oh! How many kids?”

“Eight.”

“Eight!”

After he’s gone, Mrs. Seven tells me, “He’s not married. Who would marry him? His parents are rich, so he just rides around.”

He comes to Vung Tau to play with girls, chơi gái, meaning he visits whorehouses. Like a much more famous billionaire, this pitiful man is boastful, exaggerates numbers and loves to play with girls. Insane people are lost in their fantasized greatness.

As your people become increasingly destitute and outraged, you erect tallest flag poles, build the tackiest ballroom, stage a military parade on your birthday and, now, normalize having heavily armed troops on city streets, something unseen in any civilized country not at war. Who can claim, though, the USA is either?

Triggering the worst, Trump is well prepared for the worst, he thinks. Still, that constant stench from his own body is hard to ignore. It’s not just old age. Continentia in Latin means repression. Since this megalomaniac has never known any self-restraint, it’s all flooding out from every orifice as his cowed subjects endure his repression.

still from Jack from Thailand’s Thailand’s Father Day 2020 featuring Tony Cartalucci

Some Holes in Brian Berletic — Aug 13, 2025.

Between 7/26/25 and 7/31/25, I wrote five articles on the latest conflict between Thailand and Cambodia. Before giving you an update, let’s examine some contentions made by Brian Berletic, whose 28 minute video from 7/26/25 I saw just last night.

Though many of Berletic’s observations are astute, there are fundamental flaws in his world view. He keeps insisting Israel is doing America’s bidding, so Jews serve whiteys. More specifically, Israelis and all other bad actors globally are paid off, manipulated or fooled by the American empire. Ethnic or racial interests don’t trigger conflicts. If not for Uncle Sam, all nations and races would get along.

Like me, Berletic points out that many ethnic Cambodians live on the Thai side of the border, so they, too, were on the receiving end of Cambodian rockets. When there’s no war, Thais and Cambodians coexist well enough. This doesn’t mean, as Berletic contends, “There’s no real animosity between these two countries. A lot of people make this out as if it’s some sort of historical issue. People don’t go to war over history, over religion, over ethnicity. These are things people in power use to dupe people into fighting wars.”

(L): King Vajiralongkorn at Munich Airport, Germany, 2016 ; (R): Bangkok, Thailand, 1/3/23

People have always gone to war over ethnicity, race, religion or historical claims, even if these are grossly exaggerated or entirely fictional. Think six million Jews gassed to death in a Final Solution. To stoke Jews for genocide, Netanyahu said on 10/28/23, “You must remember what Amalek has done to you, says our Holy Bible. And we do remember.” There’s no need for Bibi to cite the entire passage. Every self respecting Jew already knows it, “Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.” To a lesser degree, Christians have absorbed this bloodthirsty mindset.

Since Amalek is a long disappeared nation that has nothing to do with contemporary Palestinians, it’s simply a shorthand for any enemy of the Jews. Fueled by racial righteousness and hatred, plus a lust for revenge against an amorphic Amalek, Jews going berserk in Gaza, the West Bank, Syria or Lebanon aren’t Uncle Sam’s proxies. They’re acting out their nationalism, something most leftists insist only the worst whites have, when in fact, nationalism is weakest among those pale folks with blonde, brown or red hair. Blacks, browns and yellows still embrace nationalism without shame.

Berletic acknowledges this himself in a Jack from Thailand’s video, “Thailand Father’s Day 2020 feat. Tony Cartalucci.” Since Berletic is a Slavic name, his adoption of a pen name so Italian was certainly weird. Why the misdirection? Should I call myself Witold Wozniak or Levi Ben-Gurion? Names denote familial, clan or tribal relationship.

In Thailand, love of nation is directly linked with loyalty to king. Though I’d rather not live in such a society, I’m not Thai, it’s their business. My name is not Somchai Ayutthaya. More troubling is their current monarch, Vajiralongkorn. He’s a veritable creep who spends most of his time in Bavaria. Each appearance in Thailand, such as seen in this video, is pure theater. In private, he’s an abuser of women and borderline crossdresser. Since any criticism of the king will land Berletic in prison, he only gushes about Vajiralongkorn here. It is sweet, though, to see thousands of Thais gather to celebrate their heritage. They will survive Vajiralongkorn.

In Bangkok two years ago, I stopped at a high school to observe their lengthy morning ritual to honor Buddha, king and nation. Their national anthem begins, “Thailand unites the flesh and blood of Thais. The land of Thailand belongs to the Thais.” Then, “We will sacrifice every drop of our blood for our nation.” Around that time, I also noticed no photos of kings at one café. This was highly unusual. Talking to the barista, I found out his sister couldn’t stand the royal family. This was her silent protest.

Everywhere, there were photos of Princess Bajrakitiyabha. She had collapsed at age 43 while walking her dogs. During Covid, rich Thais would fly to the USA to get Jewjabbed. Thirty months later, the princess is still in a coma, supposedly. No Thai newspaper or blogger would dare to suggest she’s most likely dead.

Berletic, then, must be extra careful when talking about Thai kings and their policies. His encapsulation of Thailand’s role during the Vietnam War, though, is at best bizarre:

Thailand has had a relationship with the United States over many years. It is complicated. Thailand was in a region the US was bombing. They were bombing Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. Thailand was next. The US even encouraged a Communist insurgency in Thailand. Had nothing to do with actual Communism. Thailand decided they would host US troops and they would play along. Then as soon as the war was over, US troops went home. That relationship has gradually faded since and it has long since been replaced by a much closer, stronger and more constructive relationship with China.

Thailand: (L): Chanthaburi, 3/23/18 ; (R): Bangkok, 1/4/23

The US had no intention of bombing Thailand. In fact, it used Thailand as a base to bomb Laos and Cambodia, primarily to destroy the Ho Chi Minh Trails. Thailand didn’t just play along but benefited financially from hosting American troops. Those not stationed in Thailand went there for sex vacations. Thailand’s sex industry became the world’s largest during this era. That legacy is on full display today in Bangkok and Pattaya.

Though US troops did go home after the Vietnam War, the Pentagon maintained its influence. One example are the ill fated guerillas headed by a Vietnamese-American, Hoàng Cơ Minh. I should know. He’s my great uncle. In Virginia, he actually asked me if I wanted to go to Thailand. From there, I could follow him back into Vietnam via Laos. Knowing exactly where he was, Hanoi tracked HCM when he crossed into Laos, just north of Pakse, then killed him near Attapeu in 1987. Having spent seven months in Pakse and Ubon Ratchathani, I’m familiar with the region, though not as a guerilla. Only with Pentagon coordination would Thailand tolerate Vietnamese-Americans staging an armed conflict against Vietnam. It was more farcical than the Bay of Pigs.

Berletic’s claim that Thailand’s Communist insurgency was “encouraged” by the USA and “had nothing to do with actual Communism” is also absurd. Its main backers were Vietnam and China. Vietnamese Communists played key roles in growing Communist movements in Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and even Malaysia. That these relationships soured later was only due to each nation’s innate nationalism. Oriental tribalism trumped Jewish gibberish.

From 1975 to 1990, Thailand had to absorb waves of Vietnamese, Cambodians and Laos fleeing Communism, so it responded, often, by allowing its soldiers and citizens to rape, rob and kill them. After all, the land of Thailand belongs to the Thais. During last month’s conflict, ethnic Cambodians in Thailand were attacked, so thousands have fled home. Half a century ago, thousands of refugees were forced to return to Pol Pot ruled Cambodia at gun point. Stepping on mines, many never made it.

Like Berletic, I’m no fan of American imperialism, but unlike him, I also acknowledge the selfish or evil aims that are at least latent in all nations, and in each man, too. To reserve such agency to only white men or nations is to be, simply put, the purest racists, even if you’re completely unaware or mean well.

Today in the Phnom Penh Post, “Fresh claims that Thai soldiers destroyed homes, installed barricades, in Banteay Meanchey.” So it can certainly flare up again. On 8/7/25, Prime Minister Hun Monet nominated Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize, so the Donald has five from world leaders. They include the heads of Israel, Pakistan, Armenia and Azerbaijan.

West Point trained Hun Monet’s cozying up to Washington has angered Beijing. In December of 2024, the USS Savannah docked in Sihanoukville, not far from Ream, a naval base upgraded by the Chinese at the cost of billions. On 7/31/25, I wrote “Sam Landing Jab Means Chinese Troops in Southeast Asia.” I still stick with this assessment. Having invested so much into Cambodia, there’s no way China will let the US reap the benefits.

Plus, Hun Monet and his daddy, Hun Sen, are surrounded by powerful Chinese, many of whom have only been granted Cambodian citizenship recently. Counting underworld bosses, Cambodia is dominated by Chinese. Much of the Huns’ wealth comes from the Chinese.

The Cambodian economy depends on exports to the USA, however. That’s why Hun Manet has parked his skinny ass between two chairs. Kissing Trump’s rump, he’s also assuming the Donald will last a while. China, though, will be there until eternity.

Busan, South Korea, 7/15/20

Warring Societies — Aug 15, 2025.

Talking to Kevin Barrett just now, I pointed out the obvious. Language’s primary purpose isn’t to communicate but to prevent outsiders from having access to our thoughts, jokes, abject longings, battle plans, animosities towards outsiders and underhanded plots against them. Through vocabulary and accent, we can already tell who aren’t in our tribe, gang or cohort, and these are people who supposedly speak our language. Their mispronunciation of every word tests the limits of our superhuman forbearance and preternatural capacity for charity. Exiled to Morocco, Barrett must daily improve his Moroccan Arabic to blunt, most pitifully if rather sweetly, a universal irritation or amusement his strained babbling must cause. Knowing abject defeat to be inevitable, most expats cling to each other and more or less sleep in the same bed, night after night, in their own minuscule theme park.

Halfway through that paragraph, I looked out a second floor window at Pato’s Bingsu to see a woman in her early 30’s on a bicycle. Stopped in the middle of an intersection, she was cursing someone down Ba Cu Street, then she turned to a second target on Trưng Trắc. She would look left and right to find more enemies, or just to see if anyone was laughing at her. This went on for more than five minutes. I had to assume some motorist had cut her off. Her “fuck your mother” was distinctively northern. Perhaps wisely, no one tried to calm her down. My effort to do so would have been self-serving. The male fantasy of saving a damsel in distress is universal. It would be sci-fi creepy if manifested in a stinking old fart, with blood oozing from one big toe, no less. Two times in three days, I stubbed it, walking barefoot.

With Coffee House at that corner, I asked its security guard what had happened. Nothing, he said. No one had done anything to her. It’s a pity, we agreed.

“It’s stress,” he added. “From society, the economy.”

“And she has no one,” I speculated.

“No lover.”

“Lover?! She has no dog or cat!”

When there’s less to go around, divisions become accentuated. The more diverse a society, the more conflicts it will suffer. Knowing street fighting will erupt, Trump is prepping his masked goons.

The best allegory of human fragmentation is the 7th essay in Chronicles of Bustos Domecq, cowritten by Jorge Luis Borges and Julio Cortazar. Through the persona of a pompous critic, Borges’ erudition and occasional lapses into a tongue-in-cheek formal language are exaggerated most hilariously. It’s criminal that Norman Thomas di Giovanni’s translation, as published by Dutton in 1976, is out of print. Stuffed in a carton box in South Jersey, my copy is irretrievably lost. Luckily this morning, I was able to locate an online version at archive.org.

Consider its dedication, “To those three forgotten greats—Picasso, Joyce, Le Corbusier.” Penned by Borges, “forgotten” here doesn’t just jar, but is nearly a wish or prediction. These “greats” won’t be so great. Of course, it’s only Bustos Domecq talking.

Podgorica, Montenegro, 7/15/21

In the piece we’ll examine, “The Brotherhood Movement,” there’s also a mention of “Ezra Fishpond,” plus Quo Vadis?, but misattributed. Like Borges, Domecq the fictional critic has a fantastic reading list. Here’s the story’s central contention:

Human kind, he explained away, is made up, despite climatic and political differences, of a multitude of secret societies, or brotherhoods, whose members are not only unknown to each other but who may, at any given moment, change their status. Some of these societies are more enduring than others—for example, the society of individuals sporting Catalan surnames, or surnames that begin with the letter G. Others, inversely, quickly fade—the society of those who, this very moment, in Brazil or Africa, are inhaling the odor of jasmine or, more cultured minded and studious, reading a bus ticket.

Beyond who you are, everything you do, or even think, from moment to moment, aligns you further with a tiny, select “brotherhood” or “society,” while pitting you against the rest of the world. “The most trifling act—striking a match or blowing it out—expels us from one group and lodges us in another […] the person wielding a spoon is the adversary of he who brandishes a fork, but very soon both are at one over the use of the napkin, only to split again over their Postum or Sanka.” With “wielding,” “adversary” and “brandishes,” conflicts are introduced. Just as in real life, there’s no real ceiling. Evil is infinite.

After +30 years, the most enduring image from “The Brotherhood Movement” is of a man getting off a train pulling a switchblade on a boarding passenger. Performing opposites acts, they’re natural enemies. I laughed so hard back then.

Walking to Cóc Cóc, I passed another masked opponent. Now, I’m subjected to a ruthlessly targeted and sustained sonic assault from tattooed enemies wielding video games and TikTok skits. Clutching my bleeding toe, I collapse, my brain damaged and soul soiled. Vastly outnumbered, I must nurse my wounds until one day, perhaps tomorrow, I’ll make them all pay.

With Bustos Domecq’s contention so airtight and unimpeachable, any counter argument deserves to be hissed at, nuked, flushed away or aborted. This feeble example, then, is only dished up for your amusement. Days ago, I passed a puppy tied to a motorbike on Ba Cu. Noticing his entreating eyes, I came over to introduce myself, which sent him into a joyful frenzy.

When his owner appeared seconds later, I asked, “Does he have friends?”

“Who isn’t his friend?” she smiled.

Though what I meant was, “Does he have dog friends?” she and her puppy didn’t make a distinction between men and dogs. Plus, this innocent hadn’t learnt, most bitterly, the meaning of enemy.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

Slices of Life 2

If Trump’s weapons overseas are bombs and missiles, his domestic ones are primarily words.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Biggest, Longest and Hottest Wordsmith Ever — Aug 09, 2025.

Michael Snyder’s The Economic Collapse Blog has been around for over a decade. Its gathering of raw statistics is most useful. Snyder has also published seven books on the rapture, including The Beginning of the End (2013), End Times (2022) and Chaos (2023). Having gained a following, Snyder decided to run for congress as a Republican in 2018.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 11/30/24

The Idaho News on 1/1/18, “Michael Snyder says he is not a politician—but a firebrand, fighter and 100 percent supporter of President Trump.

“‘He restored my faith in America,’ Snyder said.

“[…] If elected, Snyder says he wants to be Trump’s ‘best friend in Congress.’”

In the Republican Primary, Snyder got just 10.3% of the votes, so finished fifth. Not every boy can grow up to be a congressman. As for president, the morally depraved have the best chance, but keep in mind that nearly everyone is already excluded, so stick to your fireman job fantasy, and only fools dream of walking on the moon or Mars.

Of 47 US presidents, only one had German blood. None had French or Spanish. Old World feuds are still being fought. Nearly all POTUSes were Englishmen with roots in the English Colonies. Though Trump and Obama don’t have this pedigree, they can easily be blackmailed. The compromised will wreck his nation to save his sick, corrupt ass.

Chastened by defeat, Snyder has returned to what he does best. On 8/7/25, he wrote, “If everything is going to be just fine, why are thousands of stores closing all over the country? So far this year, the total amount of retail space that has been permanently closed has surpassed 120 million square feet […] Store closings spiked during the early days of the pandemic, but in 2025 stores are being permanently shuttered at an even faster pace.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/8/25

MAGA diehards would dismiss this as doom porn. It must be fake news that 5,822 stores have closed during the first half of 2025. What about all those newly opened? On 8/8/25, Trump posted at Truth Social, “Stephen Moore: ‘Mr. President, you gained ten times more income for the average family than Joe Biden… Every income group did better under Trump than Biden—by a wide margin…’”

Ten times?! With every income group doing better by a wide margin? Is this like gas at under two bucks and drug prices being reduced by 1,500 percent? Far from that madhouse, I’m appalled and fascinated by this information war. Having kissed Trump’s ass so heartily, Snyder can’t blame his (ex?) idol for the very economic collapse he’s documenting.

As with the Holocaust, Israel’s right to exist, 9/11, Bin Laden’s supposed assassination, Jewjabs, America as beacon of democracy and champion of peace, Arabs as head chopping fanatics and Jews as always persecuted for no reason, narratives matter very much. Words shape reality. With all eyes on him globally, any American president is most powerful, even if he’s just taking orders. With Trump, there’s the added horror of seeing English being degraded most tragically and farcically. There’s no more shame in spewing outrageous lies in the crudest, most cartoonish language. Sickest are those who worship this crass idiot. Again, Trump mirrors America.

Trump’s tariffs raise prices, so people shop less or shoplift, thus bankrupting stores. This generates many more desperately broke blokes who must travel further to stuff cans of tuna if not a whole frozen chicken into their pants. “Why you look so hard at my bulging crotch, man?!” If it doesn’t quite fit, you can unzip to release part of the cold cock.

There’s a new trend of grabbing snacks from Walmart shelves, to be eaten in situ, but this lifestyle revolution can only be practiced if there’s still a Walmart within 30 miles or so of the storage unit you call home. Since all your neighbors are similarly destitute, you can’t even turn tricks to earn gas money. Five must squeeze into a compact, then, to go raiding. Wilding will spread.

Those who don’t have a storage unit or car to sleep in soon go apeshit from being exposed nonstop to the elements and, much worse, fellow humans. There’s always a healthy percentage among them who can’t wait to rob or rape you, even if you’re just a fetid sack well past your expiration date. Since it’s only “best before,” a can of baked beans stamped “31.12.25” can still be consumed a century later. There are good news! If you haven’t been bludgeoned or sodomized at a hundred years old, Trump can now pack you into an insane asylum. If you’re a Hispanic or American Indian, you might even be rewarded with an open ended foreign vacation.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/8/25

Though Trump’s ICE’s targeting of brown people has cheered many whites, it’s only misdirection. He’s screwing whites, too, only differently. Most dangerously, he’s normalizing lawlessness, on top of vulgarity and idiocy. Unleashing mayhem and terror, Trump burps slogans, cliches and lies to an audience lobotomized over decades. If Trump’s weapons overseas are bombs and missiles, his domestic ones are primarily words. Since these still work well on nearly half his country, Trump must be America’s most formidable wordsmith.

Even before it stopped making stuff, America was mostly about branding, misnaming and marketing. The worst bread ever was called Wonderbread, the worst cream was dubbed Miracle Whip. As the US declined, its self promotion became absurdly infantile, to suit its own citizens. Who cares if billions outside are aghast? In the age of selfies, the world is reduced to your face, regurgitated opinions, TV stations, bookmarks, video games, favorite YouTube influencers and the same songs heard over and over.

With American literacy reduced by 1,500 percent, James, Whitman and Pound might as well have written in Chinese. Luckily, America still has Trump.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/9/25

Fart and Run Communication Among the Faceless — Aug 10, 2025.

On 5/12/23, I made a four minute video of the Sacred Heart Church in Pakse, Laos. Since my videos are among the worst on YouTube, I don’t expect likes or comments. In March of 2025, one blanchelobo4420 came on to ask for the time of the English mass on Ash Wednesday. I didn’t even know there was such a mass at Sacred Heart. I answered, “I left Pakse years ago. I don’t know the time of their masses.”

Though blanchelobo4420 was in Pakse, he somehow thought the comment stream of this barely seen video was the best place to get his info. After asking the same question over and over, he snapped, “It is so sad that my several queries regarding the English Mass on Ash Wednesday & what time it is is being ignored. If I don’t get any reply from you, it’ll be on your conscience for preventing me to hear Mass on Ash Wednesday. I plead of you to please reply to my query ASAP. THANK YOU.”

An American Catholic who must attend mass on Ash Wednesday shouldn’t have expected to find any Catholic church in a provincial Lao city, much less one with English services. Almost every Lao is a Buddhist. In Pakse, though, there are Europeans running an Italian restaurant, French bakery and French restaurant, all clustered together downtown. Also, his hotel receptionist must have spoken English, or he wouldn’t have been able to check in. Despite these options, blanchelobo4420 had to harass a Vietnamese who lived 450 miles away.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/8/25

Two weeks ago, I received a message from an admirer of my poetry, particularly my “Brand New Products.” Since Alex was too young to witness my banishment from the US literary scene, he asked me for an explanation. It started with my questioning of 9/11, I replied, then worsened with my straying from polite or correct versions of the Bin Laden “assassination,” Jewjabs and, most damningly, the Holocaust. My collaboration with Iran’s Press TV over several years didn’t help. As my career sank, I felt no regrets. All I cared about was articulating what I really believed to be true.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “I definitely don’t agree with the genocide being perpetrated by Israel and the USA right now, but your hate for Jews clouds your literary genius. May one day you be able to escape the chains of hate, for they tie us down rather than empower us. Thank you for the answers to my questions and I hope your weekend is enjoyable.”

So my revulsion over genocides stemming from a genocidal ideology is reduced to my being strapped to “the chains of hate.” I’m sure he has no use for my “Less Than Cockroaches.” Don’t lecture me without reading it.

Days ago, I got a message from Avi Shmoo. “I just listened to your conversation with Kevin Barrett, and I’d love to be in touch with you. Thanks Brother. Have a wonderful, beautiful day.” Sure, let’s talk, I replied. In the warmest tone, Shmoo said he was reading my Wikipedia page and had listened to two of my articles. Decades ago, he also had a Vietnamese friend. Learning that Shmoo was living in Moscow, I immediately suggested we do an interview. I also sent him two I had done with American expats in Russia. Who wouldn’t want to hear about how Shmoo had ended up there? Sure, he said, but, “I try to keep my head down. I stay off the radar. So I wouldn’t want to use the same name (pseudonym) in two places.” No problem, I answered. Below Shmoo’s messages were the flags of Iran, China, Russia, Palestine, not quite Syria or Iraq, and Malaysia. His fake photo was of some fat, clownish white guy in a black wig. Though I had started to formulate questions for this Avi Shmoo, I never heard from him again.

These sketches illustrate how the faceless communicate in 2025. Appearing suddenly, they can just fart then run. With chatbots, it will get even worse, they say. It’s hard to imagine. “Real men” are bad enough.

Tentative titles for this piece were “Tales of Madness,” “Edifying Sketches” and “Madness Buffet,” with the last particularly stupid. The word buffet, though, did make me think of a distant episode. Since insanity is our default state, men were also crazy in the 90’s, but somehow less so, I’d like to think, in my incurable madness.

Around 1990, Korean owned buffets spread across the USA. They didn’t just serve Korean dishes, but Chinese stir-fries, spaghetti, salads, meatloaves, mashed potato and Swedish meatballs, etc. You paid by the pound. It was a winning concept. Walking by one of these in Philly, I noticed its owner standing outside. Puffing a cigarette, his face beamed with a naked pride obvious to every businessman, secretary, construction worker and student strolling by. Starting out in Muju, Asan-myeon or Oksan-ri, this squat man had conquered America, so it was only natural for him so puff out his chest and suck in deeply, so deeply, in fact, that there wasn’t enough oxygen for anyone else within a quarter mile. Suddenly, everyone staggered, gasped and nearly fell down. Seeing this, he felt even more vindicated. I wouldn’t have been surprised had he started crowing like a cock, or pulled his pants down to more fully display his cockiness.

 No less vain, I made a video this dawn that’s even more pointless than usual. It depicts humans and dogs doing not much in silence and darkness. Mrs. Seven can barely be seen scooping some ice, emptying a bucket then making herself an iced coffee. Sơn the security guard is already exhausted before starting his shift. Pretending to give a shit, I hug Mrs. Seven’s two dogs.

zero star lunch chez moi in Vung Tau on 8/11/25

Sadistic Addicts Ready to Convict — Aug 11, 2025.

By the time I could sit down at my first café, it was nearly 4:30PM. Since I would normally be out by 4AM, then have an article done by 9 or 10, I had added 12 more hours to my enormous tally of wasted time. I had woken up with a headache continued from last night.

In Buchner’s Woyzeck, the captain hilariously says, “It’s frightening, how the world turns round in a day. What a waste of time! What does it amount to?” He also tells Woyzeck to slow down his barbering, since the captain has no use for ten extra minutes.

Before drinking my guava juice, I checked on Mo, Cà Phê Cà Pháo’s kitten. He had just returned from the vet, where he spent four days. Counting two days he lay immobile at home without eating, Mo had wasted nearly a week. When not sick, this alert, hyper active animal never squanders a second. You’d never catch him with a cellphone four inches from his face, or playing the same board game with each free moment for an entire lifetime, or watching hundreds if not thousands of sporting contests yearly, with millions of commercial breaks.

Lying half dead at home, I did catch up on some news. A green card holder from South Korea has been jailed for at least a week, after his arrest at San Francisco International Airport. Unlike President Trump, 40-year-old Tea Heung “Will” Kim never murdered or raped anybody. More than a decade ago, Kim was convicted of marijuana possession, for which he did community service. He’s now a doctorate candidate at Texas A&M, researching a vaccine for Lyme disease. Though Kim has been in the US since age 5, he never applied for citizenship, however. Under any other administration, this would not have mattered.

Kim’s attorneys haven’t been allowed to contact him. They don’t even know where he’s being held.

Most revealing are YouTube comments about this case. sheilawilliams2875, “So he had a DRUG charge. Deport him.” karenphu998, “Drug charges? This guy needs to go back to Korea.” georgieboy2432, “Green cards are not a free pass!” JHtx991, “they should also remind everyone you get like 10 yrs in jail for weed in korea [laughing to tears emoji] with a 99.9% conviction rate.” tamelabarr6601, “Blah blah blah blah… he’s not an American citizen.” Most comments are like these. Led by Trump, the US has turned into one hideous society.

How many drugs are Elon Musk on? How many have you tried?

My high school best friend, Brian Robertson, introduced me to weed. Under Trump, Brian became a Senior Policy Advisor and Speechwriter at the State Department and Department of Health and Human Services. He’s also a Policy Director for Republican Senator Sam Brownback. At every junior or senior high school across the USA, anyone could buy weed from a classmate without a problem.

In college, I did weed and lines of coke, once with a professor. This was the era of Cheech and Chong. Not so funny is how the USA will turn nearly everyone into an addict, with self destructive behavior nearly unavoidable. With each waking moment so empty and pointless if not painful, wasting time while dazed, delirious or numb has become the most common solution. Partying means getting fucked up. It’s almost impossible to talk at parties, bars or night clubs. Starved of meaningful conversations, brains dry up, souls shrink and language dies.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/11/25

Now at Cóc Cóc, I’m five yards from a teenaged boy who’s been possessed for nearly two hours by video games. Sickly thin with horrible posture, he wears the uniform of the Vietnam America School, where tuition for the 10th grade is $3,477 a year. This barely Americanized kid isn’t just lost to Vietnam, but anything pungent, tactile or visceral. His eyes are deader than crazed marbles in the dullest color. An aspiring global citizen, he’ll soon have a harem of AI girlfriends to confide and jerk off to. Sex, for him, will be purely visual. Though living next to the ocean, he will likely drown within seconds of being tossed into it.

Before leaving my room, I did make a hybrid dish of San Remo Spaghetti with Cuccina and Armore three cheese sauce, Kikoman Light Soy Sauce, cucumber and roast pork. Though neither Mo nor Mrs. Seven’s two dogs would touch this globalist travesty, it tasted fine to me. To be alive now is to be adrift, or lênh đênh in Vietnamese. That’s almost my name. We’re all Linh Đinh. Culinary miscegenation is perhaps globalism’s greatest contribution.

Sơn the security guard makes around $2,000 a year, so no Vietnam America School for his kids. Fresh again at 7PM, I’ll see this quiet, melancholic man before dawn tomorrow. Impossibly slumped, that 10^th grader’s chin has sunk into his bony chest as his skeletal thumbs dance frantically. Tinny clashes of swords erupt nonstop. Now he’s holding his phone right over his crotch.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks

The Bear and the Eagle Face-Off in Alaska

All eyes on Alaska. The Bear-Eagle face-off is part of an astonishing acceleration of history in the summer of 2025.

By Pepe Escobar at Sputnik.

Two weeks after Alaska, there’s the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (SCO) annual summit in Tianjin, China. India’s Narendra Modi and Iran’s Masoud Pezeshkian will join, among others, Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin at the same table. A BRICS/SCO table.

September 3, in Beijing, is the 80th anniversary of what is officially defined as the victory of “the Chinese People’s War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression and the World Anti-Fascist War”. Putin is the guest of honor. The rehearsal, with 22,000 participants, took place this past weekend in Tian’anmen Square.

On the same day, in Russia’s Vladivostok, it’s the start of the Eastern Economic Forum, which discusses everything about Russia’s drive to develop the Arctic and eastern Siberia – the equivalent of the Chinese “Go West” campaign started in the late 1990s. Key Eurasian players will be in the house. Putin addresses the plenary session on September 5.

Top BRICS leaders of China, Russia, Brazil and India, meanwhile, are actively involved in a flurry of phone calls coordinating a collective response to the tariff wars – part of the hybrid war by the Empire of Chaos against BRICS and the Global South.

How Trump is Aiming for a PR Win

Let’s see how Alaska is setting the stage for something much bigger.

The summit was announced following what Putin advisor Yuri Ushakov concisely defined as “a proposal from the American side which we think is quite acceptable.”

This sentence was as far as the Kremlin would comment – in contrast with the non-stop verbal onslaught emanating from Washington. That the Kremlin even considered the American offer means an implicit recognition of what Russia is achieving on the battlefield and in the geoeconomic sphere.

Timing. Why now? Especially after Trump had threatened buyers of Russian oil with tariffs? Essentially, because military intel in selected deep state silos have done the math and finally admitted that the long proxy war in Ukraine is lost.

Moreover, Trump personally wants to get over it so as to concentrate on the next chapters of the Forever Wars – including the one that really matters: against “existential threat” China.

From Moscow’s point of view, conditioned by the successful results of its calibrated war of attrition, the facts on the battlefield spell out the special military operation rollin’ on – and no ceasefire; at best a “humanitarian” pause of a few days. The Americans want a ceasefire of at least a few weeks.

Reconciling both sides’ optics will be a Sisyphean task. Still, Alaska is just the beginning: the next meeting is already in the works to take place in the Russian Federation, according to Ushakov.

Trump’s motives are easily identified: create the perception of the US extracting itself from the mess; some sort of truce; and back to doing business with Russia – especially in the Arctic.

In parallel, assuming any sort of deal, the deep state will never recognize the new Russian regions, even Donetsk and Lugansk; and will seek to re-weaponize Ukraine, “leading from behind”, for a NATO-led war replay further on down the road.

So the US-Russia abyss is mirrored by the domestic American abyss – and most of all the Trump-NATO/EU abyss. The toothless chihuahua European pack, trying to salvage its pitiful Kiev actor, is doing somersaults – complete with possible black swans – to derail the summit even before it happens.

There’s no way Trump can sell any sort of settlement to the rabid NATO/EU pack. But nothing would please him more than to transfer the war – in full – to them. With the benefit that the deep state in this case will not complain – because it will be reaping massive euro profits from the weapons sale racket. End result: a classic Trump PR win.

Exit Ukraine, Enter the Arctic

Ukraine, though, will not be the main theme in Alaska. The ever-perceptive Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Sergei Ryabkov cut to the chase: what really matters is that “the first signs of common sense are appearing in Russia-US relations, which were absent for several years before.”

Ryabkov was quick to also highlight the dangers: the risk of nuclear conflict in the world “is not decreasing”; and Russia sees the risk that “after the expiration of the New START Treaty, nuclear arms control will be completely absent”.

Once again: Alaska is just the beginning of something much bigger – including, finally, a serious discussion about “indivisibility of security” (what Moscow wanted already in December 2021, rebuffed by the autopen administration).

And that brings us to the Arctic – and serious stuff that will certainly be debated in depth at the upcoming Vladivostok forum.

The Arctic holds at least 13% of global undiscovered oil reserves and 30% of undiscovered natural gas. Russia controls at least half of all these reserves. The Empire of Chaos badly wants to be part of the action.

Yet one thing is possible massive US investment in joint Arctic projects with Russia. Something entirely different is the US joining the Northern Sea Route (NSR) – which the Chinese call the Arctic Silk Road. The NSR reduces shipping time between Asia and Europe by up to 50%.

The Russian-Chinese rationale for the NSR – including the expansion of Russia’s unique nuclear icebreaker fleet – is exactly to bypass the Suez Canal and connectivity channels controlled by the US. The key question then is what would it take to swing Moscow to accept a Trump-Putin deal in the Arctic.

So on Ukraine, in principle, Russia has all the cards – as long as the special military operation goes on, now on overdrive. On hybrid war, the tariff chapter, the US ruling classes finally realized they have no cards – because blowback caused by secondary sanctions will badly damage the US. What’s left then is a commercial deal: the Arctic.

It’s quite intriguing that even the JPMorgan Center for Geopolitics admitted that the best solution for the Ukraine mess is a Georgia scenario: that would somewhat offset the optics of a total capitulation by the West. Only Ukraine would capitulate: no NATO, no EU, no money, no security guarantees.

Inestimable Prof. Michael Hudson has condensed how Alaska will proceed under two vectors: “Part I is whether the US will acknowledge that the trajectory of the current fighting is for a total Russian victory, on the terms that Putin has been explaining for two years: no NATO membership, no foreign arms supplies, Nuremberg-like trials of the Banderite leaders, and perhaps reparations by Ukraine and NATO for the rebuilding of formerly ‘Ukrainian’ Russia.”

Assuming Trump accepts it, and that’s a major “if”, then comes the real nitty gritty (remember Ryabkov), “starting with whether a new atomic missile and arms treaty will be put in place.”

Russia’s version of peace, writes Prof. Hudson, will flow along these lines: “We don’t want an atomic war with the United States. Let’s agree that if a German or other EU/NATO missile hits Russia, when we retaliate it will only be against Britain, Germany and France, not North America.”

Prof. Hudson is adamant that “America has only one thing to offer other countries: the (temporary) promise NOT to hurt them. There’s nothing positive to offer, given its de-industrialization and the world’s de-dollarization.”

As it stands, and also considering the multiple ramifications of the hybrid war against BRICS, Alaska carries the potential of offering Washington a way out of the debris of a massive strategic defeat.

Any analyst who tried to understand the special military operation from the beginning, in detail, could tell that Russia’s war involved something much bigger than Ukraine. It was always about the burial of the “rules-based international order”, in fact the whole old order architecture. That is happening as we speak in the black soil of Novorossiya. Strategic patience, in the end, does pay.

All Economic Data Point to Western Collapse

The Sirius Report:

Alastair Crooke with Nima: Two Fronts, No Escape — Collapse Is Spreading Fast

And it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for? NATO’s wars

The whole Circus Ringmaster shtick, with each plot twist draped in several layers of hubris and empty bluster, only accelerates the BRICS/Global South high-speed train… 

By Pepe Escobar at the Strategic Culture Foundation. 

All of you Vietnam vets and draft resisters will recognize where this column’s headline is coming from. Oh yes, this ain’t the late 1960s anymore, so it’s time to revamp it – no AI needed – and expand it: from now on, be assured everyone in the wild, wild West will be forced to fight and/or endure three overlapping NATO wars.

War number 1

It’s Europe v. Russia, of course. Not proxy anymore: hot ‘n nasty, direct. Considering the advanced rottenness of the whole Ukrainian front, new fronts are already proliferating: the South Caucasus; clandestine ops in the Baltic Sea; MI6 recruiting frenzy across Central Asia; fresh terrorism ahead in the Black Sea, especially Crimea.

Col. Lawrence Wilkerson succinctly nailed it: we are already on WWIII. Actually we are already deep in the extended preamble to WWIII. Circus Ringmaster in D.C. and the billionaires/donor class behind him are of course clueless. Re-reading Keynes – The Economic Consequences of the Peace – is an absolute must like never before. History does (italics mine) repeat itself.

Yet this ain’t 1914 or 1935; now nuclear weapons may come into play.

The Kremlin and Russia’s Security Council are very much aware of the high stakes. In his recent interview to Kommersant, Sergei Shoigu even rolled out some key NATO numbers to stress the threat Russia faces: over 50,000 tanks and armored vehicles; over 7,000 combat aircraft; over 750 warships; 350 military and civilian satellites; an immense offense (italics mine) budget.

Well, what sly Shoigu did not say is that when push comes to shove, it only takes Mr. Khinzal, Mr. Sarmat, Mr. Zircon and Mr. Oreshnik to deliver a few strategic business cards to paralyze the whole NATO machinery in a matter of minutes.

War number 2

It’s the Empire of Chaos v. Iran in West Asia, with Eretz Israel as much as proxy as a lead actor.

The Circus Ringmaster – whose only “strategy” is to concoct shady deals to enrich himself and shysters in his close circle – dreams of an Israeli-centric West Asia, a toxic crossover of the Abraham Accords 2.0 with the IMEC corridor, creating, as Alastair Crooke defined it, “a business-led West Asia, centered on Tel Aviv (with Trump as its de facto ‘President’), and via this business connectivity corridor, be able “to strike further beyond – with the Gulf States penetrating into BRICS’ south Asian heartland to disrupt BRICS connectivity and corridors.”

Using the Arabs against BRICS won’t cut it even with MbZ in the UAE and MbS in Saudi Arabia, who have both realized the business scam will only work if there is real peace in Gaza; some sort of humanitarian solution for the Palestinians; and rebuilding the Gaza strip.

The death cult in Tel Aviv will never allow any of the above: their plan is to kill them all, steal all their land, and eradicate their culture. And as the genocide goes on – totally legitimized by the NATO sphere – the death cult keeps bombing anything in sight, perpetrating the balkanization of Syria, and expanding Eretz Israel.

War number 3

It’s NATO against China. Already decided in the latest summit in The Hague, side by side with the continuing war on Russia.

Yet actually the scam is much bigger: it’s NATO’s war on BRICS.

That was announced, casually, by that unspeakable Dutch mediocrity that makes former slab of Norwegian wood Stoltenberg sound like a quantum physics star. NATO’s Secretary-General Rutti Frutti actually threatened India, China and Brazil directly, and ordered them to “call Putin” to prevent “Daddy” Trump from unleashing his next Tariff Temper Tantrum (TTT).

Beijing is hardly breaking a sweat. China humiliated the Circus Ringmaster by not backing down one inch in their trade/tariff war. Russia humiliated the Circus Ringmaster by not being coerced into a pathetic “ceasefire” – as in allowing NATO to re-arm. Iran humiliated the Circus Ringmaster by not signing an unconditional surrender. The Houthis humiliated the U.S. Navy – now that’s one for the military annals – by forcing the Circus Ringmaster into a ceasefire after $1billion in failed bombing.

Lula in Brazil is about to humiliate the Circus Ringmaster by affirming Brazilian sovereignty in the face of an all-out trade and financial war (Trump even threatened to tax the popular Brazilian digital payment system, PIX). If slapped with 50% tariffs, Lula said Brasilia will slap the Empire of Chaos back under a reciprocity law.

The whole Circus Ringmaster shtick, with each plot twist draped in several layers of hubris and empty bluster, only accelerates the BRICS/Global South high-speed train, now increasingly being shaped as a geoeconomic, geopolitical and geo-strategic alliance of trans-continental proportions, reaffirmed at the Rio summit.

All that led, of course, by what I have been describing as the new Primakov triangle: the new RIC, Russia, Iran and China, complete with their interlocking strategic partnerships. Quite a few top Chinese academics not by accident are also starting to conceptualize the emerging, “post-West” environment with two new “I”s in BRICS: Iran and Indonesia, not India, should be at the heart of BRIICS.

Meanwhile, in Europe, Tricontinental analysis has noted how the – warmongering – German BlackRock chancellor has pledged “€650 billion over the next five years toward military spending in order to reach the [NATO] 5% target by 2035”. That means Berlin being forced to raise “about €144 billion per year”, via, what else, austerity and debt, translated into massive extra taxes on German consumers.

That, in a nutshell, is the “program” for the whole, fragmented, collective West in the near future: austerity for everyone (except the 0.01%); and NATO Wars, not Diamonds, Forever.

Netanyahu’s coalition is about to collapse

Should Netanyahu lose power, it will not be because he is a practising genocidaire and mass killer, but because a scapegoat is needed to rebuild the myth of Israel.

From Basira Press

Netanyahu’s coalition is about to collapse, as one of the ultra-orthodox parties that support him has called for dissolving the Knesset and going for snap elections. His strikes on Lebanon are designed to provoke Hezbollah and reignite a war which will keep him in power.

However, the Liberal Zionist option of a makeover of the Zionist entity, so as to place blame solely on Netanyahu and act like they’re saviors who established “peace,” seems to be the direction that the US and internal actors in the Zionist entity wish to go. They see that they have failed militarily — occupying empty areas of Syria is just for show, as the Lebanese border was a meat grinder for dead Zionist soldiers by comparison — and that the image of “israel” and Jews around the world has become increasingly negative.

All of the “israeli” political factions quietly support the genocide, but have this plausible deniability by pretending they are against it. Netanyahu will serve his purpose to grind down Gaza and the resistance as much as possible, and then he will be thrown aside for a fake “savior.”

It’s possible that the US is behind these internal moves against Netanyahu. It also potentially explains why the UK — who is complicit in this genocide — is issuing lukewarm statements against “israel” and withdrawing some military support, and the likes of rats like Piers Morgan issue empty statements. They want to save the Zionist entity by shifting the blame onto Netanyahu. This is a dangerous period of time, whereby the psychological warfare of the Liberal Zionists pretending like they have established some kind of fake “peace” will neutralize and pacify anti-“israel” sentiments around the world and enable various Gulf regimes, from Saudi Arabia to Jolani’s Syria, to officially normalize with “israel” now that Netanyahu is gone. This will cement the power of the US and the Zionist regime and allow “israel” to get away with this genocide by pretending it was only one political party led by Netanyahu.

Never, ever accept a fake “peace.” This is not a Netanyahu problem: the problem is America and international Zionism. They must pay dearly by their power structures and control over the earth being eliminated and their leaders brought before a real court of justice, not the bogus ICC or ICJ.

The power plays within the US and Zionist entity, whether with Trump vs Elon or Netanyahu vs Lapid, are all designed so the US and Zionists can keep their control over the earth intact but without admitting to defeat so as to save face.

Why China won’t call a ‘tariff-wielding barbarian’

Three wise monkeys are perfectly aware of what a pigeon posing as eagle is really up to.

By Pepe Escobar at the Strategic Culture Foundation.

The Toddler Temper Tantrum-style Trump Tariff Tizzy (TTT), now accelerated to 145% – and counting – is yet another thunderous trademark pigeon smashing the chessboard gambit.

It won’t work. Trump claimed that China would call him to “make a deal”. That’s reality show territory. Reality is more like the statement by the Customs Tariff Commission of the State Council: “Given that U.S. exports to China already have no market acceptability under the current tariff rates, if the U.S. further imposes additional tariffs on Chinese goods, China will simply ignore them.”

Translation: keep vociferating/tariffing. We don’t care. And we will stop buying from you. Anything.

The Chinese Foreign Ministry: A “tariff-wielding barbarian can never expect a call from China.”

Basic numbers. China’s GDP for 2025 is projected at 5%. U.S. imports account for at best 4% of Chinese GDP. China’s share of total exports to the U.S. dropped to 13.4 per cent in 2024.

Goldman Sachs – not exactly a CCP “mouthpiece” – has just projected that TTT will cost China only 0.5% of GDP in 2025, while costing no less than 2% of U.S. GDP. Talk about blowback.

Still, from now on, what matters most for Beijing is to keep diversifying the supply chain.

Asia-wide, the extra wheels are in motion. President Xi Jinping will soon start an ASEAN mini-tour (Vietnam, Cambodia, Malaysia). The Shanghai Cooperation Organization – increasingly focused on geoeconomics – is about to meet. The EU, for all the mendacity of its “elites”, is absolutely itching to strike trade deals with China.

Zhao Minghao, deputy director at the Centre for American Studies at Fudan University, in Shanghai, refers to the current incandescence as “a game of strategic resolve.”

Previously, the eminent Wang Yiwei, international relations star professor at Renmin University in Beijing and an expert on the New Silk Roads, noted that the current tariff rate already made China’s exports to the U.S. “almost impossible”.

This analysis noted how China started to deal with TTT with a “courtesy before force” approach, then turned to “we don’t care”, while cultivating “the art of timing” in its asymmetric attack on U.S. stocks.

A fascinating window on the real wheels of Chinese trade is offered by a timely visit to the vast Yiwu International Trade City, the largest concentration of small traders on the planet.

Less than 10% of Yiwu’s phenomenal amount of business involves the U.S. Among the 75,000 business operators in Yiwu Small Commodity City, only a little over 3,000 do business with the U.S.

Two Sinophobes meet one mirage

TTT is largely the product of two crude Team Trump arrogant/ignorant Sinophobes, economic advisor Peter Navarro and Secretary of the Treasury Scott Bessent, who know less than zero about all things China.

In fact it was Bessent who right at the start gave the game away:

“This was driven by the president’s strategy… You might even say that he goaded China into a bad position. They responded. They have shown themselves to the world to be the bad actors, and we are willing to cooperate with our allies and with our trading partners who did not retaliate.”

A crude trap. With the sole focus on China. That had nothing to do with the initial tawdry plot line: tariffs, Mafia-style, on most of the planet, penguins included. If you don’t retaliate, fine. If you do, we hit harder.

of the so-called “Miran mirage” – after Trump’s alleged economic brain Stephen Miran. What is actually happening, fast, bypassing the stupid notion that tariffs will be paid for by current depreciation elsewhere (see Miran’s white paper here), is the uncontrolled demolition of the U.S. as a world trade center.

Asked why he paused the tariffs, Trump answered: “I thought people were jumping a bit out of line. They were getting a little bit yipee. They were getting afraid.”

Nonsense. Trump cannot possibly admit on the record that the U.S. oligarchy, Jamie Dimon and co., freaked out big time; and that, plus the debacle in the bond market, forced him to backtrack.

Nobody in neoliberal heaven and earth can mess with the Goddess of the Market.

As for the long-term strategy of several nations of the Global Majority caught in TTT’s crossfire hurricane, not to mention big players like China and the EU, they will all avidly reduce their dependence on U.S. markets.

Once again, the elaborate “deal” offered by Trump and his illiterate advisors boiled down to a Mafioso “offer you can’t refuse”: blow up, or significantly diminish, your trade with China – the largest trading partner of nearly all of these nations – and trade with Exceptionalistan, plus 10% tariffs. To hell with your economic sovereignty and strategic flexibility. Once again: it’s our way or the – tariff – highway.

Reality instead will dictate that the U.S. will increasingly import Chinese products from third countries – while China will continue to get paid for it. China will export even more to ASEAN and other Global Majority actors.

As it stands, Trump’s “plan” – if there is any – remains to “stabilize” his allies while concentrating all the firepower on China, in theory to drive China’s complex supply chains to chaos and force companies to move production lines to, for example, Vietnam or India.

Shakedown leading to breakdown

China containment will be on overdrive. Expect a tsunami of technological restrictions, investment red lines and, of course, extra sanctions. Sinophobe Bessent does not rule out delisting Chinese stocks from U.S. exchanges: “I think everything’s on the table (…) That will be President Trump’s decision.”

Beijing, for its part, can easily go nuclear, deciding for a sell-off of its U.S. Treasuries en masse, with catastrophic cascading consequences. As of January, Beijing held $760 billion in U.S. debt. With a delightful diplomatic touch, Yang Panpan and Xu Qiuyan, researchers at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, note that what happens next with U.S. Treasury bonds remains “highly uncertain”.

Bridgewater billionaire investor Ray Dalio, for his part, while incisive, was also heavy on diplomacy: “We are seeing a classic breakdown of the major monetary, political and geopolitical orders.”

There’s no more “cooperative world order” led by the U.S. (in fact that was anything but cooperative”); Dalio at least recognizes the unilateralism manifest in “the U.S.-led trade-war, geopolitical war, technology war, and, in some cases, military wars.”

Chinese Foreign Ministry Spokesperson Lin Jian de facto synthesized Beijing’s position. No more Mr. Nice Guy, which was the default Chinese position until recently: if the U.S. insists on fighting a tariff war and a trade war, China will fight to the end.

So here we are. And once again, it’s the Empire of Chaos against BRICS.

The Empire of Chaos embarks on a hot geoeconomics war against its peer competitor China; contemplates a hot military war against sovereign Iran; and at the same time tries to appease nuclear/hypersonic power Russia into a sort of hazy deal to somewhat freeze the Forever War by proxy in Ukraine.

The new Primakov triangle, RIC (Russia-Iran-China) is perfectly aware of these moves. Putin had metaphorically characterized the Russian position in the U.S.-China trade war when he mentioned that the Chinese have a good proverb: when tigers fight in the valley, the smart monkey sits and watches how it ends.

Now is more the case of three wise monkeys perfectly aware of what a pigeon posing as eagle is really up to.