Global South

Slices of Temple Mount

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

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

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

Jewish Crusade! — Nov 28, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homeland Wrecking Globalists — Nov 29, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re kidding me!”

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

“Not for a whole week?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Like all projects.”

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

“That’s hilarious.”

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

“For how long?”

“Two years.”

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

“No, no.”

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

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

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices of Life, #16

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

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a shot of that Beckmann illustrating a Levi story

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fearless — Nov 14, 2025.

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

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

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

No one is talking.

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

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

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

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

Vung Tau, 11/14/25

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

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

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

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

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

“How can you afford to travel so much?”

“People give me money.”

“Who?”

“People.”

“What’s your business?”

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

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

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

“Have you been jailed?”

“No.”

“You’re very lucky.”

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

“In 1970?”

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

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

“You were lucky. You were spared.”

“I do whatever I want.”

“I just look.”

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

“I just look. You do!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They can’t bite me. I bite them!”

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

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

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

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

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

Edward Hopper art

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

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

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

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

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

Like a proud parent, his owner smiled.

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

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

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

Naked and Barefoot — Nov 18, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s business?”

“Bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s your puppy?”

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

“Why don’t you bring him here?”

“He causes too much trouble,” he smiled.

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

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

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

I laughed hardest. He only smiled.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“A pussy!”

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

Come on, man, give me the punchline!

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

The Imaginary Peace President

“During his first term, Trump became the ultimate causal agent for every one of the current conflicts with Russia, China, Iran, and Venezuela.”

By William Schryver at imetatronink.

One of the most common claims about the Trump 45 administration is that “He didn’t start any new wars.”

This is demonstrably FALSE.

During his first term, Trump became the ultimate causal agent for every one of the current conflicts with Russia, China, Iran, and Venezuela.

He not only maintained the trajectory of these conflicts as established by previous US administrations, but he dramatically raised the stakes and quickened the pace of the march to war.

Ukraine

“I was the one that gave the Javelins. Remember the famous Javelins? That was me. It wasn’t Obama. It wasn’t Biden. It wasn’t anybody else. It was me. And they wiped out a lot of tanks with those Javelins. The expression was, ‘Obama gave sheets’. And I gave Javelins. That was a big deal at the time. That was at the beginning, when people said, ‘Wow, that’s something!’ Well, that was American equipment. Without American equipment, this war would have been over very quickly.”

President Donald J. Trump, Oval Office News Conference, February 26, 2025

Here is the full video clip from which the quote above is taken:

This is the irrefutable fact: the Trump 45 administration both hastened and made inevitable the war whose final fuse was lit in early February 2022 when the Ukrainians commenced a broad-front artillery escalation against what they claimed to be Donbass militia positions, but which were indistinguishable from random civilian targets.

All of these factors combined compelled the Russians to move decisively (and sooner than they wanted) to extend their strategic depth in the region.

All those who claim Trump has no culpability for the war in Ukraine are either ignorant of the abundant objective facts, or in denial thereof.

Several prominent geopolitical voices were raising the alarm about war in Ukraine even before Victoria Nuland, John McCain, Lindsey Graham et al. goose-stepped through the streets of conquered Kiev in 2014.

Victoria Nuland in Kiev, February 2014

And all during the civil war that then ensued, until the Russians intervened in late February 2022, US/NATO intelligence and special forces operatives were active in Ukraine, in support of the Kiev government’s military movements in the Donbass.

The crisis became increasingly acute over the course of the first Trump administration, even as the twin objectives of subduing the Donbass and retaking Crimea became increasingly apparent.

As I posted on Twitter in April of 2021:

Ukraine has two options: accept its role as a buffer state, or be dismembered. If the US goads them into an attempt to subjugate the Donbass, Russia will slice away eastern Ukraine and assimilate it — and there is *nothing* the US can do to prevent it.

Fact is, the big geostrategic nation-state wars are always decades in the making. So it was in the case of the war in Ukraine.

But the unavoidable trajectory of war was set in stone during Donald Trump’s FIRST rodeo in the White House. Trump owns the Ukraine War more than Joe Biden’s Autopen. At least Trump laid claim to a modest degree of cogency in his first term.

The apparition of Joe Biden, dazed and confused, simply watched dumbfounded as long-fated events flashed before his empty eyes.

China

One of Trump’s first actions after he was inaugurated in 2017 was to announce a sale to Taiwan of Harpoon anti-ship missiles, SM-2 and SM-3 naval air defense missiles, MK-48 torpedoes, and advanced radar systems.

In 2019, to much fanfare, Trump announced the sale to Taiwan of 66 F-16V fighters.

F-16V Fighter – Taiwan

In 2020, Trump announced the sale of even more Harpoon ASMs, HIMARS systems, and MQ-9B drones.

Trump also, over the course of his first term, sent a total of about 300 US Army and Marine special forces operators to Taiwan. Since Trump’s second term began, that number has been increased to over 500 – including substantial contingents on Penghu and Kinmen Island, which is just six miles from the Chinese coast.

Kinmen and Penghu Islands in the Taiwan Strait

This permanent basing of a full battalion of US troops in Taiwan was unprecedented prior to Trump’s first term. And, understandably, it is regarded by China as an unprecedented provocation. Consequently, Chinese preparations for a possible war in and around its home seas have greatly accelerated.

And, in what is arguably his most strategically ill-advised move of all, Trump 45 started the trade and rhetoric war with China that continues to the present day.

There are now even widespread rumors that the US Department of War is preparing a naval blockade of energy imports into China — an act of utter madness.

IRAN

In what I consider to have been the most brazen act of war in his first administration, Trump ordered the assassination of Iranian General Qasem Soleimani, on January 3, 2020, at the Baghdad airport.

Iranian General Qasem Soleimani

Soleimani was on a diplomatic mission to Baghdad at the invitation of Iraqi Prime Minister Adil Abdul-Mahdi, who had been acting as the intermediary between the Saudis and the Iranians, who were working to de-escalate drone and missile attacks by Iraqi militias against American bases in Iraq, and the Green Zone in Baghdad.

Soleimani was traveling to deliver Iran’s official response to a Saudi Arabian mediation proposal.

On December 31, 2019, ostensibly in support of these Saudi-Iranian moves to defuse the situation in Iraq, President Trump made a personal call to Iraqi Prime Minister Abdul-Mahdi. The Iraqi leader then called Soleimani to arrange a meeting in the Green Zone in Baghdad, scheduled for the morning of January 3, 2020.

Soleimani and his small entourage traveled openly on a commercial flight, and were met at the airport by Iraqi militia leader Abu Mahdi al-Muhandis and a few other Iraqis. As Soleimani, al-Muhandis, and eight others were traveling from the airport to the Green Zone in two vehicles, an American MQ-9 Reaper drone fired Hellfire missiles and blew them all to smithereens.

President Trump directly ordered the attack, and afterwards publicly gloried in his perfidy.

Soleimani was considered a national hero in Iran, and was arguably the second-most powerful and influential political figure in Iran at the time, behind only the Ayatollah Khamenei.

The Iranians were justifiably outraged.

On January 8, 2020, Iran launched a ballistic missile attack against the American Ayn al-Asad airbase in Iraq. About 15 Iranian ballistic missiles targeted the base with shockingly impressive accuracy, although it was clear the strike was mostly demonstrative in nature, and the Iranians deliberately avoided killing US troops.

Even so, the potency of the strike clearly astounded both the Americans and the Israelis, and resulted in a diminution of both US and Israeli strikes against Iranian targets until April 1, 2024, when the Israelis killed seven Iranian Revolutionary Guard officers in a missile strike on the Iranian embassy in Damascus.

Two weeks later (April 13-14, 2024), the Iranians launched a massive and unprecedented missile strike against Israel. This then led directly to the series of exchanges between Israel and Iran which took place over the course of the ensuing months, culminating in the so-called 12-Day War between the US/Israel and Iran from June 13-24, 2025.

Of course, it must be understood that this war between the US/Israel and Iran is NOT over yet. It is just on a brief hiatus, and there are indications in recent days that Israel is planning new strikes against Iran.

But make no mistake, the catalyzing event for this greatly escalated war with Iran was Trump’s treacherous murder of Qasem Soleimani on January 3, 2020.

VENEZUELA

Trump is quoted as saying:

“I don’t understand why we’re not looking at Venezuela. Why are we not at war with Venezuela?”

“That’s the country we should be going to war with. They have all that oil and they’re right on our back door.”

Trump’s bellicose language towards Venezuela continued all through his first term, and as a result, Venezuela’s longstanding friends Russia, China, and Iran began to more aggressively strengthen Venezuela’s military capabilities in anticipation of an eventual US attack and potential invasion of the South American country that holds the largest proven oil reserves in the world.

Now, as I write here on Thanksgiving Day 2025, the United States has positioned a massive naval fleet and Marine landing force off the coast of Venezuela, and it appears almost certain that military operations against the Maduro regime will commence imminently, with the overt aim of installing a new puppet government whose putative leader, CIA-groomed Nobel Peace Prize winner María Corina Machado, has explicitly called for an American invasion of the Bolivarian Republic, and pledged to permit the US to take control of Venezuela’s oil, gold, and other mineral wealth.

María Corina Machado

SOUTHCOM has even provided a slick promotional video for the upcoming war against Venezuela:

Peace through strength:
Carrier Strike Group Twelve is making a powerful impact in the #SOUTHCOM region—standing strong to deter illicit networks, disrupt transnational threats, protect the Caribbean, and defend our homeland with purpose and presence. @CVN78_GRFord @USNavy pic.twitter.com/LTEt3iFB1v

— U.S. Southern Command (@Southcom) November 17, 2025

The Imaginary Peace President

Global South

The 28-point Theater of the Absurd

“Whatever was the real story behind the 28 pointer … the messy, even infantile “plan” posing as Hegemon in Control and mocking the BRICS/SCO is completely unworkable.”

By Pepe Escobar at the Strategic Culture Foundation.

The Circus Ringmaster’s 28-point “peace plan” for Ukraine may be seen as a pet seal splashing around in a pond to amuse the galleries. And up next, we move to another attraction.

Yet if taken seriously – and that requires not a pinch but a barrel of salt – it’s like a twin to the Circus Ringmaster’s “plan” for Gaza, this time with the objective of snatching a pitiful “victory” from the jaws of the Empire of Chaos’s own, de facto strategic defeat.

Let’s check the reactions. Here you will find Larry Johnson’s analysis – which I share – , but most of all the video of the stunning two-hour interview  we had mid-week in Moscow with stellar Maria Zakharova, the most articulated Foreign Ministry spokeswoman on the planet.

What Mrs. Zakharova essentially told us is that by mid-week there was no Russian reaction because Moscow had not received anything concrete: “When we have some official information, when we receive it via a relevant channel, naturally, we will always be open to work.”

The same applied to the Kremlin. Presidential spokesman Dmitry Peskov: “No, we haven’t received anything officially. We see some innovations. But officially, we haven’t received anything. And there hasn’t been any substantive discussion of these items.”

Kupyansk has been liberated – Gerasimov told Putin

The political leadership of Ukraine does not give orders to its troops to surrender, Gerasimov said

The political leadership of Ukraine is not such, Putin noted

The president called the Kiev authorities an organized… https://t.co/3vrNdx5zkS pic.twitter.com/gpudF5g5mf
— Sputnik (@SputnikInt) November 20, 2025

The first actual, terse response that came from President Putin was stunningly graphic: in camouflage, visiting a command center, and stressing that the set up in Kiev can no longer be described as a “political leadership” because it’s just “a criminal organization”.

After a few frantic days buried in a tsunami of spin concocted by NATOstan mainstream media, supporting but essentially against the 28-pointer, someone in Washington – and not necessarily Russian middleman Kirill Dmitriev – may have delivered it, officially, to the Kremlin.

So this past Friday we had, finally, President Putin’s own response, during a session of the permanent members of Russia’s Security Council.

The key Putin points must be stressed:

Alaska: “The main point of the Alaska summit, its main purpose, was that during the talks in Anchorage we confirmed that, despite some difficult issues and complexities, we nevertheless agreed with these proposals and were prepared to demonstrate the requested flexibility.”

Global South reaction: “We provided detailed information to all our friends and partners in the Global South on these matters – including China, India, the DPRK, South Africa, Brazil, many other countries, and, of course, the CSTO states. All our friends and partners, and I want to emphasise this – without exception – supported these potential arrangements.”

U.S. non-response: “However, after the negotiations in Alaska, we have seen a certain pause on the part of the U.S., and we know this is due to Ukraine’s de facto refusal to accept the peace plan proposed by President Trump. I believe this is precisely why a new version has emerged – essentially an updated plan consisting of 28 points.” Note that “updated” is the key operative word here – as in an extension of Alaska.

What the 28-pointer really means: “We have the text. We received it through our existing channels of communication with the U.S. Administration. I believe it too could form the basis of a final peace settlement, but this text is not being discussed with us in substance. And I can suggest why.

The reason, I believe, remains the same: the U.S. Administration still cannot secure Ukraine’s consent – Ukraine rejects it.

Evidently, Ukraine and its European allies remain under illusions and still dream of inflicting a strategic defeat on Russia on the battlefield. I think this position is rooted not so much in a lack of competence – I will leave this topic aside for now – but rather in the absence of objective information about the real situation on the ground.”

Expanding on the EU and Ukraine: “All things considered, neither Ukraine nor Europe grasp the consequences of this path. Just one very recent example – Kupyansk. Not long ago, on 4 November – just two weeks ago – officials in Kiev publicly stated that no more than 60 Russian servicemen were present in the city, and that within the next few days, as they claimed, Ukrainian forces would fully unblock it.

But I would like to inform you that already at that moment, on 4 November, the city of Kupyansk was practically entirely secured by the Russian Armed Forces. Our guys were, as they say, simply finishing the job – clearing the remaining streets and neighbourhoods. The fate of the city had already been fully determined.

What does this tell us? Either the Kiev leaders do not have objective information about the situation at the front, or, having it, they are simply unable to assess it objectively.”

The SMO will go on: “If Kiev does not want to discuss President Trump’s proposals and rejects them, then they – and their European war-instigators – must understand that the situation in Kupyansk will inevitably be repeated on other key sectors of the front. Perhaps not as quickly as we would like, but the outcome will be inevitably repeated.”

The inevitable conclusion: “On the whole, this is acceptable to us, as it leads to achieving the objectives of the special military operation by military means. But, as I have said many times before, we are also ready for peace negotiations and for resolving problems by peaceful means. However, this requires a substantive discussion of all details of the proposed plan. We are ready for that.”

Deconstructing an incoherent mish-mash

So here we have finally come back to the essentials – what everyone with an IQ over room temperature following the imperial proxy war against Russia in Ukraine already knows: Russia is ready for peace, but in Putin’s own words, “is also satisfied with the current dynamics of the SMO”. Because this is leading – slowly but surely, “to the achievement of its goals” in the battlefield.

Whatever was the real story behind the 28 pointer – assuming it was Dmtriev and Witkoff holed up in Miami for three days; and then lowly neo-con Marco Rubio and zero-expert on anything Zionist asset Jared Kushner (!) chiming in – the messy, even infantile “plan” posing as Hegemon in Control and mocking the BRICS/SCO is completely unworkable.

What if it was designed to be exactly that?

The new frantic spin is that the sweaty sweatshirt in Kiev has been given an ultimatum by Trump 2.0: under a new “aggressive timeline”, he has to get on board. Or else.

Kiev’s backers – the proverbial assortment of chihuahuas comprising the EU, the European Commission (EC) and “leaders” in selected capitals – have rejected the 28-pointer, and so did Kiev, right from the start.

The 28-pointer indeed manages the feat of assembling an incoherent mish-mash that is unworkable not only for Russia but also for the EU/NATO combo. A few examples:

Point 4: “A U.S.-mediated Russia–NATO dialogue will be launched to resolve security issues and promote cooperation”. NATO is a brainchild of the Empire of Chaos. It will never “cooperate” with “existential threat” Russia.

Point 9: “European fighter jets will be stationed in Poland.” That means NATO still ready to attack Russian territory.

Point 10: “The U.S. security guarantee [to Ukraine] comes with conditions: – The U.S. receives compensation.” That’s pure “offer you can’t refuse” Mafia territory.

Point 13: “Russia will be reintegrated into the global economy:

• Gradual lifting of sanctions
• Long-term U.S.–Russia economic cooperation
• Joint ventures in AI, energy, infrastructure, rare earths, and Arctic extraction
• Russia rejoins the G8”

That’s what this is all about, per the Circus Ringmaster himself: grabbing Russian natural resources. Moreover Russia does not need the G8: Moscow’s focus is on BRICS/SCO.

Point 14: “Frozen Russian assets will be allocated as follows:

• $100 billion used to rebuild Ukraine (run by the U.S.)
• The U.S. receives 50% of profits from reconstruction investments
• Europe contributes another $100 billion
• Remaining frozen assets go into a U.S.–Russia joint investment vehicle to deepen economic ties.”

That’s peak Theater of the Absurd: not only the Americans want to use Russian funds to rebuild Ukraine – which they were instrumental in destroying – but their “10 per cent for the Big Guy” turns out to be a hefty 50%.

Point 17: “The U.S. and Russia will extend nuclear arms-control treaties, including New START.” A non-starter: Moscow has been stressing non-stop that arms-control treaties will not be negotiated in relation to the SMO.

Point 21: “Territorial arrangements:

• Crimea, Donetsk, and Lugansk are recognized as de facto Russian, including by the U.S.
• Parts of Kherson and Zaporozhye become frozen “contact line” zones (also de facto recognition)
• Russia gives up other agreed areas
• Ukraine withdraws from remaining parts of Donetsk; the zone becomes a Russian-recognized neutral buffer
• Russian forces cannot enter the buffer zone.”

Total non-starter – and not only for the EU/NATO-Kiev combo.  Kherson and Zaporozhye, constitutionally, are now fully Russian – and will be liberated on the battlefield.

Point 26: “Full amnesty for all parties for all actions taken during the war: no prosecutions, no war-crimes claims.” Total non-starter: Kiev forced the draft document to use “amnesty” instead of “audit”. Moscow will settle for nothing less that full prosecution of members of the “criminal organization”. Yes, there will be a war crimes tribunal.

Point 27: “The agreement will be legally binding and enforced by a Peace Council chaired by Donald J. Trump.” That’s a Gaza replay. As if Putin and the Russian Security Council would accept a “Peace Council” chaired by a Circus Ringmaster whose expiry date is fast approaching, not to mention be subordinated to the losers in a vicious proxy war. 

About a really intriguing takeaway

One plausible takeaway of the 28-pointer is that the selected oligarchy running the Empire of Chaos continues to run a protection racket – and the only way to salvage the de facto strategic defeat in country 404 is to turn a quick buck.

Another more intriguing, plausible takeaway is that the 28-pointer was never meant to be accepted by the EU-Kiev combo. It’s all about the Circus Ringmaster’s exit strategy from the debacle in Novorossiya.

Trump is already preparing the terrain – as in I tried everything, but Zelensky won’t comply. So it’s now his – and his gang’s – problem only, side by side with the EU chihuahuas. Up next: an immediate change of narrative. What else: the Empire of Chaos cannot manage reality, only narratives.

Trump 2.0 may start to work on improving U.S.-Russia relations – while blame for the collapse of the “peace process” is laid on the EU-Kiev combo. The optics of the 28-pointer P.R. op are everything: packaged as it is asking Moscow to strike a compromise, even as Russia is winning in the battlefield, while making sure the “criminal organization” in Kiev cannot agree to the main provisions.

Provisional endgame: the chihuahuas of war will keep barking while the SMO will keep rollin’ along.

Global South

Sheriff David Hathaway with Judge Nap

What a level-headed no-nonsense perspective by a courageous law enforcement professional who worked a quarter century in DEA and lived in South America.

Global South

Bubba Blow By Blow

“Most curious, though, are the 36% of Americans who still swallow Donald whole. The Donald sure knew what he was doing. His muscle memory was still fine.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Bubba Blow By Blow — Nov 16, 2025.

Before the Internet, you’d never hear from a guy like The Enemy from Within. He’s a trucker who has posted 368 videos on YouTube. Dude has done a fantastic job tracking America’s economic collapse. Due to Trump’s tariffs, much less stuff is being imported or moved about. Thanks to Trucker, let’s call him that, we know how bad it really is. Approaching this Christmas shopping season, Trucker sees dead truckstops everywhere, with one designed to hold around 300 trucks having, at most, 30 on a recent night.

I enjoy listening to Trucker because he sounds just like the Philly motherfuckers I used to drink with. It’s not just his language, but his candidness. He’s not some hit and run pussy who can only act tough while hiding behind some faggoty pseudonym. Now that Trump’s been outed as a cocksucking hypocrite, the internet has blown up. Most curious, though, are the 36% of Americans who still swallow Donald whole. Good Christians all, they must defend this child rapist held hostage by Jews. Red heifers are here.

Though Trump has dropped countless clues over decades, MAGA morons were steadfast. I had some among my readers, I’m embarrassed to say. Like others, I’ve had to conclude many enjoy Trump’s sexual exploits, if you want to call them that, vicariously. The most polite term for this is freudenfreude. These perverts just want to increase the world’s happiness.

“Dr. MDL” shared, “Note that grabbing pussies and banging miss universe types is [sic] not only fine but admirable.” How about banging helpless children and slurp slurping Bubba’s cock? I suppose that’s fine, too, for this doctor. How many clueless patients has he cared for? How many genitals has he grabbed?

During Biden’s era, I spoke out against the enforced trans fetish, but, again, I don’t care what anyone does with anyone else, if it’s consensual. I don’t think Arwin Weiwess should have been jailed for slowly killing Bernd Brandes, then eating him, chunk by chunk, over days. As performance art, it’s even more sublime than Mao Sugiyama serving pieces of his pecker at a banquet. Germans and Japanese are just different.

Trump, though, has never owned up to anything. He’s always pretended to be the exact opposite of what he is. A cowardly pervert business failure born into wealth who hates just about everybody, including his wives and “lovers,” Trump has tricked billions into wanting to be just like him, so copies of his How To Think Like A Billionaire are selling everywhere, including in Vũng Tàu, and this is technically a Communist country!

MAGA jerkoffs are fine with this Epstein statement, “Have them ask my houseman about donald almost walking through the door leaving his nose print on the glass as young women were swimming in the pool and he was so focused he walked straight into the door.”

Who can resist juicy chicks bobbing in a pool? Even Trump having some hooker piss on him sounds like a blast. The only problem with this is blackmailing. Trucker:

My understanding of that was that Donald Trump was in a hotel room with a Russian hooker that peed on him. And they had a tape recording of it. And they were holding that over Donald Trump’s head as leverage. And I don’t know why you would even try to cover that up. I’m going to level with you, my friends. And you’re going to find out just how much of a degenerate I can be sometimes. If I had a weekend where I got drunk off my ass and ended up in a hotel room with a hooker that pissed all over me, you wouldn’t be able to shut me up about that tape. I’d be telling all you guys about it. You’d see me get on a video, hair all messed up, looking tired, like I had one hell of a weekend going. Guys, you would not believe the weekend that I had. And I wouldn’t be able to post that video here on YouTube because it would get me kicked off of YouTube really quick. But I would be finding ways to make sure all of you guys got to see the video of the weekend I had. You would not be able to blackmail me with a video of a hooker peeing on me. That would be my crowning life achievement right there. On my deathbed, that would be the last thing that I thought about. It wouldn’t be blackmail around here, baby. Not at all. That’s what I call a good fucking weekend, all right? Truckers, man. We’re degenerates. We do shit.

I wonder what my Scranton buddy, Chuck Orloski, is thinking about his superhuman savior? How much are you paying for eggs and ground beef, Chuck? How many bags of groceries are you getting per week from your soup kitchen? How many new jobs have appeared in Deer Hunter country? You must be so rich, Chuck, you don’t know what to do. The next time I see you, you better buy me rounds of Yuenglings!

As a Philly housepainter, I used to hit the titty bar with the rest of the crew right after work. We had to unwind, man. Sitting in the Office, I watched some old fart lick a stripper’s high heel. Standing on the bar, she had come round to collect tips. After grandpa was done, I asked, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. It’s something new.”

Since it was his first time, gramp was terrible.

When Trump gave that microphone a simulated blowjob in front of thousands, he acted like a seasoned pro. The Donald sure knew what he was doing. His muscle memory was still fine. Now, he can’t locate his mouth or asshole to wipe it.

I don’t know any straight guy who would even attempt that. Shit, man, even queers would have had stage fright.

Dr. MDL, “Flipping shit and trolling people is [sic] funny as hell. You must know that from hanging in Philly.” No, doctor, Philadelphians may talk much shit, but most of us have class. We have boundaries and respect. Like Trucker, we laugh best at ourselves.

On 8/26/15, Trump tweeted, “If Hillary Clinton can’t satisfy her husband what makes her think she can satisfy America?” At Friendly Lounge, Dom, Felix, Johnny AC, Johnny the Hat, Chinese George, Marty the Mortician or Vern the Vietnam vet would never think of saying that, much less broadcast it to billions for posterity. They’re not retarded teenagers.

Only Donald can satisfy Bubba. At 79, his teeth are supernaturally white, and that tongue is flickering as well as ever. Geriatric slobbering is a natural, God-given lubrication. Holding down that bobbing red hat, Bubba sighs rhythmically until they both scream. Is there a better example of Republicans and Democrats working together to benefit Joe and Jane Sixpacks? It’s your turn, Bubba. Fair is fair. America has never been greater.

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

It took 40 years to replace Al Qaeda with Al Qaeda

“These gentlemen are the moral equivalents of America’s Founding Fathers.” — President Reagan meeting with Freedom Fighters from Afghanistan (Mujahedin), Oval Office, 1985.

Nima AlKhorshid interviews our roving eye nomad on the central Asian Stans, Al Qaeda ‘R US, and other travails of stark-naked Anglo-Zionists.

Global South

Slices of Life, #15

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

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 11/3/25

Nguyễn Quyết Chiến — Nov 05, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t even have an extra bowl!”

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

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

Vung Tau, 11/5/25

Worst To Be Safest — Nov 05, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cecil Hotel in LA? — Nov 10, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Genocides and economic collapse must go on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yesterday, I also got this email:

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

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

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

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

22,630 Days — Nov 12, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must write about that, too!”

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

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

“I feel like I’m 23.”

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

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

“We’re always dressed up.”

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

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

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

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

“But you’re not going to change.”

“I’m not going to change.”

“You’re getting even.”

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

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

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

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

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices ov da Trumpocalypse, #5

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

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Leavitt for President! — Nov 07, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liệt just laughed.

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

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

Meanwhile, they moan, and not orgasmically.

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

Suck it up! And suck it good.

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

Intergalactic Trillionaires — Nov 08, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vung Tau, 11/7/25

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

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

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

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

Naked Degeneracy — Nov 09, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(R): hot singer Halsey

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

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

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Galloway .. MOATS: Trump’s worst nightmare | Orange crush in Big Apple | Sudan’s killing fields

Trump faces his biggest test yet. From courtroom chaos in New York to new wars breaking out abroad, the pressure on the former President has never been higher. Meanwhile, Sudan’s killing fields grow darker by the day — and Washington looks the other way.

Judge Andrew Napolitano — Host of Judging Freedom, former Fox News Senior Judicial Analyst, and one of America’s most outspoken defenders of civil liberty. (Twitter: @Judgenap | YouTube: @JudgingFreedom)

Breaking insight into global power politics, media control, and the battle for truth.

We cover:
– Trump’s Big Apple meltdown — courtroom drama and media frenzy
– Which country will Trump attack first? Nigeria or Venezuela?
– Sudan’s killing fields — the forgotten war nobody wants to talk about
– Gayatri Galloway’s Social Media News Update and your live calls from around the world

Tonight’s MOATS Poll: Which country will Trump attack first? Nigeria or Venezuela?

Global South

RSC Discusses Trump’s Vow to Test Nukes

Minister of Defence Belousov at the Russian Security Council (RSC): “… the United States plans to adopt the new Dark Eagle medium-range missile system with hypersonic missiles with a range of 5,500 kilometers at the end of this year.”

with appreciation to Dr. Karl at karlof1’s Geopolitical Gymnasium.

Russian Security Council met in person instead of the recent video format—telling.

That Russia’s Security Council met wasn’t surprising; what was surprising was for Mr. Volodin, the Duma Head, to request the agenda be postponed and the issue of Trump’s vow to resume testing nuclear weapons be discussed since it’s of great concern as you’ll read. And then the most surprising point was the publication of the entire discussion, which was certainly an act of signal sending. As one might presume, the Russians are far better informed about the Outlaw US Empire’s nuclear program than the Empire’s citizens are. The Gym’s American readers ought to pay close attention to what Team Trump has planned and note the primary meme this will fall under—Peace Through Strength. Now for the discussion:

V. Putin: Dear colleagues, good afternoon!

As you know, our government delegation has just returned from a trip to the People’s Republic of China. Mikhail Vladimirovich [Mishustin] has reported to me in detail about the results of this work. I believe that it was very timely, informative, and highly useful. After the main issues have been addressed, I would like to ask Mikhail Vladimirovich to inform all our colleagues about this.

The main issue we are discussing today is transport safety. The speaker is Andrey Sergeevich Nikitin, Minister of Transport.

V. Volodin: Vladimir Vladimirovich,can we skip the agenda?

V. Putin: Yes, please, I ask you.

V. Volodin: Given that Trump recently literally stated that the United States of America is resuming nuclear weapons testing, the deputies are asking a question and are generally concerned about the situation. Because it is clear where the world can be pushed.

Therefore, based on the fact that two years ago, you said that if the United States returns to testing nuclear weapons, Russia has every right to do the same. Can you explain what steps and actions we will take on this topic, which is of great concern to almost every member of parliament? Given that this is an extremely important issue, especially since the President of the United States has expressed his opinion on it.

V.Putin: Yes, indeed, this is a serious issue. Let’s listen to our colleagues.

The floor is now given to the Minister of Defence, Andrey Removich [Belousov]. Please, I ask you.

A. Belousov: Dear Vladimir Vladimirovich! Dear colleagues!

We should certainly focus not only on the statements and remarks of political figures and American officials, but primarily on the actions of the United States of America. These actions clearly indicate Washington’s active development of strategic offensive weapons.

First, the White House has consistently withdrawn from long-standing arms reduction and limitation treaties. In 2002, it withdrew from the Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty, in 2019, it withdrew from the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty, and in 2020, it withdrew from the Open Skies Treaty.Therefore, a possible U.S. withdrawal from the nuclear test moratorium could be a logical step towards dismantling the global strategic stability system.

The second is that the United States is carrying out a forced modernizationof its strategic offensive weapons. Work is underway to create a new intercontinental ballistic missile, the Sentinel, with a new nuclear warhead. It will have a range of 13,000 kilometers. Work is also underway on a new strategic nuclear submarine, the Columbia, to replace the Ohio. A new heavy bomber, the B-21 Raider, is being developed. A nuclear-armed cruise missile is being developed, and so on. It is planned to reopen 56 launchers on 14 Ohio-class submarines, I want to emphasize, namely de-mothballing, they’re fully loaded with Trident II ballistic missiles. Preparations are also underway for the reverse conversion of 30 B-52H strategic bombers into nuclear weapons carriers.

Third, the Americans have begun implementing the Golden Dome program, which includes both missile interception and pre-launch destruction of Russian and Chinese missiles.

Fourth, the United States plans to adopt the new Dark Eagle medium-range missile system with hypersonic missiles with a range of 5,500 kilometers at the end of this year. This system is planned to be deployed in Europe and the Asia-Pacific region. The flight time from Germany, where this missile system is planned to be deployed, to central Russia is estimated to be around six to seven minutes.

Fifth, Washington regularly conducts exercises for strategic offensive forces. The last such exercise, Global Thunder 2025, which focused on the preemptive use of nuclear missiles against Russian territory, took place in October of this year.

In general, this is a single set of measures that includes possible US plans for conducting nuclear tests, which significantly increase the level of military danger for Russia.

This means that we must maintain our nuclear capabilities in a state of readiness to respond to any unacceptable damage caused by the enemy, and we must act appropriately in response to Washington’s actions to ensure the security of our country.

Taking into account the above, I consider it expedient to begin preparations for full-scale nuclear tests immediately. The readiness of the forces and facilities of the Central Test Site in the Novaya Zemlya archipelago allows for their implementation in a short timeframe.

V. Putin: Thank you. I have invited the Chief of the General Staff to participate in the work on the first issue, the main issue. Since this issue has arisen, I would like to ask Valery Vasilyevich to also speak on this topic, please.

V. Gerasimov: Comrade Supreme Commander-in-Chief!

The fact that the American side has not provided any official explanations for President Trump’s statement regarding the resumption of nuclear tests does not suggest that the United States will not begin preparing for and conducting nuclear tests in the near future.

The American side may continue to avoid giving official explanations, but this does not change the situation, because if we do not take appropriate measures now, we will miss out on the opportunity to respond to the United States’ actions in a timely manner, as it takes several months to several years to prepare for nuclear tests, depending on their type.

We are aware of statements made by a number of high-ranking American officials about the resumption of nuclear testing in the United States, and an analysis of these statements indicates that Washington is focused on preparing and conducting such tests.

V. Putin: As for the clarifications, many of my colleagues have received a telegram from our ambassador in Washington from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs on this topic.

Sergey Evgenievich, do you have this?

S.Naryshkin: Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich, a few days ago, a telegram was received from the Ambassador [of Russia to the United States Alexander] Darchiev, in which he writes that our diplomats have contacted the US National Security Council and the US State Department to clarify the substance of the resonant statements by the President of the United States of America, Donald Trump.

Our diplomatic colleagues asked what exactly was meant by the statement made the day before about the President of the United States instructing the Pentagon to immediately proceed with nuclear weapons tests, and they requested clarification from the National Security Council and the State Department. However, both the White House and the U.S. Department of State declined to provide a specific response, stating that they would report the information to their superiors and contact the Russian side if it was deemed necessary to provide clarification on the issues raised by the Russian diplomats.

V.Putin: Sergey Kuzhugetovich, I know that the Security Council has also dealt with this issue and has analysed what is happening in this regard in the ruling circles, as we say, of the United States itself. Do you have anything to explain on this matter?

S. Shoigu: Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich, certainly.

Both before and after our ambassador’s address, various statements were made, primarily aimed at achieving the same goal. Following the President’s extreme statement on November 3, he gave a lengthy interview in which he repeatedly asserted that the United States would resume nuclear weapons testing, accusing both Russia and China of conducting such tests.

Following or preceding him, Secretary of Defense Hegseth has already reported that the Pentagon is promptly carrying out the American President’s order to resume nuclear weapons testing. Vice President Vance has further stated that sometimes the nuclear arsenal needs to be tested to ensure its proper functioning. This is echoed by Speaker of the House Johnson, who asserts that the resumption of testing is a demonstration of the necessary strength to maintain peace and deter Russia and China.

The head of the Ministry of Energy, Wright, who is actually responsible for nuclear testing in the United States, said that the testing would be of new systems, and it would be non-nuclear explosions. The head of the Senate Intelligence Committee, Cotton, in turn, noted that this was not about large-scale tests with “nuclear mushrooms” in the desert or the South Pacific, but rather about small controlled underground explosions, which are essentially such tests of nuclear weapons. This will allow the United States, I quote, to test both long-standing and promising nuclear weapons systems.

Based on the analysis of all these statements and all these declarations, we are not entirely clear about the further actions and steps taken by the United States of America regarding the testing or non-testing of nuclear weapons.

V. Putin: Alexander Vasilyevich, your service deals with the problems of countering foreign intelligence services on the territory of the Russian Federation, but there is also a part of your work related to the activities of special services abroad.

What is your opinion on this matter?

A. Bortnikov: Vladimir Vladimirovich, of course, the situation is very difficult. And I agree that this should be taken very seriously, but there are many questions that need to be answered in order to make a specific decision.

In this regard, Vladimir Vladimirovich, I ask you to give us time to thoroughly investigate this matter and prepare appropriate proposals.

V. Putin: All right.

I have marked some of your statements and opinions, and I would like to note that Russia has always strictly adhered to its obligations under the Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty, and we have no plans to deviate from these obligations.

However, in my Address to the Federal Assembly in 2023, I stated that if the United States or other states participating in the relevant Treaty conduct such tests, Russia will also have to take appropriate retaliatory measures.

In this regard, I instruct the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Defense of the Russian Federation, the special services, and the relevant civilian agencies to do everything possible to collect additional information on this issue, analyze it at the Security Council, and make coordinated proposals on the possible start of preparations for nuclear weapons testing.

Let’s proceed from this. I am waiting for your report.

Let’s move on to the main issue on today’s agenda. [My Emphasis]

The Outlaw US Empire was clearly stated as “the enemy,” which IMO is very important. Now what Mr. Volodin has as an answer to his Duma colleagues seems to be that preparations for testing are being made while a further investigation into the enemy’s intentions is being conducted. I note that no specific time was mentioned regarding the entry into operation of the Dark Eagle hypersonic missile, nor is there any time-table associated with the Trident refurbishment, which IMO has the biggest threat to Russia. IMO, it’s clear to me that Deep State actors were shocked by the appearance of the Poseidon and Burevestnik and have generated a knee-jerk response to their technological backwardness. That Golden Dome is to have some form of offensive capability is also a new bit of info about it. But as most of us know, those vaunted new Outlaw US Empire weapon systems face production delays and cost overruns that also contribute to the knee-jerk reaction: Oh my god, what can we do to show our claims to parity are valid? And IMO this reaction also spells the death of New Start when it fails to be renewed this February.

Oh, and Russia launched another Poseidon carrier a few days ago, the second of five planned, each of which carry six Poseidons and other weapons. Since one is already at sea, it can be assumed that it has a full complement of Poseidons. Plus given its propulsion mode, Poseidon doesn’t need a sub as a launch platform as it could be launched from a Russian port.

So, it’s clear the testing of Russia’s newest strategic weapon systems has generated a response within the Outlaw US Empire. How that response pans-out given the decrepit state of the Empire’s nuclear weapons forces and its woefully incompetent Military Industrial Complex remains to be seen. IMO, Russia’s actions are very reasonable and are what one ought to expect. I’m sure this topic will be revisited soon.

Global South

Slices of Life, #14

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

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

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

Go There! — Oct 29, 2025.

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

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

“Does he want to come here? To work?”

“He was here.”

“No job!”

“No job.”

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

He chuckled in agreement.

“In Vietnam, too, it’s like that.”

“It’s like that everywhere.”

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

“I practice.”

“No classes?”

“Four classes!” he chuckled.

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

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

“But the interests are so high!”

“There are no jobs.”

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

“They’re scared.”

Kathmandu, 10/21/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guangzhou, 10/29/25

Too Heavenly for Words — Oct 30, 2025.

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

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

Guangzhou, 10/29/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guangzhou, 10/29 – 30/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where will you go next?”

“I don’t know.”

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

Guangzhou, 10/30/25

Shrinking Brains and Dwellings — Oct 31, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guangzhou, 10/30/25

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m exhausted.”

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

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

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

Vung Tau, 11/1/25

Fish in Teapots — Nov 01, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bloodbaths and Bashes — Nov 02, 2025.

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

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

“No, but what was I supposed to do?”

“Does he come by often?”

“Only rarely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

made in Thailand jeans and T-shirts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices of Nepal, #4

“The whisper turns out to be a touch. We are all so bereft of friends and companions, especially those among us who have lots of ‘friends.’”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Lalitpur, 10/25/25

Rather Not Be in New Youk! — Oct 26, 2025.

Going from Phonsavan to Luang Prabang, I sat next to an Italian lady on the mini bus. Bumping along on narrow roads with many switchbacks was exhausting. “Now, I’ve seen all of the mountains in Laos!” she blurted near the end. I’ve already told you about Coredo, the owner of Dok Mai Lao Trattoria in Pakse. If I stay anywhere enough, I’ll hear Italian on the streets. At Kathmandu, I just met Marco. His town of Cesenatico, population 15,000, I had never heard of. The closest I got was Bologna. Marco, on the hand, had never heard of Certaldo, where I spent two years.

We did joke about Prato. “Is it 100% Chinese now?” I asked.

“Yes, it is!”

“That’s amazing! It’s a historical place. Dante wrote about it. Empoli, too, must be filled with Chinese.”

Since the tourists who come to Cesenatico for its beaches are nearly all Italian, there isn’t even a fish and chip joint for drunken Brits. Not even the dubiously named Sloppy Joe’s serves it.

I’ve heard people complain about American, British, Israeli, Chinese and Indian tourists, but never a bad word about Italians, or Japanese. In Vũng Tàu, the many Russians are quiet, family orientated folks who never cause problems. Power English, owned by an Australian, won’t hire them, however. He’s bought into the Putin as the new Hitler propaganda.

Lalitpur, 10/25/25

Chinese are very visible in Kathmandu. Amrit Street, in particular, is lined with Chinese restaurants. They’re spilling into Laos and Cambodia, too. Around Thamel and Paryatan, Africans are often seen. Nepal Coffee Hub is their favorite spot. In only its fifth season, the Nepal Super League has seven teams. Each has African players. They come from Senegal, Cameroon, Nigeria, Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of Congo. There are also black players from France and the UK. With Nepal ranked 180 out of 211 nations, how long before a non Nepali-speaking foreigner is naturalized? Everybody else is doing it. Vietnam’s star striker, Nguyễn Xuân Sơn, is a black Brazilian born as Rafaelson Fernandes. You think his mama calls him Sơn or Rafaelson?

“Ma, I’m Sơn now! Stop speaking Portuguese to me!”

As Hitler points out in Mein Kampf, citizenship in modern times is no longer a question of blood, but bureaucracy.

Yesterday on Mahankal in Boudha, I saw an interesting poster, “YOU NEED A CHANGE? GET A NEW HAIRCUT.” Predictably, all four models were white. Who would want to become some dark skinned, malnourished Dalit?

Since the late 14^th century, the Pode have been in charge of sweeping Kathmandu streets. Even today, most are Pode. Many, though, have moved up into the world, primarily through education. Though poorly paid, sweepers I’ve seen weren’t underfed. One I photographed yesterday was positively chubby. Her red T-shirt read, “TENDER EMBRACE / Affection / LOVELY.” Since most adult Pode can’t even read Nepalese, she probably just liked its two hearts and a ribbon. They live in Dhalko, which I’ve roamed through often. It is not a slum.

Lalitpur, 10/25/25

One can also remake oneself by wearing high heels and mini skirts. An elagant and gorgeous young lady I saw at Thamel and Paryatan had some writing tattooed boldly across her pale décolletage. Strolling back and forth, she didn’t seem happy. More comfortable was a squatting chick in a red vinyl jacket and leopard print pants in too thin a fabric for that weather. Like me, she was drinking a chai from a streetside vendor.

There were three Nepalese men, clutching each other. The best and most confident looking was in the middle. The other two looked nervous, if not scared. They were out of their element. More loaded and usually beefier, foreigners commanded more attention. Defeated natives could head home to clutch drive themselves.

They are so unlike their American sisters. In Camden, I would run into Amanda. Each time, I was surprised she was still alive. Once, I gave her money for a bus ticket to her aunt. Of course, Amanda used it to buy heroin. Seeing her writhing on the sidewalk another time, I had to give her $20 just to ease her obvious suffering. In a filthy lot behind an abandoned, boarded up house, she injected, but not before taking a piss. She already smelled like shit, I swear. Smacked, she smiled immediately, then wandered away singing. It was cute. “See you later, Amanda!” Her prematurely wrinkled belly bore stab wounds from some youth who was just bored. They do that to Camden whores.

Stories like that don’t make sense to Nepalese, or Vietnamese. In Lalitpur yesterday, there was young man taking a selfie with his phone. He wore a T-shirt with the Manhattan skyline. “NEW YOUK,” it said.

No thanks, I’d rather be here, Vung Tau, Phnom Penh, Vientiane, Busan or even Manila, though the last has a shocking number of filthy homeless, like many American cities. Among East Asians, Filipinos are most Americanized.

Soon, I won’t see 4 Square again. If Sumitra is here when I show up around 6:30AM, there’s the same repetitive hymn to Ganesh on the TV. It’s like Ravel’s Bolero without the jizzy climax. The only variations are the slightly different choruses. Cheerfully, it bounces along. Every so often, there’s an eight bar flute interjection. Even decades from now, I will likely hear this in a dream.

It’s already a dream, Kathmandu, and it’s not over yet. Thank you! Now, I will run outside, simply because I’m allowed.

Kathmandu, 10/26/25

Dog Whisperer at Fire Café — Oct 27, 2025.

Yesterday on Amrit, I noticed a coffee shop that seemed old fashioned, but not in that spiffed up retro way meant for snobs. Modest and quaint, it would have fit on any American Main Street. Its presence in Kathmandu was certainly usual. I walked in.

It suspect it’s a converted tavern. On high stools at the bar, three people were staring at phones, though one, a beefy older Oriental, was also chatting with two men at a table. The tiny waitress wore a red shirt, blue pants and Converse canvas sneakers. Her hair was much shorter than any woman’s just outside. The barista had on an “Australia” T-shirt and jeans. Only the cook and dishwasher was dressed like a Nepalese. My black coffee was too strong to be an Americano. Almost an espresso, it was still served in a mug. You’d never see that in Italy. I imagine Nepalese come to Chikusa to be transported, I don’t know, to Ohio or Nebraska?

I’ve proudly become the dog whisperer of Kathmandu! If there’s a dog cemetery here, I want to be in it. Sitting at Café de Fire, I have two dogs at my feet. Sniffing me out, they’ve come in from outside, and I’m five yards from the door. Suddenly, a man approaches my booth to chase them out. Gently kicking them, he whispers, “Pejo! Pejo!” Get the fuck out, then, is my first Nepalese word!

Kathmandu, 10/26/25

In Philly, I drank at bars not just in my neighborhood, the Italian Market, but in Point Breeze, Bella Vista, Kensington, Devil’s Pocket, Port Richmond, Olney and many more. Each bar was a different universe. I got to know a bunch pretty well. In Norristown, I was almost beaten up by three guys, one white and two black. Though I was loud and momentarily obnoxious, I didn’t deserve such a welcome. Plus, three against one?!

Though I had become very comfortable writing at KTM Burger and 4 Square, I’ve also strayed into many other Kathmandu cafés. Yesterday was my first time at Fire. Walking in, I was greeted by a middle-aged drunk who shouted, “Sifu! Sifu!” That’s Cantonese for “master,” mostly of kung fu. Those Norristown assholes were lucky cops showed up to save them from this sifu. I did escape into a store to avoid a trip to the emergency room.

Don’t tell me you don’t know shit about Nepalese indie rock?! Swar rules! No hymns to Ganesh here. On the screen is a bearded guy, a laborer, courting a sweet country girl. Sitting side by side in idyllic settings, they smile shyly at each other. One day, she disappears, leaving only a note behind. Running onto a dirt road, he finds her riding away in a tuk tuk. Though I can’t understand a damn word, I can see that she’s dressed like a bride, with a golden septum piercing dangling. Draped in white and gold, she’s radiant. Collapsing, bearded motherfucker has tears streaming down his dark face. It’s a timeless plot. In Vietnam, too, there are all these poems, songs or just stories about losing your girl through marriage arranged by her parents. They don’t want your sorry, three-bucks-a-day ass, man!

Though untouchables were traditionally tasked with singing and dancing, all the singers and musicians on Fire’s screen are just too cool looking, with perfect outfits and hair. All these country chicks are also too clean. There is realism in depictions of wet markets and dark, impoverished dwellings. There’s also violence, including, just now, an implied rape. There can never be too much realism.

One of the dogs has returned. Stray ones are fed here. What they lack is love. Only in cheesy songs do humans admit to craving the same. The very word is uncool. We all know who are the coolest people on earth. Even cool, though, has become uncool. There, assholism is now coolest.

Kathmandu, 10/26/25

On the screen, there’s another couple gently courting. Sitting on a pristine hill to stare at mythical, perfectly shot mountains without trekkers and their tons of garbage, they hold hands. Now, she’s on a bus, looking devastated. Moving from village to city is also a universal theme. With opportunities come separations, often from yourself even. She cries. Everybody cries on Nepalese music videos, at least in Indie ones, with their gentle, melancholic melodies.

Demanding touch, these dogs often nudge their head, insistently even, against your leg or hand. As I’ve said, they don’t look at your face. Though demonic enough to these dogs, we have hands.

On the way here, I passed Lulu Lunch Bar. On its lit sign was a white chick holding a goblet of red wine. On her blonde hair was a straw boater hat. She tilted her head just right. Further on was Palace Dance Bar, with another white babe, this one with a Union Jack bikini top over her boobies. With Nepal landlocked, most folks here can only dream of the ocean. Even without near naked white chicks, it must be paradise.

Leaving my dog friend, I will go have a hot chai in the semi dark. For 21 cents, I will buy it from a colorfully wrapped crone. What a quaint, old fashioned word, just like grocery in America. Once, it evoked smiles instead of pain.

Kathmandu, 10/27/25

Change to Die For — Oct 27, 2025.

Life is a battle royale with eight billion hysterical bipeds punching, kicking, clawing, nunchucking, mugging, seducing, hair pulling, fucking, mostly badly, gladhanding and grifting each other. One by one, they die. Some can prolong their stay in this mayhem by ducking or squatting below the fray. Hoisted way above from cradle to grave, the luckiest can shit on everyone at the bottom. In a smugly blighted country, millions think that’s hilarious as they wipe royal diarrhea from their upturned faces.

No matter how many times I’m reincarnated, my Mariners will never make it to the World Series, my Sonics will never reappear and I will never be printed again, not even on toilet paper. Left alone, I will become so pure and focused, dog wisdom will seep from each pore. I won’t even have to bark.

By any measurement, most of us are losers or, to put it more politely, unchosen. I dedicated my first book, Fake House, to the unchosen. Just more proof I was born a Nazi or at least a white nationalist.

In Kathmandu, there are large signs outside highschools with recent graduates. Each is listed in order, with their grade point average displayed. The 47 boys and girls at Amrit Boarding School begins with Rajanish Khanal, with his awesome 3.96, then ends, most miserably, with Samikshya Baniya, with her toilet bowl dwelling 2.89. The shittiest, though, aren’t even on here. They simply failed.

Samikshya is the prettiest. Perhaps she couldn’t study because she was so attractive? I know the feeling. Dogs won’t leave me alone.

Again at 4 Square, I just ran outside to catch a man pushing his old, beat up bicycle loaded with plastic basins, soap dishes, utensil holders, dustpans and soccer balls. Attached to his handlebar was a blaring speaker. Just as in Vietnam, few hawkers hawk any more. Lullabies, too, are mostly dead. Most babies would rather listen to “Johny, Johny, Yes Papa” or “Baby Shark.” Though composed in India and South Korea, they are in English. Everything local is diminished. The plasticware peddler had a professorial demeanor. Nearly everything could have been.

Just now, I joked with Vimal about going into one of those no name eateries to ask for an apple pie or enchilada! Laughing, Vimal explained that those green curtains are traditional. Now, they can come in more colors. Since eating out was considered ostentatious, they hid those inside.

Kathmandu, 10/27/25

During last month’s protest, Lalipur’s Ullens School, walkable from here, was burnt. This is not entirely shocking when you realize its monthly fee for high school kids, $300, is roughly thrice a common laborer’s wage. As for lunch, “The food committee finalizes school menus, and meals are prepared in our modern kitchen by trained staff under the direction of a professional chef.” No dark rooms behind green curtains there.

Yesterday, Vimal made me an excellent lunch of buffalo stew, curried potatoes and basmati rice. Slices of cucumber and carrot added much needed coolness. I didn’t even pay $3. Just now, I asked Vimal to make me whatever. As a traveling foreigner, I’m already privileged, I fully understand. When I told Mrs. Seven I was flying to Nepal, a country she had never heard of, she asked if I would buy my ticket at the airport?

You do what you must with what you have.

My flight back to Saigon has been delayed by more than nine hours, with that extra time in Guangzhou. Since it will be night, who knows if it’s worth it to head into town?

Just flying is a privilege, now winding down.

Online, there are all these videos of enraged passengers, mostly Americans. Each aspect of their society is breaking down. After Trump’s $300 million ballroom is completed, they’ll be free to glimpse it, all lit up, from a quarter mile away, at least. Unlike Nepalese, they will only burn their neighborhoods down.

It’s all good, actually. Washington Post on 10/25/25, “The teardown of the White House’s East Wing this week is a Rorschach test. Many see the rubble as a metaphor for President Donald Trump’s reckless disregard of norms and the rule of law, a reflection of his willingness to bulldoze history and a temple to a second Gilded Age, paid for by corporate donors. Others see what they love about Trump: A lifelong builder boldly pursuing a grand vision, a change agent unafraid to decisively take on the status quo and a developer slashing through red tape that would stymie any normal politician.”

The White House, too, must change, “Like America, it must evolve with the times to maintain its greatness.” As a Third Worlder happily stuck in the Third World, who am I to argue, so evolve away! Change is good. You’re the change you’ve been dying for.

10/25/25 (L): Lalitpur ; (R): Kathmandu

New Babel — Oct 28, 2025.

Those five or six people who bought my Blood of Soap may, or may not, remember its first story, “Prisoner with a Dictionary.” In it, a fool tries to teach himself a new language by studying a dictionary, the only book he has. Many pages are missing, however, for he has to wipe himself, after all. Keeping his ass somewhat clean is much more important and urgent than feeding his brain, and he’s not even doing that, unless you consider any mental exertion, no matter how idiotic or wrong headed, useful.

Since I can’t possibly be more stupid than one of my characters, today I confidently picked up Dor Bahadur Bista’s Fatalism and Development: Nepal’s Struggle for Modernization. Already, I’m halfway through, as proven by a most convincing photograph. This wasn’t easy, I tell you, since I had to guess at every word. I wasn’t even sure those squiggly lines were words.

My immediate mastery of Nepalese made me think of a prisoner, described, I’m pretty sure, by Primo Levi. Since I read If This Is Man at least three decades ago, I can’t recall all the details. Levi’s fool read books in languages he didn’t know. Trapped in a concentration camp, this brainy idiot was surrounded by those whose languages he couldn’t quite understand, or at all. To overcome his despair, he studied these relics, symbols or icons of civilization. Maybe there’s no such fool in This Is Man.

Those Jews from across Europe were forced to build a carbide tower whose top were “rarely visible in the fog.” Levi, “Its bricks were called Ziegel, briques, tegula, cegli, kamenny, mattom, teglak, and they were cemented by hate; hate and discord, like the Tower of Babel, and it is this that we call it: Babelturm, Bobelturm; and in it we hate the insane dream of grandeur of our masters, their contempt for God and men, for us men.”

Towers of Babel are attempts at globalism, no? The United Nations and World Economic Forum are Towers of Babel, and so is English. Marxism, too, obviously.

All the gods must be enraged at Uncle Sam, Klaus Schwab, George Soros, Bill Gates or whoever else is trying to be god. Notice how white they are! That’s why humanity is blessedly divided into Vietnamese, Chinese, Nepalese and South Africans, etc, with each group fragmented much further.

Starting this article at KTM Burger, I sat within earshot of a Brit and an Italian. Speaking English, they were talking quite comfortably about the political situation in each other’s country. How many Americans can name Mexico’s president or Canada’s prime minister? Even before the European Union, it’s no big deal for any Italian to have visited adjacent France, Switzerland and Austria, or Spain, too, with its language similar enough, he could figure out shop signs and menus. Despite this relative cosmopolitanism, he was well aware of how distinctive Italians were. They have fought against all their neighbors many times, and each other, too. Florence, Pisa and Siena used to war among themselves, and they’re all in Tuscany.

The Italian at KTM Burger was a retired doctor. In his caravan, British for “trailer,” he spent months in North Africa. He gushed over the sweetness of Moroccans. After Nepal, he will head to Sikkim. Though belonging to India, it’s ethnically distinctive. With periodic unrest, foreigners need a permit to enter. Assam, too, is Oriental. Assamese I met in Bengaluru and Chennai were delighted to see me. Beaming, each blurted, “We look the same!”

To a Pennsylvania crowd in 2024, Trump said of Biden, “Did you ever hear Shakespeare? He was ‘hail and hearty and well met,’ but he wasn’t a smart person.” The Donald didn’t just mess up “hail-fellow-well-met,” it sounds like he’s declaring Shakespeare stupid.

This year in London, Trump intoned, “A fifth of all of humanity speaks, writes, thinks and prays in the language born on these isles and perfected in the pages of Shakespeare and Dickens, Tolkien and Lewis, Orwell and Kipling—incredible people, unbelievable people like we have rarely seen before and probably won’t see again.” A fifth is 1.6 billion. Only 373 million on earth are native English speakers. Those who speak or write a passable English, like the Italians, Nepalese or Brazilian I’ve met in Kathmandu, don’t think or pray in it, Donald. They do so in their mother’s tongue. What do you expect, though, from a man who mentions Tolkien in the same sentence with Shakespeare and Orwell? It’s a safe bet he’s read none of them. Trump’s stupidity and crassness reflect at least his supporters’.

Halfway through this article, I paused to say goodbye to Vimal. He’s leaving for India this morning, so won’t be at 4 Square when I show up in about an hour. As a Teli Gangauta, Vimal was in the middle among castes. In the US, he’s dark enough to pass as a black American.

In Tennessee 30 years ago, I found myself in a nearly all-white county. An old lady explained, “We do have a doctor. He’s not really black, he’s something!” The guy was Indian. I have an uncle who worked as a doctor in a rural, all-white Texas town in the late 70’s. In a US that was much kinder and sweeter, they treated him fine. Leave it to Beaver, Laverne and Shirley and Mork and Mindy were on TV. From planet Ork, Mork had to be an illegal alien. He’s played by Robin Williams, who committed suicide at age 63 in 2014. Those days are over.

As Adrian Cronauer in Good Morning, Vietnam, Williams goofed most memorably, “What is a protective dike? Is that a large woman standing by the river saying, ‘Don’t go near there!’ […] Don’t go down to the river! Stay aware from there!” Those days are certainly over.

Kathmandu (L): 10/27/25 ; (R): 10/25/25

So full of shit and themselves, stupid people are painfully unfunny.

Tossed into a Communist concentration camp, Hà Thúc Sinh was beaten up by an interrogator who insisted he was a spy. The proof was all the books this ARVN had published before the Fall of Saigon.

“If you’re not CIA, you must be CIB!”

The thug didn’t mean it as a joke. Recounting it years later, only Hà Thúc Sinh and his readers laughed.

Levi, “The confusion of languages is a fundamental component of the manner of living here: one is surrounded by a perpetual Babel, in which everyone shouts orders and threats in languages never heard before, and woe betide whoever fails to grasp the meaning. No one has time here, no one has patience, no one listens to you; we latest arrivals instinctively collect in the corners, against the walls, afraid of being beaten.”

This world has always been a perpetual Babel. To avoid being beaten or killed, it’s best you understand all shouts, threats, orders or hints. As just guests passing through, travelers are much indulged, especially if they speak good English. It’s an empowering, nearly magical, language. Tomorrow morning, it may be Mandarin. Already, it has 990 million native speakers. Hindi and Spanish, too, have more native babblers than English.

As for listening to your own language, spoken by those who look exactly like you, few, now, have the patience. More are becoming atomized and deranged. Grubbing and scrounging beneath burning towers, we’ll enter a New Babel.

Now, I’ll go back to Fatalism and Development. Can’t say I agree with all of Bista’s conclusions.

Kathmandu, 10/28/25

Cursed Red Ogres With Kissing Toes — Oct 29, 2025.

This time tomorrow, I’ll be flying over China. I haven’t made up my mind whether to explore Guangzhou a bit. By the time I’m sprung from the airport, it’d be at least 8PM, so 9 when I get downtown, assuming everything goes swimmingly. I’m already exhausted, and stumbling.

Several more times, I nearly fell down. My sandals are too loose, with its soles too smooth. They provide almost no traction. Going barefoot nearly always in Vung Tau, I didn’t notice. I’m no longer adapted to footwear, simple as that. Over two weeks in Nepal, I’ve only seen two similar savages. One a girl of about 2, the other a whore with the arm of some drunken Korean around her neck.

It’s cold and drizzly today. Walking to 4 Square at 4PM, I recited out loud lines from “The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock.” Reading it at 18, I thought this poem ridiculous. Its self-pity made me laugh.

Careful to not fall into the gutter or get whacked by a swerving Royal Enfield motorbike, I moaned most earnestly,

“I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I’ve heard the mermaids singing each to each. I do not think they’re singing to me.”

This morning I spaced out over two hot chais at the Shree Gha Vihar, my favorite spot in Kathmandu. The bigger Boudha Stupa has many more shops, restaurants and tourists. Shree Gha Vihar is quiet, though magnificent enough with its Tibetan temple and Tibetan monastery. There’s always a blue tub of water set out for the swarming pigeons. A four story high school and a Mongolian restaurant face this square.

Here, people string up five or six hot peppers over a lemon to ward off evil spirits. As I pondered one such display, an old beggar came up, so I gave him some money, not much. Since his English was rather good, we chattered. Deciding he’d make a great guide for the next hour or so, I invited him to breakfast. Mutual exploitation is fair trade.

Kathmandu, 10/28/25

Fading out, I had to stop, so it’s 2:49AM on the morning of my (final) departure. Walking to Fire, I took my sandals off, to let my semian toes breathe and, more importantly, grip the gravel. Conquering Vietnam in 204BC, the Chinese named it the Jiaozhi Commandery. Zheng Xuan (127-200AD) explains jiaozhi [交趾] as having your toes turned towards each other. They’re nearly kissing. It’s like playing footsie with yourself, but involuntarily. Soon as you sit down, your toes go at it. This exegesis is mine, of course, not the honorable Zheng Xuan’s. Even today, Vietnamese have no problems believing their ancestors had feet funkier than monkey’s. The Chinese also called us 赤鬼. 赤 is just red, but 鬼 is either ghost, devil or ogre. As an adjective, it means cursed. Vietnamese, then, were cursed red ogres with kissing toes. We still are. If you have a problem with that, I’ll go Philly on you, motherfucker! Compared to us, New Yorkers are acrylic painting faggots who must stare at cardamom buns all day long. They can’t even afford them. Tastykake rules!

Walking in, I thought I heard Rod Stewart, but it’s just some Nepalese guy with a prominent mole on his face. Before I lose all threads to this narrative, my life and the state of the world, let’s return to that beggar.

Since we were already outside one of those nameless eateries with just a curtain, I suggested we enter. Inside, there were three chubby women sitting at a table facing the entrance, preparing food. Two other adults were busy in the background. It’s a tiny space. You’d expect them to be startled at seeing me, not the other guy, but they looked at him with shock or annoyance. After some words, we walked out. No one smiled. Something was wrong.

Three minutes later, we reached a similar eatery. Though people were already chowing away, we got a similar reception, as caused by my instant buddy. Leading us out, this stern looking dude wanted to steer us to another eatery, perhaps one that served untouchables? Red ogres with kissing toes would also be welcome. Philly fuckheads, too. Nothing could go wrong.

Ignoring our tout, I said, “Let’s go this way instead. I know of places.” Didn’t I say I felt at home here? Everybody in Kathmandu already knows me, man, and I’m going through libraries in Nepalese. I have entire books memorized. Soon enough, I’ll write some. Soon, we reached this green curtained dump, a place so low-class, no one had ever been refused, I was convinced. Still, our bhado or bhikhari wouldn’t walk in. You’ve got to be kidding me. Were we destined to fine dine inside a bus station toilet?

Most reluctantly, we entered Temal Khaja Ghar. Though dumpy enough, it had a name, plus 17 photos of dishes and drinks on its sign. Beneath each was a name in English. Again, the owner and cook glared at Bhado, let’s just call him that. Still, he allowed us to sit down. Seething in his dark, tiny kitchen, visible through a window, he cooked our thukpa. Again, Pico Iyer wouldn’t touch such shit, nor would V.S. Naipaul. In Bengaluru, I sat next to a westernized Brahman at lunch. Though I asked many questions about her life, she showed zero interest in me. My teeth alone indicated I was low class. It didn’t matter we were featured writers at the same literary festival. I was just lucky this tense, stiffly buggered chick didn’t espy my kissing toes.

With amusement, I told Saroj at 4 Square about that morning’s incidents. When I showed him a photo of Bhado, Saroj immediately blurted, “He’s Indian!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, one hundred percent.”

“So they hated him because he was an Indian beggar?”

“Of course.”

A barista no older than 25 chimed in, “We have many Indian beggars here.”

Kathmandu, 10/28/25

From India, Nepal receives cheap goods and produce which it can’t compete against. During the just completed Tihar festival, all those marigolds had to be imported from India, even though Nepal has better weather for growing such flowers.

Going to Saroj’s shop to buy snacks for the regulars at Coffee Seven in Vũng Tàu, I noticed just about everything packaged was made in India. Yak cheese, a Himalayan delicacy, was locally made. It’s a bit like gouda.

Naipaul on cheese, “It was a delicacy in India. Imports were restricted, and the Indians had not yet learned how to make cheese, just as they had not yet learned how to bleach newsprint.” Uppity enough? It’s from his An Area of Darkness, published in 1964.

In Alexandria, Naipaul was so annoyed by its Oriental chaos, he retreated to his Greek freighter two days early. He preferred his cabin to the baffling and invigorating life outside.

The further East you go, the more misshapen the humanity, according to Naipaul, “The physique of Europe had melted away first into that of Africa and then, through Semitic Arabia, into Aryan Asia. Men had been diminished and deformed; they begged and whined.”

Belonging enough, I will now walk outside in happiness and gratitude. Like you all, I’m nearly out of here.

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

Trump’s Nuclear Jokes

“…I believe it is time to accept the rules of the game proposed by the Americans.”

By Rotislav Ishchenko at ukraine.ru.

(machine translation)

A true American, regardless of his mood, must have a broad, radiant smile. This is an important component of the American dream.

In the 15th-17th centuries, it was fashionable to have bad teeth in Europe. Sugar was particularly damaging to teeth, as it was extremely expensive at the time, as it was not produced locally but imported from colonies, where production expanded rapidly due to slave labor, but it took a long time to fully meet European demand. People would smile widely, revealing their rotten teeth, as it was considered beautiful.

I don’t know if this trend spread to the United States. They were much closer to the main sugar production areas in the Caribbean, so the “sugar fever” may have passed them by. However, by the 19th century, the art of dentistry had advanced to the point where mass-produced dental prosthetics were available. For a long time, until the second half of the 20th century, dental prosthetics remained an expensive luxury, and a smile with 32 gold teeth, later replaced by snow-white teeth, was a sign of wealth.

Thus, the “American smile,” which is as firmly attached to the average American’s face as a car is to its seat, is not a sign of perpetual good humor but a demonstration of a high standard of living, a testament to the realization of the “American Dream.”

However, this does not negate the traditional American optimism for any reason and without reason. I ate a big mac, drank a coke, slapped a friend on the shoulder, repelled the invasion of an alien civilization (zombies or just “bad guys” from a neighboring state), laughed merrily and hurried to an American football match in which one of my relatives participates or to which I promised to take my child-the mass scenario of an average American film-American cultural code.

It is not surprising that at a time when the United States has nothing left of its former greatness but its enemies and the habit of smiling regardless of the circumstances, when it is necessary to attract more and more external resources to maintain the system’s vitality, but it is getting less and less, when the authority of the U.S. government is declining both internationally and domestically, and when the term “civil war” is increasingly being used by the American media, politicians, and even ordinary Americans to describe the current situation, the American president is displaying unwavering optimism and laughing heartily at every opportunity.

He is not even afraid to look like a clown, declaring “I sent one or two American submarines to the coast of Russia”, “the Russians know that our submarine is floating off their coast”, “we have superweapons that no one else has and that no one knows about”. Yet one or two submarines were sent to our shores by this amazing man? Does the boat float off the coast of Russia permanently or is it periodically changed by some other boat? If no one knows about the American superweapon, and Trump knows, then who designed and produced it (they must know, or are they not human?) and is Trump human if he knows something that no one else knows?

In principle, Trump has chosen the right tactic. Against the backdrop of a gloomy, ever-falling, regularly conversing with a shadow Biden, whose behavior has increased the sense of disaster in American society, the never-failing old man-booster is setting Americans in an optimistic mood. “What if he succeeds? Look how cheerful he is when everyone is sad! He must know something!””That’s what ordinary Americans think, and they continue to smile with all 32 of their teeth, demonstrating their optimism and unwavering confidence in the future, as well as their own prosperity.

Going outside, turning on the TV, logging into social networks and everywhere watching these endless smiles, a person begins to understand that everyone is fine, it’s just that he has something that didn’t work out, but it will pass. So and agitate each other more effective than any media: everyone is bad, but everyone seems to be good, and only he alone is bad, and that is temporary.

However, in his unbridled optimism, Trump took a fateful step: he “stopped being afraid and fell in love with the bomb.” In fact, he has long emphasized the use of force in U.S. foreign policy. If you lack the authority to persuade the world to follow your course, you must resort to coercion. However, even economic sanctions require a military component. Russia has successfully circumvented many trade sanctions because it can protect its trade routes. If it were Ukraine or even Argentina, the Americans would simply impose a blockade on sea routes and, if possible, on land borders, and the sanctions would be effective.

As a last resort, the U.S. has the option of “humanitarian bombing” of disobedient countries, or even a “humanitarian” invasion. This doesn’t work with Russia because it can send anyone back to the Stone Age or even further.

But it works with Japan. During an official visit to the country, Trump described the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki without hesitation: “It’s funny that we had a little conflict with Japan. You may have heard about it. … Since then, our relationship has been strong for a long time.”

A quarter of a million people died immediately, and almost as many died in the years to come, because the Americans wanted to solve three problems at once:

• test new weapons in combat conditions;
• to demonstrate to the USSR its capabilities, in order to subsequently blackmail it with nuclear weapons and force it to comply with American policies;
• Accelerate the surrender of Japan.

The atomic strikes did not impress the USSR enough to submit to the Americans, and they did not impress Japan enough to surrender. The descendants of Amaterasu only surrendered after the Red Army swiftly defeated the Kwantung Army and lost its position on the continent, and the Soviet forces, who had also liberated the Kuril Islands and Sakhalin, were ready to land on Hokkaido. Tokyo realized that the Red Army could enter their capital before the Americans, just as it had entered Berlin, and they quickly surrendered.

However, over time, the bomb went off. After the war, Japan morally capitulated to the United States, becoming not an ally, but a loyal vassal of Washington in Asia, fulfilling the senor’s every whim. This is why the American president can visit Japan and make a boorish joke about the national tragedy orchestrated by the Americans during his visit. The Japanese will bow and swallow it.

But this “joke” is a signal not only to the Japanese. It is an open threat to all U.S. opponents: “Look, they dropped a bomb on the Japanese, and now they’re being nice. We can do it again. See how the president is in a good mood, and how easily he talks about the military-wise destruction of half a million people as a means to force an entire nation to forget about its national interests and bow down to the United States.

It is hardly a coincidence that this statement was made immediately after the test of a Russian nuclear-powered cruise missile, which devalued the already imperfect U.S. missile defense system that protects U.S. national territory. This is an unambiguous threat, making it clear that the current U.S. president believes that the use of nuclear weapons is justified not only for current military purposes, but also for long-term political goals.

In Japan, the Americans did not strike military targets, but rather attacked civilian cities, deliberately increasing the number of civilian casualties. Trump’s joke about the Japanese tragedy is a testament to the fact that even in the current situation, the United States considers a terrorist nuclear strike on major Russian cities as a means to minimize its technological disadvantage in modern nuclear weapons carriers. To strike a multi-million-dollar metropolitan area, it is not necessary to have carriers that can bypass or penetrate missile defense systems due to their speed. Instead, a massive strike is required, with the assumption that something will penetrate.

This is a serious threat. The destruction of major cities and millions of civilian casualties will disorganize the rear and thus devalue or seriously undermine the army’s capabilities. I believe it is time to accept the rules of the game proposed by the Americans. They like to publicly simulate nuclear strikes on Russian territory and report on the predicted casualties and destruction. Why doesn’t a Russian scientist (so that there are no complaints about politicians) simulate a nuclear strike on the United States and calculate the potential survivors, assuming there are any beyond the statistical error margin?

Global South

Slices of Nepal, #3

“Suddenly, there were more cars, fewer shops, little foot traffic and no history. The car, television and, now, cellphone make being nowhere not just possible, but desirable.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Kathmandu, 10/22/25

Could Have Been, Can Be and Will Be Much Worse — Oct 22, 2025.

Should have rung one of those bells five or six times for divine protection! At least it happened near the end. Today, I walked many miles without having the faintest idea where I was going. Done this countless times in too many cities. You must trek through the most boring or, hell, even deadliest parts to understand any place. If all you see of Philly are Center City, Old City, Society Hill, University City and the Italian Market, you have no idea what locals must go through.

Having experienced spectacular temples, awe inspiring stupas, exhilarating street markets, quaint courtyards and tiny, picturesque shops, today I got a numbing taste of Kathmandu’s newer quarters. Suddenly, there were more cars, fewer shops, little foot traffic and no history. If not for those colorful mandalas on sidewalks and Nepalese scripts on some signs, I was hardly in Nepal. Wandering around such a neighborhood in Busan years ago, I nearly thought I was in California! The car, television and, now, cellphone make being nowhere not just possible, but desirable.

On one street, there were all these job placement agencies for Japan. One large sign had a three-tiered pagoda and a sweetly smiling babe in a kimono. Similar teases exist in Vietnam. Sent to Japan, you might never see such a chick. Still, a monthly salary of 250,000 rupees ($1,775) is inducement enough. In Kathmandu, a college graduate makes just $213 a month. For a general laborer, it’s $103. Renting a basic room in town is already $50. With wages so low, it’s even more incredible there are so many smiles, and so few crimes.

Employed at 4 Square, one 17-year-old must walk three hours daily, six days a week. Sometimes, he gets a ride on a motorbike. He can’t even afford a bicycle.

With English classes expensive, few can learn. Those who do try to work abroad.

I didn’t even know I was just north of Thamel. Seeing two goats outside a butcher’s shop was encouraging, though. Just above them through an open window were mostly defleshed skulls of their kind, plus a young female of my kind, smiling. Until it’s our turn to be decapitated, everything is hilarious, or at least interesting. Soon after, I saw my first temple in maybe an hour.

Kathmandu, 10/22/25

As hope returned, I suddenly pitched forward. On the ground, I looked back to see one of my cheap sandals flung many yards behind me.

“Sir, are you OK?”

“I’m fine! It could have been worse.”

“You scraped your knee!”

“I’m OK. Hey, you sound American!”

“I am.”

“Where are you from?”

“Utah.”

“I used to live in Philadelphia.”

“I actually live here! I’ve been here for 13 years.” She’s a white woman around 55-years-old.

“How do you like it?”

“I love it!”

“Do you have family here?”

“I’m my entire family!” She spread her arms out, palms up.

“Now, I know why I fell down.” I was getting mystical. “I fell down so I could meet you, an American, with your interesting story!”

“You’re such a nice man. You fell down because you were trying to get out of my way.”

I’m not sure I did that. I do try to walk on the traffic side when seeing a woman. Here as in Vietnam, people often stray onto streets. Today, I stepped into a gutter. Out of politeness, I gave her a wide berth, perhaps. It could have been much worse. There was some dark blood on my left big toe, but no real pain. In ruined Beirut, I stepped into a broken grate. My leg could have been sliced open.

Sitting in 4 Square at 2:15PM, I’ve been hearing for half an hour loud banging on drums and cymbals from youths on passing trucks, or just marching by. It’s the fourth day of Tihar. Tomorrow, maybe they’ll shoot rockets into hotel room windows. I must be ready for anything.

With no clear boundaries between spectators and participants, this is nearly a carnival. Before it got cleaned up, with its finale moved indoors, Philly’s Mummer Parade was also carnivalesque. Rulers prefer parades. You’re not supposed to do anything but watch. One nation even has “free speech zones” where the ignored are caged.

The best jobs here are government sinecures, as dispensed by a higher-up relative. Running your own business is also an attractive option, but there are so many of all kinds already. On this limited planet, mouths are still multiplying, so wars, riots, lootings and famines are baked in. Even among mild and dignified Nepalese, there’s trouble ahead. For now, they will still dress up, smile brightly and celebrate.

Today, Vimal has on a Celtics jersey, number 5. That’s Kevin Garnett. Looking for cheap apartments in Boston, Vimal was steered to Roxbury, but one quick look told him it was deadly, “I’d rather sleep at the train station.” As a teen, Malcolm X lived in Roxbury. Did you know that “Hold it, brother!” were Malcolm X’s last words?

Now, two girls no older than twelve are chanting, with one holding a bamboo tray with a burning incense stick jutting from a banana, marigold petals, a colorful piece of paper with magical writing and a sort of donut, but thinner and larger. They’re trick or treating, basically. Having given money to so many kids already, the barista ignores them, so they move on, perfectly cheerful.

Still fat enough despite everything, I, too, will move on.

Sacred Stones, Dogs, Mud and Even Men — Oct 23, 2025.

All that racket yesterday was also to celebrate the Newari New Year, Mha Puja (self worship) and Gai Puja (cow worship). Ratopati informs us, “The cow is revered as mata or mother by Hindus […] Modern science has also proved that indigenous breeds of cows absorb the energy from the sun and the moon in their hump which is transmitted through milk to humans.”

Only indigenous breeds, mind you. Hump on that for a while. Three days ago was Kukur Tihar, or Festival of Dogs. Surely, I qualify. Must come back next year to be honored, with a bindi, at least. To expect a marigold garland is already vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Shit, man, I’m getting my religions confused.

Petting that old black dog at KTM Burger, I couldn’t help but think of Nọng and Milk Cow back in Vũng Tàu. They’re washed with human shampoo by Mrs. Seven at least twice a week, then blasted with a hair dryer. I’ve warned her about parching their skin, but do you think anyone listens to anyone? We’d rather die stubbornly stupid and proud.

Speaking Vietnamese to KTM Burger’s dog, I murmured, “So pitiful! You’ve never been washed!” On his forehead, there was a red trace from the bindi applied days ago, during the Festival of Dogs, of course. Once a year, this filthy beast is dabbed with kumkum powder. That’s what it’s called, I swear.

Last week was Jazzmandu. My hipster days over, I wouldn’t have checked it out anyway. Once, I sat in bars to listen to Wynton Marsalis and Mickey Roker. I also caught Sun Ra, Sonny Rollins, Art Pepper, Charlie Rouse, Johnny Hodges, Benny Goodman and, most memorably, the Art Ensemble of Chicago. Lester Bowie was evil! Last time I gushed over jazz, a moron jumped in to protest, “What about great white music?”

White worship of Jewjerked Trump is too appropriate for a society too stupid, degenerate and ignorant to honor its own heritage or recognize what’s best about itself. They’re worshipping a rapist of white children as purveyed by a Jew! Just as bad, they’re fine with his destruction of the Heartland. Anti-Trumpers can’t wait to vote in another Jewjerked puppet.

Not even Germany is so hopeless. It still has enough cultural relics to remind Germans of who they are, and of their greatness. Nepal, too.

Americans are mostly indifferent. Twice, they voted in a culture wrecker.

Erecting his vanity project, Trump Tower, this philistine moron ordered the razing of the Bonwit Teller Building, an Art Deco masterpiece. At least René Chambellan’s bas reliefs and Otto J. Teegan’s entrance grille could be saved, it was hoped. After promising them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Trump simply destroyed them.

Teegan, “It’s odd that a person like Trump, who is spending $80 million or $100 million on this building, should squirm that it might cost as much as $32,000 to take down those panels.” It’s not odd at all. Destruction is how this eternally insecure fool flexes his power. Trumpers seethe at uppity, coastal liberal words like Art Deco, masterpieces or just “art,” so yes, tear it all down.

But what about great white music? Whiggers like Forgiato Blow and Stoney Dudebro are certainly carrying the torch. Dangling his noose, literally, is JJ Lawhorn. Sucking hardest, though, must be Kid Rock. As a yellow outsider, I can’t keep up with so much greatness. You tell me.

Spending two years in Certaldo, particularly its medieval section, I felt, viscerally, each day, the importance of cultural depths, and I’m feeling the same in Kathmandu, except for yesterday, when I strayed into its more modern, thus sterile, neighborhoods. The worst architectural school ever was the International Style, with offshoots like Brutalism or Soviet Modernism just as nasty. Art that isn’t rooted in the local displaces the soul. This is irrelevant if you don’t think art matters at all.

In 2018, the Met returned to Nepal a 10th century standing Buddha and a 12th century stele. In 1996, Britain repatriated 19 artifacts. Thousands of masterpieces were also looted by whites from India, Egypt, Iran, Iraq and Cambodia, etc. At least they never bombed Nepal. In Palestine, Jews have long used white bombs to destroy even churches, including some of the oldest ever built. MAGA Christians don’t give a fuck. They have freakish pastors like Paula White-Cain to fulfill their spiritual needs.

Those with means can also fly to the Jewjizzed Holy Land. Kevin Barrett, “In a bold move to resuscitate its genocide-battered tourism industry, Israel’s Ministry of Tourism announced a new initiative this week: ‘Get Baptized In Jewish Spit.’ The project aims at bringing American Christians to Israel so they can be rapturously soaked in the only fluid that’s holier than holy water: pure, fresh, kosher, locally-sourced 100% organic Jewish saliva.” That Satanic outrage will end soon.

Here a week, I haven’t even tried to reach Lalitpur, not five miles away. Hot chai, dirty dogs, radiant smiles and calming squares are more than enough. That’s because I’m bathed in collective memories, echoes and ghosts. Here ancient stones are so alive, they’re smeared with food.

Kathmandu, 10/23/25

Worried Looking Girl with Bills and Green Glow Worm — Oct 23, 2025.

On the fifth day of Tihar, you’re supposed to go home and have lunch with your family, so nearly all stores and restaurants were closed. Though those Chinese joints on Amrit and Jyatha were open, I just didn’t feel like wok fried dishes, yellow noodles or braised chicken skeleton. After a nap, I decided Bueno Burrito would be a great choice. Walking there, I thought about how quintessentially American is Tex-Mex, as is the Mission burrito, born in San Francisco. Jazz, too, is the best of the USA, and no narrowly defined black or white music.

At 4:30PM, Bueno was still closed, so I bought a short story collection by Anjan Adiga, a Nepalese-American writer. I want to write an American writer born in Nepal, but there’s no bio in Leech. Sitting on steps outside shuttered stores, I read. After just a few pages, I could tell Adiga is excellent.

Without his heritage, plus emotional and intellectual investment over many years, I’m just groping, obviously, but travel writing is like a drunken incel being shoved into a whorehouse. As long as he doesn’t run out immediately in terror, we have stories.

With almost nothing open, I decided to try Zaika Biryani Center on Gangalal. Entering a tiny, skanky room on the second floor, I shared a table with two guys. One was the only other foreigner. Not only that, he spoke a fluent American English. We chattered.

Fifty-nine-years old, Marcos is a Brazilian who’s been just about everywhere. This is his third time in Nepal. He’s also spent four months in Vietnam over two visits. We talked about Đà Lạt, Nha Trang and Vũng Tàu. His first time here was in 2005. Nepal was much poorer then, Marcos told me.

“That’s good to hear, so the country has improved.”

“All of Asia has gotten richer,” he chuckled.

As for the USA, where Marcos spent many years, we agree Trump is collapsing its economy on purpose. One motive, obviously, is for his oligarch buddies to buy up all the farm land from MAGA peasants. Those who haven’t committed suicide, that is. Survivors can keep their red hats. Trump and his pals are also raking it in through market manipulations. Then there’s his bitcoin racket. It’s too funny, really.

We laughed over Trump’s 40 billion dollar gift to Argentina, and over China buying soybeans from Brazil instead of the USA. We discussed the growing power of BRICS. Marcos knows what’s up.

Kathmandu, 10/23/25

My chicken biryani was only so-so, but at only $1.78, I can’t complain. It came with one boiled egg, and there was a pitcher at the table. Without cups, you’re supposed to just pour the cold water into your mouth, with the spout not even an inch from that unclean aperture. Though not quite correct, it sounds better than hole or orifice, God forbid.

Though Marcos had vowed just one week ago to never drink alcohol again, I said he must try the excellent Gorkha Beer. Perversely, he admitted to being fond of bia hơi. Brewed overnight by whoever felt like, it became popular in northern Vietnam during the worst years of Communism. Though without kick or character, it’s still being served.

Wandering around, I stumbled onto a Czech restaurant, and a Chinese owned hotel called Vienna!

In an Adiga story, “High Heels,” a young woman has reinvented herself by finishing high school against her mom’s wish, moving from her village to Kathmandu, getting a job at a bank, dabbing herself with Lakme Elegant perfume and wearing red high heels. Most radically, she has become a Christian. Nine pages in, her mentor, Father Matthew, is already betraying impure motives. She, though, has the hots for Binod, a handsome and confident coworker. On their first date, he admits to finding Christian women “bold.”

With six more days here, I have plenty of time to finish this story, or the whole book even, but when traveling, one should spend as much time as possible reading streets, landscapes, bodies and faces.

Just typing this, I’m not doing that, but that’s the paradox of trying to capture reality. Writing, you’re no longer living. Converting all this richness into words, I’m reducing, if not caricaturing, everything. Each second is modified, enriched, complicated or contradicted by the next.

Today, I photographed a small girl in a vermilion top with a neon green glow worm. Holding some bills, she looked worried. Behind her was a man and a boy, each with a disposable surgical mask, of the type made ubiquitous during the Covid hysteria. Why weren’t they caned for not keeping a social distance? Deprived of oxygen, their modest IQs approached zero. Their muffled conversation sputtered one syllable at a time, punctuated by pauses minutes long. Since a photograph is already a translation, I’m translating a translation.

Don’t curse me, though, for shrinking so much into so little, for a postage sized Kathmandu is still better than nothing.

Kathmandu, 10/24/25

No Plunging, Scoop, Halter or Sweetheart Necklines — Oct 24, 2025.

It didn’t take long, did it? Halfway through their first lunch date, Binod said to Sarita, “I have a lot of respect for you, for how far you’ve come in life.”

On the way back, they had to duck into an old temple to escape a heavy rain. Suddenly, this young Christian woman was trapped in a dark, “dismal place,” with even “the stench of uncollected garbage” wafting from an adjacent alley. The only other presence was a statue of Kali, that frightful blue faced goddess with her four arms, red tongue, sword and garland of decapitated heads. Still, Sarita felt safe.

Adiga describes her delusions:

In him there was a hidden capacity to care, she knew it. 
She wished she could take him to church. 
They would kneel and pray together. 
She was now completely sure that the church was the guiding force he needed to turn his life around.

Besides being a spoiled only son, Binod was a lost soul, a sinner. She was destined to save him. He interrupted her noble musing by putting his hands on her shoulders. Sarita’s wet cleavage made her irresistible. This detail indicated, further, her Western orientation. We already knew by her red high heels and tube of Fair and Lovely. Always in her purse, it made her whiter, though never white enough.

Before Sarita knew it, they were kissing, then his hand somehow slipped beneath her bra to squeeze her naked breast. Ignoring her protest, he kept going, but at least they didn’t copulate. In shock, Sarita asked to be dropped off before reaching the bank.

Clearly annoyed at being thwarted, Binod sneered, “Your mole is disgusting.” Patiently seducing her many days before, Binod said it looked like “a tiny juicy grape.” Even her mom thought it resembled a tumor. Sarita fancied it nearly a nipple. This mark of shame became her naked turn on, she desperately hoped. Binod spat at that notion. Born elsewhere, Sarita could just remove it.

Kathmandu, 10/24/25

I’ll read the rest later. Looking up, I see three young men. One wears a baseball cap with “MARQUETTE.” I’m sure he doesn’t know what it means. One is listening to his phone. With porn banned, there’s not much to look at. The last, in a hoodie and jean jacket, is staring at revelers just outside KTM Burger.

At another table is a black man focused on his magical screen. Perhaps 30, he’s alone. Besides TikTok recorded laughter, I can also hear extended dialogues in English. Unlike others, he didn’t go to the counter upon entering, but only ordered a can of Carlsberg and a chicken kathi roll when approached, finally, by an employee after about 20 minutes.

Elsewhere, more young men stare at phones. I’m sure all of them wouldn’t mind a bold, westernized woman, even without otherworldly cleavage throbbing or bobbing. It’s cool enough for a jacket or hoodie. In my short sleeved áo bà ba, I must ignore the weather.

One tallish man with long hair has a girlfriend. He’s wearing a fluffy white and gray fleece hoodie over a shockingly red long shirt, however. Even Sarita wouldn’t try to save this guy, much less a true Western woman. Of course, it’s presumptuous to think he’d even want one, just to see, taste and smell what it’s like, you know. I must disagree with Alberta Hunter. You can certainly tell the difference after dark.

Displaced, you can be so wrong even when you’re dressed perfectly. A female, though, is always welcome, if only for a hit and run. If willing to spend, even the most repulsive can get off. A five minute stroll down Pattaya’s Soi 6 will amply prove this. It’s bad enough in Vũng Tàu.

Quality of whores varies so much, though, with the richer, more prestigious countries offering the worst. Worse than selling one’s body for half an hour or an hour to endless creeps is to be chained to one. Melania often looks disgusted. Ivana wrote about being raped. Once permanent residency is gained, millions book.

In “High Heels,” silver-haired Father Matthew is creepy enough. Fleeing from Binod, Sarita took a taxi to Saint Mary’s Church. It didn’t sound like her ordeal was over.

Finishing this at 4 Square, my right leg went dead, so I hobble outside. At 10:15AM, it’s sunny and warm, with, as usual, a constant stream of pedestrians. There’s not a cleavage in sight. No plunging, scoop, halter or sweetheart necklines. One dips just enough to show collar bones. That’s it.

Around 4AM, I passed four drunken youths, including one woman. Pissed at somebody, she flipped the bird, the first I’ve seen in eight days, and I’m out constantly. Though dressed casually in the American style, she showed no cleavage either.

As a Kami, Sarita was elated to discover she could read the same bible as anybody else. There are 1.5 million of her kind in Nepal. Though caste-based discrimination was abolished in 1963, you can’t mold or regulate anyone’s heart.

10/25/25 (L): Kathmandu ; (R): Lalitpur

Why Not Hitler Fashion? — Oct 26, 2025.

A regular at 4 Square is Saroj, a shop owner in his late 40’s. Though his brother has lived in Boston for 20 years, Saroj hasn’t been able to visit him. Applying for a visa recently, he was rejected. Saroj worked eight years in India, so speaks good Engish, and he has traveled to Hong Kong and Bangkok. An avid bicyclist, he’s also in great shape, so looks every bit a successful and well fed middle class person. Still, Trump won’t let him in. After three months, Saroj will try again.

When told of my time in the USA and Europe, Saroj looked startled for a second. I was just sharing my experiences of NYC, London and Paris, to say those places aren’t like in the movies or popular imagination. “Everywhere I go, I want to see the regular neighborhoods, you know, the more boring ones, because that’s how normal people live.”

This was my response to a visit to the Buddha Stupa. Saroj hadn’t just insisted I see it, but phoned a motorbike guy to get me there. More interesting for me, though, were all the blasé streets I saw on the way. After that stupa, which was indeed spectacular, I had a better time checking out the area. There was Ramsterdam Café, “where hippies meet.” That fabled Kathmandu isn’t just mostly gone, it was hardly there in the first place.

Freak Street and Dharma Path, where Pico Iyer hung out, is as alien to most Nepalese as Phạm Ngũ Lão and Bùi Viện to Vietnamese. That Saigon pocket with its whores, pimps, weird cuisines and bars is known as Phố Tây, or Western Streets.

Even now, most residents of Kathmandu would find this passage incomprehensible:

I had the best enchilada of my life on Freak Street, and the chocolates in the stores seemed to have been sent special delivery from the heavens. As for the pies for which Nepal was famous, they exceeded even their reputation. Soon I established my own sacramental ritual: disappearing several times each day into the dark entrances of cafés—not just Mom’s Health Food Restaurant and Aunt Jane’s, but also Tibetan, Chinese and stateless restaurants—in order to devour extraordinary apple pies, almond layer pies, orange cakes, fruit cakes, lemon pies and more apple pies.

It’s telling that Iyer never mentions momos, choila, khaja, thukpa, sekuwa or even dal bhat, Nepal’s national dish. That’s what most people eat here, man, not lemon or apple pie! They have never heard of them, or enchiladas! Most wouldn’t dare walk into Mom’s Health Food Restaurant. Its name alone sounds expensive.

(L): Busan, 3/29/20 ; (R): Taiping, Malaysia on 7/19/19

The cheapest eateries here are dark, tiny places without a name. You enter through a curtain. Most have no English menus. Yesterday in Lilitpur, I noticed a barefoot girl about three flinging dirt outside Mo:Mo Cha and Stick Food Café. She had on a dirty pale pink top with two smiling cats. Catching me eyeing her daughter, this large woman came out, but not to chase me with a stick or knife. Smiling, she urged her kid to say hello. Her cheerfulness invited me in. If there was no menu, I would just ask to see what she had. I had done this in various countries. Point and you shall receive.

There was a menu, just one, with “Momo Magic and Stick Delights!” on the cover. Its plastic lamination was peeling off. Its wire binding was all awry. Without knowing what “Buff Khaja Set” was, I ordered it anyway. It turned out to be a buffalo stew, choila, with curried potato, peanuts, chickpeas, pickled vegetables and crunchy rice flakes, chiura. The last was most surprising. This delicious meal cost me just 170 rupees, or $1.21.

Arriving in Lilitpur, I emailed my buddy, Jonathan, “You shamed me into going to Patan, motherfucker! You think I give a shit about temples!!! I must admit, though, this place is orgasmically spectacular. Makes me even more ashamed to be Vietnamese. Just kill me now.” Tone is everything. That’s how friends talk. I used to do the same with Giang, whom I had known for more than four decades. After three Jewjabs, he seemed to change. His voting again for Trump hardened Giang further. Suddenly, I could no longer goof around with this guy.

Walking back to Kathmandu, I got seriously lost. Without a map or cellphone, I ended up in Kalanki, then Bafal. It didn’t help that I was lugging my bag with a camera and laptop, both heavy, and, most likely, I kept wandering in circles. I crossed streets and creeks that looked awfully familiar. This misadventure allowed me to enter a nearly dead mall, pass a bus depot with clearly rural folks waiting to go home, ramshackle dwellings abutting swanky developments and, mostly astoundingly, Hitler Fashion!

All I saw were jeans, hoodies, T-shirts and sneakers, typical American styled casual wear. Do Nepalese consider eternally adolescent Americans as Nazis?

Though swastikas are common in the East, this was just weird. Without my phone, I couldn’t speed dial my rabbi or the Anti-Defamation League. In Kukes, Albania, I had run into Bar and Restaurant Nazi, but that’s just the owner’s name, pronounced as Nor Zee.

(L): Skopje, North Macedonia on 9/26/20 ; (R): Vung Tau, 9/8/24

This morning, I read about a 33-year-old, Kenneth Morgan, who had entered Cutter’s Pub, an Athens, Georgia bar popular with college kids. Dressed as an SS officer, complete with a red armband with its black swastika on a white circle, Morgan was clearly asking for trouble. Immediately, he was cursed, then chased out by a crowd. When Grace Lang tried to yank off his armband, Morgan whacked her with his beer mug, breaking her nose. She relayed her account to The Red and Black, which aren’t just Nazi colors but those of the University of Georgia. Of course, many if not most of those outside the South and Midwest think those folks are Nazis anyway.

Though Mao and Stalin killed many more, Hitler is considered uniquely evil. Even most deaths in concentration camps were from starvation, and related diseases, resulting from American and British bombings. At least a million Vietnamese died from the same. Near the end of World War II, Vietnamese ports and rail system were destroyed.

Detailed or nuanced understanding of anything is beyond most people, with American college students among the worst. A little learning is already dangerous. When it’s mostly bullshit, you’re fucked for life.

Here’s how Grace Lang describes herself at Linked, “I capture angles that are rarely seen and humanity that is often overlooked. My photos give the audience a chance to see with my eyes, granting them a vivid, deep connection with my work.” Seeing with her eyes, you will be exposed to hidden truths about humanity.

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

Why did the Aborigines eat Cook

… Essentially, we need to do what the West is doing to us.

By Rostislav Ishchenko at Ukraine.ru.

(machine translation)

For those who always worry that there are too many words, I will express the meaning of this material in one phrase: don’t be complacent, it won’t get any better.

Now, for everyone else who doesn’t get it with just one phrase.

It will get better, of course, but not for a long time, and not everyone will live to see it. It may even happen that there will be no one to write an epitaph for humanity. At first, the survivors will be too busy, and then they will also be gone. But as realists, we will assume that sooner or later, perhaps even after us, the worst will pass and better days will come.

Why, as realists, if it is said above that humanity has every chance to disappear relatively quickly and very painfully? Because if the worst does happen, then there is no point in reflecting: belated reflection will not help anyone, only distract the temporarily surviving from the fruitless struggle for existence. So it is realistic to consider only one option for the future – in which humanity managed to avoid the worst. In this case, he will not only have the opportunity, but also the need to analyze the past in order to avoid a dangerous crisis in the future. Luck is not always on his side.

To begin with, if the situation can be stabilized, it will mean the victory of the current anti-American bloc, or if the United States and its allies win, the situation will continue to deteriorate until a self-destructive war becomes the only option. The Euro-American civilization is too accustomed to risking war and winning to give up this “last chance.”

From the Germanic tribes that attacked the Roman Empire to the conquistadors and the modern United States, Napoleon’s slogan “get in the fight and see what happens” has been a cornerstone of European civilization. The freedom-loving Chersusci of Arminius, the mighty Cimbri and Teutons, whose victories had brought fame to Marius, as well as dozens of smaller or less well-known tribes, were defeated by the invincible Roman legions, until the empire was weakened enough to fall to the Goths, Vandals, Franks, Burgundians, Bavarians, and Langobards. Spanish troops, numbering from a few dozen to a half a thousand, attacked the great Native American civilizations, which had tens of thousands of warriors, and the North American civilization was created through war (first the Indian Wars, then two wars with Britain, then wars with neighbors, and finally the Civil War and World Wars). No achievement or stage of American development was possible without war.

At the same time, America has not always been a powerful military power. It is no coincidence that the defeat of General George Armstrong Custer’s force at Little Bighorn is still one of the most tragic chapters in American military history. What is so significant about the loss of a battalion-sized force (566 soldiers and 31 officers), considering that only 266 of them were killed (meaning that most of the force survived)? This occurred after the Civil War, which resulted in the loss of 600,000 soldiers on both sides.

Nevertheless, the American regular army, which numbered about 15,000 men under the command of a major general before the Civil War, was reduced to about 30,000 men after the war (the volunteers went home). It is not certain that all the vacancies were filled, as the U.S. Army often faced significant manpower shortages during peacetime. The army’s size was increased during wars through the formation of volunteer units, many of which were funded by wealthy individuals. The loss of Custer’s unit was significant for such an army. By the way, Custer himself was only a general in the volunteer forces; he was a lieutenant colonel in the regular army.

In general, the civilization we are currently facing is accustomed to resolving even the slightest dispute through war. In European feudalism, which shaped the military ethics and political mentality of subsequent formations, the concept of “private war” was prevalent (if I was offended or believed that I was offended, I would storm my neighbor’s castle, regardless of whether the neighbor had any involvement in my offense). This eventually evolved into the European dueling code. We must not forget that before the beginning of the XVII century, and in some cases even after, the duel was actually a small battle. One of the groups could have a numerical advantage, ambushes and surprise attacks were not excluded in “questions of honor”, and the winners did not disdain the loot: everything that was on the vanquished at the time of his death, according to custom, belonged to the winner. Pure banditry. Some good swordsmen from poor families didn’t make much of a living.

The civilization we are now facing has sometimes been defeated. Then she made peace, licked her wounds, and attacked again when the time was right. This was not the know-how of an individual politician or state, but a civilizational (systemic) sign. The West has always acted this way. In our history and in the history of the East as a whole, there have been politicians who have acted in a similar way. But this approach has not acquired a sign of consistency. Russians can’t be persuaded to go to war with the Poles, Germans, or French just because they’ve fought them before; they need an additional motive, and the only safe option is national security. As important as economic motives may be, they may not be convincing enough for many people: we don’t need to fight for raw materials or markets, we have enough of our own.

For the West, any motive is sufficient. Even the simple “we fought them, and they are still alive.” Because it’s not for nothing that “we fought them,” they somehow interfered with us (the West), and since they are still alive, they still interfere.

Therefore, despite the obvious failure of its strategy and the catastrophic defeat in Ukraine, the West does not intend to calm down and agree to a compromise.

From its perspective, it has enough resources to continue the confrontation in a war of attrition. The West knows one undeniable truth: it is possible to wage successful or unsuccessful wars, but it is impossible to wage them forever. Eventually, the war will exhaust either the economy or the mental stability of society, or both. Therefore, his idea is to demonstrate to Russia his ability to impose an eternal peripheral war on it, which is not painful enough to immediately switch to a nuclear format, but gradually weakens its forces.

Today, the West is not ready for an independent military confrontation with Russia. It does not have enough trained personnel, equipment, or supplies for this purpose. The West expects to fill this gap in five to seven years. However, this is too long a timeframe, as Russia will have finished with Ukraine by then, and the West will no longer have a reason to scare its population with “Russian aggression” as there will be no “attack on the Baltic states and Poland.”

Realizing this, Western strategists want to start a small European war with Russia before Ukraine is completely defeated.

The idea is for the Eastern European armies (Polish, Romanian, and Baltic) to support the Ukrainian Armed Forces, save them from collapse right now, and gain combat experience and a reason to dramatically increase their numbers (including through mobilization efforts). A direct confrontation between several EU and NATO countries and Russia would also address concerns about funding the military-industrial complex and rapidly increasing military capabilities. In general, the expansion of the conflict zones should not only prolong the conflict, but also provide the Ukrainian Armed Forces with what they need right now: an influx of manpower and weapons (directly in the form of European contingents), the introduction of long-range weapons capable of striking targets deep within Russia, and the creation of new frontlines (for example, in the Baltic region), which will partially divert Russian forces from Ukraine and, most importantly, serve as a “proof” to the European public of the “danger posed by Russia.”

Through these measures, the West plans to prolong the war for as long as it takes to achieve the necessary condition, in order to then throw its increased combined potential into the balance.

War is not a mandatory solution for the West. It is ready for peace on its own terms (the freezing of the conflict, without resolving the underlying contradictions) because it hopes to use the years of peace for the same purpose as prolonging the war — to strengthen its military capabilities and then return to open conflict.

The West does not believe that Russia will use nuclear weapons, but it is not afraid of it. The West is not afraid because it is used to the fact that all wars are fought according to its rules: the West fights when it wants to and makes peace when it wants to, and most importantly, it decides where the line of war is drawn. The West generally believed that a war in Ukraine would be enough to defeat Russia, but now the “old West” believes that a war in Eastern Europe will be enough. Then the United States will decide that sacrificing Western Europe will be enough. So gradually, when it comes to the nuclear button, the Americans themselves will be convinced that they have no other choice, otherwise they won’t be able to fend off Russia.

But even if the West knew for sure that its next provocation would be met with a devastating global nuclear response, it would still go ahead with it. Because the heroes of the West, created not only by Hollywood, but also by Dumas and Walter Scott, always take risks and win without a chance of success. And this has worked for centuries. It’s an archetype. The West doesn’t know any other way.

The natives ate Cook because they couldn’t do anything else. And the West can’t do anything else either. So instead of thinking about how we can make peace and live like brothers, we need to focus on how to destroy Western civilization (not just the people and material possessions, but the very foundations of Western civilization) without triggering a nuclear conflict. Essentially, we need to do what the West is doing to us. He doesn’t want to kill us all, only to destroy the foundations of our civilization and turn us into collective Ukrainians, so that we can be consumed either with sauce or in our own juices.

Vladimir Vysotsky – Почему аборигены съели Кука? (Why did Aborigines eat Cook?)

Don't grasp the waists of strangers,
Now, that your girlfriends don't look.
Remember, how to the shores of Australia,
Sailed up the late Captain Cook.
 
Sitting in a circle under azalea
In Australian land sunny and hot,
Eating and eating from dawn to dusk
One another, evil, savage lot.

But why did Aborigines eat Cook?
You won't find the answer in the wisest book.
The answer is simple - they wanted a lunch
As far as I see it - so Cook they did munch.

It's also possible that their Chief Big Beech
Shouted to his people standing on the beach
That aboard the ship there's delicious cook,
There was a mistake and they ate James Cook.

Nothing was to it, no deceit at all
That without "knock, knock" they entered that door.
Knock, knock on the head with a bamboo stick
And James Cook is dead - what a nasty trick!

There is one more thing that I, well, suspect
Cook could have been eaten due to high respect.
All this has been set by a cunning shaman
"Catch Cook, boys," shrieked the cruel man.

Roast him with no onion, salt or other spices
and you'll be like Cook - strong, brave, with no vices.
A stone happened to be there which some savage took
Aim, hit, bang - and there is no Cook.

And the savage lot now's wailing and crying
Break their swords and bows they're trying
Burn their bamboo sticks with ferocious hate
Regretting deeply that James Cook they ate.

Global South

Slices of Life, #13

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

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 10/8/25

Holy Water Puddles — Oct 11, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy Water Puddle

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

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

Vung Tau, 10/9/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Image Psychosis Detoxification — Oct 13, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Tim’s crab noodle stand this morning

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

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

Vung Tau, 10/14/25

Amor Fati or Else! — Oct 14, 2025.

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

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

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

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

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

Vung Tau, 10/14/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kathmandu, 10/15/25

Back Home in Kathmandu — Oct 16, 2025.

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

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

“How long have you been driving, taxi?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Do you live inside city?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your village?”

“Three hours.”

“Three hours away! Very far!”

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

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

“No, I am poor man.”

“Not even to India,” so close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guangzhou, 10/15/25

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices ov da Trumpocalypse, #4

“To regain a few brain cells, turn everything off and listen to insects, wind, memories, ghosts, regrets and God. Lie on the hardest ground to stare up at the darkest leaves and branches, or the moon with its nimbus.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 10/7/25. (L): altar to the goddess at the base of a banyan tree ; (R): Ông Bầu Coffee

Social Orphans Not Quite Lost — Oct 08, 2025.

Just three hundred yards from Coffee Seven, Ông Bầu Coffee is an entirely different universe. Mrs. Seven has no familiarity with any of the weird and wonderful breeds festering here. There’s a homeless Cambodian from Trà Vinh who last night, again, desecrated an altar to the goddess at the base of a banyan tree. The two ceramic tigers guarding her were useless. Picking up plates containing fruit offerings, he flung them onto the street, so this morning, Như, Ông Bầu’s manager, had to tell me to put on my sandals to not step on shards.

It’s useless to buy him a bus ticket back to Trà Vinh. He makes enough selling scrounged cans and bottles to drink coffee at Ông Bầu. Sometimes he wanders behind the counter while one of the Gen Z girls is working. Just off South Street in Philly around 2016, a barista was raped by a homeless man.

For at least a year, Ông Bầu also hosted a homeless cat. After not seeing him for a while, I thought he had been snatched by drug addicts roaming through the night on a motorbike. Selling him to a “little tiger” restaurant would gross $8. The most common drug here is meth, with heroin also a problem.

Halfway between Ông Bầu and Coffee Seven is Mrs. Tím’s crab noodle soup stand. It only operates in the morning. Selling a bowl for just $1.52, she still makes enough to support a son in drug rehab. A new term for such inmates is “student.” The blind, mù, is now called “khiếm thị,” or sight deficient. The old, già, is rebirthed as “cao tuổi,” which is, literally, tall or abundant in age.

Ông Bầu Coffee in Vung Tau. (L): 10/7/25 ; (R): 6/26/25

The cat, it turned out, had a family just down the street. Finally realizing he had moved just houses away, they brought him home, to his dismay, I’m sure. There’s a good reason he left in the first place. At Ông Bầu, he was fed well enough. His favorite spot here was on its roof, accessible through a deck up the stairs. I used to pet this tabby.

Sitting right behind me, some idiot is listening to a moronic tune on TikTok. Now, there are sounds of fighting. A supposedly comic voice then relates an unfunny story. I must move.

Như shares my distress. Her septuagenarian grandma cannot peel her cloudy eyes and abundant wrinkles from TikTok skits. We’ve talked about how babies won’t eat unless they have retarded songs played on a tiny screen in front of them. Across the globe, everyone goes to sleep to internet noises. Lullabies and pillow talks die.

The magazines at Ông Bầu are displayed by Như. No one reads them but me. I was literally the first to pick up even one. Today, I gave her a signed copy of my Thơ Nước Trong, a collection of poems written during my time in Dak Lak. Though working in a recycling plant was brutal, it was only one year. Billions endure such a grind forever until they drop dead.

Asking for a small advance, a worker in her 50’s said, “I must go to a wedding, so must buy something. Food I can go without, but I must go to this wedding.”

Ngọc Tước Book Café in Vũng Tàu on 10/8/25

In the States, Như studied anthropology and religion. She’s always done what she wanted. Though in Vung Tau just six months, she knows that when seas are stormy, fishermen can’t sail, what a quaint word, so some take recreational drugs. There are also many fewer fish. We’re running out of everything but idiocy.

To regain a few brain cells, turn everything off and listen to insects, wind, memories, ghosts, regrets and God. Lie on the hardest ground to stare up at the darkest leaves and branches, or the moon with its nimbus. Its pronoun is she, of course. The moon is that eternal woman suspended, all alone, in the sky. That frightened man running across her face is you, buddy. Raglike cirri unflutteringly droop.

It is the next day. After my pre dawn session at Coffee Seven, I’m back at Ông Bầu. On the table in front of me are two books by Nguyễn Vĩnh Nguyên. Như didn’t just recommend this writer, but left these books for me. She’s as displaced as I am. With social orphans scattered all over, it’s very rare for just two to stumble onto each other.

Checking their tables of contents, I see that Nguyễn Vĩnh Nguyên has written about toothpicks, television, Italo Calvino, Borges, sidewalk cafés and a blossoming genre of music, nhạc chế, that focuses on the day-to-day struggles of the most hounded, pressured and ignored.

As an abundant-in-age village explainer, I told Như about Duras, Hồ Xuân Hương, Hồ Biểu Chánh and Mở Miệng. Orwell she’s already a fan of. His non-fiction deserves much more attention. I told Như about Jack London’s The People of the Abyss. Without it, Orwell would have been a lesser man.

“Orwell noticed everything. He’d describe the furniture in the poor households he visited, how small these spaces were, and how far people had to walk to use the communal toilets. Keep in mind England was the world’s greatest power! William Blake had already talked about small kids being forced to sweep chimneys.”

After being ditched by real publishers in 2018, I self-published 28 books on Amazon, starting in 2024. Two weeks ago, Jeff Bezos’ outfit also canceled me, so I had no choice but to be reborn as Sammy Davis Clemens. More handsome than ever, I smuggled myself back in. When Clemens’ Rapture Sit Rep had failed to appear after 48 hours, much longer than usual, I thought he had been detected and aborted. What a pleasant surprise, then, to wake up this morning to the debut of Sammy Davis Clemens! Let’s see how long he’ll last.

New York. (L): 10/6/11 ; (R): 10/30/17

Checking in on Carey in NYC — Oct 09, 2025.

How long have you been in NYC? Where are you exactly? How much rent are you paying? What about your neighbors?

-I moved to NY in 1995 to go to college because I knew I wanted a career in theatre and it seemed like a no-brainer to live in NYC. I moved around to various boroughs after graduating, but I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen (midtown west) for most of my adult life. I got lucky and landed the lease on a studio apartment in a rent-stabilized building for $1050/month 16 years ago. I was doing some volunteer work for one of the landlord’s daughters who was convalescing from an injury and she insisted I should live in one of her dad’s buildings and she put in a word for me—that’s how I got the lease. Her dad was incredibly kind to me and didn’t raise the rent—even though he legally could have- for several years after I moved in. Then when he finally did raise it, he was profusely apologetic and raised it a whopping $50/month (which is a mercifully scant rent increase by NYC standards). He (my landlord) was an Israeli Jew who I considered one of my guardian angels up until he died in 2020—and honestly sometimes I think he still is. He was also a retired airline pilot and a great lover of opera. One time when a neighbor asked when his birthday was in front of me and he said it was in October, I teased, “Oh, Barry, you’re a Scorpio—I can never date you,” and he blushed crimson. He was probably about 85 years old at the time. Right after his passing, some lame excuse for a management company took over the building and raised the rent right away. Now it’s ~$1400/month, which is still such a good deal for where I live that I rarely tell my friends or mention it in public because I don’t want to give anyone incentive to murder me. My neighbors in the building may have slightly better or less-good deals depending on whether they moved in before or after I did. People who live in neighboring market-rate buildings are likely paying $3K/month, or substantially more for a 1-bedroom.

Who are your neighbors? How often do you eat or drink out? Here in Vung Tau, I pay 38 cents for a black coffee or $1.33 for a cappuccino or avocado smoothie, so I’m always in cafes. How much do you pay for coffee when out? How about for a beer or two at a local bar? How bad are prices in general?

-My neighbors are all kinds of people—retired senior citizens scraping a living off of social security, Broadway actors, hedge fund guys, techies, waitresses & bartenders, freelance performance artists, a professional magician, etc. I probably eat out or get takeout at least twice/week, sometimes as often as 3 or 4, depending on how social I am that week. There are still some places in the city where you can get a basic black coffee for $2.50 or $3. But a fancy coffee like a cappuccino, etc. will cost upwards of $5. Sometimes up to $9 if you ask for non-dairy milk or a second shot of espresso, etc. A beer might cost anywhere from $4-12, depending on how fancy of a place and how fancy of a beer. A glass of wine might cost anywhere from $10-25 at a casual nice restaurant. Smoothies cost around $10 if they’re the good kind (made w/plant-base; not dairy milk, for example). Groceries have definitely increased in prices a lot in the past few years. Avocadoes are ~$3 each—more for organic. I often order from an online discount market which doesn’t reflect NYC prices, but it’s only good for dry goods; not produce. Occasionally I spring for a $3 avocado.

Taxi rides have become insanely expensive. I somehow ridiculously managed to fracture my foot last week by simply stepping off the curb and am on crutches for a couple months, so I am experiencing the full force of inflation in cab fare. Just going a couple of blocks can cost $12-15. I’m currently just staying home if I can. Luckily I work remotely.

New York. (L): 2/15/17 ; (R): 10/3/17

I understand you’re trying to get out of not just NYC but the USA. Why?

-When I left NYC in 2021, it was largely prompted by Nancy Hochul’s threats to put the unjabbed into FEMA camps. [01][02] I’m feeling less urgent about getting out of the country since the Convid craziness has (mostly) settled down. But the reason I moved here in the first place was for a career in ‘show-biz’, and my mojo to continue investing time and energy into that industry has evaporated to fumes since 2020. I love doing theatre and really any project with good writing and good people. But a lot of the bread-and-butter pay for many actors comes from doing commercials, and about 90% of commercials are pushing pharmaceuticals… you know where this is going… And I agree with you that at the moment the future for the US is not looking bright. And I think it would be good for me to start fresh someplace new since I have lived in NYC for so long. But my parents are both here in the US and getting older, so I want to be able to get back without too much hassle. I am very open to relocating, but honestly I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for. I would definitely want community and to be able to work from wherever I am.

When I met you in Kep, you seemed quite comfortable traveling through Cambodia. You had already been in Siem Reap, Phnom Penh, Battambang and Kampot. To live in Cambodia is another matter? What would prevent you relocating there?

-I was invited to Cambodia by a Cambodian friend, with whom I traveled throughout my time there (with the exception of the afternoon I took a tuktuk to Kep to meet you). [03][04] She speaks Cambodian and has family there. Being part of her entourage helped me feel comfortable. And some of her family there speak English so I was able to have a meaningful visit with them. Actually, lots of Cambodians speak English very well! (A far higher percentage of Cambodians speak English well than French in France do!) But if I were on my own there, I think I might feel nervous that I know so little of the language. Although perhaps it wouldn’t be a problem at all. I don’t see myself moving there. I could probably spend a happy year or more in Siem Reap, as it has a very international population and so much culture and beauty to enjoy.

New York. (L): 10/31/17 ; (R): 9/4/10

What’s your ideal country to move to? Why?

-I’m not sure. I’m extremely curious to visit Russia, as I have never been and it seems their future has the potential to be very bright. I fantasize about getting hired to teach Shakespeare in English there to university drama students, as I think that’s the thing of most value I could offer them. (If anyone has any leads of this sort, please let me know! Or in Japan, another place I’ve never been.) I also consider Mexico, Brazil, and various countries in South America, but I haven’t gotten serious about any of the logistics. I’m currently dating a Frenchman who lives in France so I’ve been spending a good amount of time there. He loves it, although he hates the government and knows the country is sliding with all of the immigration. So it’s probably not a good long-term plan destination. But it is beautiful. Visited Greece for the first time over the summer and also loved it. I could happily live in so many different places for long stretches of time. What matters to me most is the company. But of course we all love good prices, and the West is the worst for those.

For what it’s worth, for all of the places I have ever visited including several ‘third-world’ countries where I often travel solo as a petite white woman (rather than in the form of my inner alter-ego identity as the character Jim who sings ‘Ol’ Man River’ in Show Boat;-), I have only ever had one ‘bad’ thing happen to me. It was in Cuzco, Peru. I stayed out at a bar on a date until the place closed at 1am on a Saturday night/Sunday morning and then attempted to walk the few blocks to my Airbnb alone. But I got attacked and stabbed in the upper thigh by a local young man with a broken beer bottle. Not sure if he hoped to rob me. As soon as I saw him wielding the bottle above his head like a weapon, I locked eyes with him and screamed like a banshee nonstop. I’m not sure why he gave up so quickly, but I guess I was giving him more trouble than he anticipated. There were 2 other guys who just stood and watched, and then another guy came running and they all ran off together.

The most efficient thing I ever witnessed in South America was later that night at the ER when a cop tried to take an official statement while a doctor was stitching up my thigh while my pants were around my ankles. Less efficient was the several hours I spent at the touristic police station being finger-printed and repeatedly giving my statement in my crappy Spanish. They took me back up to the scene of the crime and asked me to re-enact it for them to see if any surrounding cameras might have caught the incident on film. (They didn’t). They never found the guy. Months later when I was back in the US, they sent an email saying they were closing the case due to lack of evidence. They also had my nationality listed as Chilean, despite having copied my passport several times. Who knows? At least it’s a good story.

Vung Tau, 10/9/25

Enough of Fake Assassinations! — Oct 09, 2025.

When Trump half challenged, half threatened those cornered generals to walk out of his speech, shouldn’t at least one or two have done so? Giving up his salaries and pension to make a statement, he’d have become an instant hero. To be maligned on Fox News would only have increased his stature.

What if all the generals did? There’s no way Trump could have fired them all. The US military wasn’t in danger of collapsing.

If all you care about is money and status, you’re worse than a whore, for most whores don’t have a choice. How much money have you earned fighting for Jews and the military industrial complex in Iraq, Afghanistan and/or Somalia, etc.?

Vung Tau, 10/9/25

The highest ranking Vietnamese-American in Trump’s administration is Hung Cao. Outraged at Biden’s chaotic withdrawal from Afghanistan, this retired navy captain entered politics. After Cao failed to become a congressman or senator, Trump assigned him United States Under Secretary of the Navy.

In a TV ad while running for senate, the crew cut 53-year-old appears in great shape in his olive green T-shirt. Very spartan and military, a no nonsense kind of dude, Cao’s not a career politician. That’s the message. Dramatically lit against a black background, Cao bangs ominously thrice on a table, then states:

This is the scariest sound you will hear when you live in a communist country. This is the last sound my parents heard when their fathers were taken away in the middle of the night and they never saw their loved ones again. That’s the sound of losing your freedom.

The sound of always living in fear. That’s my family’s real life story. We escaped from Vietnam just days before Saigon fell to communists.

We were given a new life in the most generous country on earth. America saved my life. I graduated from the United States Naval Academy.

I earned a master’s in physics and fellowships at MIT and Harvard before the left replaced merit with racial quotas. I spent my life trying to repay my debt to America. My country.

Our country. With 25 years of service in Navy special operations, combat in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Somalia. But now our country has taken a dark turn.

That’s Joe Biden’s Justice Department sending two dozen armed agents to arrest a pro-life activist in front of his family. That’s Joe Biden’s IRS raiding a gun shop and seizing thousands of records from law-abiding gun owners. Our names, our addresses, our social security numbers.

Like most Americans, Cao has always misframed and misanalysed everything. He’s fought in all the wrong wars. First off, Uncle Sam was an ally of Stalin, the worst Communist ever, and after he’s done with Vietnam, he moved nearly all his factories to Communist China. Since normalizing relations with Vietnam, every US president has traveled to Hanoi to make deals and to take photos beneath a huge bust of Ho Chi Minh. Vietnam, too, is only Communist in name, just as Trump is not, shouldn’t it be obvious by now, America first! Are you going to be suckered by a baseball cap?

As for knocking on doors in the middle of night, Trump’s masked goons aren’t just doing that, but also breaking them down, to drag even naked, screaming children onto the street. They’re gang tackling elderly American citizens in full view of horrified bystanders. Laughing, they shot pepper balls at a praying priest. They break car windows. They stopped and arrested a US Army veteran as this man drove to work. His only crime was his brown skin. Storming into a Hyundai factory, they round up, most humiliatingly, 300 South Koreans who were legally in the US to train and give jobs to Americans. These Koreans they jailed for a week as Trump said nothing.

As for seizing all sorts of private information from Americans, even Hung Cao must have heard, by now, of Elon Musk’s DOGE and Peter Thiel’s Palantir? With a master’s in physics, Cao isn’t a dummy, so, to protect his career, Cao is purposely blind, like every other American with social standing. Covering your ass, you’re all blind whores with every orifice endlessly plugged.

Vung Tau, 10/9/25

All you’ve done, Hung Cao, was help America to terrorize the rest of the world and, now, even Americans. This is also true of those 800 generals and admirals. Serving Jewish interests and transnational oligarchs, they’ve assisted in wrecking America.

Hearing about that meeting in Quantico, I thought it would be staged deep underground, for security reasons. Even morons like Trump and Hegseth wouldn’t think of presenting such a tempting target to America’s adversaries, yet nothing happened. They dodged several fire-and-forget missiles!

Egypt’s Anwar Sadat was assassinated during a military parade. Sprayed bullets towards the grandstand killed ten others and injured 28. Five assassins were executed. One, 27-year-old Khalid al-Islambuli, was hailed as a martyr across the Islamic world and had a street named after him in Tehran. Facing near certain death, al-Islambuli wasn’t afraid to do what he had to do. Neither did his conspirators. [05][06]

Only the clueless think Trump is an irrelevant puppet not worth killing or dissecting. As a symbol of America’s arrogance, stupidity, crassness and lawlessness, he’s already most powerful. His assassination would have a profound effect. If symbolic assassinations don’t matter, they wouldn’t have bothered to knock off Charlie Kirk, a mere gadfly. Since Trump’s policies also reflect his own quirks and perversions, he’s much more than a symbol, but is there any Khalid al-Islambuli left in the USA? Surely, there aren’t just career mercenaries like Hung Cao or angry white pussies who are terrified of doxing themselves.

As with 9/11 or the Bin Laden “assassination” with zero evidence, symbolic acts of violence do matter. They can galvanize and effect sea changes. Spilling the brains of Elon Musk, Peter Thiel or Larry Fink, etc., would also dissolve that miasma of defeatism permeating not just the USA, but much of the West. Only those with access can do this. Long ago, I suggested the next genuine American hero would be a nanny, driver or cook. Enough of assassinations staged by Jews, to be followed by preposterous stories. Each has only benefited Jews.

Bangkok, Thailand

Resettling those Genocide Entitled — Oct 10, 2025.

The last time I was in Bangkok, in January of 2023, everything seemed fine. Khaosan Road was jumping nightly. Ubon Ratchatani and Khon Kaen later that year seemed normal too. In 2025, there are all these YouTube videos about the collapse of tourism in Thailand, however. They’re letting in too many wrong tourists.

In one video, Philip James, [07] an American in his 50’s, asks a Thai hotel manager about what’s wrong? He answers, “The tourism is very easy. Some of the Europeans don’t like Russians. Some of the people don’t like Chinese. Some people don’t like Indians. And that is too much.”

But who are the worst, James presses. Without hesitation, the Thai blurts, “Oh, mostly Israelis!” Because they want everything for free.

Not happy with this, James suggests Indians? They’re bad, too, the manager agrees, because they’re too bossy towards his staff.

Seconds later, James relays this encounter to another white tourist, “He said people are wanting to avoid Indians and Russians and Chinese.” A good, obedient goy, James has edited out any criticism of Jews.

Even Paul Theroux has said something about Israeli tourists, but as a well praised, heavily promoted writer, he’s not going to speak his mind entirely. A Google search of “Paul Theroux Israeli tourists” yields only this AI summary, “There are no reliable search results indicating that the American travel writer Paul Theroux has written or commented specifically on Israeli tourists […]” Yeah, right.

Consider these 2025 headlines. Times of Israel, “As war-weary Israeli reservists head to Thailand, poor behavior could spoil relations.” Thai Times, “Israeli Embassy Issues Conduct Guidelines for Nationals in Thailand Following Community Concerns.” The Diplomat, “Unruly Israeli Visitors, Thai Resentment, and Potential Dangers.” Ynet Global, “Israel scrambles to defuse tensions with Thailand over behavior of its tourists.” Globe, “Surge in Unruly Israelis in Mae Hong Son Sparks Local Alarm.” Travel and Tour World, “Thailand Tightens Rules For Israeli Travelers Amid Rising Concerns Over Tourist Behavior And Legal Violations.” You can imagine how many more exist in Thai, and what Thais are saying among themselves.

Thailand: (L): Bangkok, 1/28/23 ; (R): Khon Kaen, 7/12/23

Let’s hear from one very well-traveled American who’s not censoring himself, Michael Yon, “I have personally witnessed terrible Israeli behavior countless times in Nepal, India, Thailand, and beyond. The dangerous weight of consequences of their behavior continue to accumulate. Constantly talking down to local taxi drivers, waitresses, and most anyone they outnumber or look down upon.” Such is “Normal behavior. And has been for generations. Predatory, professional victims with galactic-sized sense of entitlement.”

After Jews went berserk and attacked locals in Amsterdam in November of 2024, the Dutch king had to apologize, to Jews!

Traveling with two New York Jews in 1995, I overheard an Israeli, sitting at the next table, say very loudly how much he hated Vietnam, and how he couldn’t wait to reach China. Perhaps this young man had a similar vitriol upon leaving China? Mitch Epstein, Susan Bell and I just looked at each other and smiled.

Not too amusing, though, is what to do with Jews when many more are forced to flee Israel. They’re already causing havoc in Cyprus. Ynet on 7/4/25, “Wave of antisemitic rhetoric hits Cyprus over Israeli real estate purchases—Cyprus leftist leader warns of a ‘wider plan’; Israel’s envoy condemns antisemitism, as viral clips claim ‘Cyprus was promised to the Jews.’”

Khon Kaen, 7/11/23

Gaby Keren comments, “Israeli schools ought to teach the concept of ‘Derech Eretz’ and consideration for people who are different. Behaving civilly when they are a guests in a different country could be part of the curriculum.” Jack Levi, “Israelis are like that: complete disregard for other cultures. But God-forbid someone should disrespect Jewish or Israeli culture…”

Such lovely, peace loving people. Ynet on 9/15/25, “A massive brawl broke out overnight Sunday to Monday during a flight from Tel Aviv to Bucharest, Romania’s capital. The Romanian news agency Mediafax first reported that about 30 passengers were involved and that several were detained by police after landing and taken in for questioning […] Romania’s border police said the reason for the fight was a ‘spontaneous dispute’ among several Israeli passengers.”

Ynet on 10/9/25, “The war will end, but antisemitism won’t.” That’s because Jews sow wars, chaos and divisions endlessly. They corrupt and degrade every host society. So genocide entitled, they commit the worst crimes in front of the entire world without flinching. In the end, it won’t be about who’s right or wrong, but who has more balls, missiles and bullets. As long as defeated Jews don’t come to Vietnam, I’m happy.

If there’s justice, their most abject servants will welcome them. What’s left of the USA can become Greatest and Bestest Israel. Red heifers are now kept at a secret location in Jew-occupied West Bank. Should these die, from an Iranian missile or just a knife, there are many more to be had in Texas, so all the remaining Jews can move there. Mix ashes of burnt cows with juju water and swing squawking chickens over your yarmulked heads all you want in Houston or Dallas. Just leave the rest of us the fuck alone.

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 ov da Trumpocalypse, #3

“Trapped inside a psychotic labyrinth with ten thousand maddening turns, Americans are reduced to worshiping slobbering child rapists who don’t even try to make sense.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

WikiJew Steven Pruitt

White Nations Scattered Across Ruins? — Oct 04, 2025.

For two days, I mostly slept. After my predawn session at Coffee Seven, I’d usually go to Cóc Cóc, Pato’s Bingsu or, lately, Ông Bầu to continue writing, or get another piece going. Yesterday at Ông Bầu, I mostly leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Returning to DC HomeStay as Mrs. Hà was still cleaning my room, I slumped on a chair and shut my eyes. The domesticity of it all was soothing, I must admit, and I also caught furtive glances at the 51-year-old as she changed my sheet and mopped. I had thoughts.

This pre dawn, I managed to reach Coffee Seven at 3:04AM, so only slightly later than usual. On the way, I thought about megalomania. A while back, my buddy Chuck Orloski had online conversations with Gary Corseri. From a Corseri preface, “It used to be that correspondence between authors did not appear in print until one or both of the authors had shuffled off this mortal coil. Reading the letters of Keats or Bernard Shaw or Rilke, I gleaned insights into the spirit of their times—the Zeitgeist—which made their work clearer for me, and better attuned me to our own rollicking World Ghost!” He obviously implied his exchange with Chuck wasn’t just Zeitgeistyish but only slightly lesser, if that, than the letters of Keats, Shaw or Rilke.

(L): Phnom Penh on 3/3/23 ; (R): Busan on 3/22/20

Orloski, “I will tell you something which some may find an exaggeration, but I experienced an epiphany almost every time I read a Leonard Cirino poem. Yes—its [sic] a church word, but I do mean epipahny [sic]!” Chuck is only interesting as a chronicler of working class life in long suffering Scranton, PA, but even in these prose accounts, Chuck can get very sloppy or even fudgy. Still, there are always revealing tidbits. Before becoming a schoolbus driver, Chuck cleaned up chemical spills and suicide sites. After someone got hit by a train, for example, Chuck had to find every last chunk of meat or broken tooth, even if flung a football field away. I dug these details out of Chuck from many conversations. I’m his biographer. Since converting to MAGA in 2016, Chuck has stopped writing realistic stories. Like millions of Americans, Chuck has entered a fantasy realm.

Since I will be interviewed by Kevin Barrett tonight, I better get my mind humming. Kevin’s last article is about the coming Civil War, so we can talk about that. One hopeful prospect is the breakup of the Long Disunited States, with Hawaii and Puerto Rico becoming, at last, independent states. All those illegals who had made these islands unaffordable for natives should be kicked out, no?

Neat maps in just seven or eight colors with clear borders disguise how fragmented the world actually is. Nations are fought into being. If Israel has a right to exist, then so do East Turkestan, South Ossetia, Assam, Kamtapur, Manipur, Meghalaya, Mizoram, Zogam, Sikkim, Tipraland, Taniland, Aceh, Kokang, Nagaland, Shan Republic, Zale’n-gam, Zogam, Kirat, Pasundan, Kalimantan, Greater Minahasa, South Maluku, Al-Ahwaz, Turkmeneli, ChaoFa Hmong, Johor and Kelantan, etc. Actually, all those much more so, but how many of you have heard of just one?

The Zomi Revolutionary Army, United Liberation Front of Asom, Alliance for Independent Madhesh or Baloch Raaji Aajoi Sangar, etc., are like apemen when it comes to the information war. Unlike Jews, they can’t control any aspect of the mainstream, dissident or online media.

Barrett, “WikiJew Steven Pruitt Has Made 6 Million Edits on Wikipedia (and is behind 1/3 of all English language articles).” A photo of the morbidly obese Pruitt shows him with an American flag button, so anyone who doubts his America first credentials must be anti-Semitic. With his serene smile, Pruitt is certainly more photogenic than another fatso, Steven Cheung, the White House communications director. Please, President Trump, give Pruitt some swell post, or at least the Presidential Medal of Honor.

(L): Don Det, Laos on 3/25/23 ; (R): Bangkok, 10/12/22

Return to the Land has established five all-white communities in the Ozarks and Appalachia. From its website, “Return to the Land is a private membership association (PMA) for individuals and families with traditional views and common continental ancestry. We hold events and conferences, and we help groups of our members form European heritage communities.” Can a Maga Nation be built from these? What about several white nations scattered across the ruins of the USA? Perhaps the newly established Puerto Rican Navy will annex Nueva York? Much more likely is Southern Florida voting to join Cuba.

Wisconsin will become an Islamic Republic with Kevin Barrett as first president, to ease the transition towards Sharia Laws. A landlocked Christian Nationalist state making up of chunks of Iowa, Illinois, Indiana and Kentucky can have Nick Fuentes as prophet and dictator for life. Jewjab faithfuls will have a tiny enclave north of San Francisco. Its President in Absentia will be Albert Bourla, of course, so Ron Unz will have to run everything as Head Maven. Each week, every resident, including the newborn, will be injected with an entirely new and completely untested mRNA vaccine. Since this ensures its population will be reduced to zero in no time, fresh morons must be recruited from increasingly distant territories. It’s not a problem. Ron Unz himself will pay for each one-way ticket to Jewjablandia. With the world’s lowest life expectancy, its motto will be, BETTER TO LIVE SAFELY FOR MERE SECONDS.

Why shouldn’t Orange County become a Vietnamese exclave. When that happens, maybe I’ll get a job teaching American literature at UC Irvine or Chapman University.

“Once upon a time, those people could read, write and even produce world class literature. Over decades, they sank, quite gleefully though with outbursts of misdirected rage, into idiocy. With Biden and Trump, American English became, to put it most kindly, a vomitus of catch phrases, slogans, slurs, insults or just outright gibberish.”

WATCH: Trump Trolls Hakeem Jeffries With Sombrero Meme on Truth Social. pic.twitter.com/LSxluRCOZL

— Kristin Sokoloff (@ksoklower48) October 1, 2025

Trump has just posted an AI generated video of himself tossing a TRUMP 2028 hat at House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries. The Hill, “The video depicts Trump, seated behind his desk in the Oval Office, throwing the hat in slow-motion before it lands on Jeffries’s head. The video concludes with Trump pointing and laughing, all while Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.,” perhaps the Trump political campaign’s signature tune, plays in the background.”

That man child isn’t just 79 years old but the president of United States of America. Millions of Americans still see nothing wrong.

Good Ol’ Whiggers Like Us! — Oct 04, 2025.

Only in two countries are soldiers attacking unarmed men, women and children in front of the entire world with an undisguised sexual sadism. Though many citizens of each are understandably horrified, millions still cheer. Last night, ICE agents dragged naked children from a Chicago apartment building at 3AM. Since they didn’t shoot these kids in the genitals, they haven’t yet become honorary Jews. Serving a serial child rapist, they’re getting there.

So this is what it means to have a Christ is King or Christian Nationalist nation? American Christians have long bankrupted themselves, morally too, so Jews can commit genocides! They volunteer to mass murder for Jews! They wear red hats to support a Jewjerked white Satanist who has raped countless white children! When Jews executed most publicly a Jewish lackey named Charlie Kirk for disobedience, whites vowed revenge on other whites, just as Jews intended. This level of mass idiocy will be scrutinized for centuries by black, brown and yellow intellectuals. Symposia in Caracas, Lagos, Beirut, Dhaka and Shanghai will be titled, “White Suicide—A Postmortem,” “From Shakespeare to JD Vance—An Intellectual Journey,” “Fearful of Self-Doxing, They Died,” “Icepicked and Pickaxed by ICE” and “Six Million Gassed Their Mantra.”

During my six months in Albania, I traveled all over. One day, I took a mini bus from Tirana to Durres. If not for Covid, there would have been ferries to Ancona, Bari and Trieste. You don’t know how much I love Italy, and Albania, too. Of the two, much maligned Albania has a better future, I’m afraid, simply because it’s never attracted many outsiders, and none during the dictatorship of Enver Hoxha. Though it suffered terribly during Communism, a Jewish ideology, it never had a Jewish community. Despite its nominal adherence to Islam, Albania is still its timeless self.

Despite being the most bombed country ever, Laos, too, is still itself. Vientiane, though, must stop the massive recent influx of Chinese.

Even more than genetics, a nation is its culture, built up over millennia. If you can’t read your greatest writers, or even know who they are, you have mud in your mouth and dirt under your eyelids. If you live in fear of those who think your God should be dunk in human shit, you’re worse off than doo doo.

When I pointed out how even Nick Fuentes is coming off as a whigger, to gain street cred among his whigger followers, some white, undoubtedly elderly reader objected. Whigger culture is limited to urban areas, he claimed. I suspect this fogey has never heard of Forgiato Blow, MAGA rap, Tyson James, Servant Zero or even Eminem. I’d bet his knowledge of the USA comes mostly from Fox News, and not Greyhound trips. I doubt he knows how whigger infested are all the rural white towns within an hour drive of his television.

Long blonde haired JJ Lawhorn released Original Good Ol’ Boy in 2013, then Good Ol’ Boy Like Us in 2014. Lawhorn has gotten the most attention, though, with a recent lynching song, “Good Vs. Evil,” recorded with whigger rapper, Forgiato Blow. Trump himself has taken photos with Blow, as well as Kanye West.

Along with their land, destiny and unity, white Americans have mostly lost their culture, especially its wise, sane and beautiful portions. Hysterical ugliness is about all that remains.

Barrett’s last article mentions John Brown. One may argue Brown didn’t risk his life for his nation but an ideal. Still, it’s better than not risking anything for anything. The last American who did so is arguably Gonzalo Lira, but not only is his killer unpunished, but rewarded. Jewish Vladimir Zelensky might be richer than Trump at this point.

Though tricked into fighting for Jews and the military industrial complex, Pat Tillman also risked his life for his nation. As Tillman wised up, Uncle Sam blew his brains out. Unlike Chuck Cuck, Tillman never had a five hour memorial service on TV.

Trapped inside a psychotic labyrinth with ten thousand maddening turns, Americans are reduced to worshiping slobbering child rapists who don’t even try to make sense.

Many of us who do are starting to suspect we’re not just against Satanic forces, figuratively. Vigilant Citizen has just pointed out how the 1998 movie, Snake Eyes, as directed by Brian de Palma, has an assassination of one Charles Kirkland on September 10^th. He’s also shot in the neck. The movie begins with a billboard featuring a boxer, “Executioner Tyler.” Meanwhile, Tyler Robinson awaits his day of injustice for not shooting Chuck Cuck in the neck. Let’s hope they won’t suicide him.

Introducing Sammy Davis Clemens — Oct 06, 2025.

You, too, should look forward to the debut of Sammy Davis Clemens. Canceled, deplatformed, shunned and chased, this minor league freak is still kicking. Even if he sucks ass, at least it’s not Chosen. By any other tag, Yew, Yoo or Juice, it’s still righteous, vengeful and deft, so stop dodging.

Before Jewjacked Chuck Cuck was shot by Jews, he pointed out an obvious fact. Open border was defended and funded by Jews, above all. Cuck stopped short of saying they did this to dilute and ruin his still white majority nation.

Jews then ushered in girl goy raping Trump to reverse open border, but only as a smoke screen to war against all Americans, including MAGA dupes, for they, too, will be bankrupted by Jew baited and blackmailed Trump. It wasn’t hard. His puckering mouth has always honed in on the softest targets. He fears firm adults. As they’ve often done, Jews create a problem which they then pretend to solve.

As MAGA doofuses swoon, ill trained and cowardly ICE goons are committing crimes against legal residents and citizens also. Chaos on American streets is normalized. City by city, Trump is turning the US into a war zone. Americans, though, have long been conditioned to seeing robocops or armed soldiers in public. The Jew staged 9/11 then Jew orchestrated War on Terror enabled all this. Gen Z have never experienced anything else.

American soldiers on JAKEGTV, “We die for the Chosen People! Let’s go! We shouldn’t be here!” Now, they’re ready to kill each other for those Self Chosen, just like Slavs have been doing in Ukraine since 2014. So Jewscrewed, most whites don’t even dare to call themselves nationalists. At best, they’re just patriots, some sheepishly claim.

Orientals don’t have that problem. Nation Above All, Tổ Quốc Trên Hết, was a South Vietnamese motto. Among its generals, none was more respected than Ngô Quang Trưởng. At Coffee Seven just yesterday, Liệt, the retired teacher, and I talked about General Trưởng. After the Fall of Saigon, he relocated to Northern Virginia, where he ran a small restaurant. Many Viets who came in were embarrassed to be waited on by this famed general. Though I briefly lived on the same street, New Hope, I never saw him, unfortunately. Before General Trưởng died in 2007, he asked his family to scatter his ashes from Hải Vân Pass, for he belonged to Vietnam. He had to go home. If I’m not mistaken, even NVA General Trần Quý Hai praised the man. Each didn’t just fight for his nation, but was willing to suffer whatever pain, or to die, for it.

Typing this, I keep checking to see if Sammy Davis Clemens has appeared, but with “Killed by Jews, a Jewish Tool Becomes Greatest Christian Saint” among his essays, he might never make it. So be it.

I still have a week before leaving for Nepal. A novel setting will perk me up, I’m sure. I’ve been so exhausted. Yesterday was another one spent mostly in bed. Half dead, I did catch an enlightening Singaporean documentary, Inside the Illegal ‘Dunki’ Route Migrants Take From India To The US. Even with Trump in power, many still think they can sneak into paradise.

Most online commenters are derisive. Raksin12, “Only one word can describe this—Narcissism. These guys feel like—I deserve the flashy life that I see on Instagram, because, I am somehow special. If you can spend 100K [USD] for dunki [human traffickers], you for sure can spend the same amount to create a good life for yourself in India.” Ace 1000ks, “Living in the US isn’t like what you saw on a 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, and early 2000s television show. The reality isn’t like that at all.” SHYAM B, “Why am I not shedding a drop of tear for these guys! Totally despicable. I only feel for their poor parents who worked so hard in the fields for so many years to have a decent living, only to be ruined by their children and their fantasies [sad face].”

Only on his fourth try did a 21-year-old from Punjab make it into the USA, but all he saw was a Border Patrol truck. Though his two weeks in heaven were spent in prison, he’s willing to do it again, “It was my dream to go to America. If I left home, it had to be for America. I have never even considered any other country.”

Just like the MAGA folks who despise him, Inderjeet Singh can’t let go of a fantasy he’s invested so much in. Also, he can’t stand to think he was wrong all along. Despite all evidence, America is the greatest place to be, they must believe.

Whatever happens, Sammy Davis Clemens will be around to snoop, jot and parse, for he’s as dogged as they come.

Jericó, Colombia

Boomers Slaughtered, Comatose Women at Birthing Centers and China as Beacon — Oct 07, 2025.

Note: among my friends, none is as well traveled as Jonathan. Yesterday, I conducted a quickie, spontaneous interview with this 45-year-old American. He’s in Colombia.

I’m about to go to Nepal, to see what’s up with the Gen Z protest. Do you, like me, suspect Uncle Sam has a hand in this? There are anti-Chinese protests even in South Korea. Sure seems like the USA is intent on wresting all these countries from the Chinese orbit.

-Nepal is an interesting place. We stayed in the Patan neighborhood for two weeks. I would recommend it. Really dense with temples and rich with traditional life: various artisan shops, holy wells, crumbing old buildings. Lots of pigeons. Much better than Thamel, the area the backpackers stay…

Thomas Bell’s Kathmandu is a well done memoir about Patan. No idea if the protestors have fucked it up.

I am excited to finally see a true generational revolt, as opposed to a tepid, managed rebellion along arbitrary Red/Blue political lines. Rich Boomers should be slaughtered, both in Nepal, and the US (and anywhere an American carrier docks). French pensioners earn more per year than 35 year old lawyers in Paris. British coots are sunning themselves in Marbella while their aimless chav progeny fight roadmen for a paltry share of county line coke distro routes. There are entire cities in Majorca filled with oiled-up, naked German Rentners fighting over sun lounges while their children get raped by hajjis back in Stuttgart.

There is literally no hope, no future, for anyone under 35 in the West. Boomers are the last remaining slaves to the Jews and are the Ur-Parasite of the West. Liquidating them quickly and painlessly (what I thought Covid was initially) would be the single greatest mitzvah for the youth. Real-estate prices would crater. Do nothing middle-management and corporate deadstock would disappear overnight. Pension obligations would evaporate—capital could be reallocated for infrastructure. The young people could finally demand a living wage that keeps pace with inflation while luxuriating in an affordable three bedroom suburban house. Abandoned parks would fill with the sound of children playing again. We would no longer need endless Jeets to keep the whole Ponzi going.

But, as we both know, there will be no revolt in the West. We are in the stage of managed decline. Asset stripping and elite exodus are the name of the game. As a member of the elite, at least in terms of assets, I too have no real desire to return to once gorgeous cities mired in human slop. Paris, Milan, London are some of the filthiest, most depressing places on Earth. Teeming with cousin-sired military-aged males, kebab shops in the forecourt of cathedrals, graffiti covering the walls outside the cast-iron Victorian train stations. It’s a humiliation ritual forced on the Goys: to walk past these monuments to beauty, forced to keep your eyes down, avoiding the blank, dark eyes everywhere, sizing you up for plunder.

(L): Just outside Santiago, Chile ; (R): Jonathan, “Deep in the Atacama Desert, Chile. Near where they faked all the Mars Rover shots.”

Why are you in Colombia? Are there still Chinese, Vietnamese, Indians and Africans flying there, so they can cross the Darien Gap, on their way to the Promised Land?

-We’re wrapping up 5 months in South America. We’ll fly to Rome in a week and immediately rent a car and drive deep into Molise. In Italy, the only way to avoid the African purse vendors and fat RyanAir peasants is to go places that the trains do not reach. You must rent a car. The cities with train stations are mostly lost.

After Italy we fly back to China for a month, before spending the rest of the winter in Japan. China remains the last great hope for the planet—for a decent way of life for the middle class. I hope they can hold it together before they age out. I think they’ll figure out the low birthrate problem. Placing 10 million women in a coma and holding them in artificial breeding centers while they pump out a child every 11 months could fix some of their population issues. That’s an additional 100+ million consumers in 10 years! And that is not taking into account advances in artificial wombs. I think China will be fine. Sadly, they will rule over a planet of 4 billion Africans and 1.5 billion Jeets. A literal mountain of shit.

I didn’t see a ton of Chinese in Latin America—they’re mostly in the obvious places: running the tiendas and restaurants in Peru and Argentina. The Koreans run the garment trade in Brazil. There are still tons of Japanese half-breeds running around Sao Paulo, but with diminished, native IQs, they have been bred out of relevance.

Driving around rural Colombia, Brazil, Chile, Peru and Argentina I couldn’t help but note how EMPTY and gorgeous the whole continent is. Jaw-dropping view after jaw-dropping view, beaches and hills that should be absolutely covered by multi-million dollar homes—teeming with life and businesses—were completely barren. Cities that should be charming tourist destinations still had dirt roads and power cuts. In terms of development, most of South America feels more like a high-end Africa than a tropical Europe. A few isolated pockets of wealth and relatively high HDI surrounded by untouched nature, brutally exploited resource zones, depressing squalor, and lots of frumpy mid-rise cities with enormous potential.

A mass wave of 50 million high-IQ Chinese men, with their capital, culture, and capacity would be, literally, the best thing to ever happen to Latin America. They don’t need to cross the Darien Gap to become American debt slaves when they could build paradise on Earth in the coffee country south of Medellin. 75 degrees year round!

So there you have it from cosmopolitan Jonathan. Boomers must be slaughtered to free up resources and, I must add, make this world more beautiful. Their exposed flesh is blighting every beach. Their faces alone depress restaurants, cafes and sidewalks. Still empty South America will be invigorated by a huge influx of nerdy and hardworking Chinese. As humanity’s brightest beacon, China must make more Chinese, simple as that, so millions of comatose women at breeding centers are ideal solutions. As for the bitter and barely employed incels of the West, there’s no hope, no future and no revolt, so Trump’s masked goons won’t even have many bodies to shoot at. Cowering in basements, they’ll just die after their stash of crackers runs out. That can of Aldi baked beans will be a distant memory, when life was still relatively good. It’s, who can doubt it, America’s Golden Age.

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 ov da Trumpocalypse

“… solitary, untraveled men overburdened by practical worries don’t have time to look deeply into anything. As survivors, though, they’ll likely outlast you or me.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

(L): Vung Tau, 9/25/25 ; (R): Portland, OR, USA, 6/30/14

End of the World Sit Rep — Sep 28, 2025.

After Coffee Seven, I dropped into Cà Phê Cà Pháo with a collection of Sơn Nam stories. Last week, I caught its owner reading a Phùng Quán novel meant for teens. I already knew this 30-something mother of two was a fan of Nguyễn Nhật Ánh. This doofus writes exclusively for mildly retarded young adults.

Failing to find her, I went to Lotte Supermarket, on the back of Dzũng’s motorbike. We’ve established a routine of talking about global politics on each ride. I do the same with his brother, Bình. These solitary, untraveled men overburdened by practical worries don’t have time to look deeply into anything. Still, they’ve seen plenty.

When I told Bình there’s a widespread wish for this world to end, he answered wearily, “I feel it, too.”

“You want this world to end?!”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s too unjust.”

Getting his news from TikTok, Bình believed Iranians had strapped a captured Israeli tank commander to a missile, before firing it at Tel Aviv. Recently, he thought the Eiffel Tower was on fire.

Not so gullible, Dzũng is also worn out. As survivors, though, they’ll likely outlast you or me.

Among items bought at Lotte was a Russian salad, which I had for breakfast. Long live that great, long suffering nation!

Leaving my room, I decided, with some reservation, to revisit Salt Water, that temple to narcissism where the beautiful enough come to take endless selfies. Opening the door, I saw no unclaimed seat, so it’s back to Pato’s Bingsu. Hobbling here, I grinned and snapped my fingers at a hobbling dog, but he didn’t dare come near. Unlike Turkish ones, Vietnamese strays tend to flee from humans. Around 2AM, two others had fled from me. We were but three dark forms caught on a trafficless, thus silent, street, with nothing else stirring for at least a hundred yards in any direction. Large puddles from a recent rain reflected on this universe and life in general.

There’s beaucoup trouble all over. Trouble in mind, you’re blue, but you ain’t seen nothing yet! If dem blues don’t leave yo ass, best rock away from dere. After threatening Chicago, New Orleans and Memphis, Trump is sending troops to Portland, Oregon. Though infested with Antifa types, it’s not crime ridden, much less “war ravaged.” Its bohemian reputation is enough to elicit hatred from MAGA, so they’re elated. These Israel First Christians can’t wait for Seattle, San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Santa Fe, Boulder, Austin and even Carrboro, NC to be invaded too. Saint Kirk’s murder must be avenged.

Portland must be strong armed because Trump’s masked ICE goons with assault weapons, his private army, are being bullied by limp wristed pussies with neon colored hair and braless aging hippies gasping for breath. Sounds about right.

This morning, I got a very personal message from some guy named Dan Patrick, “Radical left Democrat policies in blue states foster attacks against ICE and all law enforcement. The men and women of law enforcement risk their lives daily to keep our state and country safe; hostility and violence toward them will not be tolerated.”

The Lieutenant Governor of Texas is a News Max regular. Not familiar? Its CEO is Christopher Ruddy. Though a goy, Ruddy studied in Jerusalem and goes often to Occupied Palestine.

Let’s hear, now, from an actual Portlander. Parkrose Permaculture’s Angela Parker, “First of all, there’s one little ICE building on McAdam Avenue. There’s nothing going on. There’s nothing fucking going on in that building or outside of that building as of right now,” at 3PM. “I understand there are some prayer vigils and nonviolent marches and assemblies that are planned over the next couple of days.” So just people exercising their First Amendment rights. “There’s no terrorist organizations operating in Portland unless you consider the American Gestapo known as ICE to be a terrorist organization.”

Senator Jeff Merkley, “Trump is sending troops to Portland with a goal of ‘doing a number on the city.’ We know what this means. He wants to stoke fear and chaos and trigger violent interactions and riots to justify expanded authoritarian control.”

Before Trump’s illegal order, Portland cops already said under oath that ICE agents were the ones instigating confrontations with peaceful protesters.

Who would you rather believe? People whose lives are directly affected by whatever happens in Portland, or some sleazebag, to borrow one of Trump’s favorite terms, like Dan Patrick?

Patrick on 10/8/23, “Our prayers for Israel. I visited several years ago and met with Prime Minister Netanyahu who declared a state of war today. I visited an Israeli city on the Gaza Strip in the area attacked. Even the playgrounds have bomb shelters in case of an attack […] Texans stand unequivocally with Israel.”

Patrick on 10/31/23, “Today, we are witnessing the worst slaughter of Jews since the Holocaust. Sadly, we are also seeing a rise in anti-Semitism on U.S. college campuses and around the world.” To show his support for the genocidal state, Patrick bought another $3 million Israeli bonds, but how much have Jews paid him?

Portland, OR, USA: (L): 7/1/14 ; (R): 6/30/14

When Netanyahu spoke at the United Nations on 9/26/25, dozens of delegates walked out. The American contingent, however, could be seen applauding like trained seals throughout this convicted war criminal’s speech.

I returned to Salt Water. It’s much less busy after the morning rush. In two weeks, I’ll have to leave Vietnam for another visa run. Half dead, I should keep it simple. With so much weird shit going on, I might be compelled to go somewhere unexpected. We’ll know in a few days. The crappy jazz they’re playing is another sure sign the world is ready to end.

When the Philadelphia Orchestra visited Saigon in 2001, I asked a friend traveling with them to bring me Django Reinhardt, Billie Holiday and Lester Young CDs. On a Vietnam Airlines flight several years earlier, there was even Blossom Dearie among the jazz choices. That’s actually her real name! Chet Baker’s childish singing also charms. In some Brooklyn bar in 2016, I started to sob when Billie Holiday and Lester Young came on. Certain poems, too, should make you bawl, with snot dripping from your nose. Those are healthy and sweet kinds of tears.

Suddenly, the jazz got much better! Sounds like Jerry Mulligan. It’s time, though, to step outside.

(L): Vung Tau, 9/24/25

If Only for Seconds or Minutes Somewhere — Sep 28, 2025.

Kissinger, “America has no permanent friends or enemies, only interests.” Pursuing such, America also has no coherent ideology. It’s never been about freedom or democracy as absolutes, but only in ways to advance the interests of its elites. Jewjacked USA, then, pursues Jewish interests.

Politicians also have no permanent friends or enemies. Trump bashing Marco Rubio and JD Vance are now Trump’s footstools, but they’re only there to advance their interests. Many assume Trump needed JD Vance to hoodwink Busch swilling rednecks, but that’s only secondary. Vance is the cabana boy of Peter Thiel, the founder and chairman of Palantir, that total surveillance behemoth having marathon kinky sex with the CIA and the Israel Defense Force. Thiel’s net worth is at least $26.1 billion, so nearly four times Trump’s measly $7 billion. Who’s more powerful in this oligarchy?

Thinking about such shit before 4AM hurts my head, man, but do we have a choice? Waking up at 1AM, I read that Trump is sending “all necessary troops” into “War ravaged Portland” to fight “Antifa, and other domestic terrorists” with “Full Force, if necessary.”

It’s amazing how quickly Americans have adapted to this new horror, with millions even cheering.

Saner citizens are simply ignored. They’re not even static on the internet. Dougmarkham5113, “Americans attacking Americans for no damned good reason. Bondi, treason awaits you.” xxxxMidKnightxxxx, “Portland is not ‘war ravaged.’ Perhaps if Trump wasn’t a draft dodger, then he’d know what ‘war ravaged’ looks like.” Tone D Farkas, “He’s a domestic terrorist! WTF???? Why can’t something be done about this…!!! This is America [American flag] What the FUCK…!!! [angry face] Why would our military even follow such a unconstitutional order from a Goddamn draft dodger… This make me furious! [angry face/scale of justice/angry face] Where the hell is justice when you need it…!!!”

Much worse horror is just around the corner. Washington Post on 9/25/25, “Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth has ordered hundreds of the U.S. military’s generals and admirals to gather on short notice—and without a stated reason—at a Marine Corps base in Virginia next week, sowing confusion and alarm after the Trump administration’s firing of numerous senior leaders this year.”

Kevin Barrett offers the best case scenario, “Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth has called the entire top American military leadership to assemble in Quantico, Virginia next Tuesday, from whence they will all be raptured straight up to heaven—while America’s enemies and allies, as well as civilians of all nations, enlisted men, and officers up to the rank of colonel will be nuked, die slowly of starvation and radiation poisoning, and finally be dragged off by the Devil to burn in hell.”

It appears thousands will be fired during the upcoming government shutdown. Thanks to AI, tech giants are already letting go of as many. Remember when they kept steering us towards eating bugs? After Jewjabs, that’s no longer talked about. With war as universal hygiene, to paraphrase Futurist poet Marinetti, there’s no need to coax anyone into eating anything. The dead are eaten, and only briefly.

Visiting Tokyo in 2018, I saw its Olympics stadium being built, but Covid, a US bioweapon, fucked up the entire world for three years, so Japan lost tons of money. With Trump overcharging or blocking foreigners from entering the US, its status as co-host of the next World Cup is sabotaged. Many matches will likely be moved to Canada and Mexico.

For decades, I’d cool down my overheated brain with gallons of beer. After being whacked by mother fuckin’ nature two years ago in Ubon Ratchathani, I’ve had to cut that shit out. Just days ago, though, I sneaked a small bottle of BeerLao into my system. The resulting calmness was most welcomed, but there was also an unexpected sadness, for so many memories were stirred, if only dimly. Rimbaud, “Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.” Though mine wasn’t nearly that sweet, it still contained plenty of conversations, meaningful looks, embraces and kisses during an era that was less menacing and absurd. Just in case you think I was just some innocent goofball who didn’t know no better, I was born into a war, motherfucker, and was in refugee camps before I was 12. Shit, man, maybe it’s time for another BeerLao.

This morning at Coffee Seven, Sơn talked to another man, 67-years-old, who also fought in Cambodia. Since I’ve never fired a gun outside a shooting range, I felt like the world’s biggest pussy, all right. Even Mrs. Seven had to dance outside a theater, since it was filled with corpses butchered by the Khmer Rouge. Speaking of which, Sơn has a niece who must sneak past the morgue with her newborn because she couldn’t afford to pay $10 or so to the hospital. Out the back door, she fled.

It wasn’t all horror in Cambodia. To relax, Sơn and his fellow soldiers smoked lots of pot, though rolled in newspaper. Dancing in a remote Vietnamese village, Mrs. Seven also had to smoke pot, to mask the hellish smell of a primitive latrine. Like Bill Clinton, she did it just once. Unlike that lying child rapist and war criminal—is there any other kind?—Mrs. Seven did inhale.

“I got so high, I could barely pull up my pants afterwards.”

Leaving Coffee Seven, you’ll see within seconds a golden Buddha on a mountain. Most soothingly, though, are just people going about their business. Since it’s Sunday, the kindergarten is quiet. Every other morning, angels would be half dancing, half exercising, as if this earth was some sort of heaven, if only for seconds or minutes, somewhere.

(L): Susan Wojcicki

Implausible Denials — Sep 29, 2025.

Before the JewJab genocide, you could click the thumbs down button on YouTube. With so many people complaining about Jewjabs killing and maiming, and advising against being suckered into harming yourself or, even worse, allowing your children to be injured or murdered, YouTube disabled thumbs down buttons, though they’re still there. Now, if a video has a thousand thumbs ups, it’s still meaningless, because you don’t know how many thumbs downs it would have gotten.

Coincidentally, YouTube’s CEO through the Jewjab genocide was Susan Wojcicki, a Jew. America’s top health official was Rochelle Walensky, another Jew. Jewjabs were greenlit by Donald Trump, a child raping goy entrapped by Jews. The Epstein files are threatening to expose not just how sick, corrupt goyim are ruining white countries, but how they’re controlled by Jews.

Sitting at Coffee Seven at 5AM, I just overheard a 67-year-old man say, “It takes just minutes for foreign cops to show up for anything! They’re not like our cops.” He’s another Vietnamese who thinks everything is better outside Vietnam.

Pausing my typing, I said, “You know that incident in Israel? It took them six hours to show up, even as their people were being killed! That country is so small, you can fly from one end to the other on a helicopter in minutes, yet it took them six hours! During that time, you can take a nap and eat several times! They allowed that to happen so they could go in there to kill Arabs!”

To not confuse him further, I avoided saying Gaza. I’m sure he’s never heard of Netanyahu.

Staring at his face for the first time, I saw that it was thin, gloomy and dessicated, with no sparks or glints in the eyes. It’s almost the face of a long dead mummy, like the one I saw inside its half rotted coffin at Philly’s University Museum.

“Jews are smart,” was his only response. I’ve heard this from so many Vietnamese.

“Smart my ass! That’s what they would like you to believe. They’re cruel!”

“All I know is that they’re smart and Muslim.”

Shortly after, he turned his dead face away, so I’m back to writing about YouTube. Despite its flaws, there are gems and nuggets. These are especially valuable for a guy like me. Living in Vietnam, I can still hear testimonies from so many ignored Americans.

Consider, “Hi there, my name is Tyler. Even though I work between 50 and 60 hours every single week, I am homeless living here in my car because of inflation. There wasn’t any help to keep me in my apartment even though I paid my rent on time for three years.

“I got behind just two weeks because I lost my job for reasons outside of my control. I called the city, I called the county, I called the state, I called charitable organizations like Salvation Army and churches, and I was told time and time again that there was no help for me. The most that was given to me was being put on a seven-year wait list for possible affordable housing.

“I believe that this is wrong. There’s hard, so many hardworking people like myself, tens of thousands of hardworking Americans that are out here trying to survive, but we can’t afford a place to live anymore and we’re being forced to live in our cars. I believe that is wrong.”

There are thousands like Tyler on YouTube. Most surprising, though, is Jakegtv, a channel I just discovered. With outrageous hilarity, this fake TV station contains more real news than CNN, Fox, NBC, CBS, ABC, Newsmax, Politico, Democracy Now, New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal and The Economist combined.

Forget thumbs up or down, the responses are almost uniformly positive, and ecstatically so, as if obvious insights, long repressed and suppressed, are finally aired with bitter, indignant humor, not deforming hatred.

Some examples, “BEST CONTENT ON INTERNETS,” “Omg. This is actually the real news,” “This channel is gold [two laughing to tears emojis],” “truly unbelievable content,” “God dammit this is fantastic,” “JAKEGTV is making America great again.”

Whether talking about Gaza, Epstein child raping ring, JFK assassination, Charlie Kirk’s assassination or weather modification, JAKEGTV indicts Jews.

Here’s a description of one video. Male TV host, “Breaking news! It turns out that the people carpet bombing the innocent are actually the good guys. Just kidding, that would be retarded. Let’s go live to Steinberg.”

Goy reporter, “So you’re saying they have weapons of mass destruction, again?!”

Bug eyed, kippah wearing Steinberg with images of deadly drones and a Star of David behind him, “Exactly! It’s the same excuse we’ve used since the Towers fell. Not much has changed.”

American soldier among smoldering ruins of an Arab city, “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna get PTSD from hurting the innocent, then we die for the Chosen People.”

Five American soldiers, “We die for the Chosen People! Let’s go! We shouldn’t be here!”

Perfectly coiffed reporter in body armor among ruins next to a terrified Arab, “This Non-Chosen Sand Person lost his home and family just hours ago, but Israeli military officials say this is God’s plan, and questioning it is Antiseptic!”

Arab, “Please stop!” That’s his only utterance.

Stunning female IDF soldier with burning city in background, “I hear they’re building a new restaurant in Tel Aviv. The chef prepares an amazing foreskin salad.”

Hook nosed chef with a Star of David on his apron, “This is where I will cook my foreskins. Imported directly from the adrenochrome factory.” Behind him among burning buildings is a sooty Arab man holding a boy. At least they’re still alive.

TV hostess, “I’ve never tried the foreskin salad.”

TV host, “Sounds Satanic.”

TV hostess, “Right! Probably part of their Talmudic beliefs.”

There’s more. Obviously, you must watch the video itself, to catch the many embedded subtexts. All their videos are superbly done.

The man behind this is a white American with some Oriental blood living in Fullerton, CA. Though Jakeg’s YouTube channel has been around a decade, his Jew focused contents only appeared two months ago. How long before he’s canceled? The most conspiracy minded may even conclude this is just another Jewish ploy for goyim to let off some steam, like, say, the Unz Review, without changing anything. You tell me.

Paying for my two black coffees at Coffee Seven, I noticed Mrs. Seven was watching Lisa, the K-pop star.

“You haven’t gotten sick of her!”

“No, no, no.” Then, “I hear this group, BTS, is coming to the city,” meaning Saigon.

“Tickets will be gone in half an hour.”

“They’re very expensive.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re world famous. It’s funny you’re so into K-pop!”

“Young people know all about these stars.”

“Plus an old lady!”

“Yes, plus an old lady,” she chuckled.

Leaving Mrs. Seven with her two dogs, I walked away past all these eateries, food stands, basketball courts, a disused hospital and the horse and greyhound racing tracks, with its grandstand, long empty. Never assume you know enough about anything.

(L): Vung Tau, 9/28/25 ; (R): Jeff Koons’ Jeff and Ilona (Made in Heaven), 1990

Biggest, Bestest and Longest Jewish Joke Ever — Sep 30, 2025.

Crimes committed by Vietnamese in Japan are getting impossible to ignore. Viets make up nearly 80% of all foreigners arrested. In the UK, Viets are known for wrecking flats and stealing electricity to grow pot, for sale. During a visit to Laos in 2019, I heard no loud voices until I board a van to return to Vietnam. On it, a Viet was talking very aggressively, with plenty of cursing. Of course, most Vietnamese passengers were fine. Crossing the border, I immediately saw all fields busy with workers. There’s a correlation. In Laos, much land is left uncultivated. In Don Det, Laos in 2023, I even asked a man why he only grew ten tomato plants instead of 20, 30 or a hundred? Why he raised only one chicken? In Don Sang, I stayed with a family who had no chickens at all and just one pig, though they had more than enough land. Each night, their scrawny kids ate rice with almost no protein.

A while back, I lost a black reader for mentioning, in passing, black crimes in the USA, but I’ve written about this in depth. Any Philadelphian would have to be brain damaged to not know about black crimes in the City of Brotherly Love. In North Charleston, I drank at an Indian owned bar serving black patrons, but only those over 35. Young ones caused too much trouble. On South Street in Philly, a struggling Vietnamese bar owner decided to switch his music from white to black. It worked. Soon enough, his place was filled with black revelers, but then, fights broke out. A murder right outside closed his business.

Of course, we’re not all the same. Blacks in South Africa aren’t like those in Namibia. Of course, there are also distinctions among the Ovambo, Kavango, Herero, Damara, Nama and Caprivian. Sometimes, to not see differences may kill you. I had a friend whose mixed race daughter, raised on we’re all the same jive, was murdered by her black boyfriend from Detroit. Fatherless, he had dropped out of school and, even in photos, looked violent.

The poorer an American neighborhood, the blacker everyone must act, whatever his race. It’s curious that Nick Fuentes, raised in an upper middle class, nearly all white Chicago suburb, has adopted a whigger persona, even as he attacks, most aggressively, black behavior. It gives Fuentes street cred among his increasingly impoverished whigger followers. Fuentes is friends with Kanye West, plays rap on his website and says nigga comfortably. Another pasty softie, Justin Bieber, gained his ghetto credentials by being buggered by Diddly, but that’s only his baptism. To make it public, Bieber joined boxer Floyd Mayweather on every ring walk. Should have learned how to do the cakewalk, nigga! Diddly himself got his earliest boost from Clive Davis’ dick. No shame in that. Sucking Jewish cocks to gain entertainment fame is a hallowed American tradition.

In 2013, Trayvon Martin’s girlfriend, Rachel Jeantel, famously explained to Piers Morgan the difference between “nigga” and “nigger.” In 2017, some clueless white pussy protested when I wrote about “Flavor Flav and his in-your-face nigger ostentation.” All niggas would agree that Flavor Flav, as pushed on TV, was a nigger in the worst, most damaging way, but who controls the media? Vietnamese? Blacks? Mexicans?

There’s this Jewish joke. Seeing a Jewish woman with two toddlers, a man asked, “How old are they?”

“The doctor is two, and the lawyer is three!”

She could have easily said, “The banker is two, and the record producer is three.”

Guess what’s the biggest selling rap group ever? No, it’s not Public Enemy or Run DMC, nigga, but three New York Jews! No whiggers, these were privileged kids. Mike D grew up on the Upper West Side in a house filled with artworks, including pieces by Mark Rothko, Barnett Newman and Willem de Kooning. Ad-Rock’s dad, Israel Horovitz, was a playwright and his sister is a film producer. I did buy a Beastie Boys cassette. Around the same time, I heard a lecture by Jeff Koons in Philly and saw one of his shows in NYC. Before becoming one of the hottest, most heavily promoted artists ever, Jewish Koons was a Wall Street banker. It’s a different world, man.

How many MAGA farmers going bankrupt are Jewish, do you think? Jewish blackmailed Trump screwing white MAGA morons on behalf of Jews is the biggest, bestest and longest Jewish joke ever. After selling their family farms to Jewish owned Black Rock, they’ll still have their red hats, however. Squeezed into freezing cars without wifi, they won’t be able to follow Trump on Truth Social, however, or rewatch that spectacular memorial to Saint Chuck Cuck.

Jews didn’t kill him, man. Some white dork with a trans boyfriend managed a one shot, one kill from another zip code or maybe Wyoming. That’s something to be proud of. White boys can still shoot, at each other, mostly, or in the foot. Gotta give it to them libs! Netflix is already filming the the Proud Boys vs. Antifa Civil War, I’d bet.

Vung Tau, 1/3/24

Trump, Hegseth and All Generals Blown to Bits? — Sep 30, 2025.

With two articles done plus lunch before 11AM, I felt unusually expansive, democratic, insane and optimistic, as if nothing bad has ever happened to anybody.

At the corner of Lê Quý Đôn and Lê Lợi, I remembered with hilarity one of Tank Top’s more preposterous statements. As he gushed over some sexy singer, my bitter, asshole self had to inject, “She’ll wilt soon enough.”

“No, she’ll never wilt! People like her fly around everywhere, so they stay young forever, uncle. Only you wilt!” Tank Top had seen me walk all over.

I haven’t seen that guy in over a year. A single father, Tank Top doted on his video game addicted son, Chí. To stay sane, Tank Top had to be loudly garrulous. Sometimes he snapped.

After Coffee Seven, I went to Ông Bầu. Now, I’m at Pato’s Bingsu. Passing that old security guard outside Coffee House, I joked, “I go barefoot to keep my sandals from wearing out.”

“But then your feet wear out!”

“They wear out anyway. Near death, why should I worry?”

“It is good for your nerves. I go barefoot too,” but only after work.

In less than 12 hours, 800 US generals and admirals will be confined in one space in Quantico, VA, with that drunk TV host and the child raping blowhard. What can go wrong? To launch its attack on Iran last year, Israel had sleeper cells in Tehran aim rockets at dozens of residential buildings. How many enemy sleeper cells are in the USA? Should that building blow up, who do you blame? Uncle Sam has so many foes.

Fox News tomorrow, “Kash Valhalla Patel has just announced that, as anyone with half a brain already knew, it is a transsexual who has blown to bits President Trump, Secretary of War Pete Hegseth and the entire leadership of the Pentagon. With freakish valor, Patel himself killed this cross-dressing monster by just staring at him. Within seconds, you’d scream too. We don’t know, then, if China, Russia, Venezuela, Cuba, Iran, Qatar, Mexico, Canada, Israel or Obama is behind this. What does it matter? Declaring herself Interim Dictator, Kristi Noem will steer America through this collective trauma as the rest of the world celebrates. Even in London, Paris, Rome, Brussels, Amsterdam and Berlin, they’re dancing in the streets. Latin America, Africa and Asia are quaking. Sexier than ever, Noem is already live streaming from behind, under and on top of that Resolute Desk in the Oval Office. Subscribe to her OnlyFans to see everything.”

To take orders from two preening pussies must chafe if not enrage career military men. Nothing good will come of this, but nothing has from this farcical regime.

At 12:52PM, I am wilting. Up since 1AM, I will now crawl home to nap. Once outside, I may perk up again, so a quick dip in DC HomeStay’s pool is not out of the question. Nearly always, I’m the only one in that body of water. Small trees surround it. Looking up at that leaf fringed sky is soothing.

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

Emblematic Men

“when US imperialism finally ends, historians and political theorists will perhaps be more flabbergasted at how loyal and uncritical the poor were rather than how obnoxious and greedy the rich were.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

(L): Fernando Vargas ; (M): Oscar de la Hoya ; (R): Nick Fuentes gear

Emblematic Men — Sep 27, 2025.

Having no phone, watch or clock, I only know what time it is when using my laptop. In the dark this morning, I took a brief walk, had breakfast then left my room, thinking it was around 2:30AM.

Each pre-dawn, I’m instantly elated when my bare feet hit the pavement right outside DC HomeStay’s gate. Our nomadic and hunter instincts are still here. That’s why men become truckers, sailors or soldiers, of fortune even, just to escape domesticity. Better to be blown up by an improvised explosive device in some distant place with an exotic, poetic or unpronounceable name than seeing the same streets, work station, lunch spots, skyline, buddies, neighbors and spouse. That’s the meaning of Kurtz’ “The horror! The horror!” of course.

Those stuck on assembly lines or in office cubicles, with numbing or exasperating commutes daily in solitary steel boxes to reach their enchainment, must roam afterwork, most unsatisfyingly, via the internet or television. So broken in, Japanese salarymen can be counted on to stand at the same spot in the same subway car at the same time each day.

Fuentes exits custom ride

Reaching Coffee Seven, I claimed its only bench, my usual spot. Opening my laptop, I realized I was roughly one hour early. Sleeping inside behind two doors twelve feet away, Nọng could detect my scent, so went berserk. Forced to get up, Mrs. Seven turned on the outside lights so I could type. Squeezing herself through a gap through the rusty sliding iron gate, Nọng bounced out to be hugged and scratched. Most Vietnamese dogs don’t dare to lick your face, so Nọng never does.

Before leaving DC HomeStay, I thought about Canelo Alvarez, the Mexican super middle weight champ. He’s even fought at light heavyweight. This is most unusual for Mexican fighters. He also looks more European. Despite being one of Mexico’s greatest ever, Alvarez is not fully embraced. His style, too, is not stereotypically Mexican. Though his knockout rate is impressive enough, he’s not as willing to trade as, say, Pipino Cuevas or Julio Cesar Chavez. He’s just too pretty and less macho. I’m talking about national or tribal image.

Oscar de la Hoya and Fernando Vargas are both Mexican-Americans from Los Angeles. In their only match, Vargas was knocked out. Though de la Hoya had a much better career, Mexican Americans still loved Vargas more. He simply looked and acted more like them.

Since it’s just one man against another, with the loser not just defeated but often humiliated, practically dead or simply dead, as when Duk Koo Kim fought Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini, race or ethnicity is even more important in boxing than in soccer. In 1994, white American Greg Haugen, with a record of 31 wins and 4 losses, fought Julio Cesar Chaves, who had 84 wins and no losses. Before they entered the ring, Haugen laughed off Chavez’ frightful record, “Sixty of the guys he fought were just Tijuana cab drivers that my mother could have knocked out.” This wasn’t just a gross insult to Chavez but Tijuana cab drivers.

Screaming for blood, 132,247 people squeezed into Mexico City’s Estadio Azteca that night to see Haugen get killed. Chavez knocked him out in round 5. Taunting a national hero on his home turf, Haugen certainly had balls. This, in itself, must have earned him some respect among Mexicans. A working class brawler, he’s essentially one of them!

Quick, which man or woman alive is most emblematic of the USA?

More than anybody, it’s actually Donald Trump. Those still in his cult see nothing wrong. Everybody else is aghast that this oligarch, business failure, hustler, rapist and America Last fraud is worshiped by the paycheck-to-paycheck, hand-to-mouth types. He’s also from New York City, America’s most multicultural. In mid and lower Manhattan are snobbish enclaves with outrageous rents, world class museums, best art galleries anywhere, more homosexuals than even San Francisco, Wall Street and unspeakable decadence, everything, in short, MAGA types are unfamiliar with, if not repulsed by. Trump’s installation by sinister forces behind a rather thin and transparent curtain, almost shower, is the greatest Theater of the Absurd performance ever. At times, it’s almost Butoh or the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Highlights include his ear nick fake assassination and the UN speech where Trump bragged about his “TRUMP WAS ALWAYS RIGHT” baseball caps then sent every foreigner to hell. Since no champ can rule forever, Trump must step down or drop dead at some point, maybe even tomorrow. Who should be the next Mister or Captain America?

A year ago, hardly anyone knew about Nick Fuentes. In the last 12 months, he’s been featured in the New York Times, Washington Post and Wired. He’s also been interviewed by Candace Owens, Alex Jones and Patrick Bet-David. The last is an Iran-born American who has also interviewed Trump and Netanyahu. We’re not talking about Zoom here, but in a studio. These world leaders came to Bet-David. In 2022, Fuentes, just 24-years-old, had dinner with Trump at Mar-a-Lago. His rapid rise reminds me of Obama’s and Elon Musk’s. Both were built up very early and methodically.

I have a hunch they’re doing this with Fuentes. If he’s just a gadfly to be swatted away or squashed, they could have easily done so. Everything is falling into place. Even Tucker Carlson’s diss that Fuentes is just some gay loser in his mom’s basement is a tremendous boost. It gave Fuentes cred among all those unemployed incels rage posting and jerking off in millions of basements across America. In reality, this 27-year-old has access to some of the most powerful people and gets around in a black SUV driven by a black driver. He has a line of merchandises that includes $25.37 bucket hats, $22.50 T-shirts, $14.29 mugs and $2.26 stickers, etc. Despite his juvenile missteps, Fuentes is obviously very smart, articulate, bold and savvy. Before rebranding themselves as Groypers, Fuentes’ followers called themselves Nickers. Like Trump and Musk, Fuentes is a cult figure.

If Jews have hijacked the USA, as Fuentes never tires of claiming, why would they want Fuentes? But tender brained grasshopper, such an “anti-Semitic” white nationalist is exactly what they need at this point. Without doing anything for whites, especially poor ones, Trump was propped up, so Fuentes, if he goes along, can be paid to appease, mislead and jerk off all those whites who are enraged at Jews, Trump and that DC Swamp.

In their basements, Groypers can climax in peace hourly or daily, while in the real world, inaccessible, that Jewjerked system will zoom forward just fine towards dystopia. Like Obama, Trump or Bernie, Fuentes will only feed his followers slogans and hopium.

Even knowledge doesn’t make a revolution.

In Mexico City in 2017, I went to a lucha libre event to catch Sam Adonis. To loud boos and hisses, this blonde white American strutted into the ring carrying the Stars and Stripes with Trump’s face. With the crowd so hostile, I actually feared for Adonis’ life whenever he fell out of the ring. Though within kicking, punching or at least spitting distance of so many spectators, no one did anything. After the show, they even lined up to take photos with Samuel Elias Polinsky. It was just good, innocent fun, and a much needed catharsis. With relations between Mexico and the USA much worse eight years later, I doubt Adonis or anyone can earn a living South of the Border as a laughable American villain. With masked goons racial profiling, attacking and kidnapping Hispanics across America, including those with a green card or citizenship, Trump’s savagery is simply sickening, as is his murder of Venezuelans just off their shore.

In boxing, Americans used to rule the heavyweight division. The current champ, Oleksandr Usyk, is Ukrainian. There’s not even an American in the top ten, according to The Ring, a US magazine. In basketball, the last seven MVPs in the NBA were foreigners. Only in the NFL do Americans dominate, but that’s only because no other country gives a shit about American football. In baseball, Shohei Ohtani is about to win his fourth MVPs. He’s also considered by most to be the greatest player of all time.

Increasingly unable to compete on any playing field, America still has world class blowhards like Trump and Nick Fuentes, with JD Vance, Kash Patel, Pam Bondi, Kristi Noem and Marco Rubio still stuck in the bushest league. Of course, I’m only talking about self-branding here, asshole division.

Though least powerful among those just named, Fuentes is probably the smartest. He’s also the least guarded. Unlike Trump or just about anybody else, Fuentes is quite candid about his sexuality. Consider, “You should not seek sex because if you seek sex you will become gay because sex is a gay act.” And, “If you name-search me on twitter, as I always do, all these gay people are coming out and saying, ‘I’ve had more girlfriends than Nick.’ ‘I’ve had sex with more girls than Nick.’ […] That actually makes me, really, more heterosexual than anybody.”

Ideally, he’ll be married at age 30 to “a 16-year-old that’s untouched. Untouched. Pristine. Uncorrupted, innocent. That’s what everybody wants.”

After a child raping geriatric, America is more than ready for a 30-year-old incel as president, so ladies and gentlemen, Nick Fuentes must be the next Leader of the Free World! Once in the White House, this “Christ is King” Christian can finally yield his virginity to an uncorrupted, pristine and innocent 16-year-old, within the context of matrimony, of course. Soaring to new heights, America’s Golden Age continues.

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

Goldfinger rips at Hunger Games Podium

“Standing by Jews, Uncle Sam has crapped on the world for 77 years. In the end, though, it’s not about flinging words back and forth, but spears, bombs or missiles .. the neck can’t argue with the sword.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Enough of Necks vs. Bullets — Sep 26, 2025.

Outstinking up even Netanyahu at the UN, Trump’s speech has triggered mocking laughter worldwide. Libération on 9/24/25, “UN—TRUMP SHITS ON THE WORLD.” Corriere della Sera, “The American president’s tirade at the general assembly, ‘Your countries are going to hell.’” Italians certainly remembers Trump posing as the Pope. Người Lao Động, “President Trump speechified [đăng đàn] at United Nations, covered many topics.” Then, “President Trump affirmed he had ‘ended seven wars’ yet ‘never even received a phone call from the United Nations.’” The quotation around “ended seven wars” is a subtle jab.

Daily Mirror, “WORLD’S MOST POWERFUL MAN-BABY—Trump rants to UN about climate, migrants, Gaza, Sadiq’s ‘sharia London,’ escalators, marble floors and teleprompters—DERANGED.” First sentence of article, “Donald Trump let rip at the UN and Europe in an extraordinary one-hour rant yesterday.” Again, the joke about it coming out of his diapered ass.

Normal folks in bars and cafés worldwide must have reacted even more crudely, but what about MAGA faithfuls? Here are some comments after a YouTube video by Chris Yoon:

YTisverycool2007, “We (United States) are blessed to have President Trump leading our nation! Pray for our president and the cabinet members. May God protect President Trump and may God give him grace and wisdom to lead the US and the world! Thank you, Lord!”

Kimberly Cuthbertson, “The UN Speech, President Trump gave was ABSOLUTELY AMAZING…I’ve never heard anything like that in my life and I couldn’t have been more proud to have a President who is willing to stand up for truth and good, the way President Trump, did…At the same time…he needs our prayers [praying hands] more than ever… [three hearts and American flags]”

Johnny Cee, “Trump was right on everything.”

The American Eagle Rises, “President Trumps speech at UN is awesome. Thank God for a strong leader to stand against EVIL!”

Pauldamo, “it’s like Trumps the only sane leader at the UN.”

All those quoted have gotten hundreds of thumbs up. There are many in a similar vein. More than what’s trumpeted in newspapers, foreign or American, these pseudonymous voices give us a better indication of where the US is at. That stadium sized crowd that sat through nearly six hours at the Charlie Kirk Memorial is more proof MAGA is still going strong. Thousands huddled just outside to watch on large screens. Via TVs, millions cheered, swooned and were transfixed at home.

How out of touch must you be to believe any of this, “One year ago, our country was in deep trouble, but today, just eight months into my administration, we are the hottest country anywhere in the world and there is no other country even close. America is blessed with the strongest economy, the strongest borders, the strongest military, the strongest friendships, and the strongest spirit of any nation on the face of the earth. This is indeed, the golden age of America […] Under my leadership, energy costs are down, gasoline prices are down, grocery prices are down, mortgage rates are down, and inflation has been defeated […] Growth is surging. Manufacturing is booming. The stock market, as I said, is doing better than it’s ever done. And all of you in this room benefit by that, almost everybody.”

Tariffs are taxes on American consumers. Inflation, homelessness and hunger are way up. Friendships with even closest allies such as Canada, Mexico, South Korea, Japan, the UK, France and India, etc., are all frayed. With cost of doing business in the US even higher due to tariffs, as with the importation of spare parts, manufacturing has dipped. The world is not just laughing at Trump’s America but shunning it. Again, it’s all working as planned by Trump’s puppeteers. Though increasingly senile and deranged, the puppet himself must know it. Why should he care? Trump’s making billions through various grifts. Plus, he can’t act otherwise due to all those beautiful girls he raped.

As for Israel, Netanyahu said before leaving for the United Nations, “I will denounce those leaders who, instead of denouncing the murderers, rapists and child burners, want to give them a state in the heart of the Land of Israel. This will not happen.” To make sense of this, just replace “Land of Israel” with “Palestine.”

In the heart of Palestine, Jews have, ever since its founding, murdered, raped and burnt children with impunity, thanks to those permanent members of the United Nations Security Council, with white ones most consistent in their support of this genocidal state. None has been as steadfast as the USA. Standing by Jews, Uncle Sam has crapped on the world for 77 years. Established to maintain Jewjerked hegemony on the rest of humanity, the United Nations must be radically reformed, with its removal from the USA the first step.

Never forget Israel is mostly settled by de facto whites from across Europe. Netanyahu’s Polish ancestors called themselves Mileikowsky. Argentina’s Javier Milei is another Mileikowsky. Is that why Trump was ordered to bail out Argentina?

Beyond Jews and crypto Jews are all these Jewjerked whites. Those baffled by Erika Kirk’s bad acting after her husband’s death should know that her dad, Kent Frantzve, headed the Israel division of Raytheon! Her mom also worked with the Pentagon. Even before being introduced to Charlie, Erika noticed him in Israel, of all places. So attracted, she almost said, “Hi!” Many suspect she’s inserted into his life, a handler, in short.

Candace Owens has famously accused Macron’s wife of having a congenital prick, but there are questions about her own hubby, George Farmer. Nick Fuentes, “Can Owens got married to British royalty worth $200 million after meeting him for two weeks on Zoom. What the fuck is even that about?” At least incel Fuentes has no handler, but that may change soon. Nick with Erika would unite the right in a lovely 69.

I have a good friend who in highschool passed as a Jew to score a free trip to Israel. Though 61 and Oriental, I can certainly do the same. I’m a bonafide Kaifeng Jew whose ancestors, including several rabbis, wandered south 1,200 years ago. Seconds after landing in Tel Aviv, I will meet my handler, I’m sure. This beauty queen can handle me all day long.

Just give me a couple weeks to brush up on my Talmud. It’s next to my pillow. Don’t give a goy anything unless you intend to fuck him up later. If a bought goy turns on you, it’s clearly blood libel, so shoot him.

Speaking of which, Charlie Kirk may not have been shot at all. As he was being carried to the SUV, which was suspicious enough, there was no blood on the ground. Reminds me of Jeff Bauman sitting upright on that wheelchair after having his legs supposedly blown off at the Boston Marathon. The moving wound on Kirk’s neck is also inexplicable.

Laurent Guyénot, “The theory of Kirk’s fake death simply means that Kirk was given the chance to be disappeared alive, instead of dead. That Israel masterminded the event is all the more likely that Kirk’s security was reportedly Israeli […]”

As with 9/11, the Bin Laden “assassination,” the Holocaust or, frankly, even the founding of Israel, all we need to do is call bullshit on any aspect of their explanation or justification.

Israel has no right to exist, much less to “defend itself.”

In the end, though, it’s not about flinging words back and forth, but spears, bombs or missiles. Iranians and Palestinians understand this, and so do Russians, Chinese or Vietnamese, etc. To echo Ghassan Kanafani, the neck can’t argue with the sword. Missiles talk. Anything less is just posturing or capitulation.

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, Part Deux

“Does anyone else think this looks like a soap opera but with extra bad acting? If this weren’t real, it would be comical.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Erika Kirk, La Toya Jackson and Bubbles — Sep 16, 2025.

If shit didn’t stink, we would eat it, dressed up all different ways. There would be shit buffets, Michelin rated shit restaurants with celebrity chefs, shit cooking shows, cheap instant shit to be quickly cooked up at home, exotic shit imported from distant lands, UFO shit, shit from historical figures to be auctioned off at Christie’s, semi fake shit with dubious ingredients and lots of artificial colors and flavors though brightly packaged with cute names, shit eating contests staged on boardwalks on breezy summer days with wholesome crowds cheering. Unfortunately, shit does stink, so we must forego so much pleasure, but it’s not all bad. Our variety of virtual shit dished up from so many sources and eagerly consumed by everyone is heartening.

By now, you’ve probably seen the video of Erika Kirk photogenically weeping at her just assassinated husband’s open coffin. Her long blonde hair cascading down her black coat is worthy of a Munch or Pre-Raphaelite painting. This theatrical chick is even miked, so we can hear, clearly, “Oh, I love you. I love you, I love you. I know. I love you, I love you. God bless you.” Charlie’s stiff, orange hands are shown.

I’m hardly the only one aghast by this performance. At OneIndiaNews, here are some consecutive comments, with even misspellings left as is:

shanefox61, “Anyone else here think that posting intimate close ups of you grieving at your husband’s casket is creepy and crass.”

dinakindred, “My husband got killed in less than 48 hours I’m not gonna be talking to social media. Everyone grieves differently.”

DM-qd6bv, “As a veteran, I’m insulted that he had a military honor guard.”

justin456, “So, about those Epstein files.”

lawRN23, “None of this seems right. Something much bigger happened here. Pay attention.”

VisionX100-s2r, “Not everything belongs on social media.”

rabiabashir5689, “This should’ve stayed personal.”

Elbow1222, “This is beyond strange. Does anyone else think this looks like a soap opera but with extra bad acting? If this weren’t real, it would be comical.”

baysisaiah, “This is weird. Who films themselves grieving over their spouse like this. Treating this like a tv show. This feels so scripted.”

GordonGreenCincinnati, “This feels really off. Why is there a cameraman 6 inches from Erika’s head while she cries over a faceless body with rubbery looking hands. Her speach with the Rumble book and Trump on Time magazine cover appears to be scripted and forced. Why is she giving a speach at all? And how is Charlie’s body already in a casket 24 hours after death? This is not adding up.”

ImperfectlyPerfect33, “A private moment at your husband’s casket but you are wearing a mic? Wtf is that?”

These spontaneous responses by rubes need to be presented so people a hundred years from now will know we didn’t just eat and spit out shit nonstop.

Erika Kirk’s show of grief made me think immediately of La Toya Jackson heart rending visit with Bubbles at the Center for Great Apes in Wauchula, Florida. With the King of Pop’s chimp all grown up, La Toya couldn’t enter Bubbles’ cage, unless she wanted some interspecies loving or her face torn off. Separated by a steel mesh, La Toya still managed to deliver a drawn out monologue for her Animal Planet audience. Of course, she got paid.

“Bubbles, Bubbles, yes! Hi, Bubbles! Hi, hi, Bubbles! You know I miss you. I haven’t seen you in ages. Bubbles, do you remember me? Bubbles, do you remember me? Bubbles, you’re looking like you do. Do you? Bubbles! Bubbles! Bubbles! Oh, I want to kiss you, I want to hug you, and I know I can’t, cause you’re so big!” It goes on.

Bored as shit, Bubbles looked away at several points. Much smarter than those who are eating up every bullshitty detail of the Kirk assassination, Bubbles wasn’t buying any of La Toya’s shit. I’d vote for Bubbles if he ran for president. The USA would improve immediately.

(L): Erika Kirk ; (R): Russian roulette, The Deer Hunter

Now, we know the lethal bullet didn’t enter but exited Kirk’s neck, and Tyler Robinson was 100% not his killer. This doesn’t invalidate our noticing the symbolism of such a neck shot, or the fingering of a MAGA deerhunting lover of trans sex as Kirk’s murderer. Presented with so much shit, we must dissect it while others eat.

For nearly two years, I used self-publishing on Amazon as extra motivation, but that’s over. Moving forward, I will compile my essays into eBooks, to be sold on Kobo, perhaps. If nothing else, I can at least have them printed in Vietnam.

Vietnamese poet and novelist Trần Dần couldn’t publish at all from 1956 to 1988. Worse, as a political liability he was shunned by most acquaintances. Despite all this, Trần Dần never stopped writing. His poems written in complete isolation were some of the best of that era. Those who pander or are cowed can only dish up shit.

@AmurakaHidden: Erika (Frantzve) Kirk won Miss Arizona 2012, a Trump Owned Pageant. She, then, became Casting Director and started Multiple Nonprofits (Orphanages) including Romanian Angels which was embedded in claims of Trafficking of Children and Organ Trafficking to the UK, Israel and “Undisclosed Islands”. Her Father worked for the Department of Defense AND chaired RAYTHEON’s Israeli Division. Both her parents are prominent Zionists. At this point, it’s clear, (at the very least) she acted as HONEYPOT. Charlie’s Political Machine is now transferred to a Controlled Asset (Erika).

Edifying Rituals For Morons — Sep 17, 2025.

Before going to bed last night, I thought perhaps my Amazon canceling was a just a technical glitch, that its AI screener was triggered by my description, “Of course, it’s hopeless, but don’t kill yourself yet, not before reading my takes on incontinent cartoons, big beautiful faces in DC and Hanoi, child rape privilege, Anus River in Vegas, Nation of United Races, global cultural collapse, selling Raymond Carver with frontal nudity, Charlie Kirk assassination and Trumpocalypse Now! Book ends with a fascinating and informative interview with a 73-year-old American internal exile, Douglas Larsen.”

Since all YouTube videos with “suicide” in their title are immediately blocked, I figured the same had happened to me at Amazon, so I changed “kill yourself” to “rub yourself out.” I also changed the title from “Stragglers in the Night” to “Trumpocalypse Now!” With two more articles, I resubmitted my book, confident it would sneak through, so business as usual. This morning, though, I woke up to the same rejection, “During our review process, we found that your book(s) are resulting in a disappointing customer experience.”

“Child rape privilege,” “frontal nudity” and even “Charlie Kirk assassination” might also be red flags, and that’s just in the description. The book itself is landmined with hundreds of no-nos.

Long dead in the USA, free speech’s corpse is now defecated on even more openly. CNN, “Dozens of social media posts and messages about the murder of Charlie Kirk, including some that celebrated his death, are being spotlighted by conservative activists, Republican elected officials and a doxxing website as part of an online campaign to punish the posters behind the messages.” NBC, “In the days since the assassination of conservative figure Charlie Kirk, institutions from airlines to schools have moved quickly to discipline employees accused of celebrating or mocking his death, a reflection of the charged atmosphere surrounding the killing.” Mocking is too inclusive or vague a verb.

Plus, what’s wrong with mocking? In Thailand, you’ll get jailed for disrespecting anyone in the royal family. In Germany, the same will happen if you question even the tiniest detail about the Holocaust fairy tale. In Vietnam, the Communist Party is untouchable. In the USA, you can now be fired for smirking or laughing over an internet influencer murdered by the government itself! It will get much worse.

The world is noticing. Times of India, “Following Charlie Kirk’s assassination, universities nationwide have faced intense scrutiny over faculty and staff’s online remarks, leading to disciplinary actions and firings. This has ignited a debate over free speech, academic freedom, and political influence on higher education.”

Announcing charges against patsy Tyler Robinson, Utah County Attorney Jeff Gray speechified, “Charlie Kirk was murdered while engaging in one of our most sacred and cherished American rights, the bedrock of our democratic republic, the free exchange of ideas in a search for truth, understanding a more perfect union.” Am I mocking Gray? No, that fragrant weasel is mocking himself, plus the general level of American intelligence. Sorry for the oxymoron.

Not mocking nobody, Kevin Barrett yesterday stuck most stickily to verifiable facts, with the driest, most rigid wording possible, in “Charlie Kirk’s Resurrection Scheduled for Next Sunday.” Wanting to quote it just now, I searched “Kevin Substack,” “Kevin’s Newsletter” and even “Kevin Barrett Substack,” but his SubStack didn’t turn up, incredibly. Instead, I was steered to Kevin Bracker, Kevin Lynagh, Kevan Lee, Kevin Wheeler, Kevin Powell and St Kevin’s Primary School, etc. This has never happened before.

Obviously, they don’t want you to read, “Ben Shapiro, the newly-appointed Pope of the Church of Charlie Kirk, has announced that Kirk’s resurrection will take place at 1 pm Eastern time next Sunday afternoon. All churches will be closed and NFL games have been rescheduled for Saturday or Monday so Americans will not be distracted while witnessing the Charlie Kirk Singularity, which promises to be an awesome, millennium-inaugurating spectacle, after which nobody will be allowed to criticize Charlie Kirk, Benjamin Netanyahu, or Donald Trump ever again.” Kevin Barrett is a top-notch scholar who taught at the University of Wisconsin. Hearing him lecture at a Nation of Islam gathering in Detroit in 2017 blew me away. Since only self-censoring cowards or outright morons are tolerated in American academia, Barrett has been chased all the way to Morocco.

Not a moron, certainly, is Kash Patel. With a straight face, albeit with crossed eyes, the FBI director announced Kirk’s killer did write a manifesto. Somehow, this has been lost, but with its contents scrupulously preserved, to be used as evidence.

In 2010, 19-year-old Mohamed Osman Mohamud was convicted of attempting to set off a bomb at a Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Portland, OR. This Somalian-American supposedly tried to blow up the cutest, blondest Christian children during Christendom’s most sacred holiday, in short. The key evidence against Mohammud was provided by an FBI agent, who claimed he had said, “I want whoever is attending that event to leave, to leave either dead or injured.” Most absurdly, that agent’s recording device malfunctioned just then. Still, we must believe the FBI, CIA, White House or Pentagon.

Vung Tau: (L): 9/15/25 ; (R): 9/12/25

Today in Vung Tau is most beautiful. Though sunny, it’s not too hot. Sitting at Cóc Cóc writing this, I saw, just now, Matthew Rossman riding by. This dawn at Coffee Seven, I teased Mrs. Seven about missing Sơn, the security guard. He’s in Long Xuyên for some undisclosed business. Although many Vietnamese leave Christmas trees up year round, I don’t think Sơn wants to blow one up, but who knows?

“Brother Sơn has been gone three days,” I said.

“Four days!” she retorted.

“You missed him so much, you added a day!”

Without Sơn, I spent more time chatting with that retired high school teacher, Vũ. He, too, sees through much of the Charlie Kirk bullshit. People are sacrificed all the time. Vũ mentioned an exceptional ARVN general, Đỗ Cao Trí, who died when his helicopter exploded without being hit by enemy fire in 1971. I told Vũ about Gary Webb. For exposing the US government’s complicity in drug trafficking, Webb was fired from the San Jose Mercury News, then suicided in 2004. I also recounted the death of Deborah Jeane Palfrey, the “DC Madame,” who was killed in 2008.

“Her brothel served all these big shots, congressmen and senators, so they had to kill her. When you’re such a high profile prisoner, they put you on suicide watch, so you’re naked, with not even a toilet to shit in, just a hole. There’s nothing to kill yourself with, not even toilet water to dunk your face. Plus, there are all these cameras. Knowing what’s up, she told friends, ‘If I die in prison, I definitely didn’t commit suicide,” but they killed her anyway. They didn’t give a shit. No one remembers.”

There are so many cases. What made Kirk’s execution exceptional was how spectacular it was, but these are the same people who pulled off 9/11, man! They specialize in special effects. What’s also astounding, or perhaps just amusing, is his widow’s histrionic participation. She had to act immediately before this story fades. Its deadly consequences will linger for decades, or until this Jewjerked American Empire disappears.

Walking home for lunch, I noticed at Triangle Park people setting up stalls to sell mooncakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival. For two days, I’ve also been cheered by my Mariners being in first place so late in the season. I still remember the scores of their first two games ever. They lost 6-0 twice to the Athletics. I heard both contests on the radio in Salem, OR. As we’re preoccupied with soothing, stupid, harmless or beautiful rituals, they conduct Satanic ones, but not primarily for themselves. They do it mostly to imprint into our shallow, stinking minds the real nature of our existence. Instead of mocking or complaining, we must get on our knees to thank them. Nearly all your neighbors are already doing it, daily.

Killed by Jews, a Jewish Tool Becomes Greatest Christian Saint — Sep 21, 2025.

With that, I was kicked back to earth. Was that a dream? Hell, no! I ran into God last night. Behind him stood Charlie Kirk, Christianity’s greatest saint, until Donald Trump dies, that is. It should happen any second now. Is that “should” a threat? Would I recognize a Mauser M 98 even if it wasn’t wrapped in a towel, but labeled with black magic marker on a placard?

On YouTube, there are many similar testimonies. Kirk’s made-for-social-media assassination has sucked many souls straight into heaven, at least for one night.

One begins, “My name is Sarah. I am 47 years old. I never thought my life would take such a dramatic turn that I would find myself standing here trembling, speaking words that feel too weighty for me to carry.

“Yet on the night of 9/12/25, I had an experience that changed me forever.” What triggered it, no less, was a “moment in history [that] carried eternal significance.” Despite getting even hoakier, it has gotten nearly 74,000 views after eight days. The lurid accompanying images show Jesus even when Kirk is described or swooned over, so Christ and Charlie Kirk are conflated.

Another man who merely dreamt of Kirk testifies, “He was a light for Jesus in these dark campuses, these dark colleges and universities where darkness has prevailed, where doctrines of demons and just lies have prevailed for generations now, since these universities and these colleges have been hijacked by communism, socialism and the woke agenda, which is the manifestation of demons.” Sounds like the Frankfurt School! Jewish funded Charlie Kirk was fighting leftist fanaticism or idiocy as pushed by Jews! Whites are hopelessly trapped in the Jewish funhouse.

Whigger rapper Tyson James, “We are Charlie! We are Charlie! We are Charlie! […] Listen, the devil ain’t playing, he trying to take us down. Are you willing to speak the truth and take a round? […] Charlie died but through his life, many come to know the Christ […] You took out a man, but you can never kill a vision […] A real Christian got assassinated, but I can see an army activated. I know you demons agitated, cuz you didn’t kill a man. He only graduated.”

All these fringe or freakish voices are reinforced by America’s leaders. The White House on 9/21/25, “Today, hundreds of thousands of Americans unite to honor Charlie Kirk—his vision, his mission, his impact, and his deep love for this nation.

“Charlie Kirk was one of one. A life devoted to faith, freedom, and America.”

Donald Trump on 9/21/25, “Perhaps it should be no surprise that Charlie, who spent his life speaking with the critics of these traditions ultimately became convinced that we needed not just a political re-alignment, but also a spiritual reawakening.”

Jews made Charlie Kirk a pseudo celebrity and millionaire. With young whites, Kirk’s primary audience, increasingly antagonistic towards Jews, due mostly to the Gaza genocide and the Jeffrey Epstein child rape ring, Kirk started to break from Jews because, just 31-years-old, he’s charismatic and smart enough, he thought, to be, who knows, president one day? His gummy grin was certainly more fetching than J.D. Vance’s brightest smile. Though knowing he was playing with fire, Kirk took this risk, but with one pop, it’s over!

On 9/11/25, I already wrote, “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.’”

You can’t take money from Satanists then betray them. Worse, Kirk knew how these Satanists operate, so of course they had to shut him up. Though they could have done it with a plane crash or car bomb, it had to be done most publicly, as Kirk was speaking. He’s punished mid-transgression. On 9/11/25, I also wrote, “Congratulations to that professional sniper,” for it was executed perfectly.

Congratulations must also be extended to that entire theatrical crew. Though they took down the set immediately, that performance is still going on, with Erika Kirk a newborn star. She’s amazing.

Dead, Kirk is loved so fuckin’ hard by his killers and abusers. They’ll love you a long, long time, buddy.

Vung Tau, 9/23/25

Rapture Sit Rep — Sep 23, 2025.

Though I knew Lamont Steptoe for about 30 years, I saw him rarely. We never had a beer together. As director of poetry programming at the Painted Bride, Lamont scheduled me for a reading when I was just 22-years-old, so I’m grateful. Of all Lamont said to me, I remember just three statements. 1) Lamont claimed a collection of his poems was on James Baldwin’s night table when he died 2) As a gay black man who also fought in Vietnam, Lamont had so much going for him as a poet, careerwise 3) A huge UFO was going to pick up Lamont sometime in 2000. It’s his version of the Rapture.

I thought of Lamont this morning because thousands of people, not just Americans, are convinced the Rapture will occur between September 22^nd and 24^th. Here in Vũng Tàu, it’s already the 23^rd, so I have another day to babble and sell a few books. Though my Kindle Direct account is suspended, my self-published volumes are still available on Amazon.

Just now, I had to stop to scratch Nọng, but that bitch will only have to worry about her itchiness for a few more hours. Shouldn’t blameless dogs go to heaven?

I was tipped off to this latest Rapture frenzy by Angela Baker of Parkrose Permaculture. With corporate and even much of dissident media so misleading when not toxic, one must seek out the most obscure independent voices to figure out anything. People like Polly St. George of Amazing Polly, Christian Westbrook of Ice Age Farmer and Max Igan of The Crowhouse have taught me much. Only Igan is still broadcasting. Before they killed him, Gonzalo Lira was very informative, too. There’s this tendency to isolate mistakes to dismiss someone entirely, but that’s childish and not very useful.

The latest Rapture hysteria shouldn’t be seen as some fringe lunacy. Checking online postings of the Rapture ready, Angela Baker finds plenty of Trump worship and “big memorial posts to Charlie Kirk.” “MAGA is a death cult,” she concludes.

With their saintly hero shot, Christian children massacred, Jewish women raped, Jewish babies decapitated, Americans drugged by Chinese made Fentanyl entering through Mexico and Canada, and Uncle Sam cheated by every country on earth through unfair trade practices, this evil world can’t end soon enough. The Rapture is MAGA’s death wish disguised as religious euphoria. Beam me up, Jesus!

You don’t have to be Trump or J.D. Vance to wear makeup just to step outside. Even a midnight run to Seven Eleven requires you looking somewhat presentable, like zipping up your fly and rubbing away eye boogers. Being lifted to heaven, then, shouldn’t be taken lightly. Sonj779, “I recommend you go out and buy a couple fresh packs of undies to wear for the next month. Throw all the old underwear away. Imagine after you’ve been harpazoed. Your clothes float back down. You don’t want someone’s last impression of you to be your old underwear.” Though it is satire, most viewers couldn’t be sure. It’s getting harder to tell.

With its blinking lights, sparklers, booming music and a creepy Trump swaying and singing next to a brightly smiling Erika Kirk, the memorial service to “prophet” Charlie had no gravitas. It was just a mega MAGA rally, executed with the worst taste, but what do you expect from a regime that’s planning a cage fighting extravaganza at the White House? Centuries-old trees have also been felled to clear space for a ballroom to make Liberace’s ghost all hot and bothered.

Though videos prove otherwise, Frank Turek still said of the moment right after Kirk was shot, “His face was looking at mine but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking past me, right into eternity.” Sniped from behind, Kirk seized up, so wasn’t looking at anybody. With his severed jugular gushing blood, Kirk was dead before he even hit the ground. Though complicit in his murder then cover up, Trump called Kirk “our greatest evangelist for American liberty” and “a martyr now for American freedom.”

After murdering Martin Luther King, the US government erected a huge statue of him on the Washington Mall. If King looks sort of Chinese, it’s because he’s carved by a Chinese, Lei Yixin. An American sculptor would have charged much more for a crappier job. After popping off JFK, gracious Uncle Sam named New York’s airport and Washington DC’s performing art center after the man. Shouldn’t a major American city be rechristened Charlie Kirk? I propose Seattle. Instead of some Godless Injun, it should evoke this great white man who’s also a lion-hearted friend of Israel. Calling Seattle Charlie Kirk City will also chase away all those woke Antifa assholes.

With hours or just minutes left before the Rapture, I won’t waste one second. Though exhausted, I won’t take a nap. In DC HomeStay’s swimming pool I will soak for maybe an hour, then go from there. Should any sort of apocalypse come while I’m in the water, it will be less painful, I’d think. With my hair singed and my entire face burnt off, the rest of me should be fine. In that water not yet boiling, I will still wiggle for another moment or two.

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, #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

New World Order

Infantile clowns are mocked or shunned. As Trump dozed off somewhere, world leaders met in Tianjin. 

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

New World Order — Sep 05, 2025.

On 6/16/25, the Hindustan Times reported, “US President Donald Trump was apparently seen dozing off during a military parade as he celebrated his 79th birthday and the 250th anniversary of the US Army.” Notice birthday before anniversary of army’s founding. Some guy named Washington, I think, was first Commander in Chief. Move over on Mount Rushmore, George, or better yet, Donald’s big beautiful face should just be chiseled right into yours.

Creaking tanks and soldiers strolling out of sync, with one grunt holding up a drone, couldn’t hold this bone spurred chicken hawk’s attention for too long. It’s still hurting him.

Trump’s buddy Kim Jung Un had his state TV report, “The capitalist pigs of America held a gaudy and vainglorious display of their dwindling military might this past weekend […] Their inferior leader, pictured here, looking old, confused and tired, sat next to an expensive prostitute and a drunk television host for the duration of the parade.”

Infantile clowns are mocked or shunned. The Telegraph on 8/26/25, “Narendra Modi, the Indian prime minister, has reportedly ignored four phone calls from Donald Trump amid escalating tariff tensions.”

Seven months into Trump’s second reign, the US is more despised and irrelevant than ever. As Trump dozed off somewhere, world leaders met in Tianjin. Modi’s first visit to China in seven years triggered this tantrum by Peter Navarro, “It is a shame to see Modi getting in bed with Xi Jinping and Putin. I’m not sure what he’s thinking.”

As Senior Counselor to the President for Trade and Manufacturing, Navarro has managed to reduce significantly both trade and manufacturing in the USA, so his face must be added, in miniature, to the back of Mount Rushmore?

The Guardian on the Shanghai Cooperation Organization Summit in Tianjin, “They stood together like old friends, heads thrown back in jovial laughter, clutching one another’s hands affectionately. Except this was no ordinary gathering of three men, but a meeting of three of the most powerful non-western leaders: Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Narendra Modi.” With the West already so limp, that modifier “non-western” is superfluous.

Meanwhile in DC, rumors swirled that Trump was even more comatose. Appearing higher than Hunter Biden, Donald Junior had to tell News Max, “I called my father over the weekend to be like, ‘Hey, just want to make sure you’re not dead.’”

Following the Tianjin summit, there’s a monstrous military parade in Beijing, so China had four days to flex its muscles. India Global Today, “This is China displaying weapons, Russia showing resilience, North Korea showing loyalty and India showing independence. Together they projected an image that challenges decades of American dominance. So is this the moment where America loses its grip on world leadership and China takes its place as the new superpower?” Together they projected is correct.

Sidelined, Trump yelped at Xi, “Please give my warmest regards to Vladimir Putin, and Kim Jong Un, as you conspire against The United States of America.”

Xi, “The Chinese nation is a great nation that is never intimidated by any bullies and always values independence and forges ahead. In the past, when faced with critical struggles between good and evil, light and darkness, progress and reaction, the Chinese people rallied together to defy the enemy. They fought for the survival of the country, for the rejuvenation of the Chinese nation and for justice of the whole humanity. Today, humanity again has to choose between peace and war, dialogue and confrontation, win-win cooperation and zero-sum game. The Chinese people firmly stand on the right side of history and the progress of human civilization.”

Xi’s key point here is “survival of the country.” Like Putin, he’s a nationalist. Defense of national interests is how Xi and the Chinese Communist Party can maintain legitimacy and support from ordinary Chinese. His “justice of the whole humanity” is just an old timey Commie tic or flourish and, frankly, sounds too much like Uncle Sam at his most righteous and hypocritical. Indifferent to that, Chinese chests only swelled at this reassurance, “The Chinese nation is a great nation that is never intimidated by any bullies.”

How does one square the Chinese state’s manly display with Chinese freaks like Madison Zhao and International Kid? Western influenced pop culture must be countered by sober policies as directed by sane leaders. Xi, Putin and others are doing that. It is an ongoing battle.

In the US, however, you have blackmailed, avaricious, mendacious and cynical leaders who are warring against their own population. Confused, disunited and, yes, cowardly, Americans appear hopeless against an internal enemy most can’t even identify.

The only European nations that came to Beijing were Serbia, Slovakia, Hungary and Turkey. Serbia was bombed by NATO in 1999, Slovakia’s prime minister was nearly killed last year, Hungary’s Orban is often dubbed a Fascist (for being a nationalist) and Turkey’s Erdogan is just a weasel. As fringe Europeans, they’re actually in better shape than Germany, France or the UK, thanks to their nationalism and demographic coherence. Riots in Belgrade, likely instigated by the USA, is a real danger, though, as they are in Jakarta. Until it croaks, the Empire of Chaos is always busy.

Trump’s trade war is bankrupting American farmers, businesses and just ordinary consumers. With trade deficits against all nations, Uncle Sam has long been a deadbeat. If only he would just lie down, like Trump, and wheeze out with a dozen or so peaceful farts. With so many nukes, he won’t go quietly, though.

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

Global South

Slices of Life, #5

What crime did I commit in a past life to end up like this? To feel anything, numb sacks of meat must go online to cultivate their sadism.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/18/25

Bird Wings Under Sunshine — Aug 19, 2025.

Noticing her frog so immobile, Mrs. Seven thought maybe it was pregnant. Now, she thinks it’s just starving. “Look at its flanks,” she frets as I peer at the darkened lump, parked in a puddle, with its rump against the splotchy wall. What crime did I commit in a past life to end up like this? it must be thinking.

Give this animal a sprig or two of raw watercress, I suggest. With all that’s wrong with the world, why am I concerning you with this inconsequential being? I’m not, really. Like y’all, I don’t care about anyone, ultimately, but as a SubStack hack, I must come up with amusing tales, and pretend I give a shit about anything. It’s grueling and dangerous work. Why didn’t I choose a much softer career in some coalmine or sewer, or on a tsunami battered offshore rig?

Mrs. Seven’s husband’s death anniversary is coming up. Her two daughters and two grandchildren will be here. Her two pregnancies were separated by 15 years. In between, she had three abortions, of the kind performed very early. She explained it as having a blood clot conveniently sucked out, more or less. As a dancer, she couldn’t prance around on stage with a bulging belly.

By the late 80’s, Mrs. Seven was performing at the Palace Hotel. It’s only half a mile from Cóc Cóc, where I’m sitting. On 4/30/75, Palace was the site of the very last Vietnam War battle in Vung Tau. Surrounded and vastly outnumbered, more than 400 ARVN soldiers had to surrender after several hours.

Mrs. Seven’s recollection of Palace is mostly pleasant. When food was still scarce, her troupe could occasionally enjoy all-you-can-eat buffets, with even leftovers to take home. Twelve members were northerners, with several from Nghệ An, Ho Chi Minh’s home province. It’s long famous for its poverty.

“They wouldn’t just take food home, but steal plates and glasses,” she remembers. “When I visited their homes, I’d see all these Palace Hotel plates.” She laughs. Their homecooked meals were pitiful, but that’s just Nghệ An. “They don’t eat like us.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/16/25 ; (R): 8/15/25

Foreign companies would have catered parties at the Palace. Not until these Westerners or Taiwanese finished feasting could her troupe begin its dubious folkloric performance. Mrs. Seven’s star turn was impressively labeled “Bird Wings Under Sunshine.” As her agent, I’m ready to book this slightly stooped and creaking old broad for Trump’s new ballroom at the Whitey House.

Most annoying were the French, for they sure took their time eating. They’d leisurely suck every sliver of meat from the thinnest crab leg and lick the last drop of whatever soup from a spoon. When they’re done, there wasn’t a speck of gravy left for a baby gnat. Forget frogs.

For a single performance on a cruise ship on Phú Quốc Island, Mrs. Seven made enough for a used washing machine. “The toilets on that ship were better than what we had on land!” A booking for three months in Japan fell through, however. This was when Vietnamese needed exit visas. With that secured, Mrs. Seven already bought, in her mind, a sound system for her husband’s band. He’s an organist.

My Scranton buddy, Chuck Orloski, won a Fulbright Fellowship to Bulgaria in the mid 80’s. Before Chuck could board a plane for Sofia, the US imposed sanctions on that nation, so that’s that. He’ll also die without ever seeing his ancestral Poland.

Sơn the security guard reflects often on his brushes with death in Pol Pot’s Cambodia. In her dim café, Mrs. Seven remembers arching her back and holding her pretty hands, just so, under stage lighting.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/8/25 ; (R): 8/18/25

Walking home decades ago, she was hit by some asshole who didn’t turn his light on. Was he saving some gasoline, he thought, or extending the lifespan of his headlight? For over a month, she couldn’t even kneel properly, much less dance. In hellish pain, she had to force her buttocks to touch her heels. “It hurt so bad! I was sweating!” Alone in her room, she had no choice but to keep trying.

When Sơn showed up late, again, this pre dawn, we asked why his wife didn’t wake him up on time? They don’t even sleep in the same room, he explained. She was still sleeping.

Again, I quote Stanley Kunnitz, “Those who were strange born, those who’ll die tomorrow, dance here today,” and alone, too, of course.

With this piece at only 725 words, I must scrape harder for very last bit of coal, crabmeat or soup. Looking up, I see yet another itinerant seller of lottery tickets. She’s short with sticklike legs. Also more numerous are old women from the provinces. Selling not much, they must wander around stoically all day long.

At Cóc Cóc, there’s a taped flyer telling thieves to stop stealing its plastic plant pot. Even brand new, it’s worth less than $3. Closing up each evening, Mrs. Seven must remove a junk electric fan from an outside wall.

We’re old enough to remember necklace snatchers swooping by on motorbikes. Those too clumsy or inexperienced risk smashing their victim’s face or skull on asphalt. Such two wheeled muggers have shown up in the West.

Listen, I’m not here to persuade anyone of anything. If you’re convinced you and yours are cruising through a Golden Age, then happy sailing! You deserve it.

No less deserving are MAGA farmers losing workers, markets and, now, even farms and family homes passed down through generations. American democracy can’t be more perfectly illustrated.

With my back against a wall, I sit in the shade of a midget palm. On the underside of one leaf is a dozen black and orange insects. Just born apparently, they’re clustered around their now empty eggs. Eight yards away, a red bus has just stopped to dislodge aging white tourists. One woman wore a skirt of a dozen colors. Her giddiness at being repackaged is fetching. In her youth, she may have danced nearly as well as Mrs. Seven.

Intertwining Satanists — Aug 20, 2025.

Clarity in thinking or writing is extremely rare. Nearly always, we get ducking, dodging or just plain lying, with the entire US political establishment especially adroit and shameless at these practices. American writers, even dissident ones, are also expert at dancing around obvious truths.

How bracing, then, to wake up this morning to these statements from Kevin Barrett, “Everyone agrees that God hates the wanton mass murder of tens or hundreds of thousands of innocent women and children. Those who stand with God, with their faith, with the values of the New Testament (or the Qur’an or Mahabharata or Analects or Lotus Sutra or Tao Te Ching for that matter) are bound to oppose genocide. Acquiescing in genocide, or even supporting it, amounts to opposing God.

“[…] Jews, by definition, are the people who rejected Christ. That means the self-proclaimed Jewish state is the ‘anti-Christ state’—the State of Antichrist. And the Jewish state of Israel is committing a genocide against the descendants of the family of Jesus, namely the Palestinians. The satanic Zionists, who spit on Christians and burn and bomb their holy places, are crucifying Gaza out of hatred for Jesus and his followers (Muslim as well as Christian).”

Bravo, my man!

As Satanists, these Jews don’t just lapse often into violence, but sexual violence, for the worst violation on any human, and by extension, God, is to inflict sadistic pain on his naked person. You enjoy reducing him or her to a screaming, sobbing animal. As Satanic Americans look the other way, Jews commit thousands of Satanic sexual crimes against Arabs. They’re doing it right now.

With their Satanic sadism so insatiable, powerful Jews also prey on Jews. Just two months ago, some Jewish victims were finally able to make public their unspeakable suffering.

Yael Ariel, “I experienced ritual abuse over many years until my late teens and was forced to harm other children. I chose to speak out and make my voice heard. I received threats after revealing my story. From age five to age 20, I was harmed in these ceremonies. I filed a complaint with the police that was closed after a few months, and I know of other cases that were closed.”

Yael Shitrit, “You have no idea what ritual abuse is. The human brain cannot comprehend it. You can’t imagine what it means to program a three-year-old girl through rape and sadism so they can do whatever they want without anyone knowing. Their trafficking of me happened all over the country. They moved me from ceremony to ceremony. Naked men stood in a circle. My therapist, her husband, and her son harmed me, and there were dozens of other girls and boys who harmed me.”

Unnamed victim, “At 14, he took me to sadistic clubs. I endured torture and starvation at the hands of well-known and prominent individuals. I suffered harm in endless ways. There were public events, and there were internal ceremonies where I was tied to a tall post with handcuffs. Around me, there were other handcuffed victims with rituals of drinking menstrual blood and the slaughter of cats and other animals. They told me no one would believe me if I spoke out.”

My ex-publisher, Dan Simon, just released a French book on sexual crime, “Sad Tiger is built on the facts of a series of devastating events. Neige Sinno was 7 years old when her stepfather started sexually abusing her and at 14 or 15 the abuse stopped. At 19, she decided to break the silence that is so common in all cultures around sexual violence.” I should propose to Dan an encyclopedia of Jewish sexual violence. Just sitting here in Vung Tau, I can already name Jack the Ripper, Louis B. Mayer, Dan Schneider, Harvey Weinstein, Clive Davis and Jeffrey Epstein.

One recent entry is Tom Alexandrovich. A division head at the Israel National Cyber Directorate, Alexandrovich was in Las Vegas to meet NSA officials. Since spooks spy on each other, good old Tom should have known better than to use his cellphone to hook up with a 15-year-old. Armed with condoms, Tom headed to this date via Uber, which left another trail. Caught in a sting operation, he’s safely back in Israel. You think this 38-year-old will show up for his court date on 8/27/25?

In 2008, a principal at Adass Israel School in Elsternwick, Australia was investigated for sexual abuse against three girls. After fleeing to Israel, Malka Leifer was only returned 12 years later to face trial. It only took a decade for Gershon Kranczer to be extradited. Though sexual crimes are common to all nations, only one openly harbors such criminals. Times of Israel on 3/12/21, “Israel has become a haven for dozens of Jewish sexual abusers fleeing charges in recent years, particularly those in the ultra-Orthodox community who are aided by Israeli friends or relatives.”

What do you expect, though, from those whose God advises, “Now therefore kill every male among the little ones, and kill every woman that hath known man by lying with him. But all the women children, that have not known a man by lying with him, keep alive for yourselves.” It’s OK to commit genocide, but spare enemy virgins, so you can rape them. Though this is also the Christian God, I can’t imagine Jesus talking like that.

The Jewish state is intertwined with the leading white nation, so both are sinking into hell. It’s sickeningly poetic.

Trump the supposed savior of downtrodden whites spent years raping white children, along with other white leaders. Bill Clinton on their leading pimp, “Jeffrey is both a highly successful financier and a committed philanthropist with a keen sense of global markets and an in-depth knowledge of 21st-century science.”

Of course, you should trust the science. Supplying rape victims to top whites, Epstein also joined in the fun. Finally caught with so much dirt on everyone, Jeff had to be killed, or maybe he’s just lying low in Israel. In the Anti-Christ State, those with the sickest appetites are hardly rare. Just for laughs, they shoot teen boys in the testicles.

Vung Tau, 8/21/25

Walking Corpse Running Meat! — Aug 21, 2025.

There’s a useful and amusing Chinese phrase, 行尸走肉. Pronounced as shing shi zoo roo, it means, literally, walking corpse running meat. This can also be applied to nations. Rotting, it still struts.

With my flesh only slightly putrefied, I tickle my maggot burrowed and fly specked brain this morning since it’s the death anniversary of Mrs. Seven’s husband. Later, his musician friends will gather to sing and play his favorite songs. Saigon Beer will flow. Her younger daughter, Mi Mi, arrived last night from Bình Dương, 80 miles away, where she’s working at a beauty salon.

Just now, a neighborhood loser, Vinh, dropped by. A staggering corpse, he still thinks he has a chance with Mi Mi. Unemployed and untraveled, the 29-year-old still suckles his dying mama’s dry titties, so to speak. Mi Mi has worked all over Vietnam, as far north as Pleiku. She has had a steady boyfriend for seven years. Repeatedly, she has turned down his marriage proposal. Still pretty, she doesn’t lack suitors, and she’s making her own cash. She’s seen friends burdened with kids in marriages already sour.

“This boyfriend has relatives in Australia. They want to bring him over there.”

“So your daughter can go with him if they get married?”

“She says, ‘Why would I want to go to Australia when I can go to the USA?!’” Mi Mi has an aunt in Texas who can hook her up. This lady hasn’t been back in eight years, however.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 8/19/25 ; (R): 8/21/25

Near death, each trip across the globe becomes more untenable. Strapped to a narrow seat between rotting strangers, you’re hurled through cold space in an aluminum tube that may, and perhaps should, break up any second, to put all those over the hill stewardesses out of their earthly misery. No more squeezing those widest hips through the thinnest aisles to serve crappy food to sullen passengers who don’t even speak English. “I said chicken or pasta, you fuckin’ moron!”

Only the most attentive foreigners notice the proliferation of incense sticks all over Vietnam. They jut from bases of trees and fronts of buses. Spirits everywhere must be honored and appeased. Since the dead aren’t quite dead here, every Vietnamese living room is a shrine to the dead. Dead grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles and siblings often eat and watch television with their living relatives until they, too, drop dead.

Born in 952, Dương Vân Nga died in 1000. She’s the only queen in Vietnamese history to be married to kings from two dynasties. Soon after Đinh Tiên Hoàng was assassinated, she wedded Lê Đại Hành. Many people suspect she may have colluded with the second to kill the first. They were likely lovers.

The only statue of Dương Vân Nga is in a temple dedicated to her second husband. Each year, this effigy is taken to a temple honoring her first, on his death anniversary. Before being transferred, she’s whipped ten times. This corporeal punishment of a wooden statue is deadly serious. Even after a thousand years, the people of Hoa Lư cannot forgive at least her unfaithfulness.

To remember is to imagine that something of you, too, will linger. Of course, it’s nonsense. Alive, you’re already ignored and forgotten.

Vung Tau, 8/21/25

Sharper than me, Google AI Overview defines 行尸走肉 as a man living without a soul, goal, determination or creativity. That’s a bit harsh, wouldn’t you say? Defines just about everybody, especially today. Now at Cóc Cóc, I’m surrounded by zombies staring at phones. It wasn’t like this just three years ago.

To feel anything, numb sacks of meat must go online to cultivate their sadism. A 46-year-old French live streamer has just died after months of “physical and moral humiliation.” With half a million followers, Raphaël Graven had up to 15,000 dorks watch his degradation, as executed by two “friends,” at any moment. For a fee, anyone could suggest a specific torture. With no talents or looks, Graven couldn’t have asked for a better gig. With death, he’s achieved immortality.

After British Lily Phillips slept with 100 men in one day, she was topped by Australian Annie Knight, who bedded 583 within 24 hours. These blushing maidens were put to shame by another Brit, Bonnie Blue, who scored 1,057 retching blokes in 12 hours. Only a nuclear bomb can fumigate that bedroom. Rule, rule, Britannia! Britons never shall be slaves! All these lovelies rake in big bucks as stars at OnlyFans, a platform owned by American Leonid Radvinsky. Unlike Pornhub’s Solomon Friedman, Radvinsky is no rabbi, however, so don’t give me any of that anti-Semitic shit!

Man can’t live by porn alone, unfortunately. After the last paragraph, I walked home for lunch. Afterwards, I listened to A Homestead Journey video. Only through citizen journalists like this “Barbara” can you get a true picture of what’s happening. Black or white, Americans are incredulous at their jacked up bills. Just to eat, many have stopped paying their mortgage, utility, student loan or credit card debts. For at least a decade before I left the US for good in 2018, this reality was already too common. Just to drag their corpses through another day, all my stressed and exhausted friends relied on drugs and/or alcohol. Only Felix Giordano had it easy. He got a check each month for being mentally ill. Working for years in an insane asylum where patients smeared shit on walls or jerked off nonstop, Felix himself went mad. Most of us aren’t so lucky.

With the vaguest, dimmest and sketchiest approximations of a soul, goal, determination or creativity, they stagger from one porn site to another, for that’s the one resource this world has in luxurious abundance. Humanity has never been so blessed.

At age 26, Mi Mi still has a few years before realizing that she, too, is just another shing shi zoo roo. Suck it up, bitch! There’s no shame in belonging.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices of Life 4

Like the US itself, Trump is nothing but his image, so when he looks weak, confused, ridiculous or petty, the world can see exactly how his eviscerated nation is doing

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Image War — Aug 16, 2025.

Since American presidents are now at risk of stumbling headfirst going up or down Air Force One, it’s only logical for them to use stairlifts and evacuation slides. Why chance having the Defender of the Free World crack his denture and skull, just heading to another golfing vacation, or some global summit where he will be mostly ignored, if not mocked? Sliding down, each POTUS should be without pants or Depend. With a splash, he’ll plunge into a kiddie pool as journalists cheer. After being washed, perfumed and sedated by two illegal immigrant nurses of color, he’s ready to hit the red carpet to shake hands with foreign dignitaries.

For transparency’s sake, this entire process will be broadcast live on CNN, Fox News and the BBC, with appropriate color commentaries. “For some reasons, that brown bitch is taking too long to soap the president’s balls. Soon as we find out why, we’ll give you an update. Meanwhile, President Putin of Russia patiently waits, his only sign of exasperation a barely perceptible sigh.”

These patriotic and constructive reflections were triggered by the alarming yet endearing spectacle of Trump zigzagging in Alaska. Was he trying to find Cook Inlet? Since Putin took his time descending, Trump had to wait. When the better man finally appeared, Trump erupted with three bursts of applause. Receiving no equivalent affection, Trump looked positively forlorn when they finally shook hands. With his palm up, Trump was a beggar, and for seconds, his left hand even joined their manual coupling in an unmanly, needy threesome. In our image obsessed world, these spectacles aren’t just significant but emblematic. Like the US itself, Trump is nothing but his image, so when he looks weak, confused, ridiculous or petty, the world can see exactly how his eviscerated nation is doing.

This stinking and stumbling psycho is strapped to thousands of nuclear warheads, however. Without them, the US would just be one vast Skid Row, begging to be divided up by Mexico, Canada, Russia, China and Greenland. Here and there in the Heartland, there may still be MAGA republics, though impoverished, irrelevant and worse off than today’s Lesotho, Eswatini, Tristan da Cunha or Bir Tawil.

Rwanda and Gabon have joined Israel, Azerbaijan, Armenia, Pakistan and Cambodia in nominating Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize. No major European, Oriental or South American countries have done so. Even the most servile US vassals can’t risk embracing a genocidal child rapist.

Demanding peace between Thailand and Cambodia, 2,500 monks marched through Phnom Penh on 8/10/25. Over a dozen hoisted large photos of Trump, with “Thank You! Mr. President.” Though the US likely had a hand in starting that war, these cloistered doofuses credited the Donald with stopping bloodshed.

Right in downtown Tirana is George W. Bush Street. Though short, it passes Mosque of Namazgah, Albania’s largest. Maybe Trump will have at least an alley named after him in Phnom Penh? He’s winning the image war in Cambodia!

In 2020, I was astounded to discover Trump Kids Kindergarten in Lào Cai, a Vietnamese city of 130,000 right on the Chinese border. In an obscure spot high up in the mountains, Trump was idolized by ignorant Communists. This state run school is still there.

(L): 2,500 monks march, Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 8/10/25 ; (R): painting of Bill Clinton in Jeffrey Epstein’s Manhattan mansion

The US as a brand is most seductive to those with no chance of experiencing the Tenderloin, Skid Row, Philadelphia’s Kensington, Camden, Gary, South Bend, Youngstown, Scranton, St Louis, Oakland or all of New Orleans outside the French Quarters. They’re like those middle-aged guys in Amman, Jordan who are mesmerized by one Hollywood movie after another at cozy yet grimy Pop Café, a place no tourist but one has ever entered. They don’t know what it’s like to endure social distancing nearly every waking hour for decades. I’ve never experienced a population more atomized.

Let’s examine one photo of Zelensky’s visit to the White House on 2/28/25. With his arms folded, the Jewish clown is being scolded by two suited idiots, with Trump flaunting his trademark pucker. Like his boss, lapdog Vance is waving his hands in disapproval. Basic manners dictate you don’t bully a guest, even in private, but this was a staged spectacle, performed for Trump’s Budweiser and Miller High Life swilling base. The setting itself is laughable. Behind Trump on the mantel are the tackiest golden urns and figurines, and “TRUMP” is on some booksized block on the coffee table. Trump must always push his brand. Of course, there are no real books within sight. Flags of the US Army and US Marines flank this draft dodger. If only Liberace had become president!

If only we were just talking about taste. Just now, photos of Epstein’s Manhattan mansion have emerged. Though we see the same level of pricey tackiness so beloved by Trump, there are much darker notes. Vigilant Citizen describes a work of art, “Everything about this sculpture is creepy and unsettling, especially considering that young girls were being raped and abused in this very mansion. White gowns worn by brides are meant to represent their purity and virginity. This particular bride is seemingly attempting to escape something awful… like maybe an old pedo trying to abuse her. They like to mock their victims.” Inside this pedo rape paradise are sweet photos of Epstein with Bill Clinton, Trump, Melania, Bill Gates, Mick Jagger and Elon Musk, among others. A long letter from Woody Allen includes this poetic line, “Add to this that Jeffrey lives in a vast house alone, one can picture him sleeping in damp earth.”

There’s a lovely painting of a saucy Bill Clinton in a blue dress and red heels. Draped across a French Empire chair, he’s showing off his cleavage and flashing a pink thigh.

Long before death, they’re hell dwellers, and proud of it. Why not? Indulging in the worst acts imaginable has reaped them the greatest benefits. Most of their victims even consider them gods.

Baltimore, Maryland, USA: (L): 5/26/11 ; (R): 12/18/11

So Far Gone! — Aug 17, 2025.

The mysterious animal living in Mrs. Seven’s house turned out to be a large green frog. Dwelling behind her coolers, it had standing water on the concrete floor to drink, plus mosquitoes and gnats, one must assume, to feast on. Worrying about this beast’s poor diet, she left a hunk of bread by its side. Since it remained untouched days later, she removed it. Content, this solitary exile will stay right where he is, a silent, brooding presence, unmolested by men, dogs or God. That’s a better fate than most men’s. His options beyond this house aren’t great. Escaping, he’d likely be squashed or gently lowered into a boiling pot of rice gruel with mung beans.

At Vietnamese wet markets, you’ll see skinned frogs still alive. I’ve also written a poem about a turban wearing and gum chewing “sadistic climbing perch monger.”

Here’s the killer part, “Keeping these fish in a tin basin, she takes out each one and snips, with a scissors, its tail, anal fin, dorsal fin, pelvic fin, ventral fin, pectoral fin, then, finally, head. If only she would reverse this order, the climbing perch would not thrash about during the entire process.”

All travelers know no two nations do anything the same. Of course, if you only hop from one global enclave to another, you’ll miss most of these stark or subtle differences, but that’s not traveling. Landing in Timbuktu, Nakhchivan or Qaanaaq, they look immediately for a McDonald’s and a Starbucks.

Baltimore, 5/26/11

Recently, Trump cited Oakland and Baltimore as examples of cities “so far gone,” they need federal intervention, as just happened in DC. Since Trump doesn’t drive, much less walk, anywhere dicey, he has no direct experience of Anacostia or Deanwood in DC, much less Baltimore, but that’s true of his critics also. Whether conservative or liberal, most Americans know better than to stray into black ghettos. Here are the five deadliest American cities, Memphis, Oakland, St. Louis, Baltimore and Detroit. Four are majority black, with St. Louis nearly so.

Just pointing out these facts will get me charged as a “racist” by many upstanding Americans, but consider this hateful passage, “In the city of Philadelphia the increasing number of bold and daring crimes committed by Negroes in the last ten years has focused the attention of the city on this subject. There is a widespread feeling that something is wrong with a race that is responsible for so much crime, and that strong remedies are called for.” It was written in 1899 by that famous Nazi, W.E.B. DuBois, when he was best buddies with Adolf Hitler. Growing up in adjacent rowhouses, they’d split even a pretzel. So poor, they had to pool money over months to buy one Tastykake.

When Trump talked about solving urban crimes, his MAGA base plus many others immediately understood it as a resolve, finally, to tackle black crime, so they cheered, though not at work or in polite company. With Trump, though, it’s just another con and misdirection. He’s using black crime to normalize the presence of soldiers on American streets. Having engineered the worst economic collapse, he’s preparing for its attendant chaos and violence.

Baltimore, Maryland, USA: (L): 5/26/11 ; (R): 12/18/11

As a high school kid in Northern Virginia, I’d drive my Mustang II to Baltimore to catch my Mariners play the Orioles at Memorial Stadium. I’d head straight there from my McDonald’s job on Little River Turnpike. In my M’s jersey and waving a pennant, I once screamed so loud while sitting alone in the outfield, a player turned around to stare at the freak. I’d like to say it was Ruppert Jones, but he must have been retired by then.

As an adult in Philly, I’d take a Greyhound to Baltimore to spend another relaxing, near suicidal day. Away from its Inner Harbor, the city looked bombed. Wandering around Charm City, I started to understand why John Water’s Divine thought eating dogshit was so wonderful. With so many murals honoring murder victims, you also feel close to God, as in, “I’ll be there in a second, Jesus.” It’s a spiritual city.

You, too, should drop everything to visit Baltimore at the first opportunity. Its tourism slogan, “You won’t get it till you get here.” A preview, “A 13-year-old boy with 18 prior felony arrests has been apprehended again, this time for a series of armed carjackings and robberies that took place across Baltimore from July 26 to 27, according to the Baltimore Police.” Similar youths are liberally sprinkled across America.

Under Biden, there was a noticeable uptick in anti social behavior, including street takeovers, flash robberies, smash and grabs, dine and dashes, porch piracy and nuisance streaming. Far from going away, these have only increased under Trump, since their root causes, alienation, pathological self absorption, community breakdown, unaffordability of basics and meaningless existence, have only been exacerbated. Plus, Trump is himself a worldclass felon. Crime exudes from all his pores and orifices effortlessly. Trump emanates crime.

In 1992, Camden Yards opened in Baltimore. Now, there are retro ballparks all over. Inside these exclusive environments, the USA is still safe and wholesome. The cheapest seat for a game five days from now goes for $23, with the most expensive at $153. With the added cost of hot dogs, soft drinks, beer and parking, a typical family of four can’t come here. Triple locked inside some ghetto rowhouse or a suburban duplex, they can still enjoy this American mirage, on their bought-on-credit flatscreen. That’s how it will be, then, as their world cracks, crumbles and burns.

New York, 8/4/09

John Rocker, Prophet — Aug 18, 2025.

Twenty five years ago, an Atlanta Braves pitcher, John Rocker, said, “I’m not a very big fan of foreigners. How the hell did they get in this country?” With his team in NYC to play the Mets, Rocker observed, “Imagine having to take the 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you’re riding through Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It’s depressing.”

It’s clear this 26-year-old had never been to Beirut or anywhere in the Middle East. Even today, you almost never see in Muslim nations purple haired kids, queers with AIDS, obvious felons or 20-year-old moms with four kids. Unlike in the USA, their criminals, degenerates and misfits don’t advertise themselves. Even American nerds pose as gangstas, for their culture glamorizes all crimes, including genocides.

When Rocker was born in Statesboro, GA in 1974, it had roughly 17,000 people. In high school, he lived in Macon (pop. 130,000). Though a city, it’s still in the same state, then he was drafted by the Braves. Nearly his entire minor league career was spent in the South.

There were plenty of Latino players in his organization, however, and the big club’s roster for 2020 included players from Venezuela, Curacao, the Dominican Republic, Panama, Canada and Cuba. Even with so many foreign teammates, Rocker had plenty of white ones to socialize with, however. The appearance of everyone working together towards a common goal disguises the fact that, after the game, most players stick with their own race or at least those who speak their language comfortably. Even on the airplane home, they self-segregate.

New York, USA: (L): 10/8/11 ; (R): 11/3/17

Rocker’s disgust, fear and hatred of NYC is all too common. It’s not just the natural reaction of any bumpkin towards the city, but of every child when forced to enter school, or of any man on his first trip abroad, even if he’s going voluntarily, for pleasure. To be uprooted is always violent, but without this, almost no goals are achievable, especially today. Very few are allowed to be housewives or simply shopkeepers in their hometowns. Thrust into alien, bewildering environments, nearly everyone seeks to reclaim his hickishness by frequenting the same bar, café, cheesesteak joint or Chinese takeout, or he can watch the Braves or Phillies for 200 times a year, including the playoffs and Spring Training. Compulsive, addictive behavior is nearly an inevitable reaction to the terrors of displacement.

Retired, Rocker must be living in some Southern town, so he’s no longer displaced. Most people don’t have that option.

Trump’s decision to send National Guardsmen from Ohio, West Virginia and South Carolina to Washington DC made me think of John Rocker. Unlike the pitcher, they won’t be armed with fastballs and sliders, but M4 carbines and M9 pistols. Nothing will go wrong, I’m sure.

Deployed around Union Station, Georgetown, Chinatown and 14th Street, they’ll make a show of arresting sandwich throwing drunks and public urinators, but their real tasks, make no mistake, is to sow fear and disorder. When American cities go up in flames, American hicks will cheer.

Though the worst kind of New Yorker, Trump, with his red cap, is posing as a John Deere tractor driving peasant. You’d never find him plopped next to a John Rocker, though, at any good ol’ boys tavern. Served a pickled trotter, the Donald would retch.

Before college, I had been to NYC just once. At 15-years-old, I went there with my mother, stepfather and half brother on a day trip, a very long drive from Northern Virginia. That day’s highlight was a visit to the top of the World Trade Center. Applying for college, I was accepted at Pratt and Parson, but visited neither. Wanting to become an oil painter, I knew I’d have to confront NYC at some point.

New York, USA: (L): 10/8/11 ; (R): 11/3/17

From Philly, I’d take two local trains to NYC. At first, it was only to visit its museums. Eventually, I’d get to know many neighborhoods, including those across the Hudson in New Jersey. I gave poetry readings at St. Mark’s Place, the Nuyorican Café and a few other venues I can’t quite remember. I was paid to talk to a class at Yeshiva University, I’m not kidding. I was on a panel at NYU with Susan Sontag and Carolyn Forché, among others. I was a critic-in-residence at Art in General. Many of my college friends moved to NYC. My main publisher was there. On my last visit, I was interviewed by Chris Hedges for Russia Today. I wrote a long poem about Yankee Stadium. Despite all this exposure, I never warmed up to Manhattan. It’s too much about image, with every transplant remaking himself to be more worldly, even freakish. Even their speech changes.

At Philly’s Friendly Lounge, there was a regular, Johnny AC, who made it a point to never visit NYC, and he had been to Japan.

For thousands of years, we lived in villages. Now, 55% of the world’s population dwell in cities, with millions packed into cubicles suspended in smog. Last week, some tattooed asshole in Hanoi was caught on camera beating up a female neighbor by the elevators. He clearly didn’t care who she was, or even where he was. His soulless, arrogant face exudes alienation.

When I was born in November of 1963, Saigon had a population of 1.6 million. Now, it has 14. That’s why I’m living in a drowsy city by the ocean. At 4:06AM, I’m again sitting at a sweetly shabby café in a quiet alley. Mrs. Seven is still living in her childhood home. Through the open door of her bedroom, I can see an elegant pastel portrait of her late father. On her wall is a peeling mural of the Vietnamese countryside. Her two dogs’ one big trip was to the wet market, a quarter mile away. Behind her red cooler, a large green frog contently squats. Like everyone, he has had enough harrowing life experiences to brood over.

Clearly, our species’ existence is unsustainable. Though we know and sense this, there’s nothing we can do. Our elites, though, have firm, definite plans they’re already executing. Meanwhile, there are still baseball games to be stared at on our droning televisions.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices of Life 3

Like a much more famous billionaire, this pitiful man is boastful, exaggerates numbers and loves to play with girls. Insane people are lost in their fantasized greatness.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Well Prepared for the Worst! — Aug 13, 2025.

Washington DC, 12/6/11

This pre dawn at Coffee Seven, there’s a new half face. The other half is hidden behind a mask. With his mouth muffled, it’s not easy to understand what he’s saying. Plus, he’s speaking very rapidly.

Sơn, “You have a new vehicle!”

“Yes, just bought it, for three billion.”

Since $114,000 doesn’t sound right, I ask him, “Why so expensive? Why not buy a plane?” I tease. “Or a house?”

“My house is a hundred billion! I just bought a cemetery.”

Sơn grins, “A cemetery.”

“Why?” I ask. “You only have one body.”

“To sell lots.”

“How many?”

“A hundred.”

“That’s nothing. You need a plot for a thousand!” Then, “How much is your motorbike, brother Sơn?”

“Three billion.”

I say to Mrs. Seven, “Since all your customers are so rich, you shouldn’t be selling coffee for 10K,” or 38 cents. “Sell it for 100K.”

“He’s so rich, but sometimes he drinks my 10K coffee on credit.”

Already this insane in his early 30’s, he’ll just get worse, for sure, though his agitation will likely decrease with age.

Washington DC: (L): on 3/2/15 ; (R): on 7/28/17

For a nation, too, unchecked madness must increase. Even with violent crime down in DC, Trump has called in the National Guard. Preceding this by days was a photo of Big Balls sitting on the ground with a bloody face and body. Sure looks like he smeared it all over himself for the most dramatic shot. Why was this 19-year-old out, partying, perhaps, at 3AM? More mysterious is his hiring by Elon Musk for DOGE, that personal data harvesting scam that saved no one a dime, but why dredge up ancient history? We’ve so moved on.

Daily Beast on 8/12/25, “White House Wants Big Balls to Get Same Medal as Rosa Parks—The move would appeal to Trump’s MAGA base.” Who can deny Swollen Testicles has done much more than Mother Teresa and Martin Luther King?

Meanwhile in LA, masked goons arrested a handicapped 15-year-old at gunpoint, right outside his high school. This boy was standing next to his grandma’s car, with her inside. In their excitement, ICE agents dropped bullets on the ground. Warriors so professional must be sent immediately to Ukraine, Syria or deadly Washington DC, so they can return to claim a modest lot in a discount cemetery. As with thousands of other cases, this kid was targeted because he was brown. Handcuffed, he was whizzed away as terrified classmates looked on. After an hour, he was released without even an apology. Who are the retards here? With a moronic commander in chief, they’re free to terrorize.

Four decades ago, DC was America’s murder capital. Going there often, I was never mugged, however, because I didn’t wander around drunk at 3AM. I attended Bullets games before the team changed its name to Wizards. I had second row seat for a spectacular performance by George “Ice Man” Gervin. Fourteenth Street right in Northwest was as seedy as NYC’s Broadway. Taxi Driver’s Travis would have been perfectly at home. Since America’s rich and powerful didn’t care to live in shitholes, DC and NYC were much gentrified. I imagine Manhattan below 116^th and DC’s Northwest are still fine.

Washington DC: (L): on 11/30/11 ; (R): on 8/28/10

Meanwhile in Gaza, “Al Jazeera journalist Anas al-Sharif, 28, has been killed along with three of his colleagues in a deliberate Israeli attack on a media tent sheltering journalists outside the main gate of Gaza City’s al-Shifa Hospital.” Al Jazeera also claims, “Israel has killed nearly 270 journalists and media workers since it launched its war on Gaza.” The Jerusalem Post begs to differ, “IDF kills Hamas terrorist doubling as journalist.” Unlike Israel, al-Sharif hasn’t killed one innocent civilian, but he’s the “terrorist,” while the genocidal Jewish state must be defended by the entire West.

After Kevin Barrett interviewed me recently, he posted our 1 ½ hour conversation at Unz with this headline, “Linh Dinh: ‘It’s a very systematic program to destroy opponents of the Jews’—Is the Great Replacement driven by economics—or by Jewish hatred of Esau (Europeans) and Ishmael (Arabs/Muslims)?” Nearly all 72 comments after it concern Barrett’s suggestion Europe would be better off by converting to Islam. Unlike Jews, Kevin isn’t advocating for Middle Eastern and Northern African Muslims to invade Europe, after their own societies are destroyed. That’s a Jewish project, gleefully executed. In any case, neither Kevin nor I have the power to effect anything. As American “influencers,” we’re a thousand tiers below Johnny Somali or Ice Poseidon. Big Balls wouldn’t spit in our direction. So invisible, we can walk through walls.

True to their Angry White Pussy code and calling, none of those enraged Unzians dared to say Jews. Quaking whites proudly wave white flags.

Going to meet Putin in Alaska, Trump said, twice, he was headed to Russia. A man this confused can’t be expected to formulate policies on Cambodia, Armenia or Azerbaijan, so he’s obviously not in control, so who is? Perhaps Big Balls. Just never say Jews. They’re the most misunderstood and discriminated against do gooders in history.

When a woman across the street asks our billionaire to help her lift a heavy pot, he simply says, “I can’t,” so creaky and slightly stooped Mrs. Seven has to do it. I’d have, of course.

Seeing his gaudy watch, I blurt, “That’s nice!”

“It cost eight billion!”

“So expensive! You should use that money to go out with your girlfriend.”

“I’m married.”

“Oh! How many kids?”

“Eight.”

“Eight!”

After he’s gone, Mrs. Seven tells me, “He’s not married. Who would marry him? His parents are rich, so he just rides around.”

He comes to Vung Tau to play with girls, chơi gái, meaning he visits whorehouses. Like a much more famous billionaire, this pitiful man is boastful, exaggerates numbers and loves to play with girls. Insane people are lost in their fantasized greatness.

As your people become increasingly destitute and outraged, you erect tallest flag poles, build the tackiest ballroom, stage a military parade on your birthday and, now, normalize having heavily armed troops on city streets, something unseen in any civilized country not at war. Who can claim, though, the USA is either?

Triggering the worst, Trump is well prepared for the worst, he thinks. Still, that constant stench from his own body is hard to ignore. It’s not just old age. Continentia in Latin means repression. Since this megalomaniac has never known any self-restraint, it’s all flooding out from every orifice as his cowed subjects endure his repression.

still from Jack from Thailand’s Thailand’s Father Day 2020 featuring Tony Cartalucci

Some Holes in Brian Berletic — Aug 13, 2025.

Between 7/26/25 and 7/31/25, I wrote five articles on the latest conflict between Thailand and Cambodia. Before giving you an update, let’s examine some contentions made by Brian Berletic, whose 28 minute video from 7/26/25 I saw just last night.

Though many of Berletic’s observations are astute, there are fundamental flaws in his world view. He keeps insisting Israel is doing America’s bidding, so Jews serve whiteys. More specifically, Israelis and all other bad actors globally are paid off, manipulated or fooled by the American empire. Ethnic or racial interests don’t trigger conflicts. If not for Uncle Sam, all nations and races would get along.

Like me, Berletic points out that many ethnic Cambodians live on the Thai side of the border, so they, too, were on the receiving end of Cambodian rockets. When there’s no war, Thais and Cambodians coexist well enough. This doesn’t mean, as Berletic contends, “There’s no real animosity between these two countries. A lot of people make this out as if it’s some sort of historical issue. People don’t go to war over history, over religion, over ethnicity. These are things people in power use to dupe people into fighting wars.”

(L): King Vajiralongkorn at Munich Airport, Germany, 2016 ; (R): Bangkok, Thailand, 1/3/23

People have always gone to war over ethnicity, race, religion or historical claims, even if these are grossly exaggerated or entirely fictional. Think six million Jews gassed to death in a Final Solution. To stoke Jews for genocide, Netanyahu said on 10/28/23, “You must remember what Amalek has done to you, says our Holy Bible. And we do remember.” There’s no need for Bibi to cite the entire passage. Every self respecting Jew already knows it, “Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.” To a lesser degree, Christians have absorbed this bloodthirsty mindset.

Since Amalek is a long disappeared nation that has nothing to do with contemporary Palestinians, it’s simply a shorthand for any enemy of the Jews. Fueled by racial righteousness and hatred, plus a lust for revenge against an amorphic Amalek, Jews going berserk in Gaza, the West Bank, Syria or Lebanon aren’t Uncle Sam’s proxies. They’re acting out their nationalism, something most leftists insist only the worst whites have, when in fact, nationalism is weakest among those pale folks with blonde, brown or red hair. Blacks, browns and yellows still embrace nationalism without shame.

Berletic acknowledges this himself in a Jack from Thailand’s video, “Thailand Father’s Day 2020 feat. Tony Cartalucci.” Since Berletic is a Slavic name, his adoption of a pen name so Italian was certainly weird. Why the misdirection? Should I call myself Witold Wozniak or Levi Ben-Gurion? Names denote familial, clan or tribal relationship.

In Thailand, love of nation is directly linked with loyalty to king. Though I’d rather not live in such a society, I’m not Thai, it’s their business. My name is not Somchai Ayutthaya. More troubling is their current monarch, Vajiralongkorn. He’s a veritable creep who spends most of his time in Bavaria. Each appearance in Thailand, such as seen in this video, is pure theater. In private, he’s an abuser of women and borderline crossdresser. Since any criticism of the king will land Berletic in prison, he only gushes about Vajiralongkorn here. It is sweet, though, to see thousands of Thais gather to celebrate their heritage. They will survive Vajiralongkorn.

In Bangkok two years ago, I stopped at a high school to observe their lengthy morning ritual to honor Buddha, king and nation. Their national anthem begins, “Thailand unites the flesh and blood of Thais. The land of Thailand belongs to the Thais.” Then, “We will sacrifice every drop of our blood for our nation.” Around that time, I also noticed no photos of kings at one café. This was highly unusual. Talking to the barista, I found out his sister couldn’t stand the royal family. This was her silent protest.

Everywhere, there were photos of Princess Bajrakitiyabha. She had collapsed at age 43 while walking her dogs. During Covid, rich Thais would fly to the USA to get Jewjabbed. Thirty months later, the princess is still in a coma, supposedly. No Thai newspaper or blogger would dare to suggest she’s most likely dead.

Berletic, then, must be extra careful when talking about Thai kings and their policies. His encapsulation of Thailand’s role during the Vietnam War, though, is at best bizarre:

Thailand has had a relationship with the United States over many years. It is complicated. Thailand was in a region the US was bombing. They were bombing Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos. Thailand was next. The US even encouraged a Communist insurgency in Thailand. Had nothing to do with actual Communism. Thailand decided they would host US troops and they would play along. Then as soon as the war was over, US troops went home. That relationship has gradually faded since and it has long since been replaced by a much closer, stronger and more constructive relationship with China.

Thailand: (L): Chanthaburi, 3/23/18 ; (R): Bangkok, 1/4/23

The US had no intention of bombing Thailand. In fact, it used Thailand as a base to bomb Laos and Cambodia, primarily to destroy the Ho Chi Minh Trails. Thailand didn’t just play along but benefited financially from hosting American troops. Those not stationed in Thailand went there for sex vacations. Thailand’s sex industry became the world’s largest during this era. That legacy is on full display today in Bangkok and Pattaya.

Though US troops did go home after the Vietnam War, the Pentagon maintained its influence. One example are the ill fated guerillas headed by a Vietnamese-American, Hoàng Cơ Minh. I should know. He’s my great uncle. In Virginia, he actually asked me if I wanted to go to Thailand. From there, I could follow him back into Vietnam via Laos. Knowing exactly where he was, Hanoi tracked HCM when he crossed into Laos, just north of Pakse, then killed him near Attapeu in 1987. Having spent seven months in Pakse and Ubon Ratchathani, I’m familiar with the region, though not as a guerilla. Only with Pentagon coordination would Thailand tolerate Vietnamese-Americans staging an armed conflict against Vietnam. It was more farcical than the Bay of Pigs.

Berletic’s claim that Thailand’s Communist insurgency was “encouraged” by the USA and “had nothing to do with actual Communism” is also absurd. Its main backers were Vietnam and China. Vietnamese Communists played key roles in growing Communist movements in Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and even Malaysia. That these relationships soured later was only due to each nation’s innate nationalism. Oriental tribalism trumped Jewish gibberish.

From 1975 to 1990, Thailand had to absorb waves of Vietnamese, Cambodians and Laos fleeing Communism, so it responded, often, by allowing its soldiers and citizens to rape, rob and kill them. After all, the land of Thailand belongs to the Thais. During last month’s conflict, ethnic Cambodians in Thailand were attacked, so thousands have fled home. Half a century ago, thousands of refugees were forced to return to Pol Pot ruled Cambodia at gun point. Stepping on mines, many never made it.

Like Berletic, I’m no fan of American imperialism, but unlike him, I also acknowledge the selfish or evil aims that are at least latent in all nations, and in each man, too. To reserve such agency to only white men or nations is to be, simply put, the purest racists, even if you’re completely unaware or mean well.

Today in the Phnom Penh Post, “Fresh claims that Thai soldiers destroyed homes, installed barricades, in Banteay Meanchey.” So it can certainly flare up again. On 8/7/25, Prime Minister Hun Monet nominated Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize, so the Donald has five from world leaders. They include the heads of Israel, Pakistan, Armenia and Azerbaijan.

West Point trained Hun Monet’s cozying up to Washington has angered Beijing. In December of 2024, the USS Savannah docked in Sihanoukville, not far from Ream, a naval base upgraded by the Chinese at the cost of billions. On 7/31/25, I wrote “Sam Landing Jab Means Chinese Troops in Southeast Asia.” I still stick with this assessment. Having invested so much into Cambodia, there’s no way China will let the US reap the benefits.

Plus, Hun Monet and his daddy, Hun Sen, are surrounded by powerful Chinese, many of whom have only been granted Cambodian citizenship recently. Counting underworld bosses, Cambodia is dominated by Chinese. Much of the Huns’ wealth comes from the Chinese.

The Cambodian economy depends on exports to the USA, however. That’s why Hun Manet has parked his skinny ass between two chairs. Kissing Trump’s rump, he’s also assuming the Donald will last a while. China, though, will be there until eternity.

Busan, South Korea, 7/15/20

Warring Societies — Aug 15, 2025.

Talking to Kevin Barrett just now, I pointed out the obvious. Language’s primary purpose isn’t to communicate but to prevent outsiders from having access to our thoughts, jokes, abject longings, battle plans, animosities towards outsiders and underhanded plots against them. Through vocabulary and accent, we can already tell who aren’t in our tribe, gang or cohort, and these are people who supposedly speak our language. Their mispronunciation of every word tests the limits of our superhuman forbearance and preternatural capacity for charity. Exiled to Morocco, Barrett must daily improve his Moroccan Arabic to blunt, most pitifully if rather sweetly, a universal irritation or amusement his strained babbling must cause. Knowing abject defeat to be inevitable, most expats cling to each other and more or less sleep in the same bed, night after night, in their own minuscule theme park.

Halfway through that paragraph, I looked out a second floor window at Pato’s Bingsu to see a woman in her early 30’s on a bicycle. Stopped in the middle of an intersection, she was cursing someone down Ba Cu Street, then she turned to a second target on Trưng Trắc. She would look left and right to find more enemies, or just to see if anyone was laughing at her. This went on for more than five minutes. I had to assume some motorist had cut her off. Her “fuck your mother” was distinctively northern. Perhaps wisely, no one tried to calm her down. My effort to do so would have been self-serving. The male fantasy of saving a damsel in distress is universal. It would be sci-fi creepy if manifested in a stinking old fart, with blood oozing from one big toe, no less. Two times in three days, I stubbed it, walking barefoot.

With Coffee House at that corner, I asked its security guard what had happened. Nothing, he said. No one had done anything to her. It’s a pity, we agreed.

“It’s stress,” he added. “From society, the economy.”

“And she has no one,” I speculated.

“No lover.”

“Lover?! She has no dog or cat!”

When there’s less to go around, divisions become accentuated. The more diverse a society, the more conflicts it will suffer. Knowing street fighting will erupt, Trump is prepping his masked goons.

The best allegory of human fragmentation is the 7th essay in Chronicles of Bustos Domecq, cowritten by Jorge Luis Borges and Julio Cortazar. Through the persona of a pompous critic, Borges’ erudition and occasional lapses into a tongue-in-cheek formal language are exaggerated most hilariously. It’s criminal that Norman Thomas di Giovanni’s translation, as published by Dutton in 1976, is out of print. Stuffed in a carton box in South Jersey, my copy is irretrievably lost. Luckily this morning, I was able to locate an online version at archive.org.

Consider its dedication, “To those three forgotten greats—Picasso, Joyce, Le Corbusier.” Penned by Borges, “forgotten” here doesn’t just jar, but is nearly a wish or prediction. These “greats” won’t be so great. Of course, it’s only Bustos Domecq talking.

Podgorica, Montenegro, 7/15/21

In the piece we’ll examine, “The Brotherhood Movement,” there’s also a mention of “Ezra Fishpond,” plus Quo Vadis?, but misattributed. Like Borges, Domecq the fictional critic has a fantastic reading list. Here’s the story’s central contention:

Human kind, he explained away, is made up, despite climatic and political differences, of a multitude of secret societies, or brotherhoods, whose members are not only unknown to each other but who may, at any given moment, change their status. Some of these societies are more enduring than others—for example, the society of individuals sporting Catalan surnames, or surnames that begin with the letter G. Others, inversely, quickly fade—the society of those who, this very moment, in Brazil or Africa, are inhaling the odor of jasmine or, more cultured minded and studious, reading a bus ticket.

Beyond who you are, everything you do, or even think, from moment to moment, aligns you further with a tiny, select “brotherhood” or “society,” while pitting you against the rest of the world. “The most trifling act—striking a match or blowing it out—expels us from one group and lodges us in another […] the person wielding a spoon is the adversary of he who brandishes a fork, but very soon both are at one over the use of the napkin, only to split again over their Postum or Sanka.” With “wielding,” “adversary” and “brandishes,” conflicts are introduced. Just as in real life, there’s no real ceiling. Evil is infinite.

After +30 years, the most enduring image from “The Brotherhood Movement” is of a man getting off a train pulling a switchblade on a boarding passenger. Performing opposites acts, they’re natural enemies. I laughed so hard back then.

Walking to Cóc Cóc, I passed another masked opponent. Now, I’m subjected to a ruthlessly targeted and sustained sonic assault from tattooed enemies wielding video games and TikTok skits. Clutching my bleeding toe, I collapse, my brain damaged and soul soiled. Vastly outnumbered, I must nurse my wounds until one day, perhaps tomorrow, I’ll make them all pay.

With Bustos Domecq’s contention so airtight and unimpeachable, any counter argument deserves to be hissed at, nuked, flushed away or aborted. This feeble example, then, is only dished up for your amusement. Days ago, I passed a puppy tied to a motorbike on Ba Cu. Noticing his entreating eyes, I came over to introduce myself, which sent him into a joyful frenzy.

When his owner appeared seconds later, I asked, “Does he have friends?”

“Who isn’t his friend?” she smiled.

Though what I meant was, “Does he have dog friends?” she and her puppy didn’t make a distinction between men and dogs. Plus, this innocent hadn’t learnt, most bitterly, the meaning of enemy.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Slices of Life 2

If Trump’s weapons overseas are bombs and missiles, his domestic ones are primarily words.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Biggest, Longest and Hottest Wordsmith Ever — Aug 09, 2025.

Michael Snyder’s The Economic Collapse Blog has been around for over a decade. Its gathering of raw statistics is most useful. Snyder has also published seven books on the rapture, including The Beginning of the End (2013), End Times (2022) and Chaos (2023). Having gained a following, Snyder decided to run for congress as a Republican in 2018.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 11/30/24

The Idaho News on 1/1/18, “Michael Snyder says he is not a politician—but a firebrand, fighter and 100 percent supporter of President Trump.

“‘He restored my faith in America,’ Snyder said.

“[…] If elected, Snyder says he wants to be Trump’s ‘best friend in Congress.’”

In the Republican Primary, Snyder got just 10.3% of the votes, so finished fifth. Not every boy can grow up to be a congressman. As for president, the morally depraved have the best chance, but keep in mind that nearly everyone is already excluded, so stick to your fireman job fantasy, and only fools dream of walking on the moon or Mars.

Of 47 US presidents, only one had German blood. None had French or Spanish. Old World feuds are still being fought. Nearly all POTUSes were Englishmen with roots in the English Colonies. Though Trump and Obama don’t have this pedigree, they can easily be blackmailed. The compromised will wreck his nation to save his sick, corrupt ass.

Chastened by defeat, Snyder has returned to what he does best. On 8/7/25, he wrote, “If everything is going to be just fine, why are thousands of stores closing all over the country? So far this year, the total amount of retail space that has been permanently closed has surpassed 120 million square feet […] Store closings spiked during the early days of the pandemic, but in 2025 stores are being permanently shuttered at an even faster pace.”

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

MAGA diehards would dismiss this as doom porn. It must be fake news that 5,822 stores have closed during the first half of 2025. What about all those newly opened? On 8/8/25, Trump posted at Truth Social, “Stephen Moore: ‘Mr. President, you gained ten times more income for the average family than Joe Biden… Every income group did better under Trump than Biden—by a wide margin…’”

Ten times?! With every income group doing better by a wide margin? Is this like gas at under two bucks and drug prices being reduced by 1,500 percent? Far from that madhouse, I’m appalled and fascinated by this information war. Having kissed Trump’s ass so heartily, Snyder can’t blame his (ex?) idol for the very economic collapse he’s documenting.

As with the Holocaust, Israel’s right to exist, 9/11, Bin Laden’s supposed assassination, Jewjabs, America as beacon of democracy and champion of peace, Arabs as head chopping fanatics and Jews as always persecuted for no reason, narratives matter very much. Words shape reality. With all eyes on him globally, any American president is most powerful, even if he’s just taking orders. With Trump, there’s the added horror of seeing English being degraded most tragically and farcically. There’s no more shame in spewing outrageous lies in the crudest, most cartoonish language. Sickest are those who worship this crass idiot. Again, Trump mirrors America.

Trump’s tariffs raise prices, so people shop less or shoplift, thus bankrupting stores. This generates many more desperately broke blokes who must travel further to stuff cans of tuna if not a whole frozen chicken into their pants. “Why you look so hard at my bulging crotch, man?!” If it doesn’t quite fit, you can unzip to release part of the cold cock.

There’s a new trend of grabbing snacks from Walmart shelves, to be eaten in situ, but this lifestyle revolution can only be practiced if there’s still a Walmart within 30 miles or so of the storage unit you call home. Since all your neighbors are similarly destitute, you can’t even turn tricks to earn gas money. Five must squeeze into a compact, then, to go raiding. Wilding will spread.

Those who don’t have a storage unit or car to sleep in soon go apeshit from being exposed nonstop to the elements and, much worse, fellow humans. There’s always a healthy percentage among them who can’t wait to rob or rape you, even if you’re just a fetid sack well past your expiration date. Since it’s only “best before,” a can of baked beans stamped “31.12.25” can still be consumed a century later. There are good news! If you haven’t been bludgeoned or sodomized at a hundred years old, Trump can now pack you into an insane asylum. If you’re a Hispanic or American Indian, you might even be rewarded with an open ended foreign vacation.

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

Though Trump’s ICE’s targeting of brown people has cheered many whites, it’s only misdirection. He’s screwing whites, too, only differently. Most dangerously, he’s normalizing lawlessness, on top of vulgarity and idiocy. Unleashing mayhem and terror, Trump burps slogans, cliches and lies to an audience lobotomized over decades. If Trump’s weapons overseas are bombs and missiles, his domestic ones are primarily words. Since these still work well on nearly half his country, Trump must be America’s most formidable wordsmith.

Even before it stopped making stuff, America was mostly about branding, misnaming and marketing. The worst bread ever was called Wonderbread, the worst cream was dubbed Miracle Whip. As the US declined, its self promotion became absurdly infantile, to suit its own citizens. Who cares if billions outside are aghast? In the age of selfies, the world is reduced to your face, regurgitated opinions, TV stations, bookmarks, video games, favorite YouTube influencers and the same songs heard over and over.

With American literacy reduced by 1,500 percent, James, Whitman and Pound might as well have written in Chinese. Luckily, America still has Trump.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/9/25

Fart and Run Communication Among the Faceless — Aug 10, 2025.

On 5/12/23, I made a four minute video of the Sacred Heart Church in Pakse, Laos. Since my videos are among the worst on YouTube, I don’t expect likes or comments. In March of 2025, one blanchelobo4420 came on to ask for the time of the English mass on Ash Wednesday. I didn’t even know there was such a mass at Sacred Heart. I answered, “I left Pakse years ago. I don’t know the time of their masses.”

Though blanchelobo4420 was in Pakse, he somehow thought the comment stream of this barely seen video was the best place to get his info. After asking the same question over and over, he snapped, “It is so sad that my several queries regarding the English Mass on Ash Wednesday & what time it is is being ignored. If I don’t get any reply from you, it’ll be on your conscience for preventing me to hear Mass on Ash Wednesday. I plead of you to please reply to my query ASAP. THANK YOU.”

An American Catholic who must attend mass on Ash Wednesday shouldn’t have expected to find any Catholic church in a provincial Lao city, much less one with English services. Almost every Lao is a Buddhist. In Pakse, though, there are Europeans running an Italian restaurant, French bakery and French restaurant, all clustered together downtown. Also, his hotel receptionist must have spoken English, or he wouldn’t have been able to check in. Despite these options, blanchelobo4420 had to harass a Vietnamese who lived 450 miles away.

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

Two weeks ago, I received a message from an admirer of my poetry, particularly my “Brand New Products.” Since Alex was too young to witness my banishment from the US literary scene, he asked me for an explanation. It started with my questioning of 9/11, I replied, then worsened with my straying from polite or correct versions of the Bin Laden “assassination,” Jewjabs and, most damningly, the Holocaust. My collaboration with Iran’s Press TV over several years didn’t help. As my career sank, I felt no regrets. All I cared about was articulating what I really believed to be true.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “I definitely don’t agree with the genocide being perpetrated by Israel and the USA right now, but your hate for Jews clouds your literary genius. May one day you be able to escape the chains of hate, for they tie us down rather than empower us. Thank you for the answers to my questions and I hope your weekend is enjoyable.”

So my revulsion over genocides stemming from a genocidal ideology is reduced to my being strapped to “the chains of hate.” I’m sure he has no use for my “Less Than Cockroaches.” Don’t lecture me without reading it.

Days ago, I got a message from Avi Shmoo. “I just listened to your conversation with Kevin Barrett, and I’d love to be in touch with you. Thanks Brother. Have a wonderful, beautiful day.” Sure, let’s talk, I replied. In the warmest tone, Shmoo said he was reading my Wikipedia page and had listened to two of my articles. Decades ago, he also had a Vietnamese friend. Learning that Shmoo was living in Moscow, I immediately suggested we do an interview. I also sent him two I had done with American expats in Russia. Who wouldn’t want to hear about how Shmoo had ended up there? Sure, he said, but, “I try to keep my head down. I stay off the radar. So I wouldn’t want to use the same name (pseudonym) in two places.” No problem, I answered. Below Shmoo’s messages were the flags of Iran, China, Russia, Palestine, not quite Syria or Iraq, and Malaysia. His fake photo was of some fat, clownish white guy in a black wig. Though I had started to formulate questions for this Avi Shmoo, I never heard from him again.

These sketches illustrate how the faceless communicate in 2025. Appearing suddenly, they can just fart then run. With chatbots, it will get even worse, they say. It’s hard to imagine. “Real men” are bad enough.

Tentative titles for this piece were “Tales of Madness,” “Edifying Sketches” and “Madness Buffet,” with the last particularly stupid. The word buffet, though, did make me think of a distant episode. Since insanity is our default state, men were also crazy in the 90’s, but somehow less so, I’d like to think, in my incurable madness.

Around 1990, Korean owned buffets spread across the USA. They didn’t just serve Korean dishes, but Chinese stir-fries, spaghetti, salads, meatloaves, mashed potato and Swedish meatballs, etc. You paid by the pound. It was a winning concept. Walking by one of these in Philly, I noticed its owner standing outside. Puffing a cigarette, his face beamed with a naked pride obvious to every businessman, secretary, construction worker and student strolling by. Starting out in Muju, Asan-myeon or Oksan-ri, this squat man had conquered America, so it was only natural for him so puff out his chest and suck in deeply, so deeply, in fact, that there wasn’t enough oxygen for anyone else within a quarter mile. Suddenly, everyone staggered, gasped and nearly fell down. Seeing this, he felt even more vindicated. I wouldn’t have been surprised had he started crowing like a cock, or pulled his pants down to more fully display his cockiness.

 No less vain, I made a video this dawn that’s even more pointless than usual. It depicts humans and dogs doing not much in silence and darkness. Mrs. Seven can barely be seen scooping some ice, emptying a bucket then making herself an iced coffee. Sơn the security guard is already exhausted before starting his shift. Pretending to give a shit, I hug Mrs. Seven’s two dogs.

zero star lunch chez moi in Vung Tau on 8/11/25

Sadistic Addicts Ready to Convict — Aug 11, 2025.

By the time I could sit down at my first café, it was nearly 4:30PM. Since I would normally be out by 4AM, then have an article done by 9 or 10, I had added 12 more hours to my enormous tally of wasted time. I had woken up with a headache continued from last night.

In Buchner’s Woyzeck, the captain hilariously says, “It’s frightening, how the world turns round in a day. What a waste of time! What does it amount to?” He also tells Woyzeck to slow down his barbering, since the captain has no use for ten extra minutes.

Before drinking my guava juice, I checked on Mo, Cà Phê Cà Pháo’s kitten. He had just returned from the vet, where he spent four days. Counting two days he lay immobile at home without eating, Mo had wasted nearly a week. When not sick, this alert, hyper active animal never squanders a second. You’d never catch him with a cellphone four inches from his face, or playing the same board game with each free moment for an entire lifetime, or watching hundreds if not thousands of sporting contests yearly, with millions of commercial breaks.

Lying half dead at home, I did catch up on some news. A green card holder from South Korea has been jailed for at least a week, after his arrest at San Francisco International Airport. Unlike President Trump, 40-year-old Tea Heung “Will” Kim never murdered or raped anybody. More than a decade ago, Kim was convicted of marijuana possession, for which he did community service. He’s now a doctorate candidate at Texas A&M, researching a vaccine for Lyme disease. Though Kim has been in the US since age 5, he never applied for citizenship, however. Under any other administration, this would not have mattered.

Kim’s attorneys haven’t been allowed to contact him. They don’t even know where he’s being held.

Most revealing are YouTube comments about this case. sheilawilliams2875, “So he had a DRUG charge. Deport him.” karenphu998, “Drug charges? This guy needs to go back to Korea.” georgieboy2432, “Green cards are not a free pass!” JHtx991, “they should also remind everyone you get like 10 yrs in jail for weed in korea [laughing to tears emoji] with a 99.9% conviction rate.” tamelabarr6601, “Blah blah blah blah… he’s not an American citizen.” Most comments are like these. Led by Trump, the US has turned into one hideous society.

How many drugs are Elon Musk on? How many have you tried?

My high school best friend, Brian Robertson, introduced me to weed. Under Trump, Brian became a Senior Policy Advisor and Speechwriter at the State Department and Department of Health and Human Services. He’s also a Policy Director for Republican Senator Sam Brownback. At every junior or senior high school across the USA, anyone could buy weed from a classmate without a problem.

In college, I did weed and lines of coke, once with a professor. This was the era of Cheech and Chong. Not so funny is how the USA will turn nearly everyone into an addict, with self destructive behavior nearly unavoidable. With each waking moment so empty and pointless if not painful, wasting time while dazed, delirious or numb has become the most common solution. Partying means getting fucked up. It’s almost impossible to talk at parties, bars or night clubs. Starved of meaningful conversations, brains dry up, souls shrink and language dies.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/11/25

Now at Cóc Cóc, I’m five yards from a teenaged boy who’s been possessed for nearly two hours by video games. Sickly thin with horrible posture, he wears the uniform of the Vietnam America School, where tuition for the 10th grade is $3,477 a year. This barely Americanized kid isn’t just lost to Vietnam, but anything pungent, tactile or visceral. His eyes are deader than crazed marbles in the dullest color. An aspiring global citizen, he’ll soon have a harem of AI girlfriends to confide and jerk off to. Sex, for him, will be purely visual. Though living next to the ocean, he will likely drown within seconds of being tossed into it.

Before leaving my room, I did make a hybrid dish of San Remo Spaghetti with Cuccina and Armore three cheese sauce, Kikoman Light Soy Sauce, cucumber and roast pork. Though neither Mo nor Mrs. Seven’s two dogs would touch this globalist travesty, it tasted fine to me. To be alive now is to be adrift, or lênh đênh in Vietnamese. That’s almost my name. We’re all Linh Đinh. Culinary miscegenation is perhaps globalism’s greatest contribution.

Sơn the security guard makes around $2,000 a year, so no Vietnam America School for his kids. Fresh again at 7PM, I’ll see this quiet, melancholic man before dawn tomorrow. Impossibly slumped, that 10^th grader’s chin has sunk into his bony chest as his skeletal thumbs dance frantically. Tinny clashes of swords erupt nonstop. Now he’s holding his phone right over his crotch.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

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

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

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

Global South

Bear, Dragon, Elephant, Toucan, Nightingale stare down Goldfinger

Of course it’s all about Alaska. Here’s what’s in play. But it’s the shadowplay that’s even more exciting.

By Pepe Escobar at Strategic Culture Foundation.

Of course it’s all about Alaska. Here’s what’s in play. But it’s the shadowplay that’s even more exciting.

Across the world, for those who grew up in the Cold War Swingin’ Sixties, the temptation is irresistible to cast Donald Trump as Goldfinger  (but who would play Oddjob? Hegseth?)

Goldfinger, after all, is a powerful, ruthless gambler. His 21^st century motto would be “Obliterate & Plunder”. In fact, sequentially, an orgy of obliteratin’ and plunderin’ if the occasions present themselves. Everything subjected to the search for the Golden Deal. My way. The only way.

Yet now it’s possible that Goldfinger may have met its appropriate – collective – match.

This is what happened the last time a summit took place in Alaska, in this particular case US-China in a shabby hotel in Anchorage. That shook the geopolitical chessboard to the core. Trump-Putin might – but only under quite specific conditions.

There’s only one realistic, optimal endgame for Alaska: a joint declaration of intent, pointing to a follow-up, as in the next meeting to be held in Russian territory. A sort of starter for the long and winding road towards a real reset of US-Russia relations, including a possible settlement in the proxy war in Ukraine.

Essentially, they may agree to keep talking. Yet what really matters is what may be implied by the promise: Goldfinger refrains from imposing secondary sanctions on Russia’s partners.

That will constitute a tremendous BRICS victory (Iran excluded. Actually, two strategic allies of Russia would be excluded: Iran and the DPRK).

BRICS are actively building a coalition to stare down Goldfinger. The key players are Bear, Dragon, Toucan and Elephant – all four original founders of BRIC. Nightingale should be added later, as it is linked via geopolitical/geoeconomic strategic partnerships with Bear, Dragon and Elephant.

When it comes to the Alaska nitty gritty, the top Bear needs to consider all the ramifications of what is an imperative for the Russian General Staff and the vast intel apparatus in Moscow: unless Goldfinger minions stop weaponizing and providing precious intel to Ukraine is all its forms, the mythic “ceasefire” that Goldfinger and the pack of toothless chihuahuas in Europe desperately want will be just an intermission to allow Ukraine to rearm to the hilt.

That’s a tough call for the top Bear: he has to placate his domestic, radical critics who blast him for sitting down with the enemy, and at the same time he must deliver the goods to his under-siege BRICS allies.

BRICS counteract Goldfinger’s Plunder tactics

Bear, Dragon, Toucan and Elephant are involved in breathless telephone diplomacy to articulate their collective response to Goldfinger’s Tariff/Plunder drive.

Examples. Modi on Brazil: “A strong, people-centric partnership between Global South nations benefits everyone.”

Lula on India: “Brazil and India are, so far, the two most affected countries. We reaffirmed the importance of defending multilateralism and the need to address the challenges of the current situation.”

Xi to Lula: China backs Brazil to defend its national sovereignty; BRICS is “a key platform for building consensus in the Global South.”

Goldfinger’s Tariff Plunder works in several ways.

On India: because New Delhi refuses to open its vast agricultural market to tariff-free Made in USA imports (45% of India’s population directly depends on agriculture); and because India buys Russian oil at much-needed discount prices.

On Brazil: because the ultimate target is regime change and free reign to plunder Brazil’s natural wealth.

So far, Goldfinger’s Plunder antics have been stellar when it comes to engineering their own blowback: from allienating even allies – see abject European submission – to de facto burying multilateral trade, not to mention international law.

Example: just a few hours before the tariff “pause” on Made in China products was about to expire, Goldfinger signed an executive order extending the deadline for another 90 days. Translation: TACO, all over again. If the tariff “pause” went through, the economy of the $37 trillion-indebted “indispensable nation” would be in even more dire straits.

Then there’s Goldfinger’s possible Arctic gameplay, already examined here. There’s virtually no evidence Russia would allow the US to participate in the development of the Arctic-wide Northern Sea Route (NSR), or Arctic Silk Road in Chinese terminology.

The role of Russia’s Atomflot – 11 nuclear icebreakers, 9 of them in action, 2 being built, including Project 10510 Rossiya, a behemoth capable of navigating anywhere in the Arctic anytime – in parallel with Russia’s astonishing arsenal of new weapons systems, these are absolutely key variables on any serious discussion on any possible US-Russia partnership post-Alaska.

Arya – آریا: mural at Tehran’s Enghelab Square. Farsi text: “The end of this saga is of glory, thus recite the name of Iran, for it is the slayer of its enemies.” The Iranian warrior Rostam from Shahnameh fights the serpent (the US)

Goldfinger’s obsession to cage Nightingale

Now let’s look at Nightingale – an immensely complex case. Goldfinger has totally embarked on a multi-track maximum pressure/tension remix against Iran: forcing Hezbollah to disarm; forcing the collapse of Lebanon into factional war; legitimizing the “al-Qaeda R Us” dismemberment of Syria; forcing snapback UN-backed sanctions on Tehran.

Then came the Goldfinger-hailed “historic peace summit” with Azerbaijan’s Aliyev and Armenia’s Pashinyan.

Well, what Baku and Yerevan really signed under Goldfinger’s watchful eye is not a peace deal: it’s a mere memorandum of understanding (MOU).

Their Joint Declaration is extremely vague – and non-binding. What is promised is a “let’s keep talking” set up: “We acknowledged the need to continue further actions to achieve the signing and ultimate ratification of the [Peace] Agreement.”

It remains to be seen what happens with the much-ballyhooed 99-year American grip on the Zangezur corridor – trimphally named Trump Route for International Peace and Prosperity (TRIPP) – complete with grabbing 40% of its revenues (Armenia would get only 30%) and placing 1,000 American mercenaries to patrol Armenian territory, right south of Nightingale’s borders.

The big story is of course Goldfinger eager to snatch at least one connectivity corridor in southern Eurasia – in the strategic south Caucasus, using a gangster-minded MI6 asset (Aliyev) and a national traitor (meek Pashinyan), which will be discarded and/or sweetened in due time. Crucially, NATO membership was offered to both Armenia and Azerbaijan.

The Deep State’s game plan is total control: what really matters is the opening to establish a NATO corridor all the way to the Caspian.

There’s no way Nightingale will let that happen, not to mention Bear and Dragon: it would mean a direct NATO threat not only to the International North South Transportation Corridor (INSTC), which unites three BRICS (Russia, Iran, India) and crosses the Caspian, but also the Chinese Silk Roads, whose corridors traverse Iran with possible branch outs to the Caucasus.

Nightingale has already made it quite clear it will not allow any kind of change of status for the Zangezur corridor. And it has the necessary missile arsenal to back it up. IRGC Deputy Commander Yadollah Javani: Iran “will not allow an American corridor on its border.”

Wherever it comes from, Goldinger or the Deep State, the pressure by the Empire of Chaos is relentless. There will be no respite in the Hybrid – and otherwise – Wars on BRICS, especially on the new Primakov triangle (“RIC” as in Russia, Iran, China).

Alaska in principle should be about a reset of all US-Russia security matters – geopolitical, commercial, military, with Ukraine being just a subset. That will be a major stretch. It’s hard to imagine Putin being able to impress on Trump, on the same table, the finer points of NATO/US ceaseless plots to undermine, harass and destabilize Russia.

The most probable outcome is that the proxy war – and the SMO – will keep rollin’ on, but with the Deep State making extra bundles of euros by selling tons of weapons for NATO to dispatch to Kiev. But even without the promise of a new, serious, US-Russia security architecture, BRICS may still stand a chance to snatch a victory out of Goldfinger’s latest photo op.

Global South

Slices of Life

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Empty Bellies, Emptier Minds — Aug 06, 2025.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): $2.55 on 8/6/25 ; (R): $1.33 on 8/3/25

Arriving at Coffee Seven around 3:40AM, I sat on its one park bench to use the wifi. Five minutes later I could hear Mrs. Seven say to her white bitch, “Grandpa is here.” Knowing it already, the dog’s excited paws could be heard pattering on the worn tiles, then she came running out to greet me. After setting up a few tables and chairs, Mrs. Seven went inside to brush her teeth.

Nearly always, Sơn the security guard is the second to show. Once, he asked Mrs. Seven for two diarrhea pills. Of course, she didn’t charge him. Another time, she borrowed his motorbike to go to Cô Giang wet market, a quarter mile away. Mrs. Seven only has a bicycle.

Sometimes a 29-year-old would appear. After his coffee, he’d buy a pack of Saigon cigarettes for 61 cents, so her profit isn’t even four pennies! Worse, he’d sometimes pay her 15 instead of 16K đồng, then conveniently forget about the difference. He’s not too bright a young man. I know from trying to chat with him.

Hearing music from pre-1975 Saigon, Half Lit was surprised to learn you could be arrested for listening to it just a few years before he was born. Of course, he didn’t know Ho Chi Minh had a Chinese wife.

“Just about everything you’ve been taught about history is a lie,” I said. “How many kings were in the Hùng Dynasty?”

Though this knowledge is so basic, he didn’t know it, so I told him, “Eighteen! How many years did this dynasty last?” Of course, he went blank. I continued, “Two thousand! You can’t have 18 kings over two thousand years. Each would have had to live over 300 years. The name Hùng Vương is already bullshit. Hùng means brave. Vương means king. Both words are derived from Chinese. We didn’t have writing until the Chinese came. There’s no writing on our bronze drums. These so called “brave kings,” then, are merely mythical. It’s impossible to have any dynasty lasting two thousand years, period.”

Half Lit didn’t need to hear all that. You probably tuned out also. Though a college drop-out, I did teach at six universities in two countries. It’s the village explainer in me sputtering. Sorry! Understandably, Half Lit has made sure to ignore my presence entirely since.

$1.66 in Vung Tau on 5/18/25

My 61 cent black coffee came with a free pot of hot tea. Leaving Coffee Seven, I walked seven minutes to the grocer to buy four cucumbers, six tomatoes, ten brown eggs and 14 okras for $2.55. On the way, I passed an old lady selling sticky rice for breakfast. These come in many varieties, but even with bits of meat, none should cost more than 50 cents. I give you these prices to show basic food items shouldn’t cost much.

In the US, you’re not just paying for the tomatoes but its aspirin spray, ethylene gas, long distance transportation, attractive packaging, placement in a large, well-lit and air conditioned store, plus shoplifting and spoilage costs.

The US gets most of its tomatoes, avocados, bell peppers, strawberries and bananas from Latin America. Though some of these can be grown in the US, there just aren’t enough illegal immigrants around, unfortunately.

According to Trump, Americans are too “inner city” to farm, “They’ve tried. We’ve tried. Everybody’s tried. They don’t do it. These people do it naturally.” Trump meant all these illegal immigrants when they’re not whacking white retirees with baseball bats from behind, or running around looking for white teenagers to rape. That should be reserved for aging white creeps who must grab last minute pussies before high fiving Jesus. “Naturally! I said, ‘What happens?’ to a farmer the other day. ‘What happens if they get a bad back?’ He said, ‘They don’t get a bad back, sir, because if they get a bad back, they die.’ I said, ‘That’s interesting.’ In many ways, they’re very, very special people.”

Before Mexicans, there were blacks, I suppose, to bend over under an impossibly hot sun, all the time, every day, until they drop dead immediately from a bad back. If farming is only natural for brown folks, how did white Europeans survive for thousands of years? Easy, they just looted, raped and pillaged from assorted peoples of color. I’m just using Trumpian logics here. If Trump University was still around, I’d certainly be hired to teach history, anthropology, sociology, agricultural science or business administration.

Standing next to a Trump standee fingering Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood or Heidi, I’d lecture, “Y’all are paying more to eat shit. Milk, eggs, chicken, pork and just about everything else cost less, yet taste much better, the second you step outside the US fuckin’ A! Try it sometime. Go dip one toe into the Rio Grande and see if the burrito you just bought in El Paso or San Ysidro doesn’t taste a hundred times better?”

Raising one skeletal arm, some kid in a MAGA hat would moan, “But perfesser, many of us ain’t even eating.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): $21.81 on 3/7/24 ; (R): $2.36 on 12/14/24

It’s not fiction. After my recent article about American supermarkets closing left and right, Troy Skaggs comments, “The Western Avenue Kroger in South Bend closed last month. I called it ‘my’ store because it was one of the few major label groceries that I felt comfortable being in. With the influx of Latinos, it always had good Poblano peppers in the meager produce section. Struggling yet dedicated employees, the place had a downtrodden but friendly vibe. Chris, one of the checkout guys, had some obvious physical disabilities. You could tell that mobility was difficult, but he was always there doing his best. I was in there a couple of days before it closed for good. Half empty, with everything reduced, some customers were filling their carts while the employees did their best to keep the place clean. Knowing that I’d never be in the store again, I had a hard time keeping it together as I made my way to produce.”

Even a chain supermarket gave Troy a much needed sense of community. With fewer illegals farming, food prices rocketing due to tariffs and even mega stores going tits up, Troy will have to drive further to eat less. Like millions of other Americans, he might have to use food banks, until those, too, run dry.

Just in case you think only bums do so, consider this NBC News report on 8/2/25, “Twice a week, just outside of Fort Hood, Texas, the armed services YMCA holds a free food distribution for the military community, and every week, there are more families in the line than food to serve.” These are wives and children of American soldiers, mind you. With their husbands stationed at one of 750 bases at +80 countries, these women, many with jobs, must still rely on charity. “One in four active duty troops are now food insecure, more than double the rate for civilians.”

Trump on 3/9/25, “We’re going to be so rich, you won’t know where to spend all that money.” Though he hasn’t toned it down, many still believe this master grifter.

Finishing this in Cóc Cóc at 7:59PM, I had to move to a different seat because a young man, sitting right next to me, was shooting nonstop at cartoony enemies. On a phone held six inches from his face, he generated endless rat tat tats with his restless thumbs. Not quite 30, his world has shrunken to almost nothing. Vietnamese retards are also multiplying at a stupendous rate.

A month ago in Amman, I photographed some stray cats at a 1,800 year old Roman ruins. Troy Skaggs commented that those beasts looked “more vigilant and aware than many humans, myself included.” Unlike most of us, they’re not trying at each moment to avoid reality or their own thoughts, Rat, tat, tat, tat! 21st century man is the least human ever. The phone has just moved an inch closer to his deadened face.

An older, saner arrangement still exists. Just eight hours from now, I’ll reenter it. “Grandpa is here,” I’ll hear again, then be greeted by one joyous being unmolested by constant bullshit.

Vung Tau, 8/6/25

Post Attentiveness — Aug 07, 2025.

Born in 1963, I’m already among the last to remember when flying was civilized, and any half intelligent man was expected to read at least several books a year. Entering college during the Fall of 1982, I wasted no time in using its library, so no later than halfway through my sophomore year, I had read Gide, Gorky, Apollinaire, Cendrars, Stefan Zweig, Whitman, Shakespeare’s sonnets, Roger Shattuck and Robert Henri, on top of Erasmus, Thomas More, Machiavelli, Rabelais, Calderón de la Barca, Marquez, Conrad, Chekov, Tennyson, Eliot, Beckett, Kate Chopin and Flannery O’Connor, which I had to do for classes. Being so young and stupid, of course I missed much, but serious literature is meant to be reexamined repeatedly. I read other books I no longer remember. I couldn’t penetrate Chaucer and never cared for E. E. Cummings. Even with little life experience, I thought Dickinson embarrassingly dry when not hysterical. Dostoievski, Kafka, Kundera, Borges, Cortazar, Manuel Puig, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Artaud, Jarry, Neruda, Yeats, Ginsberg, Buchner, Hamsun, Milosz, Simone Weil, Evelyn Waugh, CK Williams and Robert Lowell I’d discover before finally dropping out of college in 1986. Of crazy Artaud, I can recall two lines, “I hate and denounce as cowards all so-called sensate beings.” “And you are quite superfluous, young man!”

Paying $25 rent to live in a dismal house that was more like a shell, I then read 900+ pages of Céline. Just sentences into Death on the Installment Plan, I thought, This is very dangerous, but I forged forward. I’m mapping out my intellectual beginning to show that even a habitually drunk immigrant with an accent and philistine parents could educate himself somewhat if not distracted by constant TV, nonstop music or, of course, the cellphone. I bought my first computer in 1995.

Had I been born in, say, 1985, I would most likely be a slobbering retard who can’t wait to vote again and again, “to make a difference.” Of course, I’d comment diarrheically online behind an original pseudonym appended with PhD. Even as my house, mama and society go up in flames, it’s important I keep the lowest profile, fly miles under the radar and never dox myself. Above all, I mustn’t hate a systematic, steady hatred nakedly applied against meaning itself. To even hint at it would be anti-schematic. Please don’t report me, sir! If unusually brave, I might risk waving a hand scrawled sign at mostly indifferent traffic for half an hour every five years, among masked comrades.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, on 8/7/25: (L): Coffee Seven ; (R): Cà Phê Cà Pháo

In any new city, one must find great bookstores. Before the internet, this meant actually walking around. Bookish locals could also help you out, but they were very rare. In Philadelphia, South Street Books was pretty good, but Factotum, also on South but on the wrong side of Broad, was even better. Browsing books on shelves leads to discoveries. The internet killed this practice. Finding books by key words keeps you in the tiniest ghettos.

A college professor, Stephen Berg, was the editor of the American Poetry Review. Among English language poetry zines, it had the highest circulation at over 20,000. Published six times a year, it also appeared more frequently than all. Most were quarterlies. At Steve’s office and house, books were all over. Of course, as a powerful editor, he had thousands sent to him unsolicited. Though we became drinking buddies, Steve got angry at me for two reasons. Already knowing I didn’t respect his poetry, Steve ditched our friendship when I didn’t immediately intercede on his behalf at Seven Stories Press. Emailing Steve from Italy, I said I would talk to Dan Simon in person, but that wasn’t enough. At some Manhattan bar, Dan said he didn’t need anyone to tell him what to think. Nothing I said could change his mind about Steve’s manuscript.

All writers think they’re underappreciated, overlooked or slandered. With fewer readers paying attention, this bitterness has only increased tragically, or perhaps just pathetically.

Typing this at Cà Phê Cà Pháo, I have in front me a 2024 edition of Ngô Sĩ Liên’s history of Vietnam, first published in 1479. I’m the only one who has shown any interest in this 1,284 page volume. Though the café’s owner has only bought it as a decoration, Ngô Sĩ Liên shouldn’t complain. Five centuries after his death, he’s still visible, if only from the side and afar, to dozens of distracted zombies daily, when they’re not admiring their own selfies or playing video games. At least he wasn’t castrated like Sima Qian. Uppity, name dropping intellectuals deserve no less.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): Cà Phê Cà Pháo on 8/7/25 ; (R): Ngô Sĩ Liên’s Đại Việt Sử Ký Toàn Thư at Cà Phê Cà Pháo on 7/27/25

Living in Vung Tau four years, I’ve only seen three people with books. One had volumes by some new agey guru. Another was reading short stories by Nam Cao, so that was encouraging. Last night at Cóc Cóc, there was a guy reading a book. Before I got too excited, I noticed his earbud. To read with music is nearly as bad as reading on the toilet. His author was the super lame Nguyễn Nhật Ánh.

Twenty-first century man has stopped reading everything, not just books. It’s a question of focus. Neurologically damaged, he can’t read a face, the sky, his room, city or nation. Skimming or flitting while taking a shit or masturbating with the worst music on full blast is not reading.

Just yesterday, one “john henninger” emailed me, “You had preferred kamala for a week before teeing off on her!” No salution, introduction, context or, clearly, any real reading, since I’ve never said anything positive about Kamala Harris. What prompted this idiocy was the first 142 words of a 901-word article. I canceled his free subscription. There are people who subscribe to hundreds of SubStacks, just so they can leap into a few to fart and run. It’s an epidemic.

We’ve sunk a long way. In his The Great War and Modern Memory, Paul Fussell points out:

The American Civil War was the first, Theodor Ropp observes, “in which really large numbers of literate men fought as common soldiers.” By 1914, it was possible for soldiers to be not merely literate but vigorously literary, for the Great War occurred at a special historical moment when two “liberal” forces were powerfully coinciding in England. On the one hand, the belief in the educative powers of classical and English literature was still extremely strong. On the other, the appeal of popular education and “self-improvement” was at its peak, and such education was still conceived largely in humanistic terms.

Again, it’s not just knowledge you gain from reading, but how to be attentive. Without attentiveness, which doesn’t have to come from reading, of course, there’s no respect or love for anything, only the most narrow, hateful and desperate form of self love. Sunk in it, you’re literally in hell.

Referral Hospital in Stung Treng, Cambodia on 3/12/23

Bodies As Tests and Lessons — Aug 08, 2025.

Nhà thương, house of love, is what Vietnamese call hospitals. If you’re looking for a whorehouse, it’s on a different block, but who knows? Somewhere, perhaps everywhere, there must be hospitals cum whorehouses, where male and female nurses can mount near corpses to send them into the netherworld. “Goodbye, grandpa. You should have checked in much sooner. Trying to save a few pennies killed your fuckin’ ass.”

At Coffee Seven, three middle aged guys are talking about hospitals and various ailments at 5:30AM. Before leaving, Sơn the security guard showed me black pellets he’s taking for his joint pains. They looked like rabbit turds.

“You should take some, too,” I said to Mrs. Seven.

“Why?”

“To feel better.”

“But my joints are fine.”

“Taking those, your joints will feel even better!” I laughed.

(L): Bowring and Lady Curzon Hospital in Bengaluru, India, 12/1/22 ; (R): First Town Hospital in Belgrade, Serbia, 7/25/20

Like me, Mrs. Seven is leery of medicines, especially Western ones. She’d massage any spot that’s hurting. To stimulate blood flow, I slap or scratch fiercely. Sơn soaks his ankles in a tub of hot water with sea salt. I must swim in the ocean more. According to Mrs. Seven, sea water can even cure ovarian cancer.

“This lady would sit at Front Beach. The water came in and out, you see. When she was diagnosed a while later, her ovarian cancer was gone! After that, she became a vegetarian.”

That’s very good to know. “Do you swim?” I asked Mrs. Seven.

“No, no! I almost drowned as a girl. Never again.”

“Many people have never seen the ocean. Living by the ocean, we take it for granted.”

Most days, Mrs. Seven doesn’t stray ten yards from her front door. As a young dancer, she did travel to Hanoi and Cambodia. Before her parents died, she was literally stuck in this very house for 17 years. After her mother’s stroke, she had to take care of her every need for 12 years. Though her dad wasn’t so messy towards the end, his senility forced Mrs. Seven to stay near him all day long. Witnessing all this, her husband hid his pneumonia from her, thus hastening his own death.

“Once, he called me after having checked himself into a hospital. It shouldn’t have come to that. His lungs could have been drained, but I didn’t know.”

Having an extended family means dealing with death and shit nearly nonstop. Somebody is always dying. Babies and the aged must be wiped and washed constantly. More advanced societies deal with these annoyances by inventing daycares, retirement communities and, just now, Jewjabs. Killing them off is always the most efficient and cost effective solution.

While murdering other people’s babies, as is now done in Gaza, you can import black, brown and yellow nannies to pamper your own. Just go to any Manhattan park during the daytime to see them push strollers with white babies. If you’d rather not have spooky bodies in your home, pale au pairs are ideal solutions.

Last week, I got an email from a Vietnamese-American woman I hung out with just once. In 2017, we wandered the streets of Hanoi into the night.

She shares, “Smart move leaving the US in 2016. I should’ve just stayed over there! I am in Chicago, have been since 2018 when I left Ha Noi. I have been in a layer of hell, my father was hit by a car in 2023 and suffered a traumatic brain injury, and I have been caregiving for him with my mother and brother. I never had kids so it’s a cruel twist that I’m changing diapers every day. Even so, there have been moments of joy in caring for him, like tucking him in at night and realizing that he looks like ET from the movies.”

(L): just outside Pennsylvania Hospital, America’s first, in Philadelphia, 8/24/13 ; (R): mock hospital room at the Death Cafe in Bangkok, Thailand, 10/11/22

Bodies are ultimate tests and lessons.

Think also of babies born deformed from Agent Orange. The US has denied any responsibility. In Gaza, starving parents must watch their children die. With weaker bodies, they succumb first. Many are also horribly injured. Among Judeo Christian Satanists, sadism has become a necessity, like food. In DC, that leader of the free world is fussing about gold moldings and statuettes as golden nonsense oozes from his puckering orifice.

Troubled by bodies, we also dress them up with words, ink or pigments in linseed oil. All of culture is a perfumed dress. Beautiful bodies overpopulate paintings. Static and well rendered, even the most hideous are dignified.

Just before leaving Philly, I hung out with my friend, Ian. Driving through South Jersey, we decided to stop at a go-go bar. It was laughably lame, however.

“Yo Ian, I know of a much better place. It’s in Pennsport. Since cops go there, they can show everything.”

Cringing, Ian explained he’d rather not look at that. It’s a wound that won’t heal. Very bookish, Ian lived with his mom in a spacious house that even had an indoor swimming pool. Like us all, Ian’s civility is well tailored.

No less pretentious, I wear a peasant shirt and go barefoot. Wading into the crowd, I will pass real peasants in their GUCCI, Prada, Balenciaga and Hermes pyjamas, made in China. It’s past time for my peasant breakfast, so goodbye!

The upholstered seats seen through the back doors of a mini bus resemble coffins. Seven minutes away is a dead gecko, apparently ran over by a motorbike. Most of his green and golden body is still intact, however, though dotted with bluebottle flies fattening themselves. Today has turned out so much better than expected! It pays to buzz to alien territories. Stooping to pick up some fallen papers, a woman in an indigo dress with white dots appears, for just one second, like the most refined Pre-Raphaelite painting. At the end of the street in the far distance, part of a freighter can be seen. Piggy backing on the vastest body, it imprisons and protects the most fretful. Within seconds, this house of imperfect love will disappear from our lives forever.

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

The Bear and the Eagle Face-Off in Alaska

All eyes on Alaska. The Bear-Eagle face-off is part of an astonishing acceleration of history in the summer of 2025.

By Pepe Escobar at Sputnik.

Two weeks after Alaska, there’s the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation (SCO) annual summit in Tianjin, China. India’s Narendra Modi and Iran’s Masoud Pezeshkian will join, among others, Xi Jinping and Vladimir Putin at the same table. A BRICS/SCO table.

September 3, in Beijing, is the 80th anniversary of what is officially defined as the victory of “the Chinese People’s War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression and the World Anti-Fascist War”. Putin is the guest of honor. The rehearsal, with 22,000 participants, took place this past weekend in Tian’anmen Square.

On the same day, in Russia’s Vladivostok, it’s the start of the Eastern Economic Forum, which discusses everything about Russia’s drive to develop the Arctic and eastern Siberia – the equivalent of the Chinese “Go West” campaign started in the late 1990s. Key Eurasian players will be in the house. Putin addresses the plenary session on September 5.

Top BRICS leaders of China, Russia, Brazil and India, meanwhile, are actively involved in a flurry of phone calls coordinating a collective response to the tariff wars – part of the hybrid war by the Empire of Chaos against BRICS and the Global South.

How Trump is Aiming for a PR Win

Let’s see how Alaska is setting the stage for something much bigger.

The summit was announced following what Putin advisor Yuri Ushakov concisely defined as “a proposal from the American side which we think is quite acceptable.”

This sentence was as far as the Kremlin would comment – in contrast with the non-stop verbal onslaught emanating from Washington. That the Kremlin even considered the American offer means an implicit recognition of what Russia is achieving on the battlefield and in the geoeconomic sphere.

Timing. Why now? Especially after Trump had threatened buyers of Russian oil with tariffs? Essentially, because military intel in selected deep state silos have done the math and finally admitted that the long proxy war in Ukraine is lost.

Moreover, Trump personally wants to get over it so as to concentrate on the next chapters of the Forever Wars – including the one that really matters: against “existential threat” China.

From Moscow’s point of view, conditioned by the successful results of its calibrated war of attrition, the facts on the battlefield spell out the special military operation rollin’ on – and no ceasefire; at best a “humanitarian” pause of a few days. The Americans want a ceasefire of at least a few weeks.

Reconciling both sides’ optics will be a Sisyphean task. Still, Alaska is just the beginning: the next meeting is already in the works to take place in the Russian Federation, according to Ushakov.

Trump’s motives are easily identified: create the perception of the US extracting itself from the mess; some sort of truce; and back to doing business with Russia – especially in the Arctic.

In parallel, assuming any sort of deal, the deep state will never recognize the new Russian regions, even Donetsk and Lugansk; and will seek to re-weaponize Ukraine, “leading from behind”, for a NATO-led war replay further on down the road.

So the US-Russia abyss is mirrored by the domestic American abyss – and most of all the Trump-NATO/EU abyss. The toothless chihuahua European pack, trying to salvage its pitiful Kiev actor, is doing somersaults – complete with possible black swans – to derail the summit even before it happens.

There’s no way Trump can sell any sort of settlement to the rabid NATO/EU pack. But nothing would please him more than to transfer the war – in full – to them. With the benefit that the deep state in this case will not complain – because it will be reaping massive euro profits from the weapons sale racket. End result: a classic Trump PR win.

Exit Ukraine, Enter the Arctic

Ukraine, though, will not be the main theme in Alaska. The ever-perceptive Russian Deputy Foreign Minister Sergei Ryabkov cut to the chase: what really matters is that “the first signs of common sense are appearing in Russia-US relations, which were absent for several years before.”

Ryabkov was quick to also highlight the dangers: the risk of nuclear conflict in the world “is not decreasing”; and Russia sees the risk that “after the expiration of the New START Treaty, nuclear arms control will be completely absent”.

Once again: Alaska is just the beginning of something much bigger – including, finally, a serious discussion about “indivisibility of security” (what Moscow wanted already in December 2021, rebuffed by the autopen administration).

And that brings us to the Arctic – and serious stuff that will certainly be debated in depth at the upcoming Vladivostok forum.

The Arctic holds at least 13% of global undiscovered oil reserves and 30% of undiscovered natural gas. Russia controls at least half of all these reserves. The Empire of Chaos badly wants to be part of the action.

Yet one thing is possible massive US investment in joint Arctic projects with Russia. Something entirely different is the US joining the Northern Sea Route (NSR) – which the Chinese call the Arctic Silk Road. The NSR reduces shipping time between Asia and Europe by up to 50%.

The Russian-Chinese rationale for the NSR – including the expansion of Russia’s unique nuclear icebreaker fleet – is exactly to bypass the Suez Canal and connectivity channels controlled by the US. The key question then is what would it take to swing Moscow to accept a Trump-Putin deal in the Arctic.

So on Ukraine, in principle, Russia has all the cards – as long as the special military operation goes on, now on overdrive. On hybrid war, the tariff chapter, the US ruling classes finally realized they have no cards – because blowback caused by secondary sanctions will badly damage the US. What’s left then is a commercial deal: the Arctic.

It’s quite intriguing that even the JPMorgan Center for Geopolitics admitted that the best solution for the Ukraine mess is a Georgia scenario: that would somewhat offset the optics of a total capitulation by the West. Only Ukraine would capitulate: no NATO, no EU, no money, no security guarantees.

Inestimable Prof. Michael Hudson has condensed how Alaska will proceed under two vectors: “Part I is whether the US will acknowledge that the trajectory of the current fighting is for a total Russian victory, on the terms that Putin has been explaining for two years: no NATO membership, no foreign arms supplies, Nuremberg-like trials of the Banderite leaders, and perhaps reparations by Ukraine and NATO for the rebuilding of formerly ‘Ukrainian’ Russia.”

Assuming Trump accepts it, and that’s a major “if”, then comes the real nitty gritty (remember Ryabkov), “starting with whether a new atomic missile and arms treaty will be put in place.”

Russia’s version of peace, writes Prof. Hudson, will flow along these lines: “We don’t want an atomic war with the United States. Let’s agree that if a German or other EU/NATO missile hits Russia, when we retaliate it will only be against Britain, Germany and France, not North America.”

Prof. Hudson is adamant that “America has only one thing to offer other countries: the (temporary) promise NOT to hurt them. There’s nothing positive to offer, given its de-industrialization and the world’s de-dollarization.”

As it stands, and also considering the multiple ramifications of the hybrid war against BRICS, Alaska carries the potential of offering Washington a way out of the debris of a massive strategic defeat.

Any analyst who tried to understand the special military operation from the beginning, in detail, could tell that Russia’s war involved something much bigger than Ukraine. It was always about the burial of the “rules-based international order”, in fact the whole old order architecture. That is happening as we speak in the black soil of Novorossiya. Strategic patience, in the end, does pay.

Global South

How To Live, What To Do

They have all shoehorned themselves into the system, each immersed in an ecology with clear, unspoken rules, taboos, heroes and villains. To be evicted from all that has forced me, daily, to encounter a much larger world, and to be freer than ever.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Pairing me with Hung Cao, that Unzian wit was juxtaposing an abject loser who had clearly lost his way against an objectively handsome, steely eyed American hero, me, of course, who had risked everything to defend freedom, democracy and the American way. I do feel bad for the Under Secretary of the Navy. Even in a fringe website edited by some cranky Jewjab denier, he shouldn’t be subjected to this humiliation. Should I ever run into my fellow Virginian at the Eden Center, in this life or the next, I’ll buy him a few Bia 33’s to make up for this wound.

(L): Hung Cao and Donald Trump in 2024 ; (R): Brian Robertson

When mentioning my high school buddies from Thomas Jefferson High School in Northern Virginia, I left out the most illustrious, the formidable Brian Robertson. He was, by far, the smartest and most well-read kid I knew. Since I lived across the street from Brian, we spent a lot of time together. We also went to DC to hear Charlie Rouse, Wynton Marsalis, Benny Goodman, Art Pepper and the Modern Jazz Quartet, etc. We went to a Bob Dylan concert in Maryland. We spent days listening to Dylan and Thelonious Monk. We scrutinized paintings at the National Gallery, the Hirshhorn and the Corcoran.

In 1986, I even went to Florida with Brian’s family. By then, our lives had changed radically. As I got drunker and, frankly, crazier, Brian found Jesus. Even before that, he had shifted from left to right. In high school, Brian was already a great admirer of William Buckley, then he started to talk often about Malcolm Muggeridge and Hilaire Belloc. When I moved to Philadelphia, Brian gave me a National Review subscription. On a visit to Philly, Brian must have been appalled to find me sitting on top of my fridge with a girlfriend, both of us fucked up. I still don’t know why we did that. Picking me up at Union Station, Brian refused my offer of Southern Comfort in a paper bag. Since I had swigged that baby on the Amtrak, there couldn’t have been much left anyway.

When Brian told me he had joined Opus Dei, a lay order, I was sober enough to retort, “No, Brian, it’s a no-lay order.” Perhaps it was just the Southern Comfort speaking.

One of the last things Brian said to me was, “What is your relationship to God?” I probably just leered.

Linh Dinh today in Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/3/25

With our paths so divergent, we lost touch. For years, though, I did try to find out how Brian was doing, but searches for “Brian Robertson Thomas Jefferson High School” and “Brian Robertson Opus Dei” turned up nothing. Since Brian did publish a book about the harms of daycare, I tried again this morning, with phrases about that topic, so bingo! Brian C Robertson is the author of Day Care Deception: What the Child Care Establishment Isn’t Telling Us and There’s No Place Like Work: How Business, Government, and Our Obsession with Work Have Driven Parents from Home. Reading their synopses at Amazon, I find nothing to disagree with. The removal of babies and toddlers from their parents has caused tremendous societal harms. My own mother was a daycare worker. Since she could barely raise her own kids, to be blunt, she had no business taking care of anyone else’s.

At LinkedIn and elsewhere, I found out Brian has done quite a bit. He founded a literary agency, Crispin, and is Executive Director of Americans for Transparency and Accountability. Under Trump’s first term, Brian served as a Senior Policy Advisor and Speechwriter at the State Department and Department of Health and Human Services, and he was a Senior Policy Advisor in the Joint Economic Committee of the US Senate. He was also the Policy Director for Republican Sam Brownback and Republican Ed Gillespie during their Senate campaigns. Married with three children, Brian has also extricated himself from that no-lay order.

Having tracked down my high school best friend, shouldn’t I contact Brian immediately? Send him an invitation to visit me in Vietnam? Next time, I won’t be perched on any electrical appliance with anybody, I promise!

(L): Nguyễn Quí Đức an old friend who died suddenly at age 65 in 2023; (R): Phong Bui

Two weeks ago, I also rediscovered another old friend, Phong Bui. In a clownish outfit, Phong was attached to an email, with this message, “Maybe you should start dressing like your old bro to get uncanceled.” In Philly, Phong used to sleep on my floor because he didn’t have an apartment. Before Phong left for New York, his friends treated him to a dinner with belly dancers at Jimmy Tayoun’s Middle East Restaurant. (Locked up for 40 months for racketeering, Tayoun would write an excellent book on how to prepare for prison.) In New York, Phong somehow became friends with Meyer Shapiro, Willem de Kooning and so many other big shots. In a Brooklyn bar, Phong introduced me to Dan Simon, thus launching my career as an author. The longer Phong stayed in New York, the more unrecognizable he became, however, but he’d undoubtedly say the same about me, as I drifted further and further away from the American cultural scene, or just America, period. Though Phong’s Vietnamese was better than mine when we were in Philly, I seriously doubt he can manage a conversation now. In 2010, Phong did a limited edition lithograph of Obama. As with everybody else in Phong’s circle, that man is his hero.

In their own ways, Hung Cao, Brian Robertson and Phong Bui have all shoehorned themselves into the system, but who can doubt their sincerity? Each is immersed in an ecology with clear, unspoken rules, taboos, heroes and villains. Since freaks who transgress must be immediately canceled, there’s no point of me getting in touch with Brian, Phong, Hai-Dang Phan or dozens of others.

Speaking to Kevin Barrett last week, I recounted my few days in Bengaluru in 2022. Suddenly surrounded by literary friends again, I was positively giddy, I must say, but pathetically so. To be evicted from all that has forced me, daily, to encounter a much larger world, and to be freer than ever. It’s hard enough to say exactly what you think, know or mean. It’s impossible when you’re not even trying.

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

Flush, Of Course, Without One Glance Backward

… When an Asian says the American dream is dead, you know we are in deep trouble.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Six months into the Golden Age of America, manufacturing jobs are down, inflation and unemployment are up, despite fudged numbers, foreign tourists have mostly stayed away, and there are no real trade deals, only hyperbolic nonsense posted by an increasingly deranged Trump on his Truth Social. More enterprising Americans have gotten out, or are trying to. Stuck and impotent, the rest must wait for the next presidential election, when they can pretend to vote for another corrupt, sold out front man for the Jewjerked American empire.

After firing thousands of government workers, many essential, and stealing data from all Americans, Musk exited without reducing the federal deficit. That was never their intention. Trump’s One Big Beautiful Bill increased the Grand Fecal Swamp’s debt ceiling by $5 trillion!!! Trump solves all problems by gaslighting even more aggressively.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/1/25

During the Biden era, hundreds of thousands of Orientals flew to Colombia to pursue their American dream. Risking death, they passed through a dozen countries before reaching the Rio Grande. Such a complicated trip could only be afforded by richer Orientals. Thinking they would be gone forever, they sold their houses and businesses. Now, many are being booted right back to China and Vietnam, where they have nothing. Many readers must be thinking, That’s what you get for being illegal immigrants, dumbshits!

The US doing so well has spawned hundreds if not thousands of YouTube videos by Americans saying they can’t afford to buy grocery, have given up looking for a job, are too depressed to get up in the morning, or are worn out by living in a freezing or sweltering car that must be moved from spot to spot. Just taking a dump has become a major problem, often unsolvable. Thousands regret taking on life wrecking debts for a useless college degree, and we ain’t just talking about lesbian lovemaking, breeding and child rearing strategies PhD, but nursing, computer science, business administration and IT ones.

One video by a 26-year-old American born Oriental states that just about everyone he knows is struggling, that rent and nearly everything else are way too costly, so millions who are well into adulthood must live with their parents, thus postponing marriage, perhaps forever. Though concluding the American dream is dead, he’s still lucky to be exactly where he is, “I’m fortunate to be born in America. You know, I could be born in China. China! I could be born in China and my life could be not that great. I mean, I don’t know what life is like in China, but you get what I mean. To be born in America, that’s top 1% in the human, in the human race, you know, and I don’t have to go through what my parents went through.” His folks emigrated from Southeast Asia.

A telling comment, “When I hear people say ‘being born in American is the top 1%,’ I know they haven’t lived outside the US.” Another, “Highly recommend that you travel outside the country. That will teach you more about life than any job or education.” And, “When an Asian says the American dream is dead, you know we are in deep trouble. I am really scared for my grandchildren [weeping emoji].”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/1/25

A few years ago, someone at Unz saw fit to juxtapose a photo of me, sitting alone in a Lao hotel room, with one of Hung Cao, a US Navy captain who had served in Iraq, Afghanistan and Somalia. After losing bids to become a congressman then senator, Cao is now Trump’s Under Secretary of the Navy. Cao in June of 2024, “With Trump back in the White House, we will Make America Great Again!”

Every so often, I post a self portrait to show how I’m doing. My few readers could see, for example, how bloated and unhealthy I looked in April of 2022. I had just returned to Vietnam after 2 1/2 years of Covid induced wandering. In Cape Town, I became too fond of Arnold’s mixed grill breakfast of two eggs, two hash browns, two thick slices of bacon, three pork chipolatas, two hunks of fried tomato, six chunks of eland steak and six chunks of ostrich steak.

Since my highschool days in Northern Virginia, I had used booze to ease the flow of thoughts, spoken words and, often enough, even writing, so I merrily went on like this through the Covid hysteria. All this changed when I got terribly sick in Ubon Ratchathani, so that photo in Vientiane was me at my lowest, when I was still in so much pain, it was impossible to sleep soundly for even an hour, when it took at least 15 minutes just to put on my pants. Despite all this, I would not have switched places with Captain Hung Cao, with his nice suburban house, social status, handsome family and proximity to power. His having fought in Iraq, Afghanistan and Somalia only proves he’s a willing mercenary who didn’t shy from committing war crimes to serve a nakedly Satanic empire. There’s a bunch of YouTube videos celebrating clueless or immoral pawns of all ethnicities. A Vietnamese American, 27-year-old Andy Huynh, even went to Ukraine to fight for Zelensky, Jews in general, NATO and Uncle Sam.

After his capture by Russia, Voice of America criticized Vietnam for not interceding on his behalf. Vietnamese media responded, “Andy Huỳnh is an American mercenary. After fighting many years in the American military, he only went to Ukraine as a mercenary because of his American “idealism,” so after his capture, the American government should have spoken up on his behalf, not Vietnam.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 8/1/25

To be a mercenary, then, has become the American ideal. Aiming for the American dream, most Americans are more than willing to go along with any lie, war or genocide, even if it costs them a limb or two, their life or even the systematic destruction of their nation. Just give me those front and back yards, please, plus constant access to Fox News or CNN, and an occasional Happy Meal for my chillun. If told to head to Gaza to clear out some Injuns for Jews and Trump Gaza, I will most certainly holler, Yessa, massa!

Here in Vung Tau, Mrs. Seven has more urgent concerns. For three days, there’s been an unseen animal inside her house making unfathomable noises. “It’s too loud to be a rat, and it’s not a kitten.” This morning, one of her dogs also vomited.

When Cambodia was still fighting Thailand, I also teased her about war refugees flooding over. “You better learn how to curse in Khmer,” I advised.

“If they say anything to me, I’ll just say, ‘Fuck you!’” I had no idea this old widow living with two dogs was so fluent in English.

Sitting alone in the dark each dawn, BlueTooth is still immersed in Eminem. Fully recovered from his injury, Cà Phê Cà Pháo’s kitten is as insolent and cocky as ever. Glaring at me, he struts. Since returning from Jordan two weeks ago, I haven’t seen that hobbling black dog that daily roamed all over downtown. I hope he’s still alive. As for Andy Huynh, he appears to have been flushed away, just like Tyler Zeigel and so many others. This world has never lacked for tools, pawns and mercenaries. After each use, they flush, of course, without even one glance backward.

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.’

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

Global South

Slinging Social Media Slurs with Goldfinger

Judge Nap interviews our roving eye nomad on taking on the entire BRICS in one fell swoop. “Moneyprinters with nukes: CHARGE!” 

Global South

Sam Landing Jab Means Chinese Troops in Southeast Asia

Sweating and farting bodies are comforted and reassured by metallic extensions. Admiring a car or watch, we imagine ourselves to be just as clean and immortal.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

In 2018, a Vietnamese in Phnom Penh told me about a miraculous rescue. After being knocked over by a car, he was thrashed by its driver until another Vietnamese showed up. His savior didn’t just speak fluent Khmer but was a Cambodian general! From 1979 onward, Vietnam embedded Viet officers into the army of its client state, the People’s Republic of Kampuchea. Some of these crypto Viets must still be around.

Phnom Penh, Cambodia: (L): Vietnam Cambodia Friendship Monument, 3/4/18 ; (R): Covid vaccinated Hun Sen wearing a 2.7 million dollar Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime watch in 2021

Hun Sen’s military has plenty of room for suspect officers. With 125,000 soldiers, Cambodia has well over 3,000 generals. With 2.86 million grunts, the US has just 900. Granting titles and salaries to clowns is Hun Sen’s way of buying loyalty. Others can pay him to dress up like a generalissimo.

Kristie Noem would fit right into Phnom Penh high society. Seconds after arrival, she could be anointed as goddess, empress or legendary chauteuse, for a negligible fee in American dollars.

With so many phony Pattons, Cambodia has no air force to speak of, and no air defense system. That’s why it’s being knocked around by Thailand. One real general, 67-year-old Luong Samneang, has already been killed, with another rumored dead.

Phnom Penh, Cambodia: 73-year-old Hun Sen keeping abreast of something, 7/27/25

Seventy-two-year-old Hun Sen, meanwhile, has released photos of himself looking through a magnifying glass at a military map, or maybe it’s just the menu of Le Langka, where an Australian Black Angus ribeye steak, truffled purée and salad can be had for just $34, barely a penny, so to speak, to this tycoon.

Though his official salary is just 2,500 piddly bucks a month, Hun Sen can afford a 2.7 million dollar Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime watch, which he obscenely flaunted on his naked arm, after being Covid “vaccinated” in 2021. This modest dude has also been caught with a Vacheron Constantin Les Cabinotiers Grand Complication Phoenix, an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore Grand Complication 26582CE, a Richard Mille RM57-05 Tourbillon Eagle and a Richard Mille RM57-03 Tourbillon Sapphire Dragon, etc. His wife, too, ain’t walking around with no $9.99 IBSO piece of shit.

Sweating and farting bodies are comforted and reassured by metallic extensions. Admiring a car or watch, we imagine ourselves to be just as clean and immortal.

Promoting every busboy to general and shopping for watches, Hun Sen has neglected basic duties of state. Crisscrossing Cambodia, I couldn’t help but notice all its bridges were built by China, Japan or Vietnam. Once Southeast Asia’s greatest builders, Cambodians have become its worst. With his nation’s economy steadily improving, Hun Sen must have felt he’d done enough, however. On each visit to Phnom Penh, I saw new highrises, shops and restaurants, including super elegant ones. Costing 1.5 billion bucks, the Chinese constructed Techo Airport would have been opened had this war with Thailand not erupted. It will make DC’s Dulles look like some bloated Greyhound Station. Though there’s abject poverty even in the capital, it’s easy enough to ignore, just like they do in LA, San Francisco, Chicago and New York.

In a faraway land, there’s another leader who’s as superficial and vain. As his subjects work two or three jobs to pay off student loan, car loan and credit card debts, while clipping coupons late into the night to save pennies on eggs, onions and reconstituted chicken hot dogs, he’s fussing over golden cherubs, eagles, medallions, mirrors and even TV remote controls. He spent an entire morning gushing over two steel poles that must be stiffer and longer than any in human history. Erect, he admires their erection in full view of all chesty chicks strolling by, and cute little girls, too, with their made-in-China dolls. He’s never neglected such angels.

Despite its recent genocide and current misrule, Cambodia will outlast that distant empire, for they still know who they are, and they haven’t lost their souls. If you’re fine with your leader screwing pubescent girls or funding blatant Satanists who enjoy shooting teen boys in the testicles, you’re beyond fucked. So numb yet angry, you can only feel half alive with serial sadism.

Two funerals: (L): General Duong Samneang in Phnom Penh, 7/28/25 ; (R): The Golden Age, 8/01/2025

The US has gained much from this Southeast Asian conflict. Don’t rule out the possibility it may have prodded both sides. Chilling, it can now gloat over a Chinese ally humiliated, China appearing weak and the economies of Southeast Asia disrupted, with billions of dollars already lost. Southeast Asia is a bigger trading partner with China than the European Union. Just as in Europe, the US must block or sabotage all relationships that threatens to leave it out in the cold.

Having ruled for 38 years, Hun Sen is certainly a dictator, but whatever his flaws and miscalculations, he’s never served hidden masters to wreck his country. Further, he and his family have properly maintained their public personae. They’re dignified, even regal. Trump, on the other hand, is a social engineering monster. His belligerent crassness, arrested development, shameless mendacity and joyful sadism have set the tone for his mess of a nation.

As regressive and inverted Americans emulate Trump, the rest of the world is simply appalled. They see videos of masked thugs manhandling not just illegal immigrants, but citizens and even members of congress, with each arrest excessively brutal. ICE goons mirror the Donald, except Trump would have a hard time tackling a Rosie O’Donnell standee. Only his slimy tongue is half virile.

As for China, it can use Cambodia’s setback to increase Phnom Penh’s reliance on Beijing. You will need more Chinese weapons and troops, permanently installed, to prevent future disasters. The US having won this skirmish is the perfect pretext to move Chinese soldiers into Southeast Asia. Like Putin, Xi knows he’s already at war with the USA. Visiting Darwin on 7/27/25, UK Defense Secretary John Healey said his nation was ready to fight alongside Australia to defend Taiwan! That’s like me saying I’m ready to join the Armenian Army to fight Azerbaijan!

At 61 years old, I’m also qualified to defend Zelensky’s bank account. Most magnanimously, that pantless clown is now allowing creaking, limping old skulls like me to dive headfirst into his meat grinder.

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.’

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

Global South

Missiles Fly, Missives Tossed in Mud

… Hun Sen must be disappointed, at least, at the Middle Kingdom’s relative silence through all this, but who knows what Xi Jinping is up to. Sun Tzu’s ghost must be giving Xi an endless stream of great advices.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Consider this astounding statement, “She is not only misleading the public but deceiving herself—trapped in the very illusion she has fabricated. Her actions go beyond misinformation; they represent a deliberate attempt to construct a false reality to obscure her side’s misconduct and evade accountability […] The international community must not allow such ‘verbal illusions’ to obscure the truth.”

I have only replaced her name with “she.” Otherwise, it’s an exact quote, so who is this she? Anyone with a correct answer will receive four Melania meme coins (worth 88 cents), a made-in-China “MAKE AMERICANS GREAT AGAIN” hat, complete with the official emblem of the Chinese Communist Party, a Depend “Long Lasting Dryness” diaper with an exact likeness of President Trump strategically placed over what’s left of your disabled schlong (in honor of the Donald), plus your name entered into a most exclusive drawing for a possible tête-à-tête with JD Vance at the Dairy Queen of his choice. Only one quarter pounder cheese Grillburger, please, and no Coke Zero refill.

With all these clues, undoubtedly you’re screaming she must be Karoline fuckin’ Leavitt! Or at least Baghdad Bob in a thrift store dress and blonde wig! Sadly, those above prizes won’t be yours. You must pay for your own Melania meme coins. She, drumroll please, is Lieutenant General Maly Socheata, a spokesperson for Cambodia. Just ten hours after their ceasefire, Thailand accused Cambodia of breaking it, while Socheata insisted everything was fine. No one was shooting at anybody.

Somebody is lying. Since even truthful statements leave out key details, nothing ever said paints the full picture, but still, many people don’t even try to be honest, even if it’s just at the dinner table while talking to their children, or in bed while bullshitting with their habitually deceived spouse.

Thep Nimit, Thailand, 3/24/18

Knowing all this, even flawed accounts are telling and, often enough, even entertaining, if only in a macabre manner. This morning, Sơn, my buddy at Coffee Seven, told me another fascinating story about his time in Cambodia.

Drafted at age 18 to fight the Khmer Rouge, Sơn was never told explicitly he was headed to Cambodia, so he, along with all the other soldiers, didn’t know they would soon experience ungodly fear, privation and horror until they were packed onto over 100 American leftover trucks. With roads so bad, it took them three days just to reach the border.

“We were so young. Most of us hadn’t even dared to touch a girl’s hand.”

With 40 soldiers on each truck, this convoy had over 4,000 fresh recruits, all unarmed. As southerners, most had relatives in the just defeated South Vietnamese Army. Hanoi couldn’t risk giving assault rifles and hand grenades to boys whose dads were in reeducation camps. Among them were also ethnic Khmers. They’re all over the Mekong Delta. It’s their land not long ago.

Knowing they might not see their families again, these boys wrote letters which they tossed at passersby and street vendors, in the hope these strangers would send them to their folks. Many of these desperate missives landed in ditches or mud.

Inside Cambodia, their panic increased. Suddenly, there were no more Vietnamese signs or faces that were definitely Vietnamese. The proliferation of palmyra palms made the landscape itself alien. With each mile, home thus normality became more unreachable, so many tried to jump off. Knowing this, drivers were instructed to step on the gas. Dangling from the backs of trucks, boys waited until there appeared a softer patch.

“But how could they walk home?” I asked.

“They were scared.”

“Seeing someone trying to escape, the other soldiers didn’t do anything?”

“No, we loved each other more than brothers.”

After one truck hit a mine, the next one, traveling too fast, hit that crater, so both tumbled down the ravine. Just like that, 80 soldiers were gone.

Sơn, “They were scattered all over. Looking down, we couldn’t even recognize their faces. There was nothing to do. We drove on.”

Sơn himself crawled over a mine soon after. Released from the hospital, he was given guard duty, a relatively soft job. It was still terrifying. The Khmer Rouge were seemingly just beyond sight, and he was surrounded by Cambodians.

“We had a curfew at 7. After that, anything that moved could be shot. Mostly, we just shot cows and water buffaloes. It was completely dark. Some soldiers on guard climbed onto trees just to be safe.”

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam on 7/28/25: (L): woman selling cold soymilk for 38 cents a bottle, 7/28/25 ; (R): “RUSSIAN DONUTS”

A while back, an elderly ditz said this when complaining about war refugees flooding into Europe, “When there’s a war, the men should stay and fight, and women should stay to help them.” Whenever there’s a war, cushy lady, people flee in terror, and you would too, with your panties worn backward and at least dewy. Just ask your silver spooned Trump with his chimeric bone spur.

Checking the Bangkok Post just now, I see that Thailand is still accusing Cambodia of violating their ceasefire. Sitting in sunny Vung Tau next to an avocado smoothie, I can’t even speculate what’s going on, but consider these facts.

From mid to late May, China and Cambodia conducted its 7^th Golden Dragon joint military exercise. This involved not just ground but air and naval troops. This cooperation between their militaries must have given Hun Sen the confidence to mess with Thailand.

The first Cambodian casino on the Thai border was opened in 1999. Since then, dozens have sprung up, with the ones in Poi Pet luring thousands of Thais daily. In this miniature Las Vegas, they could lose their savings or become enslaved in scam centers. Such a naked hub of criminality had to enrich Hun Sen himself. Why else would he tolerate it?

Similar crime centers exist across Thailand’s border with Myanmar. Embroiled in civil war, it’s even more lawless than Cambodia. This January, a well-known Chinese actor, Wang Xing, was lured to Thailand for filming, only to be kidnapped then taken to Myanmar. Frightened by this, millions of Chinese tourists stopped coming to the Land of Smiles. Finally, Thailand had to act. Its war against Cambodia, then, is an attack on Hun Sen himself, for he has allowed so many Thais to be robbed, kidnapped and enslaved, right on Thailand’s border.

Vung Tau, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: (L): 7/29/25 ; (R): lunch chez moi, 7/28/25

Though the US couldn’t care less about Thais, Cambodians or whoever, it was delighted to see Thailand zap a Chinese ally. Don’t think for one second Bangkok has failed to get a green light from Washington.

Having just performed his martial dance with China, Hun Sen must be disappointed, at least, at the Middle Kingdom’s relative silence through all this, but who knows what Xi Jinping is up to. Sun Tzu’s ghost must be giving Xi an endless stream of great advices.

Here’s another twist: Hun Sen’s son, Hun Manet, studied at West Point! If Cambodia must pivot from China to the USA, Hun Manet seems ideal, but that’s assuming daddy and son will survive.

As for casinos as crime hubs, it should be obvious to any non retard over 12 years old. Promising you instant riches, casinos rob you blind while keeping you somewhat entertained with garish settings, cartoon figures, color lights, jingling noises, flashes of titties and booze. Casino owners, then, are expert at manipulating infantile fools.

As legalized criminals, they hobnob with all types of crooks, including pimps. Gaudy whores swarm tacky casino. In the USA, the construction industry also teems with Mafiosi types.

As a tireless purveyor of wars, coups, assassinations and weapons of mass destruction, the US government has been labeled the world’s largest criminal gang. It’s only fitting, then, that it’s fronted by a seasoned casino hustler, construction magnate, sexual trafficker, child rapist and mother of all carnival barkers. Everything Trump hawks must be the biggest and best in history, but only to fools who don’t know any.

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.’

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

Global South

Peace Breaks

With that, everything was solved, at least this morning in this drowsy city by the ocean, where corpses are no longer washed back onto shores.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

We’ll see if this ceasefire between Cambodia and Thailand holds. If I hadn’t just returned from Jordan, I would take a bus to Phnom Penh, then go westward, most likely to Siem Reap. There, I’d sit in Best Mom because that lady is so sweet and lovely, and she makes the most comforting food, whether Khmer or Western. Every morning, her serene daughter in a blue school uniform cleans each plastic covered menu with a wet rag. There can’t be a sweeter emblem of Cambodia at peace. Mom used to rent out the cheapest room to Max, an American expat. She even fed him if he was broke, which was often. I imagine Max has finally managed to secure his Social Security payments. If so, Max can afford to sip Angkor Beer with his meals. It’s telling Max would rather be destitute in Cambodia than return to Iowa.

Bavet, Cambodia, 12/26/24

Talking to Alexander Wolfheze yesterday, I tried to explain why poorer, more backward societies are actually saner, and I’m making this assertion without romanticizing poverty. Civilization is a progression towards isolation. With each invention, you’re further removed from nature, community, God and even yourself. Air conditioning, recorded music, television, the automobile, shoes and the cellphone all do this. Looking up at me, Coffee Seven’s white bitch clearly agrees. Every few minutes, she drops by to make sure I haven’t lost my mind.

With Wolfheze in the Hague and me in Vũng Tàu, we conversed via Zoom, so 6,000 miles of separation were, just like that, gloriously erased, thanks to progress. Next time, we’ll talk from Saturn and Mars.

Before he left just now, Nali Beach’s security guard, Sơn, recounted his time in Siem Reap. He was there in 1979 as a half starved soldier. The Khmer Rouge weren’t content to shoot you in the head, he said. They had to chop your head off. This they did quite expertly with one clean hack of a machete. Like all invading armies, the Vietnamese also committed atrocities against civilians, of course.

With so many people freshly killed by all sides, ghosts were everywhere. “I’d be choked during sleep,” Sơn remembered. “An arm would reach in through an open window.” Waking up terrified, he’d run outside.

“This happened repeatedly?”

“Yes, so I’d sleep clutching my AK and a hand grenade.”

“Why would ghosts be afraid of guns or hand grenades?”

“But they were.” Whatever works, man. I wasn’t there.

Being in Siem Reap allowed Sơn to visit Angkor Wat. Four decades later, he still remembers one large statue of Aspara. She’s a Hindu spirit of clouds and water. Since Sơn brings up Cambodia often, his time there must have been most vivid, instructive and meaningful. Stripped of all comforts and constantly threatened by both the living and the dead, Sơn couldn’t forget his animal self while still insisting, at each moment, why he was still a man. He was the furthest away from any braindead, glazed eyed zombie not even laughing at some asinine TikTok skit. There’s one right in front of me.

Coffee Seven is two miles from Sơn’s home in Bến Đình. His going so out of the way made his wife suspicious, so she showed up one morning to check out Mrs. Seven. That lithe dancer with an angelic face is now withered, wrinkled and even slightly stooped. For his part, Sơn wouldn’t know if she’s screwing some plumber or housepainter from down the street.

“He says chicken, she says duck” is one saying. Then there’s, “He eats pork roll, she eats fermented pork roll.” People don’t just disagree but have divergent needs, too often incompatible. Perhaps Sơn can’t unclog his wife’s plumbing?

Stuffing exactly what we need into our insatiable mouths, we pass each other as shadows, if not ghosts. Sometimes, though, we do manage to reach through half open windows to throttle or caress a beloved’s neck.

Cambodia: (L): Phnom Krom, 1/31/23. (R): Preaek Prasab, 10/14/23

Before reaching Coffee Seven, I paused to chat with BlueTooth. Again, he was sitting alone in the dark to listen to Eminem, without understanding one word. This 42-year-old was also reassured by his usual LA baseball cap.

He knows what he needs, and so do I. “As long as we don’t starve!” I philosophized.

“No one starves!” he blurted.

“Of course, people starve.”

“The body knows what it needs. I know this one woman. Lying in bed for two weeks, she didn’t eat, but only drank water. Her landlord thought she had died, but she didn’t die.”

“So what happened?”

“She was returned to her family.”

“She would have died if she didn’t have her family.”

“There’s no would have. She didn’t die.”

Our mental flaws and physical deformities are our artistic signatures. Bluetooth is as delighted with mine, most likely. That’s why we talk.

Yesterday with Wolfheze, I did ramble a bit. Perhaps the most important theme we discussed was demographics. I’ve said the Philippines, despite four centuries of Western colonialism, is paradoxically more intact than nearly all Western countries. Though Pinoys have lost their names and native religions, they’re more socially coherent than Spaniards or Americans, their former masters. Yesterday, I also cited the example of Albania. The isolation it suffered under the harshest Communism actually preserved its true character. With Communism gone, Albanians are more themselves than the Germans, Dutch, French or English. I have the fondest memories of Albania, where I spent six months. Such lovely people.

Ubon, Ratchathani, Thailand: (L): 6/24/23. (R): 6/22/23

Europe’s methodical destruction continues. In Scotland, Ursula von de Leyen could only look sheepish and dejected as that bloviating child rapist boasted of how Europe will have to buy hundreds of billions of dollars of American weapons and natural gas, with cash it doesn’t have. Even if the US hadn’t blown up the Nord Stream pipelines that delivered cheap Russian gas to her continent, Europe wouldn’t buy it anyway, since Putin is so evil, you see. When von de Leyen and Kaja Kallas of Estonia traveled to China to chastise it for supporting Russia, the Chinese were so contemptuous of these girlish clowns, they sent a bus to pick them up at the airport. At least it wasn’t a DiDi Chuxing Scion iQ as driven by some retired garbageman. Scheduled to stay three days, this ditzy pair escaped Beijing after one. Having piously and coolly committed so many massacres against the rest of the world over centuries, Judeo Christian Satanists are still posing as peace loving respecters of human rights.

In Southeast Asia, too, Trump got his deal. Losing badly, Cambodia had to beg for peace. Having grabbed some land and taught their foe a lesson, Thailand agreed to cease bombarding helpless Khmers with Israeli made Spike missiles and American bombs delivered from F-16’s. Most importantly, the American backed Thais had managed to humiliate a Chinese ally without engaging China.

Mere spectators, we must wait to see what happens next. Often enough, we can’t even choose what to eat.

After Coffee Seven, I walked home for a spaghetti lunch, then wandered over to Pato’s Bingsu. Three middle aged ladies were already there. Their chattering, only half caught, was most amusing.

“My husband won’t fly. He’s afraid of dying.”

Second woman, “We all must go. My husband is convinced he’ll go long before me. He says, ‘You will take care of everything.’” She giggled.

Third, “Mine says, ‘Just throw me into a river.’ Not even the ocean, just any river!”

First, “You know what we should do now? We should go to that store and look at dresses.”

Second, “We can’t. If we don’t buy, she’ll curse at us!”

Third, “That’s just how she is.”

First, “It’s fine! It’s fine! We’ll buy!”

With that, everything was solved, at least this morning for three middle aged women, in this drowsy city by the ocean, where corpses are no longer washed back onto shores, where each morning, you can hear cocks and crickets, if not a fog horn from some unseen ship, with only its lights glimmering through darkness and mist.

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.’

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

Global South

Until Someone Like You Bleeds

…any division within ASEAN benefits the USA, and Uncle Sam loves nothing better than any ally of China to be roughed up.

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

On 7/24/25, just hours after conflict erupted between Cambodia and Thailand, a 24-year-old was assaulted in Chanthaburi, 300 miles from the actual fighting. Employed at a slaughterhouse, he was just returning from work when two strangers jumped out of a car to ask if he was Cambodian? When he said yes, they jumped him.

Since Cambodians are generally darker than Thais, they could identify him. Notice how it took two assholes to beat up one unsuspecting dude, but that’s how it usually is. Most men are cowards. The bravest drop bombs on old ladies and babies from 50,000 feet. With its bloody, stinking and exhausting work requiring the strength and stamina of athletes, American slaughterhouses, too, are filled with immigrants.

going from Pong Nam Ron, Thailand towards the Cambodian border on 3/24/18

In 2013, I was stuck at Kansas City’s Greyhound Station due to a snowstorm. Having not bathed for days, I went outside to gently scrub my balls with snow. Back inside, I met a Vietnamese with white GI blood who was returning to his job in Minnesota.

My note from 4/6/13, “Tùng, 43, had been in the US 11 years, and was working as a boner at a pork processing plant in Greenbush, MN, making $16 an hour, for $400 net a week. He had been employed at a beef plant in Sioux City, Iowa, but that place only paid $300 per week. Greenbush is near the Canadian border, and the region is almost entirely white, but 80% of the workers at this pork plant are non-white, with many Africans, Mexicans and Asians, with the Burmese so adept at this grueling work, they’re allowed to chew betel leaves on the job, with trash cans nearby to catch their spittle. Saving what he could from his modest pay, Tùng had returned to Vietnam eight times, with six months his longest stay. Back in tropical Can Tho in the Mekong Delta, he would eat and drink well, and idle his time away, but that too would get tiresome, and his dollars would evaporate, so back to frozen Minnesota he would fly. Recently he passed out at the slaughterhouse and woke up in an emergency room, but since it happened just before he clocked in, it wasn’t considered a work place incident. Tùng spoke wistfully of a fellow Vietnamese who had gotten clipped by a forklift. The lucky man broke his chin, so thereafter was assigned the easiest tasks, on top of his medical compensation.”

A version of this is already in my Postcards from the End of America, but hey, I’m allowed to cannibalize myself. Plus, Dan Simon hasn’t sent me a royalty check in years. Jewish accounting can be most creative. One of Dan’s writers once barged into his office to grab him by the neck.

looking at Kamrieng, Cambodia from Thep Nimit, Thailand on 3/24/18

Back to Southeast Asia! With borders between Thailand and Cambodia closed, that roughed up Cambodian can’t go home anyway. Thousands are actually trying. Half a million Cambodians are working or studying in Thailand. A million Thais are ethnic Cambodians. Fifty thousand Thais live in Cambodia. Demographic realities are always messier than maps, with their clean, often straight borders and countries separated by colors. Green Poland abuts orange Ukraine abuts blue Romania.

The most visible minority in Chanthaburi are not Cambodians but Vietnamese, with their magnificent Catholic church. Though Wikipedia English claims it was built by the French, how many Frenchmen, let me ask you, ever lived there? Red and gold in its altar already proves it was erected by Vietnamese, and surrounding it are nothing but Viet businesses. By 1707, there were already Vietnamese Catholics in Chanthaburi. Visiting this parish in 2018, I heard people praying in a language that was neither Thai nor Vietnamese. Having been there so long, they could no longer speak or even pronounce a single Vietnamese word. Still, they thought they were praying in Vietnamese. Their ethnic solidarity is reinforced by a common religion.

Cambodians in Thep Nimit, Thailand on 3/24/18

Through an interpreter, I asked an old man who would he fight for should war between Thailand and Vietnam break out? Looking alarmed, my interpreter refused to translate.

During the Mexican-American War, hundreds of Irish immigrants defected from the US Army to fight for Mexico. Seventy one died in battle or were hanged, after capture. In the Mexico City suburb of San Angel, there’s a plaque honoring these San Patricios, also known as “Los Colorados” for their red hair. Many were actually Germans, Canadians, English, French, Italians, Poles, Scots, Spaniards, Swiss and even a few black ex slaves.

The more multicultural a nation, the more fragmented its citizens’ loyalties. Would Mexican Americans fight against Mexico? Would Chinese Americans cheer an American attack on China? What about Chinese majority Singapore? Despite the European Union, there are still only Frenchmen, Spaniards and Poles, etc., with each group further divided by regions. A Milanese is not a Napolitano. Bavarians can’t stand Prussians.

Poi Pet, Cambodia on 11/22/22, among travelers about to cross into Thailand

Everything is cool, though, until someone like you bleeds.

On 7/24/25, the FaceBook page of Warin Chamrap, a Thai district of 163,000, posted this letter, “I’m a Cambodian studying at the University of Ubon Ratchathani for nearly a year. Honestly, everything here is fantastic. I can feel the kindness and generosity of Thai people. Each day, everyone encourages and assists me everywhere I go, to help me learn Thai and absorb Thai culture. But ever since conflict broke out, my heart has sunk. I’ve never been so depressed. Each day, I worry about the future, about how people see me, and I’ve started to ask myself if Thai people will hate me just because I’m a Cambodian? To think this way is very painful because I’ve stopped seeing Thailand as a foreign country, but my second homeland, from my very first day here. I’ve never had any bad intention. My only goal is to learn and respect everything about Thailand while living here. With this current tension, I feel like an isolated Cambodian, but despite my fear and constant worries, I still believe in peace, and in the goodness of man. I wish with all my heart both sides will choose dialog instead of prolonging this conflict.”

Earlier this year, there was a 17-day mini war between India and Pakistan, both nuclear powers. After it cooled off, Trump claimed credit despite strong, indignant protest from India. The American buffoon had nothing with this ceasefire.

Now, Trump is again pretending to be a peacemaker, but let’s be clear here: any division within ASEAN benefits the USA, and Uncle Sam loves nothing better than any ally of China to be roughed up. Thailand is using American planes and Israeli drones to punish Cambodia while accusing China of supplying Phnom Penh with new, more advanced missiles.

departure gate in Poi Pet, Cambodia, right on the border with Thailand, on 11/22/22

As I finish this at 8:01PM on 7/27/25, Bangkok and Phnom Penh time, this war continues. For years, the world has expected the USA to use Taiwan to attack China. Though that will, most likely, still happen, we have another front opened by the Empire of Chaos. When you manufacture nothing but missiles, bombs and bullshit, it’s all you can do. For Uncle Sam, mass death isn’t just a motto but survival tool.

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.’

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

Global South

“Superhumans” on the March

What’s emerging in America is not a retreat from hegemony, but a reformatting of it.

By Artyom Lukin on Russia in Global Affairs.

[Ed.: this is a machine translation]

Where does the threat to the world come from, or Superhumans again on the march.

For half a thousand years, the West has been the dominant civilization in the world. Recently, this dominance has weakened, but has not completely disappeared. The West – and above all the United States of America as its core – is still the most powerful subject in world politics and economy. The colossal power of the West can be both a creative force and a source of existential threats to the rest of the world.

Today, in the West, primarily in the United States, a new ideology is being built, under certain circumstances no less dangerous than fascism and Nazism a hundred years ago. The second term of President Donald Trump could be a turning point when America will be under the control of ambiguous people and ideas.

The emerging ideology of the “new America” is still heterogeneous and represented by at least four key groups. The first is Trump himself and those his entourage, who professes views borrowed from the era of classical great-power imperialism and economic nationalism of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The second is politicians and media figures, which can be attributed to right-wing populists. The third is Silicon Valley, committed to libertarian hypercapitalism and the cult of technology. Fourth, intellectuals who generate and promote the ideas of the “dark Enlightenment.”

If the views of the first two groups are not new to the American political landscape, then the last two are the phenomenon of the 21st century.

[1] Good old imperialism?

Trump’s ideology is in many ways a classic inconclusive imperialism on the “right of the strong.” Already in his inaugural speech, he openly declared the desire for territorial acquisitions: “The United States will again become a growing nation – increasing its wealth, expanding its territory, building its cities…”[1] Here, Trump speaks of America as an “exceptional nation” and “the greatest civilization in the history of mankind.” America’s geopolitical ambitions and exclusivity will be backed up by “the most powerful military force ever seen by the world.”

Claims to exclusivity, the desire for territorial expansion, military-force domination are essential signs of imperialism.

It is no coincidence that in the same inaugural speech, Trump approvingly mentions William McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt, presidents who have introduced the United States to the club of imperialist powers.

[2] Right-Populist Conservatism

This ideological faction includes figures such as Vice-President JD Vance, political strategist Steve Bannon and journalist Tucker Carlson. Their main slogan is America First. They act from the standpoint of the cultural and value traditionalism of the deep American people and the hostility to the liberal-cosmopolitan elite, which concentrates on the east and west coasts, position themselves as defenders of the working class, advocate tough economic protectionism for the revival of American industry, and in the sphere of foreign policy gravitate towards isolationism.

[3] Libertarian Techno-Capitalism

This trend of the new American ideology is represented by technillionaires – mainly immigrants from Silicon Valley. The most famous, of course, is Elon Musk, who from January to May 2025 served as head of the Department of Efficiency of the Government [DOGE] in the Trump administration. However, the level of publicity does not always correspond to the degree of political influence. The notorious venture capitalist Marc Andreessen (the creator of the first mass Internet browser Netscape) may have had an influence on the White House initially, being an unofficial adviser and helping Trump recruit to key posts. [2] Until recently, Andreessen was a supporter of the Democratic Party, but in 2024 he supported Trump – in part because Andreessen did not arrange the Biden administration’s course of tighter regulation of the crypto industry and artificial intelligence.

Andreessen, like Musk, advocates maximum freedom of business activity and minimize state interference in private business.

In 2023. Andreessen has published the Techno-optimistic Manifesto. The main idea is simple: scientific and technological progress is the greatest benefit and the key to solving the problems of mankind, but only free markets, coupled with the elimination of burdensome restrictions and barriers, will ensure the development of a high-tech economy. Andreessen advocates for “accelerationism” – the spurring of technological development, which should accelerate progress to unprecedented speeds. This is the literal way of the word “undisper” acceleration will be achieved through the synthesis of technological innovation and the capitalist economy (techno – capital machine), the term that Andreessen borrowed from the British philosopher Nick Land. Artificial Intelligence: “We believe that artificial intelligence is our alchemy, our Philosopher’s Stone… We believe that artificial intelligence should be approached as a universal solution to problems. [3]

However, in the optimistic picture drawn by Andreessen there are semantic nuances. With a clear reference to Frederick Nietzsche, whose name is mentioned in the manifesto in the list of the most respected Andreessen thinkers, the techno-billionaire sings the upcoming “technological supermen”: “We are not victims, we are the conquerors… We are the strongest predator on top of the food chain (apex predator).”

When Andreessen, talking about “technological superhumans”, uses a predator metaphor, is it not a typical Freud clause? At the top of the food chain, by definition, there can be only a few, the strongest predators, while the rest of the creatures have a different role. The Andreessen Manifesto contains a response to who is supposed to be the main predator: “We believe that America and its allies should be strong, not weak. We believe that the national power of liberal democracies is derived from their economic power (financial force), cultural power (soft power) and military power (hard force). Economic, cultural and military power stem from technological. Technologically powerful America is the power of good in a dangerous world. Technologically powerful liberal democracies guarantee freedom and peace. Technologically, weak liberal democracies are losing to their authoritarian rivals.

In the extensive list of “sacraments-patrons of techno-optimism” and Andreessen are Filippo Marinetti, the founder of futurism and one of the ideologues of Italian fascism. The last act of Marinetti was a voyage as part of the Italian expeditionary corps to the Eastern Front, where he was wounded near Stalingrad.

The most politically influential techno-billionaire is apparently the founder of Paypal Peter Thiel. It is probably not a mistake to call it the second most important ideologist of the “new America” after Trump himself. Although Thiel has never held official political posts, he is the key figure that unites Silicon Valley, intellectual right conservatism and Trump populism.

Thiel became the first of the most authoritative figures of Silicon Valley who openly supported Trump and became a donor to his presidential campaign back in 2016. However, Thiel’s most successful political investment was not Trump, but the current vice president (and, quite likely, the future president) J. D. Vance, for whom Thiel became a mentor and employer (Vance was at one time an employee of the Thiel Mithril Capital Investment Fund). Subsequently, Thiel donated $15 million to Vance’s election campaign in the U.S. Senate from Ohio and presented a young promising politician to Trump.

As befits a businessman, Thiel diversifies political investment. Simultaneously with Vance, he sponsored another young and promising politician (also his student and former employee) – Blake Masters, who was given $20 million for the Senate elections from Arizona (unlike Vance, Masters lost the election).

Thiel calls himself a Christian and often quotes the Bible, although he is an open homosexual (in 2017 he married in Vienna with his partner Matt Dunzesen, an investment banker). The techno-billionaire is known as a philosopher and thinker, being very widely read and himself being a prolific author of books and essays. Unlike Musk and Andreessen, who give away the expositions and memes designed for the public, Thiel’s target audience is an educated elite. He categorically quotes such difficult political philosophers as Carl Schmitt and Leo Strauss, is a fan of the ideas of anthropologist René Girard. Thiel positions himself as a libertarian, but does not hide that he has long believed in liberal democracy, as well as in democracy at all: “I no longer think that freedom is compatible with democracy”. [4]

It is significant that Thiel compares today’s America with Germany on the eve of Hitler’s arrival:

“There are undoubted parallels between the United States of the 2020’s and Germany of the 1920’s in the sense that liberalism has exhausted itself. It can be argued that democracy … has exhausted itself and we will have to ask ourselves a number of questions that go very far beyond the window of Overton. [5]

Thiel’s Libertarianism did not prevent him from founding Palantir Technologies, which is engaged in developments in the field of artificial intelligence in the interests of the Pentagon and intelligence services. He also acts as a major investor in young billionaire Palmer Lucky Anduril Industries, who creates drones and other autonomous weapons systems.

Thiel believes that in recent decades, America has plunged into the abyss of degradation and stagnation. We need a leap to new heights and great goals. Like his billionaire counterparts from the valley, Thiel is convinced that the formulation and achievement of ambitious scientific and technological goals should be the main priority of society and the state. His personal favorite is transhumanism technologies associated with the improvement of the human body, the prolongation of life and, potentially, the achievement of immortality. One of Thiel’s current projects is the organization of the alternative “Enhanced Games”, where doping control will be weakened and athletes will allow the use of biohacking methods. One of the co-organizers of Enhanced Games is the son of President Donald Trump Jr.

Of all the billionaire libertarians close to the current government, it is Thiel who has the most articulated views on foreign policy. Its geopolitical concept is quite simple and boils down to the fact that the main external threat to the United States is China.

Unlike a friend and former business partner Elon Musk, who is considered a Pro-Chinese figure, Thiel is a supporter on Beijing’s firm deterrence policy, including by forming a broad anti-Chinese coalition led by Washington. The US should go for an economic divorce from China and put pressure on other countries so that they also minimize ties with Beijing. Thiel believes that the Trump supertariffs on Chinese goods are a step in the right direction. Back in November 2022, he declared: “I believe in free trade, I am not a supporter of tariffs, but I would make an exception for our major geopolitical and ideological rival.”[8] Thiel is one of the most synophobic figures in the highest echelon of the current ruling elite. He calls China “semi-fascist, semi-communist gerontocracy,” accusing Beijing of “nationalism,” “racism,” and “xenophobia. [9]

Thiel has repeatedly spoken out in support of Israel, and Palantir Technologies supplies AI technology to the Israeli military. Chance or not, the Trump administration’s foreign policy is still almost identical with Thiel’s views.

[4] Theorists of the “Dark Enlightenment”

Finally, the fourth group of representatives of the new American ideology is the intellectual provocateurs that create narratives of the Dark Enlightenment. Also called the “neo-reactionary movement” (NRx), it is an intellectual and philosophical current that denies many ideals of classical Enlightenment, was formed in the late 2000’s – early 2010’s, mainly in the countries of the Anglosphere.

One of the fathers of the “dark Enlightenment” and the author of the term itself is the British philosopher and writer Nick Land, now living in Shanghai, mentioned in Andreessen. At the beginning of the academic career in the 1990s, Land, who then taught at the University of Warwick, held leftist views, but then swung sharply to the right. [10] Land believes in the onset of a singularity – a moment when artificial intelligence and other technologies will surpass a person and get out of control, which will mark the beginning of a “post-human” era. Land draws inspiration from the aesthetics of cyberpunk, predicting the arrival of hyper-capitalist techno-authoritarian systems that are controlled by technology and markets, not traditional politics. Such systems, in his view, are much more effective than classical liberalism and democracy. In the spirit of Techno-Social Darwinism, Land predicts the emergence of post-human beings, which, thanks to the merger with super-technologies, will dominate the new world.

Another intellectual father of the Dark Enlightenment is the American programmer and blogger Curtis Yarvin, also known under the pseudonym Mencius Moldbug. Unlike Land, Yarvin is directly involved in the political process. He is friends with Thiel and is well acquainted with a number of politicians and officials from the Trump entourage. Yarvin is in favor of replacing a more effective political system in the form of an autocratic monarchy or a business corporation where the sole governing body has absolute powers. One idea is the creation of a system of numerous corporate-controlled sovereign entities (Patchwork), within which it will be possible to freely experiment with laws, rules and technologies.

Like most of the ideologues of the “new America”, in the sphere of foreign policy, Yarvin advocated the dismantling of the “liberal international order” that developed after 1945, where the United States played the role of a world police officer and a guarantor of security. Yarvin advocates the withdrawal of the United States even from Europe, although it is stipulated that Great Britain, being an Anglo-Saxon country, should remain under the protection of America.[11] Yarvin will have nothing against if, for example, Turkey and Greece begin to fight each other. This is exclusively their business, not America’s problem. Unlike his billionaire friend Thiel, Yarvin calmly and even with restrained admiration speaks of modern China.

Yarvin, whose Jewish ancestors emigrated from Odessa during the Russian Empire, holds an unorthodox view of World War II. In his opinion, Hitler did not thirst for world domination. He wanted “only” to recognize his domination in continental Europe by using European Jews as hostages for negotiations with the US and Britain. If Roosevelt had agreed to a deal with Hitler, the World War and the Holocaust, it might have been possible to avoid. [12]

Land, Yarvin and other “dark Enlightenment” intellectuals can, at first glance, seem much less significant figures compared to billionaires Musk and Thiel. But one of the main capitalists of Germany, Gustav Krupp, who supported Hitler, or the brilliant political philosopher and subsequently the chief lawyer of the Third Reich, Karl Schmitt (by the way, like to quote Yarvin and Thiel), who developed the theory of the “exceptional case” and later, by the way, by which in 1933 the Reichstag was adopted?

American hegemony – end or reformatting?

The emerging ideology of the “new America” is heterogeneous and it has different scenarios. It is not necessary that it materializes into something malignant, reminiscent of the Third Reich or the “Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere”. But in the ideas and meanings circulating today in America and other countries of the English sphere, there are many things that can not but alarm.

This is the desire for the cultivation of either “technological superhumans”, or “super-predators”, or “post-human beings” and rationalization proposals to delegate absolute power to the “single executive body”.

Although the ideologues of the “new America” are contemptuous of the liberal international order “rules” that for many years has been considered the sacred cow’s global hegemony of United States, this does not mean that they want to see America only one of the sovereign subjects of the multipolar world. American legions can be withdrawn from Europe, the Middle East or South Korea, but there will be more sophisticated and “technological” ways to control and dominate the bodies and souls. The main concept permeating the writings of Curtis Yarvin is “power”. Peter Thiel’s favorite book, a man who wants to live forever, is The Lord of the Rings.

Author: Artem Lukin, Professor of the Department of International Relations of the Eastern Institute of the Far Eastern Federal University.

[this is the RT (A.I.-abbreviated) version]

The ideology behind the ‘New America’ is more dangerous than it looks

The superhumans are coming – and so is the danger

By Artyom Lukin, an associate professor of international relations at Far Eastern Federal University in Vladivostok, Russia

For the past 500 years, the West has reigned as the world’s dominant civilization. Though its grip has loosened in recent years, the West – especially the United States – remains the most powerful force in global politics and the international economy. This power, while capable of building plenty, also carries the potential to destroy a lot.

Today, a new ideology is taking shape in the West, particularly in the US. Under the right conditions, it could prove as dangerous to humanity as fascism and Nazism were in the last century. The reelection of Donald Trump may mark a decisive turning point, transferring power to people and ideas that are, at best, deeply ambiguous.

This ‘New America’ is not driven by a single worldview, but rather by a convergence of four ideological factions.

[1] The Imperial Restorationists

At the center stands Trump himself and his allies – throwbacks to the era of great-power imperialism. Trump’s inaugural speech to launch his second term left little doubt: He called for territorial expansion, industrial growth, and a resurgent military. America, he declared, is “the greatest civilization in the history of mankind.” He spoke approvingly of President William McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt, both architects of American imperialism.

The vision is unmistakable: American exceptionalism, enforced by military might and driven by the logic of conquest. It is the language of empire.

[2] The Nationalist Conservatives

Then there are the right-wing populists – figures like Vice President J.D. Vance, strategist Steve Bannon, and journalist Tucker Carlson. Their rallying cry is ‘America First’. They champion traditional values, claim to speak for the working class, and disdain the liberal elite concentrated in coastal cities.

They oppose globalism, support trade protectionism, and promote isolationism in foreign policy. This faction is not particularly new in American politics, but its influence has deepened, especially under Trump’s patronage.

Vice President JD Vance visits Los Angeles after unrest over ICE raids © Getty Images / Getty Images

[3-A] The Techno-Libertarian Billionaires

A newer – and perhaps more unsettling – element of America’s emerging ideology is represented by Silicon Valley billionaires. Elon Musk is the most visible figure, briefly heading Trump’s Department of Government Efficiency in early 2025. But the more influential actor may be Marc Andreessen, the venture capitalist and early internet pioneer who became an informal adviser to Trump.

Andreessen’s political turn followed his frustration with Biden-era regulations on crypto and artificial intelligence. In 2023, he published a manifesto called ‘The Techno-Optimist’, a document that preaches unrestrained technological acceleration. In his view, scientific innovation and free markets can solve all of humanity’s problems – if only government gets out of the way.

Andreessen quotes Nietzsche and invokes the image of the ‘apex predator’ – a new breed of technological superman who sits atop the food chain. He writes, “We are not victims, we are conquerors… the strongest predator at the top of the food chain.”

Such language might seem metaphorical, but it is revealing. Andreessen’s list of intellectual inspirations includes Filippo Marinetti, the Futurist who helped lay the aesthetic groundwork for Italian fascism and died fighting the Red Army at Stalingrad.

Marc Andreessen © Getty Images / Getty Images

[3-B] The Philosopher-Kingmaker

The most intellectually developed thinker of the techno-libertarian camp is Peter Thiel, co-founder of PayPal and the data surveillance firm Palantir Technologies. Thiel is no longer a marginal figure – he is now arguably the second most important ideologue of the New America, after Trump himself.

Thiel is also a master strategist. He personally mentored and funded Vance, now vice president and possibly Trump’s heir apparent. At the same time, he backed Blake Masters in Arizona, although that bet didn’t pay off. Thiel reads the Bible, quotes Carl Schmitt and Leo Strauss, and speaks openly about the limits of democracy. “Freedom is no longer compatible with democracy,” he has said.

He has compared modern America to Weimar Germany, arguing that liberalism is exhausted, and a new system must rise. Despite his libertarian leanings, Thiel’s companies develop AI tools for the Pentagon and fund next-generation weapons systems through firms like Anduril.

Thiel believes that America has entered a long decline – and that radical technological leaps are needed to reverse it. One of his pet projects is the ‘Enhanced Games’, a competition where doping and biohacking are allowed. Co-organized with Donald Trump Jr., the event reflects Thiel’s obsession with transhumanism and human enhancement.

In foreign policy, Thiel views China as America’s primary enemy. He has called it a “semi-fascist, semi-communist gerontocracy” and pushed for complete economic decoupling. Interestingly, Thiel is far less hostile to Russia, which he sees as culturally closer to the West. In his view, pushing Moscow into Beijing’s arms is a strategic mistake.

Peter Thiel © Getty Images / Getty Images

[4] The Dark Enlightenment

The final group behind the New America are the theorists of the ‘Dark Enlightenment’, or neo-reactionary movement. These intellectual provocateurs reject the Enlightenment values that once defined the West.

Nick Land, a British philosopher living in Shanghai, is among the founding thinkers of this school. He predicts the end of humanity as we know it and the rise of posthuman, techno-authoritarian systems governed by capital and machines. For Land, morality is irrelevant; what matters is efficiency, evolution, and raw power.

Curtis Yarvin (aka Mencius Moldbug), an American programmer, is another central figure. A friend of Thiel and an insider in Trump’s intellectual circle, Yarvin advocates replacing democracy with a corporate-style monarchy. He imagines a future of sovereign city-states run like companies, where experimentation with laws and technologies is unrestricted.

Yarvin is clear in his rejection of American global leadership. He believes the US should withdraw from Europe and let regional powers settle their own disputes. He speaks warmly of China, and his views on World War II are unorthodox to say the least – suggesting Hitler was motivated by strategic calculation rather than genocidal ambition.

Curtis Yarvin

What comes next?

Many of these ideas may seem fringe. But fringe ideas have power – especially when they echo through the corridors of political and technological influence. Carl Schmitt’s legal theories enabled Hitler to seize dictatorial powers in 1933. Today, the intellectual allies of Trump and Thiel are crafting their own narratives of ‘emergency’, ‘decadence’, and ‘reawakening’.

What’s emerging in America is not a retreat from hegemony, but a reformatting of it. The liberal international order is no longer seen as sacred – even by the country that built it. The new American elite may be withdrawing troops from Europe, the Middle East, and Korea, but their ambitions have not shrunk. They are turning instead to subtler methods of control: AI, cyber dominance, ideological warfare, and technological superiority.

Their goal is not a multipolar world, but a redesigned unipolar one – run not by diplomats and treaties, but by algorithms, monopolies, and machines.

The threat to the world is not just political anymore. It is civilizational. The superhumans are on the march.

This article was first published by Russia in Global Affairs, translated and edited by the RT team

Global South

And it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for? NATO’s wars

The whole Circus Ringmaster shtick, with each plot twist draped in several layers of hubris and empty bluster, only accelerates the BRICS/Global South high-speed train… 

By Pepe Escobar at the Strategic Culture Foundation. 

All of you Vietnam vets and draft resisters will recognize where this column’s headline is coming from. Oh yes, this ain’t the late 1960s anymore, so it’s time to revamp it – no AI needed – and expand it: from now on, be assured everyone in the wild, wild West will be forced to fight and/or endure three overlapping NATO wars.

War number 1

It’s Europe v. Russia, of course. Not proxy anymore: hot ‘n nasty, direct. Considering the advanced rottenness of the whole Ukrainian front, new fronts are already proliferating: the South Caucasus; clandestine ops in the Baltic Sea; MI6 recruiting frenzy across Central Asia; fresh terrorism ahead in the Black Sea, especially Crimea.

Col. Lawrence Wilkerson succinctly nailed it: we are already on WWIII. Actually we are already deep in the extended preamble to WWIII. Circus Ringmaster in D.C. and the billionaires/donor class behind him are of course clueless. Re-reading Keynes – The Economic Consequences of the Peace – is an absolute must like never before. History does (italics mine) repeat itself.

Yet this ain’t 1914 or 1935; now nuclear weapons may come into play.

The Kremlin and Russia’s Security Council are very much aware of the high stakes. In his recent interview to Kommersant, Sergei Shoigu even rolled out some key NATO numbers to stress the threat Russia faces: over 50,000 tanks and armored vehicles; over 7,000 combat aircraft; over 750 warships; 350 military and civilian satellites; an immense offense (italics mine) budget.

Well, what sly Shoigu did not say is that when push comes to shove, it only takes Mr. Khinzal, Mr. Sarmat, Mr. Zircon and Mr. Oreshnik to deliver a few strategic business cards to paralyze the whole NATO machinery in a matter of minutes.

War number 2

It’s the Empire of Chaos v. Iran in West Asia, with Eretz Israel as much as proxy as a lead actor.

The Circus Ringmaster – whose only “strategy” is to concoct shady deals to enrich himself and shysters in his close circle – dreams of an Israeli-centric West Asia, a toxic crossover of the Abraham Accords 2.0 with the IMEC corridor, creating, as Alastair Crooke defined it, “a business-led West Asia, centered on Tel Aviv (with Trump as its de facto ‘President’), and via this business connectivity corridor, be able “to strike further beyond – with the Gulf States penetrating into BRICS’ south Asian heartland to disrupt BRICS connectivity and corridors.”

Using the Arabs against BRICS won’t cut it even with MbZ in the UAE and MbS in Saudi Arabia, who have both realized the business scam will only work if there is real peace in Gaza; some sort of humanitarian solution for the Palestinians; and rebuilding the Gaza strip.

The death cult in Tel Aviv will never allow any of the above: their plan is to kill them all, steal all their land, and eradicate their culture. And as the genocide goes on – totally legitimized by the NATO sphere – the death cult keeps bombing anything in sight, perpetrating the balkanization of Syria, and expanding Eretz Israel.

War number 3

It’s NATO against China. Already decided in the latest summit in The Hague, side by side with the continuing war on Russia.

Yet actually the scam is much bigger: it’s NATO’s war on BRICS.

That was announced, casually, by that unspeakable Dutch mediocrity that makes former slab of Norwegian wood Stoltenberg sound like a quantum physics star. NATO’s Secretary-General Rutti Frutti actually threatened India, China and Brazil directly, and ordered them to “call Putin” to prevent “Daddy” Trump from unleashing his next Tariff Temper Tantrum (TTT).

Beijing is hardly breaking a sweat. China humiliated the Circus Ringmaster by not backing down one inch in their trade/tariff war. Russia humiliated the Circus Ringmaster by not being coerced into a pathetic “ceasefire” – as in allowing NATO to re-arm. Iran humiliated the Circus Ringmaster by not signing an unconditional surrender. The Houthis humiliated the U.S. Navy – now that’s one for the military annals – by forcing the Circus Ringmaster into a ceasefire after $1billion in failed bombing.

Lula in Brazil is about to humiliate the Circus Ringmaster by affirming Brazilian sovereignty in the face of an all-out trade and financial war (Trump even threatened to tax the popular Brazilian digital payment system, PIX). If slapped with 50% tariffs, Lula said Brasilia will slap the Empire of Chaos back under a reciprocity law.

The whole Circus Ringmaster shtick, with each plot twist draped in several layers of hubris and empty bluster, only accelerates the BRICS/Global South high-speed train, now increasingly being shaped as a geoeconomic, geopolitical and geo-strategic alliance of trans-continental proportions, reaffirmed at the Rio summit.

All that led, of course, by what I have been describing as the new Primakov triangle: the new RIC, Russia, Iran and China, complete with their interlocking strategic partnerships. Quite a few top Chinese academics not by accident are also starting to conceptualize the emerging, “post-West” environment with two new “I”s in BRICS: Iran and Indonesia, not India, should be at the heart of BRIICS.

Meanwhile, in Europe, Tricontinental analysis has noted how the – warmongering – German BlackRock chancellor has pledged “€650 billion over the next five years toward military spending in order to reach the [NATO] 5% target by 2035”. That means Berlin being forced to raise “about €144 billion per year”, via, what else, austerity and debt, translated into massive extra taxes on German consumers.

That, in a nutshell, is the “program” for the whole, fragmented, collective West in the near future: austerity for everyone (except the 0.01%); and NATO Wars, not Diamonds, Forever.

Global South

The Ceasefire Kabuki

The myth of genocidal invincibility has been shattered forever .. that death cult in West Asia can indeed be mortally wounded .. TACO announced a one-sided ceasefire and fled .. There will be blood – over and over again.

By Pepe Escobar at the Strategic Culture Foundation.

In the end, predictably, the Circus Ringmaster went TACO (“Trump Always Chickens Out”).

He was terrified by three crucial reality-based developments.

1. The Iranian message on preparing to close the Strait of Hormuz. The CIA had warned Trump that China was viscerally opposed to the Strait being blocked. That’s one of the reasons, according to a Deep State old hand, that Trump decided to go ahead anyway with his “spectacular” (sic) theatrical op on Fordow. But when the specter of a blocked Hormuz destroying the global economy became real, he went TACO.
2. The Iranian warning conveyed by the bombing of the Al-Udeid base in Qatar, the military jewel in the imperial crown in West Asia. Even Atlanticist sources in Doha confirm the damage to the – evacuated – base was “monumental”, with at least 3 missiles hitting their targets. Tehran was unmistakably saying we can hit you anywhere, anytime, with anything we want. And your GCC lackeys will blame you for it.
3. Arguably the key reason: the genocidals in Tel Aviv are running out of interceptors – fast; in fact their whole – porous – air defense network is in trouble. In the last substantial Iranian missile volley on occupied Palestine on Monday morning, interception rate fell below 50%, and Iran started targeting Israel’s electric grid. Iran’s new directive – strategic offense, not patience – was meant to completely paralyze the Israeli economy. On top of it the genocidals had already begged Tehran to “end the war”. Tehran answered the time had not yet arrived. So the genocidals begged Daddy Trump to rescue them.

The chain of events leading to the ceasefire remains murky.

A key accelerating factor was Putin’s personal meeting with Iranian Foreign Minister Araghchi at the Kremlin on Monday.

Speaking on behalf of Ayatollah Khamenei, Araghchi may have asked for a solid supply of weapons and most of all defense systems; but these will take time, especially considering that the strategic partnership recently approved by both the Duma and the Majlis in Tehran is not – officially – a military alliance.

Yet according to sources in Moscow who were informed about the meeting, Putin did position Russia at the center of a possible resolution, thus displacing Washington. Team Trump 2.0 was incensed. Trump boasted that both Iran and Israel had called him almost simultaneously to arrange a ceasefire. Nonsense: only Tel Aviv did. As Putin made it clear, once again, that Russia would back Iran, he indirectly offered Trump an off-ramp.

True to character, the Circus Ringmaster jumped on it, marketing his own, branded ceasefire, reality show-style. And this only two days after gloating that the Iranian nuclear program was “obliterated” (he insists on it even as U.S. intel admits the program may have been set back for only a matter of months).

A supreme taboo has been broken

Iran has learned a few important lessons the hardest way, paying a horrendous price. Tehran was way too transparent and reasonable dealing with a bunch of gangsters: from allowing IAEA nuclear monitoring that turned out to be a process of amassing precious intel for Israeli targeting; and believing in diplomacy and honoring agreements that were unceremoniously ditched.

There’s no diplomacy when it comes to dealing with the imperial Leviathan/Behemoth – especially as it contemplates, in horror, its footprint being reduced all across the Global South.

Domestically though, Iran is going to the next level. There are at least three factions in confrontation: Ayatollah Khamenei and his close circle plus the IRGC; the reformists, embodied by the meek Pezeshkian presidency; and what could be construed as secular nationalists, who want a strong Iran but not as a theo-democracy.

The IRGC now has all the power. Defending the homeland against the deadly Zionist axis, Empire included, crystalized a widespread sentiment of national unity and pride.

All sectors of the Iranian population – 90 million, someone tell pathetic Marco Rubio – rallied around the flag.

Conceptually, the ceasefire – nobody knows how long it will last – is adverse to Iran, because its increasing deterrence capacity is now lost. Israel will have its air defenses feverishly replenished while Iran, alone, will need months and even years to rebuild.

The imperial modus operandi remains the same. The Circus Ringmaster saw that a monster humiliation was at hand –something like Israel’s Vietnam: so he announced a one-sided ceasefire and fled.

Yet the configuration for the next battles has changed. If Washington decides to escalate again, or resorts to the certified practice of using terror proxies, Iran as the de facto leader of the Resistance will resolutely counter-attack. The myth of genocidal invincibility has been shattered forever. The whole Global South has seen it, and now takes it in serious consideration.

It remains open to serious discussion whether Tehran will finally opt to follow a DPRK model to counteract the – failed, so far – imposition of a Libya and/or Syria model. Uranium enrichment will continue. With an added film noir plot twist: nobody knows where the uranium is.

The Empire of Chaos, predictably, will never stop. Only when the whole Global South unites with an iron will and force it to stop. The conditions are not in place – yet.

As it stands, the real ceasefire would be between the U.S. and the Global South, led institutionally by Russia-China, BRICS and several other multipolar organizations. The chance of the U.S. ruling classes honoring such a long-lasting ceasefire, if it ever happens, are less than zero.

As for the Iran-Israel ceasefire, that’s not the end of the war. On the contrary; it’s the – dubious – end of just the first hot battle. The dogs and hyenas of war will be back, sooner or later. There will be blood – over and over again. Yet at least a supreme taboo has been broken: that death cult in West Asia can indeed be mortally wounded.

Global South

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

The inexorable decline of the American Empire has arrived at an Imperial Paradox. It must either fight a war and die, or not fight a war and die.

By William Schryver at imetatronink.

The inexorable decline of the American Empire has arrived at an Imperial Paradox. It must either fight a war and die, or not fight a war and die.

Here are the options:

Neither South Korea nor Japan want anything to do with a war against China, leaving only the Philippines dumb enough to play along.

The US apparently pulled another brigade out of South Korea. They’ll pull out more in the future. They know damn well the North Koreans could easily conquer the entire peninsula if they chose to do so.

China and its local seas are a vast ocean away from America, and its capacity to defend its local seas is enormous and growing.

The Pentagon must understand it cannot sustain logistics in a war against China in the western Pacific. It simply cannot be done. Anyone who thinks otherwise must upgrade their proficiency in basic arithmetic.

In the context of a war against Iran, all the geography is against the US.

Iran is an exceedingly mountainous country that has, over the course of millennia, learned to use those mountains to defend itself against would-be conquerors.

They can field a satisfactorily well-equipped million-man army.

They have learned in the 21st century to burrow deep heavily fortified tunnels into their mountains.

Iran is also much more technologically advanced than most people understand. They have become impressively capable in terms of both offensive and defensive missiles. They pose a far greater challenge than the Yemeni have been over the past year and a half.

Indeed, they pose a “near-peer” challenge against US overseas power projection.

The US Navy could only operate at extreme risk in the southern Red Sea, the Gulf of Aden, the Gulf of Oman, the Strait of Hormuz, and the Persian Gulf.

Every US base in the region is well within range of Iranian missile strikes.

The US Navy very demonstrably cannot secure seaborne logistics into the Persian Gulf. They lack both the sealift ships, and the ability to protect them.

They cannot even open the Bab-el-Mandeb!

From a geographic and logistical standpoint, the only remotely conceivable war is one in Ukraine against Russia.

The US at least has bases and forces already in place in the UK, Germany, Poland, Romania, Finland, and in Baltic chihuahua fantasy-land — and what has served until now as a reasonably secure logistics pathway into all those places.

Of course, whether or not such a condition persists long in a war scenario is another question altogether.

Because, you see, the Russians are now unquestionably the most formidable and battle-hardened military on the planet — at least in the context of a war fought on their doorstep.

So if you’re an empire that thinks it needs a war to reaffirm at least its short-term relevance and fading glory … well, these are your choices.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Global South

A Roving Persian Glance

The coming Anglo-Zionist Messianic Storm

Global South

The Istanbul Kabuki — decoded

The endgame is clear: the US losing the entire Eurasian land mass. Ukraine, under these immense geopolitical imperatives, is only a sovereign-deprived pawn in the (Great) Game.

By Pepe Escobar at the Strategic Culture Foundation.

Did President Putin really change the game by proposing the resumption of negotiations on the proxy war in Ukraine in Istanbul – over three years after the first ones were scotched by NATO?

It’s complicated. And depends on which “game” we’re talking about.

What the Russian move instantly accomplished was to throw into total disarray the European warmongering Three Stooges (Starmer, BlackRock chancellor, Le Petit Roi) Cocaine Express.

Irrelevant Europe was not even at the table in Istanbul – except via extensive previous briefing of the low-rent, shabby-dressed Ukrainian delegation. That was compounded by the noisy barking threat in the sidelines advocating “more sanctions” to “pressure Russia”.

In March 2022 in Istanbul, Kiev could have stopped the war. Every one of us who were in Istanbul at the time could foresee that Kiev would eventually have to be forced to the table all over again.

So in essence we are back to the same negotiation – with the same top Russian negotiator, competent historian Vladimir Medinsky, heading a delegation composed by pros, but with Ukraine now facing over a million dead; deprived of at least four regions – more on the way; what’s left of its mineral wealth de facto controlled by the US; and a horrendous black hole that passes for an “economy”. We are talking about country 404 territory.

During the negotiations on Friday, Medinsky went straight to the point:

“We don’t want war, but we are ready to fight for a year, two, three – as long as it takes. We fought with Sweden for 21 years [the Great Northern War, 1700-1721, as it is known in Russia]. How long are you ready to fight?”

That’s the geopolitical/military state of things for Kiev and their “to the last Ukrainian” warmongering backers: either you capitulate, or we’re going to hurt you even more.

What’s the point of these negotiations?

Turkiye under uber-opportunist Sultan Erdogan in fact hosted a P.R. meeting between Moscow, Kiev and itself – with the Ukrainians unleashing a blitzkrieg of infantile tantrums only designed to influence global public opinion. In sharp contrast, the head of the Russian Direct Investment Fund, Kirill Dmitriev, did his best to put a positive spin on the proceedings.

Istanbul 2.0, Dmitriev asserted, achieved a large exchange of prisoners (1,000 on each side); ceasefire options to be presented by both sides; and a continuation of dialogue.

That’s not much. Well, at least they discussed in the same language: Russian. Nothing was lost in translation.

A serious case can be made that to propose the resumption of these negotiations, under this format, was meaningless. There’s no evidence in the horizon both parties might touch the fundamental issue anytime soon: the whole geopolitical strategic equation in Eastern Europe, from the Barents Sea to the Black Sea and beyond – leading to an “indivisibility of security” new deal with global repercussions.

That implies that whatever track these negotiations may follow further on down the road, they are an objective impossibility. Meanwhile, the proxy war in Ukraine – and the SMO – will go on.

That would also suggest that the Moscow security establishment considers the neo-nazi instrumentalized goons in Kiev at best as a re-enactment of the 6^th Army of Paulus, with which you negotiate the end of a battle, but not the end of the war.

Even NATO semi-realists as retired Commodore Steven Jermy have been forced to admit that “Russia is in the driving seat” and clueless Europeans “appear to believe that the losers should dictate the terms of ceasefire or surrender.”

All the barking by the – European – chihuahuas of war cannot disguise the fundamental geopolitical/military fact: a massive NATO humiliation. Trump’s humongous problem is that he has to manage it – and sell it to domestic public opinion and the global public opinion as some sort of “deal” he struck with Putin.

It’s enlightening once again to go back to Grandmaster Lavrov, always the uber-realist, back in September 2024: “In April 2022, Russian and Ukrainian negotiators reached agreement in Istanbul. If that agreement had been observed, Ukraine would have preserved part of Donbass. But every time another agreement, always accepted by Russia, is broken, Ukraine shrinks in size.”

The (Great) Game, revisited

Now back to the (Great) Game. Kiev negotiators eventually admitting Ukrainian capitulation means a NATO capitulation and an Empire of Chaos capitulation. That’s the ultimate anathema for the US ruling classes. Even an ultra-negotiated, carefully managed Ukrainian surrender will be an impossible sell – not to mention Washington under Narcissus Drowned Trump acknowledging a strategic defeat.

Because that will mean the Empire of Chaos losing Eurasia for good: the ultimate Mackinder/Brzezinski nightmare. Coupled with the consequential solidification of the multi-nodal, multipolar world.

The Russia-China stategic partnership is very much aware of every nook and cranny in this larger-than-life process. Beyond the current Turkish kabuki, they clearly understand the Big Eurasia Equation.

Beijing is fully aware NATO’s real goal was always to confront it via Russia.  Ukraine was NATO’s pawn to take down Russia then get to China from the West. The goal of the US ruling elites as they configured their thalassocratic empire remains to blockade China from the West by land and sea, using Russia; then use Taiwan as a staging area to blockade China from the East by sea. No wonder control of Taiwan is a Chinese strategic imperative.

Enter Mackinder panic – all over again: the China-Russia strategic partnership can beat NATO hands down – and Russia, by itself, is already doing it. Xi and Putin once again discussed the chessboard in detail, in person, prior to the Victory Day parade last week in Moscow.

The endgame, once again, is clear: the US losing the entire Eurasian land mass. Ukraine, under these immense geopolitical imperatives, is only a sovereign-deprived pawn in the (Great) Game.

As for the tantrum-addicted clown in Kiev, he is merely an actor with no authority whatsoever, negotiations included. He is completely dominated by Ukrainian neo-Nazis who will kill him if and when the war is over. He merely fronts for them and gets paid off. And that’s why – enthusiastically supported by inconsequential London, Paris and Berlin – he’s obsessed to continue a Forever War destroying the very nation he claims to represent.

Global South

Pepe with Judge Napolitano

Thanks to Tariffs, China Ditching US Tech. Napolitano interviews geopolitician Pepe Escobar, April 30th, 2025.

“… in this wilderness of narrative mirrors, Trump should be perceived as all characters combined: the White Rabbit, Humpty Dumpty (“When I use a word, it means what I choose to mean, no more and no less”), the Mad Hatter, the Queen of Hearts (“Off with their heads!”)”