Boy Show Boy Show Massage Massage

He hadn't meant to settle here, or anywhere in particular, at this peculiarly dislocated period of his life, chased from one location to another. I don't understand the program, an official looking man sitting next to him said; and it was true enough, after almost three years of pursuit and harassment it had become pointless, sick, and tasteless. Not that they still didnt manage to get their laughs. But he was tired, and tired of it, and tired of the mentalities behind it, to the point where he had become wordless in his estrangement. And just to help things along; he had lost his phone in a taxi, thereby severing every good and bad connection he had managed to build, leaving only whoever it was he ran into on the day.

The guest house he was staying in was at least for the present far more cheerful and pleasant than almost anywhere he had stayed in Thailand. Music belted out; but then he had had teenage children who wanted move the dial ff 96.9, in fact had programmed every dial on the car radio to the one station, so he could put up with anything. Nostalgia was for other moments.

Boy show, Boy show, the sound of the touts would drift up through the aging tenaments, an atmosphere he would normally enjoy, although he had never bothered to see the show for reasons he didn't have to reveal to the world. There were just too many echoes here, that the was his main reason for his recent longing to be somewhere else. And to sit and get some work done. Money follows work follows money, always had, and he was lucky he enjoyed working. But the grander schemes of things needed more thinking out, more professional input, as the technology changed. It wasn't enough just to be a whizz with words anymore, and he watched some pretty desperate attempts to make money out of the new "communication" technologies. But if everyone is doing the communicating, who is doing the listening?

It was High Season, just after Christmas, and the young men once hungry weren't hungry any more, sporting money in their pockets and partying wildly into the New Year. How cruel these days were, when he made the mistake of visiting people who thought could be his friends, might have been his friends in different circumstances, but were nothing but treacherous cheap double crossing little bitches, dogs they called him in his country. And where he came from, most dogs got put down, if not on the first occasion, sooner or later, because you couldn't survive in a rough and tumble world on the dark side and be a treacherous little prick. But here they did it because you were a falang, a foreigner, and they could get away with it with the howling of the masses to support them.

So let them. No bitterness. Let it go.

He was happy for the first time in a long time; for no particular reason.

And the sounds of Boy Show Boy Show Massage Massage just added to the atmosphere that was a million miles from the quiet tree lined suburb where he came from.

The dread of the silence wasn't here.

The only fear was man made.

And to be avoided.

Let them be.

Let Him Go. Let Him Go. The boy translated into his Google phone in a restaurant while he waited for his new computer at a restaurant near busy Pantip Plaza in Bangkok.

It seemed an appropriate enough epitaph.

Let Him Go. Let Him Go.

He had a go at the translator.

Thailand is a very interesting country, he said into the machine. But I wish peple would leave me alone. Leave me alone.

Let Him Go. Leave Him Alone. Massage Boy Massage Boy. Boy Show Boy Show. The echoes rose into the warm heart of the Bangkok Night.