Word-whore. I write 'em. I talk 'em. Information, politics, media, and the cybers. I drink. I use bad words. All publication is a political act. All communication is propaganda. All art is pornography. All business is personal. All hail Eris! Vive les poissons rouges sauvages!
Overheard at a King Street, Newtown pub this afternoon:
Chap #1: So how rat-arsed should we get tonight?
Chap #2: I reckon about 10 drinks now, then 5 pills, and then cocktails after that.
Chap #1: Excellent. I’ll be a memory gap to remember!
I don’t think I could match that stamina.
One of the most important differences between Bangkok and Sydney is that Bangkok isn’t full of arseholes. I’ve already mentioned that Skytrain security staff are helpful. Unlike CityRail’s. But it goes way beyond that…
In virtually every bar in Bangkok, you don’t pay for your drinks up front. You sit, you order your drinks, they go on your tab, you consume, you enjoy the company of your friends. And when you’re ready to leave, then you get the bill. In virtually every Australian bar, though, you pay for your drinks in cash at the time of serving, thank you very much.
In other words, Australian pubs operate under the assumption that you’re the kind of arsehole who’d leave without paying.
Something I didn’t see in Thailand, because we didn’t go to Chiang Mai, but worth mentioning. Thailand’s first worker-owned sex bar, fully compliant with local labour laws, has just celebrated its first birthday.
Our last night in Bangkok happens to be the 80th birthday of King Bhumibol Adulyadej (ภูมิพลà¸à¸”ุลยเดช). The TV will have shown you the official celebrations of the world’s longest reigning monarch but, as usual, ’Pong and I chose a different path.
Instead of joining the squillions of yellow-clad Thais in the streets of the old city, we were on the notorious Patpong Road in the Silom district. The soi (ซà¸à¸¢) was lined with bar girls and ladyboys and rowdy street vendors — all wearing yellow shirts and holding yellow candles — plus a few confused-looking tourists.
’Pong has some great photos, taken when the video screens which normally show adverts for the girlie shows instead beamed us images of the King in all his finery. We all held burning candles, and those who knew the words (i.e. every Thai) sang the Royal Anthem, a song traditionally sung on royal birthdays and a third, new celebratory song, We love the King.
Very moving, though I wanted to knife the tiny handful of inconsiderate tourists who barged their way through the singing. Most, however, were soon handed a candle and joined the happy throng. Many had even bought their own yellow shirts earlier in the day.
Five minutes later, we were once more being offered ping-pong shows and “sex DVD, sir?”
A fact I’m glad I didn’t know before I arrived in Thailand. Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport (ท่าà¸à¸²à¸à¸²à¸¨à¸¢à¸²à¸™à¸™à¸²à¸™à¸²à¸Šà¸²à¸•à¸´à¸à¸£à¸¸à¸‡à¹€à¸—พ-สุวรรณภูม) doesn’t have a Department of Civil Aviation airport safety certificate. Suvarnabhumi continues to operate because the requirement has yet to be adopted into Thai law.
Ah, this story has it all, but where to start? Money, drugs, underage sex, venture capital, Hollywood stars, Interpol and dodgy TV programs!
The chap in the picture is Marc Collins-Rector, and the rather unflattering photo is from the Florida sex offenders register. Back in the dot-com boom, he founded a company called DEN (or >en) for “digital entertainment network”.
“TV is dead,” he proclaimed, because we’d all be streaming video off DEN. Somehow he got millions in venture capital funding, even though most people were still on dial-up and video streaming just wasn’t happening. Most of the money, it seems, went on drugs and parties where… ahem! young men were invited when they were perhaps not of appropriate age.
Some $12 million was spent on a TV series called Chad’s World. Yet the pilot episode is “low-rent porn” quality rather than “network TV”.
For a highly amusing and somewhat smutty summary, check out this parody video of DEN’s business model.
Needless to say, it all imploded — but this investigative report makes for compelling reading. If only because it’s like watching a slow-motion car crash. And because the key characters are still out there, and involved in new business ventures which on the surface sound less than salubrious too.
Thanks to Boing Boing for the pointer. I think.