Global South

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

Global South

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

Global South

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

Global South

Slices of orange Kirks

musings on the ritual sacrifice of Captain Kirk … “.. rest now, Brother. We have the Watch and I’ll see you in Valhalla.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Busan, South Korea, 3/30/20

World Leader in Political Violence — Sep 11, 2025.

On 9/5/25, so six days before he was shot, Charlie Kirk was the star speaker at Build Up Korea 2025. To a “USA! USA!” chanting crowd, Kirk boasted of having “brought Trump to victory.”

Then, “The phenomenon of young people, especially men, turning conservative is occurring simultaneously across multiple continents. It is not unique to the U.S., which is why it deserves more attention. That is why I chose South Korea as my first Asian destination.”

One day before, Trump’s masked goons arrested more than 300 South Koreans in Georgia, although none of them, as we’ve found out, were in the USA illegally. They came to bring jobs to Americans. Despite this outrage, Trump never apologized.

Eleven days before, the South Korean president was at the White House. By saying he looked forward to a Trump Tower in North Korea, he pleased the American moron immensely. Without irony, Lee Jae Myung also promised to help the USA build ships, in a program called “Make America Shipbuilding Great Again.” Let that sink in.

On 9/9/25 in Long Beach, more than 60 shipping containers fell off a cargo ship, Mississippi, into the ocean, for no apparent reasons. Even when American ships ain’t moving, shit happens.

Busan, SK: (L): 3/30/20 ; (R): 7/29/20

What they’re still proficient at is killing foreign fishermen. After the US Navy zapped 11 Venezuelans on 9/3/25, J.D. Vance tweeted, “Killing cartel members who poison our fellow citizens is the highest and best use of our military.” When Brian Krassenstein countered that “killing the citizens of another nation who are civilians without any due process is called a war crime,” Vance snapped, “I don’t give a shit what you call it.” That has become the American political discourse at the highest level. Bitchy Trump leads the way. Gay men who act like that usually do so in jest. Trump is too stupid for camp.

Just hours after Kirk was assassinated, Trump delivered a four-minute speech. Though short enough, it was interrupted by several commercials at Trump’s Truth Social. Donald never wastes a chance to make a few extra bucks.

Trump calls Kirk “a martyr for truth and freedom and there’s never been anyone who was so respected by youth.” Never been, mind you! Any half-educated man should be able to write down at least a hundred names within four or five minutes without checking the internet.

Trump, “It’s long past time for all Americans and the media to confront the fact that violence and murder are the tragic consequence of demonizing those with whom you disagree, day after day, year after year, in the most hateful and despicable way possible.” Such a self-portrait approaches Van Gogh’s!

Plus, America has long been a world leader in political violence. Under Trump, it’s unleashed on Palestinians, Lebanese and Iranians, most obviously, but also Ukranians and Russians. Despite his peace pose, Trump is still arming Zelensky. Unctuous, cosplaying grifters understand each other only too well.

After citing that fishy incident in Butler that sanctified him to MAGA morons, Trump mentioned “attacks on ICE agents, to the vicious murder of a health care executive in the streets of New York, to the shooting of House Majority Leader Steve Scalise and three others, radical left political violence has hurt too many innocent people and taken too many lives.” Pointedly left out is an incident, just three months ago, that killed a Democratic legislator and her husband in Minnesota.

Shaky videos of what happened in Orem, Utah show the crowd scattering in panic. Interestingly, that didn’t happen in Butler. Instead, we have a video of photographers being ushered, or stage managed, to make sure everyone got great photos of the Jesus saved Trump.

(L): Belgrade, Serbia, 8/5/20 ; (R): Amman, Jordan, 7/15/25

As of this writing 18 hours later, no one has been caught or shot by FBI agents, and no ID has been dropped on the ground. Usually, the shooter or terrorist’s photos and bio are provided to the public within hours. His clear motive is then dissected by talking heads on every news program.

Alive, the frankly obnoxious Kirk hurt Trump even more than he helped. Dead, he’s become a saint while giving the Donald fresh ammunition to go after “the radical left,” which, in this child rapist’s mind, is anyone who opposes his anti-Constitution, anti-American, anti-humanity, anti-God and Jew sucking way.

Good job, Charlie Kirk, and congratulations to that professional sniper. One shot, one kill is still inferior to that Jewish slogan or practice, “One shot, two kills!”

Visiting the White House in 2023, South Korean president Yoon Suk Yeol sucked up to Biden and all Americans by singing “American Pie.” He’s now in jail for illegally imposing martial law. He may be put to death.

With a weaker democracy, dumber populace and even more corrupt establishment, Trump shows no fear.

Right now in Seoul, sane Koreans are protesting outside the US embassy. Only Trump sucking ones are still chanting, “USA! USA!”

(L): Pattaya, Thailand, 1/18/23 ; (R): Manila, Philippines, 4/18/25

Nasty Old Men — Sep 12, 2025.

Ông Tây, literally Mr. Westerner, can be applied to any foreigner, of whatever color. I myself have been called ông Tây, but not recently. In Hà Tiên, a remote city on the border of Cambodia, I was called thằng Tây just eight months ago, but only once in four days. Thinking I couldn’t understand her, the owner of a phở joint used that term, which is very rude, actually. Thằng is not mister.

This morning, I heard Mrs. Seven talk about a long-disappeared ông Tây. After watching her dance at the Palace Hotel, he invited her, through an interpreter, to dinner. Knowing what he was after, she showed up with two friends, including a male one. As the Westerner enjoyed steak frites, the Vietnamese went to town on an elaborate seafood hot pot and young chow fried rice. Though this Frenchman spoke English well, only one of the Vietnamese, the male one, could manage a few mangled phrases. Mrs. Seven just grinned, giggled and ate.

Amazingly, it wasn’t a one shot deal. This ông Tây invited her out again, and, again, she showed up with two friends. This patient ông Tây endured four such dinner dates. One afternoon, he showed up on a cyclo right outside her house. Mrs. Seven did wave and her dad did invite him inside. Awkward small talk ensued. That’s as close as this dude ever got inside her billowing pants.

Other ông Tây merely gazed at her, with a few asking for a souvenir photo. One handsome dude made sure she knew he was a pilot.

“What’s his nationality?”

“I think he’s American.” Her old face didn’t look convinced. I can’t imagine any US pilot hanging out in Vung Tau in the mid 90’s.

With mirth, Mrs. Seven told me about one mysterious Taiwanese.

“After a show, a Vietnamese asked four girls to come out again. ‘My boss would like to see you,’ he said, so we came out. One after another, the other three girls were sent away. The Taiwanese didn’t like them.”

“What was he like? Was he old?”

“There was a whole table of Taiwanese. I couldn’t really see.”

“But one guy chose?! That’s amazing.”

“He asked me to sing a song, but I wasn’t a singer. I said if he would come on stage, I’d dance with him.”

I had to laugh. “So did you dance?”

“No, he wouldn’t come on stage, so I danced with the interpreter!” The Taiwanese did tip well.

“He’s probably too old to dance! So you never saw his face?”

“No. Later, he offered me money to come to Saigon, but I said no. I told the interpreter I still had my parents here. The Taiwanese said it wasn’t a problem. He would take care of them, too.”

“Did he give you a figure?”

“Yes, thousands of dollars.”

“Just to lure you to Saigon! No one would have seen you again! You lucked out saying no. If he had to hide, something was seriously wrong. He wasn’t just old. This Taiwanese was probably missing an arm, a leg and half blind.”

“As long as he wasn’t blind down there.”

I’d never heard anyone put it that way. “I’m sure he was blind down there, too.” Then, “You know, I’ve been to Taiwan. Marrying a Taiwanese, these girls think they’ll live in some dazzling city, but many end up on the 6^th or 7^th floor of a dreary apartment building, in some depressing town, and they’re not just stuck with an old husband, but his parents, too. Suddenly, they end up taking care of three old people!”

Mrs. Seven told me about another ông Tây, this one married to a neighbor. “She didn’t go anywhere. He bought her a house, then she got another house on Trương Công Định.”

“He gave her enough money for two houses?!”

“Apparently. This second house she’s renting out. She has a son with him, but this boy looks entirely Vietnamese.”

“So that’s not his son!”

As a fan of Michael Jackson, Mrs. Seven isn’t sure about this. If a black man can have blonde haired, blue eyed children, why shouldn’t this ông Tây have a Vietnamese son?

“He loves this boy. He told his wife he’ll leave him a lot of money.”

“That’s fine, but that’s not his son.”

“She did have all these boyfriends, Vietnamese ones, and handsome, too.”

“So she wasn’t happy with this ông Tây.”

“Maybe his thing didn’t work.”

“He’s also the dumbest man ever. Are they still together?”

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Maybe she dumped him. She had extracted enough. How old is she?”

“She was born in 1979, so…”

As she fumbled with the calculator on her cellphone, I said, “She’s 46, so she’s getting up there. No more handsome boyfriends!”

In 2019, I met a 75-year-old Australian at Ned Kelly, an expat hangout by Front Beach. He had two children with a Vietnamese wife, whom he had met at a bar on his 10^th day here. At his house lived a man he claimed was his brother-in-law. What this man did for a living, the Aussie had no idea. What he was doing at home as we were talking, he also had no idea.

In Hemingway’s “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” one waiter says to another, “And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?” Impatient to get rid of an old drunk, the latter has said, “An old man is a nasty thing.” Reading those lines before I was 20, I was more amused than startled.

Before leaving Coffee Seven, I also talked to the retired highschool teacher. Like me, he thought every last detail about the Charlie Kirk assassination absurd. Same with Trump’s ear nick incident. Though only an ARVN reservist before 1975, he knows enough about rifles.

We laughed hard over all the bullshit. “You can’t get too upset,” he said. “There’s just so much bullshit.”

“There’s almost nothing but bullshit.”

Next time, I’ll show the ex-teacher that video of Trump tackling Vince McMahon. As an actor, he’s differently gifted from Obama, but both are outstanding.

Only $49.99 for a Charlie Kirk Yarmulke! — Sep 13, 2025.

Mass media began with the printing press, then came the telegraph, telephone, radio, television and internet. Information for exhausted, groggy and barely educated chumps delivered instantly across vast spaces has culminated, most gloriously, with Donald Trump’s Truth Social. It don’t get no better.

With each invention, there’s the promise, or hope, that the common man can, finally, arrive at knowledge directly, thus bypassing brainwashing from the Vatican, London or Washington, etc. The most powerful, though, will always deploy each tool or weapon more efficiently, deviously and ruthlessly than you.

After provoking and baiting Japan into attacking Pearl Harbor, which FDR had full foreknowledge of, this genial president declared on a 12/9/41 Fireside Chat:

My Fellow Americans:

The sudden criminal attacks perpetrated by the Japanese in the Pacific provide the climax of a decade of international immorality.

Powerful and resourceful gangsters have banded together to make war upon the whole human race. Their challenge has now been flung at the United States of America. The Japanese have treacherously violated the longstanding peace between us. Many American soldiers and sailors have been killed by enemy action. American ships have been sunk; American airplanes have been destroyed.

[…]

I can say with utmost confidence that no Americans today or a thousand years hence, need feel anything but pride in our patience and in our efforts through all the years toward achieving a peace in the Pacific which would be fair and honorable to every nation, large or small.

Even now, most Americans believe in the sneak attack and unprovoked fairy tale, as they do the six million Jews gassed for no reason by a diabolic Hitler, 9/11, the Bin Laden assassination, Putin as the new Hitler and Israel as a peaceful nation constantly hounded by deranged, terroristic Muslims.

FDR calling the Japanese “powerful and resourceful gangsters” is no different from Trump branding the Venezuelan President as head of a drug cartel, with even a $50 million reward for info leading to his arrest. Who’s the gangster here? FDR calling the Japanese “resourceful” after imposing an oil embargo on them is also ironic, but, as noted by Oscar Wilde, such shit always flies way above dumbshits’ heads.

After pointing out, just hours after his assassination, that Charlie Kirk serves Trump better in death than in life, and his assassin is almost certainly a pro, I received this email from one “Charles Burgess”:

I used to enjoy your humor and your frank descriptions of life in America. I guess we part ways now. Please stay in Vietnam. By the way, the Navy did not kill any Venezuelan “fishermen.” I worked in counter-narcotics in Latin America for years. The boat that was destroyed was filled with cocaine and piloted by Venezuelan narco scumbags. Clear as day. Fishing boats don’t have four high power Merc outboards, douchebag. One thing about Americans, we don’t lose too much sleep over such things.

Your despicable words about Charlies Kirk (I myself never paid much attention to him) turn my stomach. God how your fellow Vietnamese must hate you, such a total asshole. Fuck off.

You can’t sink a boat then claim it’s filled with cocaine and piloted by narco scumbags, or that it’s outfitted with powerful outboards, as if that proves anything. It’s clear as day, though, to this Charles Burgess.

Since there’s no evidence of anything, that boat might have carried condoms for Hamas or sex change kits for kindergarteners. It’s captained by a bulldyke mermaid with labia minora piercings and Michelle Obama’s Becoming in her back pocket.

Burgess’ email is just more proof of how idiotic and gullible Americans have become. There are millions like him who believe, in full, whatever bullshit they’re fed.

If this doofus was really a drug agent in Latin America for years, Uncle Sam had a recruiting problem. This has gotten much worse under Trump. The Donald is determined to hire only the dumbest and most incompetent for every government agency. He’s not just purposely destroying the American economy.

As Trump, his minions and Israel politically exploit the Kirk hit to the fullest, wise analyses are barely heard. Again, mass media serves powerful assholes best.

Though Kevin Barrett’s masterful “Charlie Kirk and the Cult of Human Sacrifice” will only be seen by a few, its existence is invaluable for future generations. Even if humanity continues on its trajectory towards ever more ghastly idiocy, there will be a few in a hundred years, we must hope, who can appreciate this passage:

It’s suggestively mythic, though perhaps coincidental, that Kirk was felled by a shot to the throat. JFK, too, was initially struck in the throat, shortly before his brains were blown out the back of his head. Ritual sacrifice victims are commonly killed by throat-cuts, which sometimes extend into complete beheadings. Symbolically, cutting the victim’s throat can send a message about silencing the victim—as, for example, when freemasons ritually slash the throat of a moser who has spilled unspeakable secrets.

I used to give Barrett shit for always saying Zionists instead of Jews. With Jewish crimes and genocidal mindset ever more naked, Barrett is no longer so Jew shy:

They have been conjuring up false or exaggerated images of outsiders (goyim) supposedly plotting to kill Jews, as an excuse for Jews to rise and kill the goyim first, for millennia. As I tire of repeating: The old joke that every Jewish holiday is the same—“they tried to kill us, we killed them first, let’s eat”—suggests that the “they tried to kill us” part is highly dubious. Pharaoh’s plot to kill every Jewish firstborn, Haman’s plot to kill all the Jews of Persia, Amalek’s nebulous designs on killing Jews, Hitler’s plot to throw all the Jews in gas chambers, the Kazakhstanis’ plot to throw the Jew down the well (recounted in The Book of Borat) and of course the Palestinians’ alleged effort to throw the Jews in the sea all fail to pass the smell test.

Just read it in full, man, and Laurent Guyenot’s “Who killed Charlie Kirk?”

Kirk went from a rabid defender of Jews to a doubter of some Jewish bullshit. To prevent Kirk from probing further, he had to be shot. Pat Tillman gave up a NFL career to fight in Afghanistan. When Tillman started to doubt 9/11 and the War on Terror, he, too, was shot. As an outspoken American in Ukraine who called total bullshit on the official narrative, Gonzalo Lira was tortured then killed.

As a barely heard voice in Morocco, Barrett is safe. That’s one benefit of being chased from the USA. There are so many others. I, too, know them well.

For occult reasons, I’ve sometimes been accused by psychotic Jews and others of being an anti Shemite. This can’t be true, for I’m wearing, right this second, a $49.99 Charlie Kirk Memorial Kippah.

Keep in mind an excellent lunch can be had in Vietnam for less than two bucks, but one shouldn’t fret over shekles when supporting genocidal Israel. You, too, must buy several of these humanistic hats. The Forward on 9/12/25:

Charlie Kirk’s face now adorns a yarmulke.

Almost immediately after the news that the conservative activist was shot during an event in Utah, pro-Israel voices prayed for him. Now, some are mourning him as a champion of Israel and, in the words of one Chabad rabbi, “the Abraham of our time.”

Joining the chorus is the clothing brand JDRIP, which is now taking preorders for a Charlie Kirk Memorial Kippah, selling at $49.99. The company says all the proceeds will be donated to “Jewish or pro-Israel causes, or those promoting free speech and debate in the United States.”

Just as with Jewjabs, they can’t resist making money from your destruction or even death.

Artistically Staged and Perfectly Executed — Sep 15, 2025.

Trump must be the greatest genius ever, with his most transcendent masterpiece, so far, the Charlie Kirk assassination. The timing is perfect. On the eve of 9/11, another Jewish hit on America, Trump’s most charismatic and best-looking supporter had to be shot right in the neck, a symbolic warning to those who dare to use their voice box to fling any shit in Israel’s direction. That it may have been a ricochet is even more spectacular. You know how hard it is to aim at Kirk’s body armor to have the bullet bounce right into his neck? One shot, one kill, there was neither hesitation nor doubt. Done, that geeky assassin just sashayed away most calmly.

How many MAGA deer hunting dorks are having transgender sex nightly in Mormon Utah, do you think? I’d say there might be just one in the entire world, and yet Trump, even senile and with a constantly loaded diaper, was able to locate Tyler Robinson! They must slither in the same circle, perhaps at some Salt Lake City MAGA crossdressing bar known only to initiates. Trump’s sexual taste would freak out the most drugged up Burner. A genital connoisseur, Trump appreciates Arnold Palmer’s impressive prick no less than prepubescent vaginas. He’s just artistic.

Conspiracy theorists are puzzling over Charlie Kirk’s father’s role in building Trump Tower, which is just three feet short of being 666 feet tall! I say we should look much closer at where Kirk was shot. From the air, those grassy tiers clearly formed a menorah, with Kirk sitting right where the Star of David would be. Such a configuration is rare enough. To have this “lion-hearted friend of Israel,” to quote Netanyahu, sacrificed so publicly right on it, on that exact day, no less, and by a MAGA lover of transgender sex, required almost supernatural coordination.

Robinson’s MAGA deer hunting background is red meat to liberals, progressives and Commies. His sexual dysphoria proves to conservatives leftists are just psychos at war with apple pies, Cracker Barrel and white grandmas rocking gently on porches hundreds of miles from murderers and rapists of color. Even there, though, they may not be safe, thanks to traitors like Tyler Robinson. Only a historical genius like Trump can dish up an assassin to enrage and satisfy everyone across the political spectrum.

Nutcases have pointed out that all photos of Robinson, purportedly going to or from his shooting position, show no rifle, yet one was found in the woods. Something that long couldn’t have been stuffed into his pants, and there was no time to disassemble it, only to assemble it again for Kash Patel’s FBI to find. Could photos of me or you just wandering around, minding our own business, last week or last year, be proof of our having shot anybody?

Let’s not sweat the details. Trump, “I am very proud of the FBI. Kash—and everyone else—they have done a great job.” Poetically inspired, Patel addressed Kirk, “I’ll see you in Valhalla!” Who says either one can squeeze sideways though some backdoor into any kind or heaven, but if child-raping Trump can make it, they certainly have a chance.

Delivering a televised speech about her husband’s death, Erika Kirk didn’t have one but two white baseball caps with 47 in gold displayed on a desk. What a way to thank a man who had, at the very least, exploited to the fullest Charlie’s assassination.

Trump doesn’t want people talking about Charlie Kirk. He wants them talking about HIM and his new Ballroom where people can watch him dance via TV and social media like they watch him play golf. Haven’t you noticed?
Life is all about HIM!

— The White Lady (@NephilimWatcher) September 12, 2025

Two days later, Trump was asked by a reporter, “Condolences on loss of your friend Charlie. How are you holding up?”

Trump, “I think very good. And by the way, right there you see all the trucks. They just started construction of the new ballroom for the White House, which is something they’ve been trying to get for about 150 years. And it’s gonna be a beauty. It’ll be an absolutely magnificent structure.” That night, he was seen dancing with his hands at Yankee Stadium. The next day, he golfed, of course. With Kirk’s assassination so flawlessly executed, why not celebrate? When Trump won in 2024, Charlie Kirk sobbed.

It’s 7:23PM in Vung Tau. Today didn’t start out well. Waking up, I got a notice that my next self-published book at Amazon has been blocked, because of “a disappointing customer experience” after “a review of [my] catalog.” Makes no sense. Except for two dishonest reviews from “western lands,” a MAGA sexpat living in Chiang Mai, Thailand, I’ve gotten a bunch of five star reviews, plus one four star one.

Without warnings or recourses, Kevin Barrett was demonetized at SubStack a while back, so people like him, me and a bunch of others can be crippled or disappeared at any time. Whatever, man.

My Vietnamese books, though, are definitely coming out. Though congested Saigon drives me nuts, it will be good to see some friendly, appreciative faces when I head down that way for a reading. Haven’t done that in a long time. Used to be paid to do so across the USA, plus Toronto, Paris, Berlin, Reykjavík, Tokyo and Singapore. The reading in London, I did for free.

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

Global South

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