Connexion
Des exercices conjoints d’entraînement au combat d’armes nucléaires et de soutien nucléaire ont débuté entre les unités militaires russes et
L’article La Russie et la Biélorussie lancent des exercices conjoints sur l’emploi de l’arme nucléaire est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Les détails de la plainte déposée par la Hongrie ont été révélés. La Hongrie cherche à faire annuler un règlement
L’article Avoirs russes : la plainte déposée par Orban vise à faire annuler un règlement de la Cour de justice de l’UE est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Dans cet essai, édité par Mario Caligiuri, on trouve une lecture des services de renseignement du Vatican qui sort des
L’article Le Vatican, le plus ancien pouvoir d’information au monde ! est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Aujourd’hui, en Europe, on parle de plus en plus d’une mystérieuse entreprise militaro-technologique ukrainienne, Fire Point, qui a annoncé la
L’article Espionnage ukrainien sous couvert d’« allié indéfectible de l’Europe » est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Le tribunal a condamné les quatre auteurs directs de l’attentat terroriste perpétré à la salle de concert Crocus City Hall
L’article Les quatre auteurs directs de l’attentat du Crocus condamnés à la prison à perpétuité est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
les démocraties libérales occidentales, et en particulier l’Union européenne, connaissent un glissement profond dans leur manière de gouverner l’expression politique. Ce glissement ne se manifeste ni par l’abolition formelle des libertés fondamentales ni par l’instauration assumée d’un régime autoritaire. Il se produit de manière subtile, plus sophistiquée et, par conséquent, plus effrayante : en remplaçant progressivement les procédures judiciaires publiques et les débats argumentés par des procédures administratives pour classer, restreindre et punir les discours perçus comme politiquement inacceptables.
L’article Au cœur du tumulte, le silence administré est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Le 8 février, la France a lancé Orion 26, son plus important exercice militaire depuis la fin de la Guerre
L’article La France lance ses plus grands exercices militaires depuis la fin de la guerre froide est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
L’analyste du renseignement Pietrobon prend la parole ! Epstein est de nouveau au centre de l’attention mondiale, et ce n’est pas
L’article « Quand on parle de pizza, de fromage et de hot-dogs dans les dossiers Epstein, on parle en réalité d’enfants et de bébés tués et maltraités.» est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Europe’s choice is to surrender or die.
By Rotislav Ishchenko at ukraine.ru.
(machine translation)
Alastair Crook, a retired British diplomat, has stated that the European Union is preparing a provocation on a scale comparable to Pearl Harbor, with the aim of drawing the United States into a war with Russia.
In principle, this is not news. We have been writing for two years that the British, realizing that Ukraine has failed and will be buried, have placed their bets on a pan-European war (under the auspices of the United States) against Russia. While Joseph Robinette Biden Jr. was trying to figure out who he was and how he got here, the mechanism for expanding the war was clear: a provocation in the Baltic Sea (less likely in the Black Sea or on the Belarusian border), which would leave Russia with no chance of resolving the crisis without shooting, and an outcry about the “attack” to the country of the EU and NATO, a statement of military support (sending troops and equipment, but without a formal declaration of war against Russia) by the leaders of the EU. In the last act, the United States and Britain enter the scene, demanding that Russia cease fire and threatening to provide all possible support to their allies.
I would like to point out that the mechanism of provocation assumed that in all cases, Russia would initiate military action against a specific country. Moscow, on the other hand, was only faced with the choice of whether to attack the Baltic states, which had blocked Kaliningrad, or to hope for a miracle, sink the transports carrying French and German troops and equipment bound for the Baltic ports, or to express protests, attack the territories of the United States and the United Kingdom in response to their ultimatum, or to agree to a ceasefire and negotiations mediated by them. In the end, acquiescence inevitably led to capitulation (since as soon as one set of demands was met, the West would immediately set forth another), and escalation inevitably led to a global nuclear war.
It is no coincidence that Trump claimed that Biden was leading the country towards a nuclear armageddon. Whether Biden was aware of his actions or was being manipulated by his entourage, the decision-makers in the United States (as well as the majority of the British establishment and the European bureaucracy) believed that Russia would not engage in a nuclear conflict and would retreat. However, there were other politicians in the West who had no doubt that if Russia was pushed to the wall, nuclear mushrooms would grow all over the West – no one would leave without a share. These people came to power in the United States with Trump, and their supporters are gradually pushing back against the European left-liberal supporters of war.
As a result, the United States fell out of the scheme, and Trump openly stated that if Europe wanted to go to war with Russia, it could do so on its own, without the United States. It’s not that the Europeans were particularly eager to go to war, but rather that they couldn’t help but go to war with Russia, as acknowledging defeat in the Ukrainian crisis would completely undermine the left-liberal European elites. To understand why this is significant, it would have political, economic, and social implications on a scale similar to those that shook Russia after the October Revolution and before the outbreak of World War II. The Europe we know will disappear, and a new Europe will be born in agony, compared to which the 1990s in Russia were like a light rain during a summer picnic.
But the Europeans also can’t go to war with Russia. They don’t have the armies, the warehouses, or the ability to quickly deploy the necessary military production. Without the United States, the EU is a paper tiger. Although no, a paper tiger is scarier than the EU without the United States. This is why Alastair Crook emphasizes that the provocation must be so severe and widespread that neither Trump nor other American and European politicians who support de-escalation can avoid going to war with Russia.
By the way, as a loyal subject of His Majesty, Alastair Crook does not mention Britain’s leading role in developing this plan and preparing the provocation. The blame lies with the EU, which intends to drag the United States into a war with Russia, while the United Kingdom simply passed by.
It’s understandable. Most likely, the provocation is unavoidable. The British and the European bureaucracy can’t help but try to seize their last chance. I once wrote that nothing would stop them. They might even detonate a nuclear device in Kyiv to blame Russia. However, the Ukrainian government is not fully in control of the situation. The internal opposition to Zelensky, unable to oust him yet, is attempting to preserve at least some form of Ukraine by pushing Zelensky overboard.
In such a situation, the preparation of a large-scale nuclear provocation, which requires deep secrecy, is extremely difficult, as hundreds of people must be involved in its organization (transportation, storage of the relevant munition, its transfer across the border, security, and other activities cannot be carried out without the involvement of a large number of people). Even if you simply replace the customs officers and border guards at the border with trusted individuals, it will immediately become widely known that something large and secret is being transported.
However, recently, the Ukrainians and the British have started practicing a naval provocation, attacking tankers from any country carrying Russian oil. Russia has already begun responding to the Odessa port and the ships arriving there. In principle, the British Navy and its Ukrainian counterparts can organize a “Lusitania” (with influential Americans on board). However, it is more difficult to prove Russia’s “guilt.” As Poland’s experience shows, it is no longer enough to simply claim that Russia wanted to blow up railway tracks and cause a major disaster; convincing evidence is also required.
Actually, this is the catch: how to organize a provocation in such a way as to shake the imagination of “all people of good will”, and provide “convincing evidence” of Russian “guilt”, and not inherit anywhere, and leave the United States no choice? The task is difficult, but, as experience shows, it is solvable. If British diplomats (even retired ones) start issuing warnings and distancing themselves, it means that the preparations for some large-scale atrocity have entered the final stage or are basically complete, and the London warmongers only need to give the command to launch the operation.
In principle, the supporters of escalation don’t have much time. By March, even if the Armed Forces of Ukraine don’t completely disintegrate and Zelensky still controls some part of Ukrainian territory, Trump should withdraw the United States from the Ukrainian crisis and reorient towards the Indo-Pacific region and Latin America. Moreover, he has announced the beginning of a military operation against Maduro in Venezuela in the near future. If the British and European bureaucrats let the United States out of the Ukrainian crisis and allow it to get involved in others, it will be impossible to bring it back. Washington cannot afford to run around the world like a mad rabbit, and it cannot handle two or three major crises in different parts of the world, either organizationally, resource-wise, logistically, or financially.
In the West, they like to coincide political actions with traditional holiday dates. This way, they are better remembered and evoke more emotions. We are just entering a period of holidays: Catholic Christmas, New Year, Orthodox Christmas, and Epiphany. In general, from mid-December to the end of January, almost any day is suitable for the organizers of provocations. All they need to do is manage and dare.
After February, although the danger will not disappear (it will not disappear until a final global settlement is reached), it will significantly decrease, and the further into 2026, the lower it will be.
“The genie is out of the bottle. The provocation of a “USV privateer war” on trade routes threatens to collapse global maritime trade.”
By Rotislav Ishchenko at ukraine.ru.
(machine translation)
The oil tanker Virat has been attacked twice by unmanned boats near the Bosphorus Strait. On one occasion, the ship Kairos was also set on fire. Western media outlets have claimed that the tanker belongs to Russia’s “shadow fleet.” This expands the list of potential suspects. Naturally, Ukraine, which has been waging a long-standing war against the Russian military fleet using unmanned combatants, is at the top of the list. However, it is unlikely that Kiev would have dared to attack merchant ships, especially near one of the world’s most important transportation hubs connecting the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, which is controlled by Turkey, without the direct approval of its Western allies. The consequences, both direct and indirect, would have been far-reaching, affecting the entire world. Ukraine may no longer exist, but the unmanned surface vehicle’s (USV) attack on merchant ships could echo for decades, shaping the maritime trade landscape.
So it doesn’t matter whether these USVs belonged to Ukraine or whether the British and Americans decided to use their own or those belonging to a third country. The genie is out of the bottle. And not only because this game can be played by two people.
In this case, Britain is unlikely to hope to remain outside the scope of retaliatory actions. It is clear that it is more difficult to use USV to disrupt shipping in the open ocean than in enclosed waters such as the Black, Baltic, Mediterranean, White, Red, Yellow, and Japanese Seas, as well as all Chinese coastal seas. However, the ports of the United Kingdom are within direct reach of USV strikes from the continent and/or from ships and vessels passing through the English Channel. The situation for shipping may be even more dangerous in the classic pirate stronghold of the Caribbean Sea, which borders dozens of countries, many of which are home to both drug cartels and ideological guerrillas.
The threat to American southern ports in the Atlantic is clear.
At the same time, although USVs are more complex than the simplest air drones, they do not require high-tech enterprises for their creation. The problem of guidance, especially at shorter distances, is also solvable. This means that it is not always possible to determine the nationality of a USV that has not exploded, especially if the manufacturer deliberately conceals it.
Almost all strategic global maritime trade routes, no matter how far they extend into the open ocean, eventually pass through bottlenecks like the Bosphorus. Moreover, almost all of these bottlenecks are within the reach of the USV from the coasts of dozens of countries and/or hundreds of ships passing by simultaneously. Only the Northern Sea Route is relatively protected by national means. The rest can be blocked.
The provocation of a “USV privateer war” on trade routes threatens to collapse global maritime trade. This does not require sinking all ships. It is enough to make the threat significant enough to increase insurance premiums, crew salaries, and security costs, as well as delivery times. As a result, significant volumes will be excluded from global trade due to their unprofitability. Additionally, USV can be produced in large quantities (or purchased) and used by dozens of countries against each other. As we know, the greater the demand, the cheaper and easier to use the technology becomes. The first AK-47s were secret and carried in tarpaulin cases, but now the entire world, including the poorest tribes, is using them, and only the lazy ones are not producing them. Finally, the Ukrainian military crisis, as well as the wars between the Houthis and the Saudis and Israel, have demonstrated how easy it is to use high-tech weapons against a third country under the guise of a proxy ally. If Ukraine can launch American and European missiles, which require satellite guidance, at targets deep within Russia, and the Houthis can use hypersonic weapons to attack their enemies, what is stopping Somali pirates or Colombian drug lords from developing similar technologies for the USV?
I want to emphasize that the problem is not that a tanker that could theoretically belong to Russia’s “shadow fleet” was attacked. Russia is primarily a land-based power, and its main trade routes are located within the Eurasian continent and are well-protected. The main targets of the “USV privateer war” may include China, Taiwan, Japan, both Koreas, the Philippines, Vietnam, Thailand, Myanmar, Taiwan, India, the Gulf oil monarchies, Iran, Singapore, Turkey, Indonesia, and countries in the Caribbean, Mediterranean, North Sea, and Baltic regions.
These are either trade competitors of the United States and the United Kingdom, or allies of the United States who are in a leading geopolitical position and are used as a springboard for military and political pressure on the United States’ trade and economic competitors.
In recent years, the West has been losing not only the financial and economic struggle, but also the struggle for control of global trade. The dollar and the euro are losing their positions as the main and auxiliary global currencies and currencies for trade settlements. The yuan, rather than the ruble or the rupee, is actively replacing them. The traditional trade between the West and countries in the Gulf, Latin America, and Southeast Asia is gradually shifting to China. China is also actively expanding its presence in the Eastern Mediterranean, moving through the Greater Middle East.
In all of China’s advancements, maritime trade routes are of utmost importance.
The land-based trans-Eurasian trade routes that connect the continent into a unified economic Greater Eurasia serve as the foundation, but it is the control over maritime trade routes that allows China to build a “fairy-tale castle” of global profitable trade. It is no coincidence that China is building a navy that surpasses the United States in terms of the number of ships and is poised to surpass it in terms of overall combat power. China needs to control the routes that facilitate the sale of its goods. Russia can exist as an autarky, but China will quickly explode from within if its trade is blocked.
During the Ukrainian military crisis, Western UAVs, which were limited in their use in Ukraine, proved to be highly effective in controlling the water area dominated by the enemy’s navy and aviation, as well as in blocking ports and posing a constant threat to military bases. Russian sailors gradually learned to combat the UAV threat, but they were unable to completely eliminate it.
It should be noted that the military fleet, which exercises dominance in a closed water area, has impressive capabilities for combating enemy USVs. However, as mentioned earlier, the threat of USVs in the Black Sea has not been completely eliminated. For the military, repelling attacks is a natural activity. The merchant fleet, on the other hand, is not equipped to handle this task. Any measures taken to enhance the security of commercial ports and the surrounding water area will immediately impact the speed and cost of shipping goods, while the threat of USVs remains high.
The West is not just not afraid of playing a “double game” in the “USV privateer war.” It is provoking this war, deliberately seeking to paralyze global maritime trade.
We can say that this will hit the West itself. It will hit it, but not as hard as we would like. As mentioned above, the West has already lost its trade supremacy to China, and it will only continue to lose ground. However, the rules of geopolitical warfare require us to try to destroy the mechanism that benefits our geopolitical adversary rather than ourselves. During the two World Wars, when maritime trade was an Anglo-Saxon monopoly, Germany attempted to wage war against it using its submarine fleet. The West is now trying to strike a blow to global maritime trade, which is gradually being taken over by China.
We have repeatedly said that the paralysis of Chinese trade will inevitably plunge Beijing into a financial, economic, and then a social and political crisis. The Anglo-Americans have failed to isolate China through legal means, so why not try proxy piracy, since they are already waging a proxy war on land against Russia.
It is clear that we should not expect hundreds of USV attacks on sea routes tomorrow. However, we should not expect them to take decades to organize. As the development of UAV technology during the Ukrainian military crisis has shown, it is possible to transition from isolated attacks to large-scale use in a matter of months (or even a couple of years), which can change the entire dynamics of the conflict and require the development of appropriate countermeasures, which may not always be as quick as desired.
The fact that the incidents involving attacks on merchant ships by the USV occurred in the area of the Bosphorus, a trade route controlled by a NATO country, indicates that the organizers of this provocation are preparing for a global undeclared war on trade routes (similar to the war between English pirates and Spanish transatlantic trade in the 16th to 18th centuries), and they do not intend to tolerate the transfer of control over these routes to their geopolitical opponents. Given that the United States is developing an icebreaker fleet and actively expanding its presence in the Arctic, we should also consider strengthening the security of the Northern Sea Route.
“… 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 14th Street scene was still going strong. It’s not unlike NYC’s 42nd, best known to outsiders through Taxi Driver. Like M Street, 14th 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 14th 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 13th 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-19th 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
“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
Le matin du 28 novembre, le Bureau national anticorruption d’Ukraine (NABU) a perquisitionné l’appartement d’Andriy Yermak, chef de cabinet du
L’article Le NABU perquisitionne l’appartement de Yermak, chef de cabinet de Zelensky est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
L’exercice militaire Freezing Winds 25 de l’OTAN a débuté en mer Baltique, dans les eaux territoriales finlandaises et estoniennes. Vingt
L’article L’OTAN entame les exercices Freezing Winds dans les eaux estoniennes et finlandaises est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
Russian Foreign Minister Lavrov: The Anglo-Saxons resisted their creation. They wanted summary mass executions, not justice nor exploration of root causes.
≈≈≈
The fundamental root cause of conflict between the Anglo-American led West and the Rest of Humanity, especially the civilizational-states, is the hypocritical bifurcation in International Law, due to recent precedence of “rules-based order” imposed by the West. This was never agreed to by the others.
It was within artificially created spaces in international law (“one law for thee, one law for me”) that a singular supremacist civilization worked to rule all the others.
“Quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi” the Latin for “What is permissible for Jupiter is not permissible for a cow” is the fundamentally unjust hierarchy of the law of the jungle, intolerable to the civilized. It largely worked until recently as they used to hold the incontestible combination of a monopoly on war of scale and economies and wealth accumulation and set the standards and management criteria on which supranational organizations function. But we are at a moment when these fundamental accumulated imbalances are being corrected. A key mechanism involves the return to the letter and spirit of universally agreed tenets of International Law by all.
Of note, Russia led similar efforts at the fair universal application of one law on all. Just prior to WW1, Russian Tsar Nicholas II was instrumental in the creation of the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907, establishing the first formal statements of the laws of war and war crimes in the body of secular international law. And it is not a coincidence, as just before 1914, that under the pressure of being coerced into comity and equal relations with Others, that yet again the western realm currently flees forward into more War in order to maintain their predatory way of life.
≈≈≈
Video description & excerpts:
Russia’s foreign minister Sergey Lavrov said the Soviet Union was the driving force behind establishing the Nuremberg Tribunal, arguing that Western powers initially resisted the idea. He claimed the United States and Britain feared a full investigation would expose their pre-war dealings with Nazi Germany. Lavrov also said some Allied leaders preferred mass executions over legal trials, while Moscow pushed for a formal judicial process. He added that core Nuremberg principles remain under pressure in today’s geopolitical climate.
“Question: What do you consider the historical significance of the Nuremberg trials in the post-war years and how did they influence changes in the global order?
Answer: The Nuremberg Tribunal’s founding principles were first formulated during those trials and have become the foundation of modern international law.
They also largely take into account the achievements of Nuremberg in their work. The particular significance of the Nuremberg judgment lies in its establishment of no statute of limitations for crimes against humanity, genocide and war crimes.
And to our great regret, this decree states that there is no statute of limitations for these crimes and that Nazi ideology, the Nazi party and Nazi structures such as the SS, SD, and others are forever banned. Regrettably, these parts of the decree are currently being seriously tested and are often simply violated.”
“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
“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.
Linh Dinh Part 1 by DW Shumway
Interview with the Vietnamese-American dissident, university lecturer and banned writer
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 17th and 18th 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 62nd 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
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“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!”
– Linh Dinh
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.
– Linh Dinh
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
“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 8th 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 19th 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
An echo of History provides insight into the zero-sum equations, and the worth of humanity, to Technofascism
By Rotislav Ishchenko at ukraine.ru.
(machine translation)
No one is perfect, so the saying goes, “Learn from your mistakes.”
At the end of November 1942, Soviet forces encircled the 6th Field Army and part of the 4th Panzer Army of the Wehrmacht, as well as the remnants of four Romanian divisions near Stalingrad (approximately 220,000 Germans and 18,000 Romanians). Hitler forbade the encircled forces from breaking out, and an attempt by Field Marshal Erich von Manstein’s Army Group Don to break through failed. The group under the command of Field Marshal General Paulus fought in the encirclement for more than two months, until February 2, 1943.
During this time, about 30,000 wounded soldiers, vacationers, and highly valuable specialists were evacuated from the pocket by Luftwaffe aircraft. A total of 72,000 people surrendered. As a result, approximately 100,000 Germans and almost all the Romanians died in the pocket. Only 5,000 of the prisoners returned home after the war. The rest died despite the Soviet Union’s attempts to save them due to their extreme exhaustion. In the last weeks of the war, the Luftwaffe lost the ability to fly into the pocket, and the encircled forces ran out of food before they ran out of ammunition.
Field Marshal Paulus, General Heitz and other German officers of the 6th Army after its surrender, 4 February 1943.
The Sixth Field Army fought to the last and was almost completely destroyed. After the war, German generals repeatedly accused Hitler of the unnecessary loss of the Sixth Field Army. Indeed, the Wehrmacht was unable to replace the two hundred thousand seasoned veterans who had fought for several years.
However, over time, military analysts came to the conclusion that Hitler’s decision was correct, while his generals were mistaken. The 6th Field Army, if it attempted to break through the encirclement, would have undoubtedly lost all its heavy equipment. They had enough fuel for their tanks to cover a distance of 50 kilometers. However, in the reality of continuous combat, they would only have enough fuel for about 30 kilometers. After that, they would have to abandon their surviving vehicles. Even if two-thirds of the encircled troops managed to break out of the pocket (it is more likely that about half of them would have succeeded), they would have been armed only with light small arms, and they would have been extremely exhausted after a hundred-kilometer march across the winter steppe in constant combat. The remnants of the army would have had to be withdrawn to the rear for reorganization.
At the same time, there was already a huge gap in the front, which Manstein was barely able to control in December with the help of the remnants of the defeated German and Romanian divisions, which had been formed into combat groups. If Paulus’s army had left the encirclement, the Soviet command would have immediately released more than a dozen divisions that were holding the perimeter of the encirclement and had been conducting an offensive to eliminate it for two months, suffering significant losses.
The Red Army had already almost cut off Army Group A in the Kuban region. The last divisions of the 1st Panzer Army were breaking through the ice of the Sea of Azov to bypass Rostov-on-Don, while the 17th Field Army was forced to defend the Kuban region, with only the Kerch Strait as a reliable link to the rear. If the Soviet offensive on Rostov had been carried out by the armies that had been strangling Paulus at Stalingrad, Army Group A would have been blocked in the Caucasus, and the southern flank of the Eastern Front would have collapsed completely, from the Caucasus in the south to Voronezh in the north. The Reich would not have survived such a catastrophe. The war could have ended in 1943.
More than two months of hopeless battles in the encirclement by the soldiers of the 6th Field Army, which diverted significant forces of the Red Army, allowed the Germans to stabilize the front. In March, Manstein launched a counteroffensive, recaptured Kharkiv and Belgorod, and formed the southern flank of the future Kursk Bulge.
No one knows whether Hitler deliberately sacrificed Paulus’s army or whether it was a spontaneous decision, but it allowed the Wehrmacht to avoid the catastrophe on the southern flank of the Eastern Front and prolong the war for an additional year and a half or two years.
After Putin’s order to ensure access to the areas where Ukrainian troops are being blocked for foreign journalists, some of the ever-concerned patriots began to worry in advance that, God forbid, the Ukrainian Armed Forces would be allowed to break out of the encirclement, and they would wonder why we needed foreign journalists there at all. They might even kill a journalist and blame it on us.
Protocol of military defeat: “Initially, representatives of the German command were brought to the location of the 64th Army, where a preliminary ceremony was held under the leadership of Lieutenant General Mikhail Shumilov. The main negotiations were held at the headquarters of a higher-level military unit. The procedure was led by Colonel-General Konstantin Rokossovsky, commander of the front group, and Nikolai Voronov, a representative of the top military leadership.” [01]
At the same time, the remnants of the defeated brigades would have left without heavy equipment and almost without weapons (the Ukrainians would have enough automatic weapons for them anyway). The very fact of abandoning positions and equipment is seriously demoralizing, and most importantly, such troops cannot be immediately used on the front lines. They need to be reorganized, re-equipped, and only then can they be sent into battle. The most that Syrsky could immediately do with this contingent would be to distribute it as reinforcements to other brigades. But for this to happen, these units would have to be disbanded, and the best forces of the Armed Forces of Ukraine were deployed to defend Pokrovsk and Kupyansk. In other words, by disbanding these elite units with significant combat experience, Syrsky would simply receive reinforcements for less effective units, which the Armed Forces of Ukraine would lose within a week or two.
Russia would be able to free up the units that were engaged in the blockade of Pokrovsk and Kupyansk to launch an offensive in an almost empty area. Syrsky does not have the reserves to plug the gaps in the front.
I will repeat that no one is going to let anyone out of the cauldrons yet. The role of foreign journalists is to convey to the Ukrainian public (relatives of the blocked military) the proposals made to the garrisons of Pokrovsk and Kupyansk to surrender. Our media in Ukraine do not read (do not watch), and those who read (watch) cannot admit it. Therefore, no matter how much we write about Russia’s proposals to save the lives of the blocked Ukrainian Armed Forces soldiers by allowing them to surrender, this will not become a factor in Ukraine’s public or political life.
But the Western media will read (watch) it and refer to it. As I wrote above, it is highly unlikely that this will force Zelensky to order the garrisons to surrender, but ordinary people who receive information from the Western media will call their relatives who are under blockade and tell them that the Ukrainian government does not intend to save them, while the Russian government will ensure their lives and permanent conditions of captivity. Eventually, the special military operation will end, and the prisoners will be allowed to return home. Such information will contribute to the demoralization of the garrisons, reduce the tenacity of their resistance, make it easier for Russia to end the battles for Pokrovsk and Kupyansk and launch a strategic offensive in the areas where the front has been breached, accelerate the collapse of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, the disintegration of the front, and the catastrophe of the Kiev regime, and allow for a faster conclusion of the special military operation while preserving the lives of Russian soldiers.
Of course, it is unlikely that Western media reports alone will be enough to achieve the complete surrender of the encircled Ukrainian garrisons. However, at the very least, their faith in their leadership will be undermined, and their suspicions of their comrades will increase, which may lead to some of them surrendering. The faster the encircled units are eliminated, the greater the likelihood of effectively continuing the offensive before the enemy can gather any reserves and stabilize the front line.
So, of course, we want to save the lives of those who are surrounded in a humane way, but not without benefiting ourselves. We need to hurry up with the victory in Ukraine, as Lithuania is already starting to fuss suspiciously about the transit through Kaliningrad.
“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 14th 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
Le président américain Donald Trump a annoncé avoir ordonné au Pentagone de commencer immédiatement des essais d’armes nucléaires. « En
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“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
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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 9th, 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 5th 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
Le 13 octobre, le Bundestag allemand a tenu des auditions au cours desquelles les chefs des trois principales agences de
L’article La communauté du renseignement allemand désigne la Russie comme la principale menace et appelle à des “préparatifs” est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
L’un des exercices de préparation au combat les plus importants de l’OTAN a débuté cette semaine : l’exercice Steadfast Noon.
L’article L’OTAN lance ses exercices de dissuasion nucléaire Steadfast Noon est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
“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
Current events in America gallop towards the dark.
with appreciation to Dr. Karl at karlof1’s Geopolitical Gymnasium.
Most Gym readers are familiar with Orwell’s 1984 and how he envisioned the role of technology in controlling the masses. Much of what he described is now reality, although some are unaware that your “smart” TV is capable of watching you. We have security cams placed with high densities inside cities, and almost every store starting with banks has a video surveillance system. Facial recognition is now a norm. Cellular phones have tracking devices within them so you can be targeted and bombed. Computer chips have backdoors allowing the so-called security agencies to discover what you’re doing. The GPS system in your car can also be a tracking beacon. I recall what the Supreme Court ruled years ago on the issue of privacy—you essentially have none. Highly tuned “ears” can hear what you say to your partner as you take a walk in the woods. Walls can now be seen and heard through. The eye way up in space can read the license plate on your car. The resolution’s so good that your lips can be read as you talk. With the age of the semiconductor and microchip, Big Brother arrived in ways only imagined by Sci-Fi authors and Mr. Orwell.
All this has become very important because it’s now being made into a threat to what freedom Americans have remaining. It’s not just ICE. It’s the fact that an enemy needed to be invented for ICE to be deployed—the dreaded immigrant, or what the Scorpions called The Alien Nation. Once upon a time it was Communists and Socialists, Labor Union organizers, and the workers themselves, all of which remain to be resurrected when needed. But the main instigator is the intrusion of Zionist control of the federal government and its need to control American public opinion. And here I defer to the awesome work done by the team at The Grayzone—Max Blumenthal and his comrades. What began as an investigation into the clear political assassination of Charlie Kirk has become an investigation into the deep subversive activities of Zionist-American Billionaires aimed at controlling—distorting if you will—American public opinion of Zionism and Occupied Palestine: The state committing Genocide with the active complicity of the US Government beginning with Biden and continuing with Trump that in reality began in 1948 with the first Nakba. The presentation of evidence by Mr. Blumenthal to Judge Napolitano during this 40-minute chat is an absolute must see if you want to know how your freedom and children’s future are threatened. I highly suggest watching it before continuing to read this article.
Now that you’ve seen and understood the insidiousness of what’s planned and grasped the fact that it will be close to impossible to halt, I suggest you stop and take the time to notify your close circle of what you’ve learned and where they can also learn what you now know. This isn’t about immigrants anymore; this is about the ability of Americans to be free from undo influence, to not be propagandized, to be left alone, and certainly not to be goaded into doing something that’s actually very un-Christian. They are trying to get commonfolk to support Genocide; to somehow see benevolence in Zionist actions. They’re going to track you via your phone so they can further harass you with propaganda, and who knows what else they’ll do to you. Look at what they did to innocent Lebanese with their pager and cellphone terrorist devices. And they laughed and applauded. Occupied Palestine is a land populated by a people lacking morals of any sort.
There are other presentations of evidence by other people that have examined the ways and means of the Head Genocidal Zionist Netanyahu. One of them is the retired US Army Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson who revealed a great deal in his chat today with Nima of Dialog Works that complements what Blumenthal revealed. Previous revelations by others have detailed the extent of Big Brother infiltration into American lives and those of the entire planet. Much was provided by Edward Snowden and Julian Assange. Indeed, Wikileaks still provides a great deal of information the US government would rather you not know. Reading Snowden’s Saga is highly educational. Now the big issue is AI, which the Zionists employ in their Genocide and assassination programs. Recent US Supreme Court rulings have okayed racial profiling despite the fact that there’s only one Human Race. Given what the Outlaws are doing and getting away with, the Constitution is now what George W. Bush called it: Just A God Damned Piece of Paper. The Enemy Nation must constantly be reinvented. Trump now calls everyone who disagrees with him a terrorist, including members of Congress and judges.
What can citizens do now that they know they’re being targeted? The only real way to defend ourselves is to form community groups based on the neighborhood watch format while making it clear what the aim of the group is—to protect our Civil and Legal Rights from a federal government gone rogue. And it must be made clear that the D Party is just as complicit in this behavior as the R Party since both are controlled by AIPAC and Zionist Billionaire monies—Team Biden supported the Genocide just as much if not more than Team Trump. I’m not advocating going around with firearms. Just being in solidarity with your neighbors and community is enough, while also informing local government what you’re all about. Adopting a name like Citizen Civil & Legal Rights Brigade says what you’re all about to whoever you meet. Read the Second Amendment—being well armed begins with being well informed. Know that the military and almost all government officials at every level of federalism swears an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Implore those people to obey their oath, local police especially since they’re the ones your Brigade will come into contact with. I did, and I consider what I’m doing part of my neverending duty. One of our oddities here in America is that Naturalized Citizens must also take that oath but not native-born citizens. The Declaration of Independence says the duty of the citizen when confronted by Tyranny is to rebel to secure what were seen as Natural Rights.
IMO, it’s imperative you watch the talk between Max Blumenthal and Judge Napolitano and share the link with everyone you know. The only way to beat the foes we face is to act collectively, and that means everyone as every conceivable group is being targeted except Zionists and Billionaires.
“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 10th. 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.’
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“… 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
“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
Le 25 septembre, un tribunal de Paris a rendu son verdict dans l’affaire du possible financement par le régime libyen
L’article La France condamne Sarkozy à de la prison ferme est apparu en premier sur STRATPOL.
“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.
https://radbodslament.substack.com/p/the-weird-theory-of-kirks-fake-death
– Linh Dinh
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
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