Vietnam's Favorite Lev, My Hasidic Son and An Old Man Smelling His Fingers

As published at SubStack, 6/3/22:

[Saigon, 10/10/19]

Lev Shonovich Dang was born in Moscow to a Vietnamese father and Russian mother, both professional dancers. He’s named by his mom after Lev “Black Spider” Yashin, perhaps the greatest goalie ever.

Lev Shonovich Dang also has a Vietnamese name, and it’s as Đặng Văn Lâm that he’s a hero, with his latest exploits in this week’s friendly against Afghanistan. Throwing his 6-2 frame around, Lâm made sensational saves, and even cleared the ball with his head outside the box. Match over, Lâm looked skyward, prayed, made a sign of the cross, then kissed the ground.

Now, if Đặng Văn Lâm was truly world class, he’d tend goal for Russia (ranked 36), and not Vietnam (96). As for Afghanistan, it’s ranked 150. Thanks to naked thievery from the USA, which the entire world witnessed, Afghanistan is in terrible shape, so funding its century-old football federation is not a priority. At least its players aren’t starving.

Đặng Văn Lâm has also endeared himself to Vietnamese because he’s fluent in the language, no easy task for one raised in Russia. There are degrees of fluency, of course, and Lâm’s Vietnamese is always measured, without sparks of playfulness or wit.

Interviewed post-match, Lâm thanked the interviewer as “em” [“little sister”], then immediately switched to “chị” [“big sister”], which was appropriate. If they were chatting in a bar, however, “em” would be expected, for every woman wants to be seen as younger in social or flirtatious settings. Even your woke lesbian sister or transitioning daddy, soon to be your second mom, would agree.

To trip up trespassers, language is filled with booby traps, if not mines. One missed suffix and you’re strung up, impaled or blown up into one thousand pieces! You deserve it, goofball.

Two decades ago in Philly, I asked someone if he had been overseas? No, this young man said, for he loved America too much, which I thought a bizarre answer. My friend TJ also said he would never travel to a non-English speaking country. Near Presidio, Texas, I asked this out-of-state old couple if they would join me in crossing into Ojinaga, a very pleasant if nondescript Mexican town, with a few nice bars. To my surprise, they said no thanks. How do you get within sniffing distance of an alien land and not barge over? Starting with the language, everything may be too foreign for comfort, however.

Just now, my Scranton buddy, Chuck Orlowski, asked me about options in the new normal, so I said, “Jew dictated Western leaders are trying to kill you, so you must save your own ass and, if you can afford it, get out of the West. Their agenda is depopulation and abject obedience through starvation.”

[Scranton, 6/16/15]

Jewish Albert Bourla at Davos on 5/25/22, “With the vaccine, there’s a fanatic group of anti-vaxxers that would go after us, no matter what. They would claim the sun didn’t go up because people were vaccinated, and that created issues with the crop, so I’ll sue you, but it’s one thing to sue you in the US, and another thing to sue you in a country where the legal system isn’t up to that standard, like in Switzerland. But that’s behind us. Everything went OK, so now we can move on.” Bourla then chuckles with Jewish Klaus Schwab over this anti-vaxx brouhaha.

To these Jews, everything went well means billions of bodies damaged from the Jewjab, with millions already dead, and millions more injured. Young bodies and faces age decades within weeks. Children die after sustained bouts of vomiting and convulsion. Poisoned fetuses are brain damaged or stillborn. Limbs are chopped off. It’s a Jew produced horror film played out in real life, on our bodies.

Bourla lies when he says litigation is impossible because of poor legal standards. First World victims of the Jewjab also cannot sue. Jews like Chomsky, Goodman and Unz dismiss, often with disdain or even rage, concerns over the genocidal Jewjab. After a fantastical Holocaust pumped up with bullshit, here comes the real deal, with billions of extras, including you, your spouse, kids, relatives and neighbors! Jewish equity means you’ll all be maimed or dead, equally!

Six years ago, I met in NYC a straying Hasid, Noam, whom I profiled. Since Noam didn’t know the rest of the country, I encouraged him to get out of close-minded NYC, with its ignorant yet pompous provincials. When Noam came to Philly, we had a great time walking around and drank in several South Philly bars.

When I introduced Noam to a black street preacher, this man said, "You should listen to your dad!" Old dude meant me! Thirty years older, I was daddy enough to Noam.

Hearing Noam’s candid gripes about his virginity, I said he should, to start with, do something about his psoriasis. With such skin, he would have a hard time bedding a leper.

When Noam wasn't sure about moving to Texas, I also urged him to get down there. Emerging from Hasidic isolationism, Noam has made huge strides. This week, Noam gave me an update.

In Austin a year, Noam drives for Uber. He makes enough money and appreciates not having a boss. Though Noam finds Austin pleasant, with nice people and nature close by, he misses the museums and music venues of NYC. Noam’s rent is also too high. Restless, he’s thinking of moving to Pittsburgh, or even out of the country.

[Austin, 3/21/12]

Responding, I remind Noam that culture is everywhere, so explore and enjoy Austin’s. Here in Vung Tau, I’m sustained by listening to or just looking at people. Daily, I swim in its street culture, as I would anywhere else. Since Noam is already in Texas, why not take a much closer look at San Antonio and El Paso, and don’t ignore the small towns.

Above all, Noam shouldn’t return to NYC. As the US unravels, that sprawling mess will become especially chaotic and violent. Among other reasons, it's more prone logistically than all other American cities.

As for moving overseas, it's a huge step. If Noam can afford a week off, why not spend it in Chihuahua? Hell, even hang out in Juarez! Though it's supposedly a drug-infested war zone, he'd have to be super unlucky to catch any stray bullet! As an American minding his own business, he'd be safer there than in the Bronx, I’d think.

With its proximity, lax visa rules and low cost of living, Mexico is the easiest choice for American expats, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have to familiarize yourself with its mores, layouts, prices and, to whatever degree, language. Emigrating anywhere, you will have to make efforts at assimilation.

In Vung Tau, I met another American who had clearly paid little attention to his new home, though he had been here, off and on, for ten years altogether. Used to bargirls, he touched a teenaged waitress at a restaurant, as he cracked a retarded joke, which he attempted in Vietnamese.

“I need two beautiful girls,” he laughed, then pointed to me, “and he needs an ugly one.”

His Vietnamese was so bad, the waitress had no idea what he said. Though I shouldn’t have, I clarified this joke to her. It’s impulsive. I’ve translated a lot.

As he discussed at length how Brazilian women shave their pubes, he kept making hand gestures towards his crotch, even as I told him to stop, for we were in public.

What was I doing with this guy? He’s a fan of my articles, I’m embarrassed to say.

Plus, I’m open to everybody, at first. Though he had invited me out for beer, he said we should split the bill at the end. This was so wrong, I paid for him, just to show how it’s done in Vietnam. Together, we had drank less than ten bucks.

Sixty-two years old, he went on about the smell of pussy on his fingers, which he kept sniffing with relish, for it brought back memories of some escapade. There were more snafus.

Among those who flee from home, there aren’t just war and economic refugees, but also sex tourists, or simply creeps, for in places where they understand next to nothing, they think they can get away with everything.

In Belgrade, there was a Chinese restaurant, Koi, with a lovely young woman who spoke four languages. Born in Germany, she also knew Cantonese, English and Serbian, the last remarkable for she had only been in Serbia two years. Her English was rapid and accent free.

To join any community, one must learn its rules. Though most of us can’t be nearly as adaptable as that young Chinese, try not to be a salient asshole, for sooner or later, the natives will make you pay.

 

[Vung Tau, 6/3/22]

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[Taken in Austin in October of 2009 but never posted here.]



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Poetry Sightings

This piece recycles several of my Poetry Foundation posts and has been published at OpEd News, Dissident Voice, CounterPunch and Intrepid Report, 4/16/12:




It is Poetry Month again, but most Americans wouldn’t know it, preoccupied as they are with forechecks, Mitt, Kim, Lady, Pippa and Doritos Locos Tacos. What a far cry from what Walt Whitman envisioned, since he actually thought our country would value poets more than any other. It has gotten worse and worse since his days. Just think of John Brown, for example, since Brown triggered an explosion of poetry, with hundreds of poems published in the immediate aftermath of his raid and hanging. Back then, Americans still considered poetry to be an essential response to, and perhaps even shaper of, national events and crises. Now, poems are completely irrelevant, and a major reason for this is the mass media. Americans are most indifferent to poetry because our country generates more nonsense and distraction than anybody else. Though shunned and drowned out, poetry still lurks across this land, however:

In New Orleans, two guys sit behind typewriters on a sidewalk in the exceedingly charming neighborhood of Marigny. Inspired by Jazz, no doubt, they will instantaneously write a poem on “your topic,” and, get this, at “your price.” Go ahead and try them, but don’t go easy now. Demand that they write a poem on Grimm’s law, gimcrackery, the Dust Bowl, viridity or the amazing life and death of Ioan Petru Culianu, for example, and pay them well, of course.

In Boulder, there is a smudgy facsimile of Walt Whitman wandering around, wearing sandwich boards that announce, “I’m Reverend Friendly—a poet and I know it. I earn my bread by reciting a poem I have stored in my head, But if you’re too poor, I’ll do it for free instead. Halleluiah, praise be to the Holy One!”

When the Reverend says one, he means the same poem each time, but sometimes not even that in its entirety, as when he forgot the final, killer stanza to Baudelaire’s “To The Reader.” After some nudging from me, however, Friendly finally belted out, with flecks of spittle spraying my poor face:

Boredom! He smokes his hookah, while he dreams Of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother. You know this dainty monster, too, it seems — Hypocrite reader! — You! — My twin! — My brother!

In Boston, there is a young woman whose life is truly a poem. She said, “From the age of twelve, I’ve always wanted to be an animal,” and that’s why she goes barefoot and lives outside as much as possible.

Drifting around for the last four years, she has traveled as far north as Alaska, and as far south as New Mexico. In Montana, she slept outside in -20 degrees. She was staying with Occupy Boston until the police evicted their encampment from Dewey Square.

She has investigated the Transcendentalists and found them half-assed.

“If you want to be an animal, then Thoreau ain’t shit,” I said.

“Yes, Thoreau ain’t shit.”

In Chicago, there’s a Poetry Garage, and, no, I’m not making this up. Why would I make it up? I’m too honest, earnest and anal retentive to make anything up, ever. The Poetry Garage is at 201 West Madison, and for a modest fee, say, $2,000 a month, you can park your miserable, beloved poem in the Poetry Garage, where no one, but no one, will ever proposition it, not that it’s been getting lucky anyway, lately or ever. My primary and lifelong interest, however, is not in this Poetry Garage but in the cousined, digestively related Poetry Junk Yard, reputedly further West, where every life form, radiant or otherwise, goes to die, with its dreams, Hollywood or otherwise, never coming close to being fulfilled. Hey, but the road was fun and crippling! The Poetry Junk Yard is said to be larger than the Earth itself.

In Providence, some wise guy at Cafe Francaise has decided to scrawl some effete, literary hors d’œuvre on the chalk board each morning, and on March 11, 2011, at exactly 1:12PM, I was affronted with this nonsense from a guy I’ve never heard of: “Poetry begins when we look from the center outward–Ralph Waldo Emerson.” This nutrition-free yet pestering nugget was promptly redeemed, however, by a lovely coda–and all codas are lovely, my dear, in its proper lighting and coupled with a carafe or six pack–right beneath it, “Today’s Soup: Chicken Tortilla.”

As we all know, Providence is home to excellent Brown University, an ivory Watts Tower that mostly benefits folks parachuted in from divers brown stones, cul-de-sacs and walled and moated communities. That is, they ain’t quite germaine to Providence itself, with its million Dunkin’ Donuts and a few excellent Cambodian eateries. So here’s the punchline: Brown pays only 2 million bucks of city tax yearly when it should cough up 19, which is exactly the deficit of corn syrup and trans fat-mainlining Providence. Ah, but Brown has an excellent writing program!

Opening a Brown door to go outside, I nearly slammed into a white bearded and ushanka wearing character, so I shouted my standard greeting, “Yo, let’s go for a beer!” But this Russian caricature dude was not impressed. Though he seemed crazy, he probably thought I was crazy. It turned out he was the take-no-prisoner Keith Waldrop. Just so you know now, Keith doesn’t bullshit, and he has stopped going to poetry readings or lectures. He has enough poems in his head to last several millennia, so he has to use what little time he has left to hunker down and turn each one over, to examine each from all sides, to decide whether it belongs in the Poetry Garage or the Poetry Junk Yard.

In El Paso, there’s a gentleman with a vaguely rhythmic specimen permanently lodged in his head. I found him at The Tap, a divey, old man’s bar downtown. A retired Vietnam vet, he had spent 13 years in Juarez, but the increasing violence and extorting cops chased him back stateside. We did agree, though, that Juarez had its sweetness and charms. It’s not just cops with assault rifles and flyers everywhere seeking loved ones. At any time of the day, it’s more alive than El Paso, that’s for sure. With its bustle and colors, Juarez reminded me very much of Vietnam, I told him, and he concurred, “But if they feel like shooting you, they’ll shoot you right in the middle of a crowd. Even if it’s sixteen bullets, they’ll all hit you, with none hitting anybody else!”

After I admitted that I was more or less a writer, he said that he too wrote. He was a poet, to be more specific, “I’ve been writing since I was four!”

“Do you have any poem in your head you can write down for me?”

“Yes! In fact, I do. I’ll write it down for you right now.” And he immediately went at it.

Done, he motioned for the bartender to come over so he could declaim his poetry to her. She listened patiently, though without much comprehension, even if there was no Norteno music in the background, yet at the end, she beamed in relief and shouted, “That’s beautiful!” Before scramming away.

As he handed his poem to me, he explained how he managed to compose it, “I wrote this after my first wet dream. Yes, my very first, when I was already in my 30′s! I dreamt that I was back in Vietnam, and I was in a firefight, and it was one of those terrible firefights when you couldn’t even think, when your mind went blank because you were so confused and terrified. My mind went blank, and I couldn’t think at all, but suddenly the noises stopped, and I was in this hooch, and it was completely silent, and in walked six or seven Vietnamese women. You know, when I first got to Vietnam, I couldn’t tell the women apart. The men, I could figure out, but the women all looked the same to me. I was sleeping with this one girl, and I thought I was in love with her, but then I couldn’t tell if it was her I saw on the streets. Is that her? Is that her? Anyway, here I was in this dream, and in walked these Vietnamese women, and they were all beautiful, but I couldn’t tell them apart, so I had to look at their legs. Suddenly, I could tell which woman was for me, because she had black legs!”

This vet was black, by the way, but as I started to comment how ironic it was that he couldn’t tell Vietnamese apart, when racist whites, and Asians too, would say that they can’t tell one black from another, he stopped me with volcanic irritation, “You have no rights to judge my feelings! This is my soul! My creativity! You’re judging my art! You have no rights to judge my art!”

And with that, our conversation ended, but I still have his poem here. Like most, the chance of it being even slightly good or readable is very slim, but who am I to say? Nearly all of our poems are barely read now, much less in the future.

In Austin, someone has scrawled on the bathroom wall of a cafe on Congress Street, “I don’t know if you or I exist, but somewhere there are poems about us.”




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[Smoked mac and cheese fritters are a must at Boss Hogs]



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"BEERS, STEERS and Rick Perry" instead of "Beer, Steers and Queers."


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