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Be Back Soon


Hi there, people of the Internet.

I’ve been traveling and drinking and eating and drinking and drinking, and I just got home to Hanoi. I miss writing, I miss WordPress, I miss the likes hitting my smartphone, but I had nothing good to write about. Now I do. I’ll be back real soon.

Also, one or two people (out of my six readers — love you guys!) have emailed me through this blog, and I haven’t responded. I’m not ignoring you; I just can’t get access to that gmail account anymore for some reason. Maybe I got hacked! They saw I was boring guy with no money and then moved on to hack someone better. Anyway, I’ll make a new one at some point.

In the meantime, I hope the turkey was good. I hope you won the political arguments over dinner. If not, then you have a full year to research and prep for next Thanksgiving’s debate. If you do that and still somehow lose next year, then I have no sympathy for you.

Real Shit Only


Street Life in ‘Nam

(I didn’t proof this post so yell at me if you catch a flaw. #fuckit)

I. Writing

Can’t even manage one post a week anymore. I’m gonna have to just write whenever.

Too much going on with the book. It’s been a hard fall so far; I see the deadline coming at me like a Mack truck. Writing a book means signing up for a long era of spiritual darkness. It would be solitary confinement, except your demons are with you. I don’t know why all writers don’t kill themselves.

There’s too much going on for me to blog, and at the same time there’s not enough going on, experientially, for me to write once a day. There aren’t enough sentences that are screaming to get out of me. So I keep forcing posts and it makes me feel like a fake filthy hack. I re-read my site and I’m truly astonished. It’s all shit. Every sentence is shit. This post is more shit on the pile. Writing is darkly fascinating. It might be the only thing you can put thousands of hours into, and still be shit.

II. Money

The only thing that is real is money. Absolutely everything hinges upon money. I live in Vietnam because of money, because I’m an economic refugee.

I won’t make anything off this book. I didn’t even get an advance. Because this is 2016 and there’s no money anywhere except in maybe five or six Caribbean accounts. If you want money you had to have watched Wall Street at age 12 and committed yourself to learning the practice of legally stealing it. If not, then you’re a wage slave with a bungee cord. One end is around your waist and the other is attached to your office.

So I still have to work. I’ll always have to. It’s a good job and I like it, and I can live off just 12(!) hours a week, but still. I’m over it. This shouldn’t have to be a thing. Working part-time feels like I’ve been sprung from the full-time hell only to be out on parole and have to check in with the overlords.

The world only wants what it can extract from you. You have to give give give until you’re out of steam. Simply existing is not an option. You can’t be defective, and you can’t take a break. You’re either born Bruce Wayne or you have to lie your way into a job, find some stupid socket to plug yourself into.

I’m so tired. I’m 28 but my spirit feels like it’s on loan from someone older, maybe even pulled out of someone dead.

III. Women

Don’t feel bad for me. I’d have more time, but I can’t leave the girls alone. I’m Anthony Weiner, before the wrinkles. Except he’s better at sexting than me.

Friday night. She was South African, from a Dutch farm village. She was born in 1996. I can’t even begin to process that.

I thought I was the Older Man but she used to have an affair with her boss’s husband. He was 34. Also, Asian. So you know what that means. The only thing loose about her is her morals. We can barely do it. Not sure if I can handle her for long. She’s too cool, too funny, just slaying all the time. She can’t just say she likes me.

Saturday night there was the American. She’s an economic refugee as well but plans on being a trophy wife. I dig how she didn’t sugarcoat it. She has perfect tits, clover tattoos, and a tough clit. My jaw is still sore.

Not sure if I can handle her for long. Not because of sex but what happens after. American girls are traveling princesses and they don’t listen. Pillow talk is like two hours of hosting a podcast that can only book shitty guests.

My priorities are flipped. My free time should be spent on a nice hang with the dudes. That would be more fulfilling.

But goddamn it, what can I do when she texts, and she was born in 1996.

IV. Brain Chemistry

In rare moments of calm, when the static of duty clears, I re-remember that I do need therapy. Therapy costs Western prices here. The fuckers figured out how much the good stuff should be, and charged accordingly.

But I’m bipolar, I think. It gets bad. Saturday there were parties, but for an hour I couldn’t move to get out to one. Just lay on the balcony floor by the washing machine.

I do need help. I’ve been ignoring that for years, because I kept thinking that God, writing, exercise, travel, love, sex, or adrenaline would save me. But nothing did. Until now, I’ve been afraid of empowering the truth by looking at it.

Rationally, I shouldn’t feel this way. Because I generally have my shit together. So it’s gotta be a simple mental deficiency. All right, fine. I’ll get some fucking pills.

I think about the future a lot. I don’t know how I’m going to deal. I’m in my prime and it’s still all I can do to keep up. My body and the world are only going to get worse. Health money and luck are going to disappear. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

V. Your Burden on Society

I was riding home at midnight and a guy was laid out flat in the void between streetlights. His face was gashed up and blood had pooled around his head. No motorbike nearby, so it was a hit and run. Two Vietnamese dudes were milling next to him.

Anh oi, I called them. But that’s all the Vietnamese I had. I pointed at the guy on the pavement and put my hands up. What’s the deal? They Google Translated that an ambulance was coming.

I saw he had rice wine in a water bottle in his shorts pocket. He’d been walking, he’d gotten himself hammered, then gotten himself hit. His footwear had popped off. Those rubber shower shoes, knockoffs of knockoff of Crocs that poor people wear around town.

I knelt and held his hand and kept squeezing it so he’d squeeze back. He tried to roll over but I kept him on his side. I don’t know if I was supposed to do that. But I think I saw on some show one time that you’re not supposed to let people roll on their backs, so they don’t choke on their own blood. Or something? I really didn’t know what to do.

A crowd built up but no one helped. It was quiet. No one was talking to him, telling him help was coming. This is deeply strange, I thought. This is a tableau or an art installation. They watched us as if just for the experience, for maybe the story of seeing a life leave a body.

He looked at me. He couldn’t open one of his eyes. A few of his teeth were chipped. The gash was bone deep. Beneath the injury was an unremarkable face. Definitely a poor face, the living representative of a family that’s been poor back to the Stone Age. He was a pixel, ultimately forgettable, who wears the same clothes for his whole life. Millions of guys just like him.

The ambulance came after a half hour. Casually snuffled up. No sirens. The hospital was a mile away and there was no traffic. Still, it somehow took half an hour. Two female paramedics came over. No rush. They pushed him over on his back, and we all stepped away.

Someone had hit him and drove off. He was walking alone, and he’ll wake up that way. Even though prayer doesn’t work it still feels better to say one. Dear God, please help him, help everyone. Including me.






Well Thanks For That, But No One Cares

Image result for proust questionnaire vanity fair


I answered the Proust Questionnaire. Vanity Fair has famous people take it when they’re desperate for material. Seeing as I’m in the same boat, I had myself take it.

If you’re a writer (and I know you are) and you like talking about yourself (and I know you do!) then give it a try too.

  1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?

A perfect sentence. Preferably I’m the one delivering it.

Failing that, tits will do.

  1. What is your greatest fear?

Never writing something perfect. Which sounds trite. But it ties into my deeper fear of never being seen the way I want to be.

  1. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Persistent, creeping pessimism.

  1. What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Bland conversational predictability, which I also deplore in myself.

  1. Which living person do you most admire?

Myself in the near future. I never quite become him, though.

  1. What is your greatest extravagance?

A debaucherous food and beverage intake on par with Emperor Nero’s.

  1. What is your current state of mind?

20% Hopeful, 15% Sorrowful, 65% Drunk.

  1. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?


  1. On what occasion do you lie?


  1. What do you most dislike about your appearance?

Well, I look like a really tall mouse.

  1. Which living person do you most despise?

Me, in the recent past. I don’t mean like, me in September 2016 but me always in the past. I’ve always felt that way, always broken down the game film and agonized over everything and thought you could have done that better. I’m self-absorbed, basically.

  1. What is the quality you most like in a man?


  1. What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Non-American. American girls are princesses and they live inside apps. That, and they have a grating accent, which to be fair is the same as my own.

But familiarity breeds contempt, and goddamn, if I’m gonna be stuck on this planet until the lights go out, I’m gonna go see what else is at the buffet, ya feel me?

  1. Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

The word “hashtag,” as in, I use it verbally. But I’m safe because that is always funny and it will be funny forever.

  1. What or who is the greatest love of your life?

I have to get trite again, but it really is creativity. And the development and struggle therein. It’s an unrequited type of arrangement, because I get it right so rarely.

  1. When and where were you happiest?

There were seven weeks in China in the summer of 2007. I was traveling with the funniest people I’ve ever been around. The dynamics and alchemy were a happy accident, and we all came alive. I didn’t stop laughing the whole summer. Life and the world itself was just a dumb little game back then.

Oh, and then a few years later when I discovered beer.

  1. Which talent would you most like to have?

I can’t shuffle a deck of cards. Is that a talent?

  1. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

Joke answer: My hammer toes.

Real answer: I actually would change myself so I’d have more of the same. I’m pretty driven and have fewer friends and experiences than I should because of it. But it’s paid off a little. I just want more drive.

  1. What do you consider your greatest achievement?

In high school, a friend threw a Starburst at me from the other side of the library and I caught it in my mouth. That’s also my best memory from high school, because I didn’t get laid in high school. Or kissed!

  1. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?

A penguin.

  1. Where would you most like to live?

Outside America.

  1. What is your most treasured possession?

Well, I’m sort of an international hobo. I have nothing. I rent a place with Winnie-the-Pooh sheets and no AC for a pittance and the motorcycle’s a rental. I can bag up my shit and be on a bus in 20 minutes.

Wait no, I have three tailored suits. They’re my children.

  1. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

True loneliness.

  1. What is your favorite occupation?

Does it have to be an occupation I’ve held?

I’m not funny enough to be a comedian but I’d love to have been one. I like listening to podcasts (Joe Rogan Experience, etc.) where they discuss their creative process, slowly building joke after joke until it’s a bit – and it turns out comedy’s similar to writing in a lot of ways. So the answer is: comedian.

Either that or a really sick rapper.

  1. What is your most marked characteristic?

Being the tallest guy you know.

  1. What do you most value in your friends?


  1. Who are your favorite writers?

Stephen Hunter and a little Murakami too.

  1. Who is your hero of fiction?




  1. Which historical figure do you most identify with?

Jesus. Haha!

Because I feel like a widespread cult won’t form around me until after I die, when news of my death will drive people to my blog.

  1. Who are your heroes in real life?

Tom Brady, Bill Burr.* Also Drake.**

*see “comedian,” above

**see “rapper,” above

  1. What are your favorite names?

I really like Chinese and Japanese names. To me they sound exotic and stately. Which I guess is the same thing as a Chinese man marveling at the regality of the name “Bubba Sparxxx.”

But I have a Japanese friend who calls me “Fred-san” and fuck, it sounds badass.

  1. What is it that you most dislike?

Young, attractive people really bother me.

  1. What is your greatest regret?

Any time I’ve lacked empathy while on my conquest for kicks. (I don’t mean sneakers).

  1. How would you like to die?

Painlessly, in the epicenter of a nuclear blast, before the age of 40.

  1. What is your motto?

Make them count (I’m referring to hours).


Son of a Bitch


It’s time to come to terms with my own villainy, that is, if my ego will allow.

You’re the most arrogant person I’ve ever met, she told me, but I still like spending time with you.

(And I’m only like this because women like it. If you women could all get your shit together and, I don’t know, change your wiring and wean yourselves off dark triads, maybe I could be a nice guy and have a nice polite life again.)

But wait, I’ve been there done that – and was it really that great? Does the fact that I don’t miss it mean something? Yes.


It gets dark at 6 pm in Vietnam. We met at 6:15 because after dark felt like the right time for that sort of thing, and I drove her up and around the lake. The hidden road that no one knows about, or at least I imagine they don’t. I just like knowing things other people don’t, so I pretend. On one side of it is the monument to where they shot down John McCain; on the other side is a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf.

She was on the back of the motorcycle and nibbling my shoulder. I felt the engine vibrations jiggling her pale thighs. At stoplights I put my hands on them. We drove and talked because we couldn’t do anything else. She has a boyfriend.

She didn’t tell me until we woke up last weekend, so how was I supposed to know.*

(*This is what I’d like to say. But it’s a lie, I actually knew before.)

You’re a good guy, people have told me.

Well no, I just look like one, only because I’m descended from one or two and wear collars often.

She did tell him about the time when it happened, when I had her in my sweat lodge of a bedroom until 3 pm, and he had a bad week. Must have. I tried to conjure up and feel his agony, but I couldn’t replicate it, even though I’ve felt it before.

But even if I’d been able to, I wouldn’t stop trying to see her. Every man proclaims preference for the right thing, right up until he sees how nice the wrong thing is.**

(**I hope that’s true, anyway, so I won’t be the only one.)

This situation is Exhibit A of selective empathy. If my students aren’t doing well, my heart really hurts for them; I see the guts, and the push, and how they’re literally willing themselves onto a higher plane.

But then this other guy, who made himself vulnerable to a woman and surrendered himself into a love story: fuck him, apparently. I’ve let in the animal and the Darwinian sinner with his killer instinct. So I’m actually a bad guy.

I actually do want her, because she’s ultimately his, and the concept of any man in the world being with any woman in the world deeply annoys me. Any man and woman under the age of 40, that is. After 40 you’re dead so who cares.

I want her because she’s funny, and also I want her because I’ve already had her, and it doesn’t count unless you do it twice, because the second time is confirmation that the first wasn’t a mistake. Every conversation we have is fast and graceful. Makes me think of a nice tennis volley. Her friends hate me though, so it’s game over.



I would be something like a sad indie movie character, a stumbling hero or a redeemable villain, if the situation were actually as clear-cut as I’m selling it. But I want more than her. My portfolio is diversified – this other girl and I send GIFs to each other all day.

The happiest time is now, while we do this great circling dance, getting ever closer like planes settling ever lower above the runway. The best time is now, when they still mostly exist in my phone and I mostly exist in theirs. She’s 20, she looks like Ke$ha. She’s witty but I can keep up. When we see each other and talk I think of it like chess. Her friends hate me too. They’re babies, and I’m a scary, scarred old beast with a bad rep.


At least I keep my mind otherwise engaged.

The book. I don’t tell anyone about it now because I want it keep it in the chamber for when it comes out next year. Surprise, and then watch no one give a fuck. But I’m trying to savor the process, because who knows if I’ll ever get another deal.

I get it, if not. I wouldn’t hire me either.

Endless amounts of work. I interviewed a photographer, and we were talking about local crime. She’d had a vintage film camera stolen.

Did they catch the thief? I asked.

No, she laughed. But I don’t worry about him, because we believe in rules and respect, and no one can break the rules forever.

When I left the coffee shop, there was an origami bird on the seat of my motorcycle. Blank white paper, no note. No note, so I was supposed to infer something from the mere presence of the bird. But I was missing a piece of the puzzle, because I didn’t know who it could have been from.

They probably got the wrong bike. Probably a sweet gesture meant for someone else. A nice little thing someone else should have had, but I got it instead.

Weekly Excuse

I was going to do my usual Monday post last night but the power in Vietnam went out. At least on my block. We heard a big blast outside, and the house went dark. The transformer blew, I think. I don’t actually know what a transformer is or if actually does blow up, but that’s something people say when the power goes out.

No wi-fi, no power for the laptop. I’d have used the WordPress app on my phone, but check out the data speed I’m rocking here:


2G! It has the balls to literally say 2G! The Pony Express of data speeds.

Anyway I’ll be late. I mean, at this point it’s more fun to post excuse posts, and then post a day late. I used “post” too much in that last sentence but I don’t care enough right now to fix it.

So I’ll post later today!

Diminishing Returns


I’m drinking too much. Well not too much, but too consistently. A nice pop at dinner tunes in my receiver, though. A nice buzz lets me see the subsurface dimensions, lets me recognize and capture thoughts as they go by.

That, plus there’s always a party. Of course there is. You’re not going to put 200 unencumbered 20somethings in a city where beer costs 20 cents and wonder why we’re not playing Scrabble. Life conforms to its environs, as they say. Do they say that? I don’t know. If they don’t, they should.

If my drinking showed, I’d be more concerned. But my weight never changes. My face doesn’t either. My peers all have crows feet but I don’t. My vanity is actually such that I catch myself believing I’m some immortal exception to the aging process. As in, I really do sort of expect the doctor next time to check my chart and mutter: “Fred, I’ve never seen this before, but it looks like you’re going to stay frozen at 28 forever.”

Tonight I didn’t drink. But I’ll be back. Drinking is too useful of an intellectual tool to surrender. Besides, who wants to be sober. No point. I was sober for 21 years and was equally as miserable as I am now. Stop putting sobriety on a pedestal. Trump has been sober his whole life. Hm, maybe that explains it.

Well, maybe I’m not actually immortal. My eyes are starting to go. Screens. The blue light is slowly baking my receptors. I keep making obvious typos. I write too much, but the contract decrees I must.


I’m also maybe fucking too much. Four girls in five days. At this point it’s kind of like, Jesus Christ, dude. Are you really going to treat the rest of your life like a music festival.

At least it wasn’t four in four days. Because that would be gross. I’ll be in therapy in ten years. Five. One. Every woman is another session on the other side. At some point you gotta pay the compounded interest on the thrills.

Some of them I find quite lovely. Some of them find me quite lovely. But thankfully, the attraction is never equal.


I got a motorcycle and a spaceman helmet. Retail therapy. First day I stalled out a bunch because I didn’t know how to hold the tension with the clutch. A mere 72 hours later I’m driving it around like my dick just grew a foot longer. Leaning and gunning; my God, it’s like they put a saddle on a missile. The skeleton-rattling jackhammer roar makes it so the words on every sign you see go liquid squiggly. The sheer sonic presence of it parts the sea as people subconsciously shift the handlebars a degree. It’s fear. The bike has a rebar rack on the back that’ll slice thighs open and ruin a paintjob. Rich cars see it and glide away. Oh, I love it.

I’ve been looking for something that won’t get old and I think I’ve found it. Must be why it’s so much more likely to kill you. You can’t have everything.


Working with the editor on my travel book. She said she “enjoyed” my style, which enraged me, because I wanted her to say she’s leaving her husband for me, that’s how good my style is. The minimum compliment I’d accept. I want it to be the greatest travel book anyone’s every written or read. I want to inject it with art.

Tall order, when I have to write chapters about looking up local train schedules.

I despise information writing, information blogging, the word “copy.” I find vomitous the snap-less, Saltine-dry sentences of bargain bin words strung together, like this: “If you’re looking for a great place to eat in the city, then try this taqueria, because it fits the bill!” But that’s all that gets clicked on. The world is nothing but stupid writers writing for stupid clicks from stupid people. And then me.

Going to publish under my real name instead of Fred. I’ve given up on being famous as Fred, selling Fred’s writing. Fred Colton is a stupid name, by the way. A thousand hacks probably came up with that same name before I did, and put it in bad action scripts that are now yellowing in development office file cabinets.

But I need Fred as a lifeboat or as a vent. Every week, my readership collapses into ever-smaller fractions of itself, but it’s not collapsing fast enough. I need everyone to stop reading. I’m trying to get down to zero readers. Then, all fear and inhibition will finally be excised. Why? Well. If you can see their faces as you type, you can’t hear the muse.


Alpha Male, Part II

Image result for patrick bateman


I. They Use It On Horses

Friday night, bad trip on K.

A South African guy proffered two fat Everests of it on the tip of his bike key and I killed them both. Let’s go dance, someone said. I wanted to but it felt like I was a walking paraplegic. My feet felt like nothing, like prosthetics. I couldn’t push myself off the bar. If I’d fallen into a kiddie pool I’d have drowned. I also couldn’t talk. To organize a sentence felt like trying to solve a crossword on shit I’ve never studied. My dick was dead too. I paid 300,000 VND to turn into an unfuckable mannequin. I tried to act like everything about the trip was great and interesting but I was actually furious.

Who invented drugs? We don’t need them. Have you ever been drunk? It’s really great. Why get weirder than that.

The night’s a scratch. Fuck you all, I’m out.

II. Backslide

After the spell broke I went back out and saw the ex at the market. We ignored each other. She was with friends, and I was ashamed because of the Rubicon I’d crossed earlier in the night. Actually that’s not true. I just didn’t want to exchange pleasantries.

I’d seen her the day before. We’d had to team up and play hardball with the realtor of our old place over a lease clause. We lost, and had to pay more. Vietnamese can be slimy weasels when there’s money on the line. I’m saying that as if they’re the only ones who are like that. I know they’re not, because everyone in the world is like that. But I was angry enough that I needed a racist stereotype to process the loss.

When he left we fucked raw on the couch because well, what did you think was going to happen. Did things we never had before. She put on a show. We dove into new levels of filth. It was hotter, because we don’t own each other anymore.

We’re cool now. I love myself and being alone more than anything and anyone. But she’s the one I’d call if I were dying. When she finds a better version of me, I’ll say that that previous line was sarcastic.

III. Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting

Saturday night I put up 700 words on the manuscript and threw on a suit. At the party an Italian kid mixed up a jar of glitter and water and poured it all over my jacket and tie and pocket square. If you’re friends with someone, maybe this is acceptable, maybe. Maybe. But we’d never met before. So this was as acceptable as 9/11.

I tossed my beer in his face, he danced back and threw his vodka in my eyes. Vodka really burns when it hits your eyes. Who knew. I couldn’t see but I broke for him anyway. In movies when something like this happens, everyone opens their mouths and stares. In real life this happens too. I got my right fist ready but his friend got in my way. Laughing about the whole thing. As if what I was doing was just ridiculous and unfounded.

These guys won. That’s the genius of glitter. It’s so silly and twinkly that you can only lose if you retaliate for it. And plus, I can’t fight. I’m from New Hampshire; I’m as white and soft as cream cheese. So I definitely can’t fight two people at once. I let it go, because I had to. Be cool and be the bigger man, said the pussy within, the voice of the guy who can’t fight.

I made a crack about how handsome I looked in glitter. They said something back, but it was funnier than what I said, so I don’t want to write it here. They won.

So I walked over to the pool and listened to my buddy’s fuck story from that morning. Pretended to listen. Stood there pretending to listen for ten minutes. The emotion wasn’t ebbing.

I gotta get another drink, I said, and went back to the bar. Came up on the Italian from his blind spot as he was making a circle of beautiful cosmopolitans laugh. He’s a funny, handsome, popular kid. He gets away with everything. But he’s a foot shorter than me. Be the bigger man, my inner voice said again. Well I am the bigger man.

I was going to sucker punch him in the back of the head but I didn’t think I’d be able to hit hard enough to drop him. Instead I clamped his shoulders. Got a wide stance and launched him with everything I had. I tried to put him in orbit. He was gone. Tripping and stomping and staggering, arms flopping and slapping cups loose as he hit knots of people. He ended up all the way back where I’d just been. Bounced off my buddy, who was still telling his fuck story.

You want a drug, try giving someone a righteous hit. Everything went movie-party quiet again, and what I said was perfect: You were in my way, Luigi.

He charged back. I stood ready to pop him with the right. Never done it before, but this was a good time to start. Then his buddy railroaded in from the side, got a fistful of my tie and another on my throat. Caught me off-balance and jacked me back into the bar. The Cuervo bottles tinkled into each other and I wanted to grab one to lay flat into his temple. I wanted to hit him so hard his brain shot out his other ear like a cyst popping.

I didn’t have time for that because I saw an opening; I grabbed at his neck to get a nice choke on him, but I missed and got only collar, fumbled, tried to shove him back but didn’t have the footing for it. By then the first kid was almost back on me. Then the birthday girl was there, breaking it up, telling me: You ruined my party. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’re an asshole, leave my fucking house.

I did ruin her party. I wanted to fight. I wanted to break tables. I wanted to see teeth sprinkled among glass shards. But then again — you don’t go 9/11 on an American and expect a picnic after. I hate Cheney and Rumsfeld and the whole gang. But now I’ve been in their loafers.

The Italian kid was restrained and screaming at me. Too angry to use English. The cool Milano sheen was gone. I winked at him and said: Have a good night, little boy.

I walked out, still in a movie, feeling fifty eyes on my back as I straightened my jacket. I was so glad I’d had the cinematic presence to actually wink. I don’t always get things right. But sometimes I accidentally get them perfect.

Fuck. Wait, no. It actually would have been perfect if I’d winked and said have a good night, little boy in Italian. Wait, no! It would have been 1000% perfect if I’d winked and said have a good night, princess in Italian.

Whatever, life is a first draft. Let it go.

I kickstarted and roared off on the bike, found a dark gap between streetlights, killed a street beer. Drew the phone and got the link on another spot.

IV. Slicker Than Your Average

Occasionally, years of random hobbies and interests culminate in a brief flash of glory. That’s what happened at this next party I rode to.

You might be surprised by this, but being 6’7” and in a tailored suit covered in glitter gets you a lot of attention at a party. It was me and one other guy. And fifteen feminists. And not the green-hair kind. The pretty kind, with shaved armpits.

You want attention from fifteen feminists, try being the visual manifestation of the patriarchy when they’re drunk and have their axes out. I got sniped from all sides with barbs about male privilege, and white male privilege, and white male American privilege. It was Californication-level banter, in both speed and content. It was P90x for the wit. You handle the battle like this: every time someone digs at you, you agree with them, and then amplify it with a better joke. I’ve had fun things happen before, but this was beyond fun. He has an undentable ego, said one girl, when she thought I couldn’t hear.

3:00 am and I was under siege at the dining room table, five of them screaming at me because I said I wasn’t going to vote. And because I also said that Hillary was not the same thing as Jesus. I had an answer for everything. Years of mainlining political and historical trivia paid off fully and absolutely. I have never stood on top of Everest. But I’m pretty sure that proving a woman wrong while making her blush at the same time is better.

The dust settled. One of them had the eye-fuck on point and said: that suit is a very good look on you. I wanted to do it, wanted to begin pre-coital negotiations. But it was politically and strategically impossible. I’d already tagged another girl in the room, a little while back. If I hurt her then she’d stop inviting me to shit like this. You can’t have everything.

What’s the moral of the story. Basically, be a tall handsome college-educated white male. Basically, nothing you can be proud of in 2016. Unless you’re proud on a blog no one reads, which is what I do. I’m really cool.

Alpha Male


The French girl wanted to come over and I said she could, but she had to leave right afterward so I could write. Thought she’d be cool with it because she treats me like she’s having an affair. I say affair because sometimes she comes (heh) on her Saturday lunch break. But mostly I say affair because she reminds me of someone’s wife. I say wife because she’s old. I say she’s old because she’s my age. My age is old if you’re a single girl, but a very nice age if you’re a wife. I’m 28 years old. I’m sort of young for a single man. When my friends get married, I still see it as a tragedy. Gone too soon. 

Anyway. I told her it was cool if she came through, if she left after. She went feminist on me and refused. I shot back a Kanye West shrug GIF and that was that. I’m 28 years old and I still kill a fling with my thumb instead of an adult conversation. I know it’s wrong. I also know I’ll never change.


I couldn’t find the bag of almonds I’d put on the desk. Then I saw the trash can had been knocked over and realized it was the rats. They dragged the almonds out of the balcony door when I was out. I’m single and free but goddamn, the squalor is too real at times.

I once read something about Pablo Escobar losing a million dollars a week because the rats chewed it up. My entire net worth is in paper form, and is hidden in this very room, in a very obvious place.

I realized that I live in the past. In that I have the exact same life my grandfather did in 1965. He lived in Vietnam too. Air Force. Has never told me a single thing about it. But I know that he came here by plane and lived in a place he unlocked with a physical key, and he paid cash for everything. Nothing has changed. The bright, promised future never arrived.

One day, people who haven’t even been born yet will sniff dismissively at the passing thought of this entire decade. Our iPhones and news stories and presidents are all primitive shit. We know nothing and we’re prehistoric jokes and still guide our lives by comparatively Medieval superstitions.


Open mic last week in the Old Quarter. Went well. I wish it hadn’t, so I could have quit. Because I have too many hobbies. I don’t have time to sleep because I’m too amazing, seek out too many influences, too much progress. This is actually a problem. I don’t like to just hang out. My life is spent stuck in a frantic gear as a result.

If only I had the time for boxing. I have all this misplaced, negatively-charged masculine energy. Every evening I’m stuck in heavy traffic. Land warfare, battling for inches. The nuclear-hot tropical sun and the smog. I visualize cracking noses, chokeslamming a motherfucker or two. I think about filling a backpack with bricks so I can shotput them into some foreheads. Hear the muted crack and see the crimson spray.

A drunk guy with ripped clothes was laying on the horn while were all stuck in the 5:00 gridlock. Hundreds of us, legions of us, just gutting through it. Absolutely impossible to move but he was just laying, laying, laying, laying on the horn, making us all wince. He wasn’t in our reality. Had a horrible pitted face that said he’d gone the last 20,000 days without love.

I still wanted to hurt him. So badly. I screamed shut the fuck up! Big pulse of energy bursting up from deep in my torso, shredding my vocal chords. Felt like I was freeing a demon. Praise God I’m not in America, where you can get sued for bulging your eyes out at someone.

I take the Donald Trump, Fox News, 1820s approach to gender roles. I believe men are bigger, stronger, and that they’re killers. I believe this because they are. Every army in human history = men. I have this masculine energy but no script, no safety valves. The Clinton years failed me. And there’s no one to kill these days. The future has actually come. And it failed us. Things are too safe.

Instead I just put all this energy into thinking about getting girls pregnant. Not because I want kids. Just for the biological thrill of it. She doesn’t even have to be someone I like.

This is all a roundabout way of letting you know that Tinder’s really cracking these days. Jesus. This is my second tour of duty on it. A few tweaks to the playbook, and it’s really started clicking. And I’m only going to be young and virile for about five more minutes. If only I had the time to dive in.


I Usually Post on Mondays Or Do I

My traditional weekly post about jacking off will be a day late again, but I have good excuses.  I have to write 650 words a day or else my little Vietnam travel book will miss the deadline. It’s real, I signed the deal, I can’t fuck around. Now that it’s legal I have the vague sense that I’m sitting in view of a sniper scope.

650 researched, publishable words takes hundreds of millions of years to write. No amount of good sentences will keep the demons away. They always crawl back. I hate nonfiction. I hate being ambitious and having it sort of pay off, because I suffer from imposter syndrome.

Anyway I have no time to jack off, or to write about it. Ergo no time for the good stuff, the catharsis and realness. I ran out of time today even though I got up early. Chores and responsibilities from wire to wire.

And also I wasted a coon’s age on, being very happy that the Giants lost. Yes, I’m still bitter about those Super Bowls. And now here I am spending 40 minutes on this meta-post, when it was supposed to take 4. Gotta go. See ya tomorrow.



What Happened In Hong Kong

I. Continental Appropriation

I carried a garment bag there with my suits in it. If I was going back to the first world then I’d need my first world uniform. Fretted in the airport the whole time about wrinkles.

In the city I went up the three-foot wide sidewalks with all the paper lanterns and bamboo scaffolding. My conduit into this foreign world is the cool British sheen overlaying everything. MTR stations and stoplights keeping everything flowing smoothly through the grid. Such a woozy relief. I’d been too long in the wild.

My 20th visit to Hong Kong. Or something like that. The point is that I’ve lost count. The first time was six years ago. I was pretty young then. Feels like I’ve been young forever.


(Six years ago)

Half of my DNA is elitist Northeastern Ivy League jackoff, and the other half is impoverished Jack-in-the-Box Florida Everglades con artist. The cheap side won out as usual, and instead of a hotel I stayed in a dorm with six hirsute Europeans. Shared the floor space and the shower like refugees.

As the day turned golden I did my Tabata sprints in the lane in front of the Coach store. It rained and I fell and split my knee open. I let it just bleed down into my sock and hobbled two blocks to the bay for a look.



The cityscape is narcotic and so beautiful it’s actually hard for me to look at. The capital megacity of an alien empire. It gloats at you.

Rich blue water with 100-mile tall supertowers casually scattered along it. Curved glass panes keeping you away from the mannequins and Jaguars. Energy sucked out of Kowloon villages to keep the AC pumping for a mere 70 people out of the 7 million who live here. Energy appropriated to keep that clear high-wattage light exploding out of every crystal tower from now until forever. A light that serves as a snide reminder that you weren’t invited into the Illuminati. This is the kingdom of the orphan-killers and dark gods.

And who can blame them. I’d been in Vietnam too long. I forgot what money looked like.

II. Up All Night

I got suited, then went to Western Union to launder some of my dirty money back home. Then I went out. My American friend lives there and makes good money consulting. Whatever that is. Just sending vague emails all day. Saying empty phrases like project specs into the speakerphone and getting paid a king’s ransom for it. The longer I do it the more I realize writing was a waste of time.

We spent too much. But I like spending money, because I work a lot. Purchasing something feels like a validation of my diligence.*

We were out in Lan Kwai Fong and so were all of the other people in the world. When movies show festivities, and the best times of someone’s life before it all fell apart, they show a party going on in a place like Lan Kwai Fong.

Several people are very angry at me, because I keep deciding to be single again. They’ll be happy to know I do get lonely, more often than I care to admit. They’ll be less happy to know that when I go out, I have an amazing time.

A decomposing band of expats was playing Mr. Brightside when my buddy’s friend from South Africa came around. He let slip that he’d been working on her for a while. She winked at me while he was paying for something. I kissed her. And would have gone home with her but I didn’t want to lie to him about it later.

Actually that’s not true. What really happened was: I would have gone home with her but she turned out to be a Christian. Weird to stumble upon one of them. I’ve been out of the cult for so long I forgot they existed out here in the wild. Like sleeper agents.

We rode deeper into the morning. I was glad to be alive. Some things happened.**

III. The Help

Later on in the trip I walked two hours from Causeway Bay to get brunch at a place in the Midlevels. I was sweaty and wearing Ray-bans like one of those assholes I hate because I’m afraid they might be more handsome than me.

In Central the Filipina housemaids had their blankets spread out on the overpasses and under bridges. Thousands of them. They have to leave the penthouse sometimes so their Chinese owners can have iPhone time with their families.

I was going to take some pictures of them all sitting by the fountains near the Mandarin Oriental and the Gucci store. But some of them saw me and covered their faces. Not because they were camera shy. It was their way of asserting that they were humans and not a feature of the landscape.

I put the phone away and sat down nearby. Fat British men were out there, trying to pick up the Filipinas. Their moist Guinness belly rolls jammed into polos, their smartphones drawn, their thumbs cocked back over screens like cobra heads, asking hey how do you spell that funny name of yours again, love?

I at least have the decency to fuck above the poverty line.

I watched the PRC flags snapping above, occupying the exact midpoint between my face and the top of the Bank of China Tower. Perfect cool fall sun above Victoria Peak. A deep, deep quiet sitting in the shady city canyons.

I thought abstractly about punching someone. Every now and then these days I start spoiling for a fight. I think it’s road rage from Vietnam, activating dormant Neanderthal brutality. I left the area.

IV. With Love and Apologies To Those I’ve Hurt Before

I got up the mountain to the diner and read the Communist propaganda paper where China was still gloating about repelling a Japanese invasion in 1945. Come on guys. Not even us Americans jack off to World War II this much.

I sat at the same table I used to with my ex-ex-girlfriend. Four years ago we used to come here all the time. She was boring. Started strong, but burned through all her good stories within the first week. There was a reason I was her first. But she was really nice and for that reason I couldn’t dump her.

She extradited me back to America and her Reaganite parents. At their house I’d trip over the hints they kept dropping about me going to grad school. They worked 70 hours a week and the way that they saw it, Obama was the one and only reason they weren’t trillionaires yet.

I wasted years being nice to her. I almost married her, just as a favor. I hate her for being boring and wasting my time when it was my fault. I should have just killed her earlier, when my instincts told me to.

I circled my hands around my coffee mug, closed my eyes and willed myself back to the last time I was at this table, her across from me. I hijacked my younger self and had him do the cold, honest thing: tell her it was done.

When I opened my eyes I was back in the diner at the table by myself. Almost trembled with relief.


V. The End of History

I ate. $200 HKD for eggs and a waffle and bottomless coffee. I’m boring too, I realized, as I sat there with a goddamn newspaper. So, that little ritual was cruel of me.

I do get lonely, which makes people like her happy. I have enemies who used to love me, but hate me now because I was too nice to hurt them. It’s weird and unpleasant.

But that doesn’t bother me as much as writing does. The only thing that bothers me in life is that I’ve never quite nailed it, never written something perfect.

I worked on the book for a while. Having to do a lot of historical research for it. Tens of thousands slaughtered in every paragraph as dynasties bubble up and heave into each other. Blood and tragedy used to be the absolute default.

Now, it’s some weird historical aberration that we’re all currently alive. Now, everyone has to really reach to find something to be scared of, and the best they can come up with is a vague threat of Muslim Mexicans. Or something. Some imagined tertiary threat to their SUV life. Meanwhile the older generation who fought to make the world safe and comfortable now berate us for enjoying safety and comfort.


After two hours I closed the laptop, refilled the coffee again.

Here you are, man. All you’ve ever wanted. Minus the having-a-lot-more-money part. Just for kicks, I fired up Tinder. I’m ugly and boring so Tinder never works. But sometimes you still have to play.

VI. Hail Mary/The Thing With Chinese Women

I need beginnings with women, only beginnings, because nothing ever goes wrong with beginnings. I don’t do middles and definitely don’t do ends. Middles, you can start to feel the magic go and it’s quietly horrifying. Ends are so painful they leave you feeling torn on a psychic level. Go beyond a beginning, and it fails 100% of the time. But beginnings are nothing but sweet beautiful promises.

Capture 4.JPG

her, not the dog

When this happens, it’s like someone in the office put a piece of birthday cake in front of you unexpectedly. You didn’t look for or hope for it. But there it is. If cake presents itself, you should have some cake. Someday you’re going to be dead, after all.

I only go for locals if they’ve lived in the West and have perfect English. Or at least 95% perfect English. Mistakes are cute after all.

They have to be able to understand you well enough to know if you’re weird. They have to have that comprehension, in order to put up the same barrier Western women have. And you have to make it past that barrier. Not satisfying any other way.

If they don’t have that barrier, then any man with his weak sperm can make it past. And I have to be able to hurdle barriers that weak men can’t, in order to maintain the delusion that I’m the greatest man who ever lived.

(^^This is how a single white man under 40 in Asia thinks because he has the luxury of doing so. After 40, when the face bubbles and sags like they’ve been hiking in the Martian atmosphere from Total Recall, they start slyly dropping pro-prostitution arguments into political conversation.)

Just beginnings. She was in North Point, where they just put luxury towers in the hillside. Buildings with uniformed staff and flower vases the size of Panzer tanks. She’d studied in England. Her parents are traders. Vacationing in Germany, left her home alone. We met at the MTR station and she took me up.

It was more fun than I hoped. She’d come up on the same porn I had.

It happened twice and then I left and the beginning was over. It meant nothing. But not in the sad poet way. It meant nothing in a good way.

VII. Your Regularly Scheduled Disaster

I only had time afterward to shower before my sushi date with a Chinese-born Swiss banker. I was punching above my weight; I shouldn’t have asked her. I’m an English teacher with a minor book deal and nothing about my existence impressed her. She was too smart for me. Too rich.

Actually those are excuses. What happened was she didn’t laugh at the first story I told her and inwardly I panicked. I was on the back foot the rest of the time. Walked her back to her flat on the bay but she told me stay downstairs. She said I was nice to chat with. But she didn’t want more.

It hurt for a while. I went to get coffee at McDonald’s, because it was the only place open and I didn’t want to drink. It would take a while for me to remember it’s good for you to hit the barrier. Wakes you up a little. No man is a cock superhero but all men sometimes forget this.

VIII. A Relative Lack of Motifs & Symmetry


Coming back to Hanoi is like unplugging from the Matrix. Like living past the end of the world. Ever-present smoke hovers like a huge bomb went off a few hours ago. Stupid buzzing bikes and horns and speakers.

I landed and immediately had to motorbike across the city to work. Longest day of my life. Finally got to release some Neanderthal pressure, though. I got into a scuffle in the parking garage with a Vietnamese man who cut me in line for a ticket, and ignored me when I tapped his shoulder. I’d been rushing all day. In lines and in the air. All day since 8 am in another country. Fuck him.

I jerked him backward by his backpack and said he’d been rude to slide in front of me. The veins in his neck swelled up and his eyes beamed hate at me. But then he nodded and got behind me. It felt amazing.

At home, I was thinking about this post. I couldn’t figure out a theme or a Big Statement for the end. To tie it all together. Because there’s nothing. It was simply a trip to Hong Kong. My activities, my life are too messy for a theme. My life isn’t a story. No one’s is. You have to lie to make your life into a story. I don’t learn lessons or achieve growth in a way that dovetails with an itinerary.

We don’t live in stories, we’re stuck in limbo, in survival, and just doing things and going places to kill time while we are. We are not going to figure anything out. I know this because I don’t have things figured out and I also don’t know a single soul who does.

The theme is this: that none of this means anything. And not in a sad poet way, but in a good way.


*This is the exact thought the dark corporate gods want me to have.

But I specifically like spending Hong Kong dollars and I like how they feel between my fingers. It has a texture like canvas and it’s wide and stout, like how old bills in movies look. HSBC paid to put their stamp on every bill. A level of blatant capitalism not even America has reached yet.

**first time I’ve forgotten someone’s name the next morning.

I Usually Post on Mondays

but I just got back from Hong Kong a few hours ago. Hong Kong is pretty cool and I wrote about it on the plane. But I’ll post about it tomorrow. Today was too busy to finish it. In the meantime if you’re bored I think there’s some porn hiding somewhere on the internet.

Some Kind of Drug

Image result for lightning

Six months in ‘Nam


My students are pretty much all 20 year-old females who are all ovulating unceasingly. I didn’t like Vietnamese girls when I first got here, but let’s just say my views on this issue are evolving. When they look up at me I know what it’s like to be a cult leader. In the classroom you can literally see electricity arcing between pheromone clouds*. Pheromone clouds. Change genders if you want. More power to you. But you can’t fake that.

Some men would be plowing through this roster but I know better. I’m not saying I know what will make you happy, but I am also saying that impossibly tight young snatch won’t do it.


I usually wake up at noon. My life feels stressful but it’s not. I have to go out and manufacture stress if I want it. God bless the Socialist Republic of Vietnam for providing the freest ecosystem a man could dream of. Expats exist in a gray zone with no cops or taxes. Motorbike costs a dollar a day. I’ll never go home. Every morning I watch the West burn on my smartphone. Shrug and have coffee. This election horseshit feels like it’s unfolding on the other side of the galaxy.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m white trash who’s made all the wrong turns. I’m supposed to be selling Amway in Stratham, NH right now. The force that got me here was luck, multiplied by luck and then compounded by even more luck. I feel guilty about it all the time. Like: good times are only temporary, this is all going to fall apart tomorrow. You have to worry if you’re in a good spot, because if you act like a complacent cunt, your luck disappears. Then I realize that is a stupid way to expend your emotional energy. Look at the news. Bankers never run out of luck, and they’re demons. They expect luck, and so it’s always there for them.

I just re-read those two paragraphs above. I’m such a prick now. Probably the worst byproduct of freedom.


Young snatch used to be a remedy. Way before that, loving God was, and then hating him was too. Loving someone always starts well but then is also always a disaster. Writing can work, but writing is mostly torture. Booze has its moments but that shit’ll hurt you. If you’re free for a little while, you figure out that nothing works for long.

We rode out onto the marshes at midnight and drank beer under a tree fit for a lynching. Too far away to see lights of the city. A monsoon hit with lightning bolts stabbing down every twenty seconds. We had to drive back because it was just getting worse. Our tires weren’t gripping the reeds and kept getting sucked down into the mud. No idea which way to go. The riverbanks were starting to overflow and cut off out options. Too much rain to hear shouting. One of those times where you’re thinking: this isn’t a joke.

I was scared. So scared the only thing I could do was laugh hysterically. I imagine that’s how most boys have died in battle, laughing like that, because screaming would validate the fear.

*not actually literally




Some women are tender and hold your head while you fall asleep. Other women won’t kiss you much and cover their nipples after you’re done, as if now’s the time for modesty.

The younger ones, from across the generational divide, are straight-up slayers. They pick up their phones right afterward and lie on their bellies pecking away. Messaging other dudes. Every girl who texts you is doing so from another man’s bed. His jizz still in her navel. Intimacy is dead and it’s not coming back. This is the world now. If love’s the sort of thing you’re into, just know that your one shot at it was the last one you blew.


I do miss my girlfriend my ex-girlfriend. The one who’s a model and is seven years younger than me. She was great. But I lied too much and caused too much damage.

I had five days off work for the holiday. Too much unstructured time, so I was forced to think about her. And it’s really sad. It feels like we both died.

I spent three of those days in the mountains. Motorbiked 100 miles south on the Ho Chi Minh Highway to stay with a family in a hut underneath a waterfall. Woke up with the chickens. Detoxed from modernity. It was boring. I privately expected a cinematic experience whereupon some of my crippling character defects would be healed by the tranquility. Instead I just sweated, read Murakami, and counted the seconds until it was over. Fuck the cinema and its tropes. I couldn’t wait to ride back to the city and go to Starbucks or something.


The ride back to Hanoi was unbelievable. Never done anything like that in my life. My buddy drives fast and I had to stick with him because I didn’t know the way. 50 mph the whole time, which in Vietnam might as well be 1,000 mph. It’s the jungle. You go hammering down cliff roads with pits deep as asteroid craters, every one of them trying to throw you over the handlebars. No cops or rules. People constantly shoot out of blind drives. Other people kamikaze straight at you on the wrong side of the road. There’s no reaction time.

My buddy would lean low and slide between trucks and I had to follow. I only know how to drive like that from movies. Purely terrifying. But also the most awesome scene I’ve ever been in the middle of. The clear hot sun, the blindingly green mountains, the smoke pillars on the riverbanks, the flooded cemeteries, the crazy whipping dust and the pebbles flying up and spraying you hard as paintballs. Chopping through it all for two hours on a hot engine. This is the sort of thing I’m into now. It’ll make you feel something.

A tour bus jumped a red light and I was going to hit it. I tried to react. Squeezed the handlebars and my front brake bit the wheel so hard it tore off. I skidded out and somehow caught a sand patch and slid past the nose of the bus. That was death right there. All luck that I made it through.

I was surprised that nothing profound came to me as my survival registered. What did come to me was the acidic throb of adrenaline, about a minute later. That’s something you should feel, if you can.


Back in the Hanoi Starbucks I read a missed email from two days before. An offer for a podcast appearance, listenership of a half-million per episode. Would have been a huge boost for your boy Freddy C. over here. My readership would have grown into… double digits maybe. But I didn’t respond in time, and so that ship has sailed. All because I was up in the mountains with chickens.

It’s OK. I actually don’t care. I had convinced myself that missing this email was another sign that my life is nothing but a tragedy, but that’s just the Murakami I’m reading. He makes me think it’s OK to slump through life bearing a cross of emotional agony.

But feeling like that is not OK, because it’s not true. Not so much anymore. What’s true is that I’m all right. I’m glad I didn’t die. I’m glad I’m still here to have my tiny pile of money and also my coffee and some good songs that I can pull over me like a woozy blanket. That’s my life, that’s me. That’s what I’ve got. I’ve transcended a few things and escaped a few others. So I’m all right, no matter if she holds me or turns away. Or if she lights up her phone. She thinks she’s hot shit. And she is. But then there’s me.





Light Your Dick On Fire

Image result for the deer hunter

Friday night we got hammered and stole a Vietnamese fisherman’s boat from a hamlet on the Red River and went out floating. It was 3 a.m. We got down to boxers and unlashed it from the bamboo pylons, then slid it silently through the reeds like Navy SEALs. The boat was made of hand-cut planks and had an aluminum roof. Probably been in the family since the French were here.

I spent the whole time in abject panic. Imagined rowing back and finding the cops arrayed on shore with floodlights. Had visions of life in a Vietnamese prison, being power-raped by all the rice dicks. You know the terror you feel when you’re skidding in a car and about to hit something. This was that terror, but sustained for about forty minutes. Like you’re on fire inside and out. I enjoyed it.

I’m rich white and fat: the essence of fulfillment. I want for nothing, but still gotta do something. There’s an obvious parallel to Ryan Lochte/Rio to be made with this.


Being boring is a sin. A famous man said that, and I am in agreement. So, do more things so you’re not boring. Live while you can, basically. Because who knows how long that will be. I think about cancer all the time. Mostly because of the air here in urban Vietnam; you sit there boiling in motorbike traffic and breathing in the little smog particles. Trillions of them every second. They accumulate deep in your nasal cavity and over time form a semi-hard gob that you’re always kind of vaguely aware of, that ever-so-slightly changes the timbre of your voice. Every three months it accumulates enough mass to suddenly break loose and slide down your esophagus. It’s pure poison death. Also: salty and kind of satisfying.

Since I’m still alive and can do things, I’ll go hike this weekend, because Vietnamese Independence Day is this weekend, and everything is closed so they can gloat about the war. And you know what? Good for them.

But. It also happens that when I read about said Vietnam War, I fantasize that if Nixon had authorized just a few more bombing raids, it would have all turned out differently. Because the only thing I hate more than America’s deplorable foreign policy is knowing another country can say they’ve beaten us.


I work on my book in expensive cafés because I’m an asshole. It’s going pretty slowly. But these other goddamn writers keep me motivated and chopping away at it. This girl I know writes for a magazine and drops little writerly phrases into conversation like, I rested last week, and feel like I’ve recharged my personality and allows herself a smile afterward.

Other people wouldn’t catch that the phrase recharged my personality required some brainpower, but I’m a writer, and I sure as hell fucking did. That right there is purposefully refined thinking. I know exactly what happened. She wrote that line down in a journal and workshopped it. Then slyly deployed it while out at the bar. Don’t do that. Leave your shit at home. Have the decency to do what the rest of us do, and pretend we don’t even write. You’ve got to hide your writing like you’re Batman.

And this British kid with Leo Titanic hair who read a Brexit poem at the open mic on Sunday. Kept intentionally stretching and warping words because he thinks that’s how Artists are supposed to talk. Kept the mic close to his mouth like he was giving it a blowjob and kept hitting the p’s too hard so they detonated in the subwoofers and made everyone wince. But the poem itself was good. Kind of. Good, but only on a basic level. He’s not a genius, like I am. Like I think I am. Really I’m just mad when someone else dares to do the same thing I do. No matter what that thing may be. It’s always such a rude shock when it happens.

The Gentleman

Still in Vietnam. Still on a bender. Four straight weeks of too much to drink and too few vegetables. I’m aging by the second; under my eyes it’s just lizard skin. If I smoked on top of all this then I’d look like Tommy Lee Jones already. Too much poison and sugar – I gotta downshift. There should be an app that shows you your liver damage in real time.

I have a long nasty beard that looks like a toilet brush and I piss in the sink in the hallway of my boarding house because the bathroom is one floor down. This is what a man looks like in the aftermath. When he does the right thing, or maybe just the more honest thing. Maybe there is no right thing. I hope she’s OK. I know she’s not, but I still hope it anyway.


It’s not as bad as I make it sound. My Puritanical background keeps me from sliding too far into hell. I have good habits. I get home from this stupid fucking glitter club called Hanoi Rock City and watch action movie clips on YouTube and drink water until I’m sober. I floss and moisturize. Then get eight hours of sleep and then 90 minutes of exercise and then study French and Vietnamese. Then I read Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicle before I go to work. At work I am white and therefore collect more money in 90 minutes than the locals do in a full week and blah blah…

All right. Let’s get to the sex stuff.


Put my jersey up. I could just retire from sex now. I’ve fucked enough for an army. Plus, I’ll be 30 soon, and I’m white. Past my prime. I have no business being naked anymore. White guys are gross when they’re old and naked.

I still have a high sex drive but just jack off constantly. I prefer jacking it to actual women now. I’ve come (heh) full circle, am 14 again.

There have been a few women who made it clear that they were down, who I could have smuggled up to my 5th floor flophouse. But the problem is that they wouldn’t cease to exist as soon as I came, which is what I want, which is what all men want but just won’t say. And there’s an added dimension of difficulty when it comes to kicking someone down out of a 5th floor walkup. That requires a level of finesse I don’t have the energy for. So, I jack it.


I keep forgetting I’m a legitimate, professional human now. I’ve finally started working on this Vietnam book I’m contracted for. It is a real thing; no longer can I just jizz all over WordPress and call it a day. Writing nonfiction is mental crossfit. You’re questioning, arguing with each sentence.

It’s also inauthentic. The style is not me. The tone is not me. I’m just sitting down at the keyboard and lying.

It’s due in four months. I’m a little worried, but I’m also not. I’ve been writing for so long that it doesn’t scare me anymore. If something isn’t working, I try it again. I know I’ll figure it out. Writing is about the only thing I’ve figured out.

A Single Man, Part II

Still no fucking, sorry. (A bit of porn, though.)


So concludes another day as an over-privileged white man in the Far East.

I found out some of my students draw a salary of $0.85 an hour. That’s the level of income that forces you to make your budget tighter than a cat’s asshole. Even for Vietnam. The company they work at is Japanese. They outsourced their plant over here because they can get away with paying slave wages. (It’s not only the Long Island Illuminati tycoons who do these things). And these workers are smart. The corporate complex is like a sweatshop for geniuses. I make 40 times what they do. They’ll work triple-overtime, save 100% of it, and still never escape.

Not even thinking about this makes me feel lucky. To be human is to be an animal and to be an animal is to be unaware of your advantages. We just happen to only be aware of what we lack. That’s the evolutionary force that keeps us moving.

I drive past a bunch of Vietnamese bricklayers on the way home. They’d all kill their own families to be me. Tall white hilarious cisgender American male with a book deal and cash in the bank and heaps of pussy waiting for him whenever he gets out of his funk. I am to them what a Saudi prince is to me. But then again, when I look at them and their low-BMI manual laborer bodies with the eternal six-packs, I’d kill to be them. No one gets it all.


Not that I’m fat. I’m gaunt, even though I drink too much.

About drinking. I can have a good time without it. I was raised in preparation for a lifetime of sobriety; I grew up Southern Baptist and was told having a Bud Light was a Satanic ritual. So I can go out sober and laugh until I cry. But I’d still rather do it while drinking.

I don’t gain beer weight because I work too much. My schedule is such a Bataan Death March that I’m inadvertently forced to fast most days. And it’s also because I work out like Michael Phelps. Except it’s worth noting that I’m better than Michael Phelps, because I still put in the hours even though no one will ever give a shit.

It’s OK. The workouts and the workaholism are working for me, they’re getting me through the emotions of the breakup, or past the emotions of the breakup, without having to confront them. Helping me neutralize thoughts of her in the future having nice sweet moments (or sweaty, naked moments) with other dudes and their dicks (even though I let her go and therefore I have no right to whine about it). The mental image I have of myself these days is that I’m holding on to a bomb really tightly so it won’t explode (because that is a thing that’s possible to do), and if I hold it long enough it’ll deactivate and I can put it down. That’s not how human emotions work, but I’m trying it anyway.

It’s not just the breakup. In general, I don’t really like myself, thanks to whatever chemical soup is in my head. I have to hype myself up to start thinking kind thoughts about myself, and it’s unsustainable. It’s like an arranged marriage. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think everyone is like this. But that doesn’t make it easier.


Anyway, it’s summer in Asia. That means we either live in an end-of-days downpour or nuclear-hot sunlight. Take your pick. No middle ground.

These days it’s the rain. It always hits while I’m driving my motorbike. Never before, never after. Always exactly during the time when I’m driving somewhere.

Saturday I got off work at 9:30 pm. At 9:31, the typhoon hit. I was going to have a night out but Mother Nature said otherwise, reasserted her existence, sliced through everyone’s neatly knotted little plans. Whenever the rain comes I glare at the Vietnamese like it’s their fault. As if monsoons are a feature they opted in for.


The rain keeps me pinned down inside, where I don’t write, and instead wrestle with the Y2K-speed internet connection. But tonight it let up. I went out and let people annoy me. The other expats. They’re loud jackoffs, bargain-bin degenerates, white trash cretins. Their noise fills up my head. It’s loathsome. It’s irritating. It’s insipid. It’s what I need.


A Single Man

dog kissing male owner

Now I live in a hot room in Vietnam, like the guy in Apocalypse Now. Except I have Winnie-the-Pooh bedsheets. Landlord went shopping and chose them, for some reason.

The AC gets fixed, works for a day and then breaks again. Spews flaming F-16 exhaust into the room while outside the sun blasts the life out of the city. The heat is such that it wakes you up at 5:00 am. It’s the only reminder I need that God doesn’t exist. Because there’s no reason for it to be this hot. For the sun to sear and boil you and melt your DNA strands down into cancer. An intelligent designer would have modulated this shit a little.


This breakup burns. Even though I was the one who did it. I see her around the city all the time. She’s alone, and she doesn’t want to be. It’s not fair.

I have too much history now. Too many cute, flirty stories racked up by this point for me to offer someone something genuine. And too many fuck stories for me to offer someone something innocent. Dating gets sick and nasty after a while. We wouldn’t buy a car with fifteen previous owners, but we’ll take a person with that many.

When I go out girls ask me if I have a girlfriend, if I want to go somewhere with them. I don’t. Which only makes them ask again. They only want me because I don’t want them.

That’s the only thing you need to know about life. By the time I decide I want one of the girls, they’ll all disapparate. Look at me with disgust for having a desire.

I’m worried about my empathy levels, I’m worried I’m too detached. I’m outrunning my emotions. I never sit down; there’s always something pressing. I exercise and then I go to work and then after work I have some drinks. Then I pass out and purposefully wake up late enough that I have no time to do anything but get ready for work again. Which leaves me no time for anyone’s bullshit. Vietnamese managers ping my inbox with threats in Google translate-level English: “you sending the spreadsheet now.”

I say no. And they apologize for asking. I’m Genghis Fucking Khan. On Gmail, at least. I keep hoping they’ll fire me. But they can sense that I don’t care, so they keep me around.


Someone stole my helmet from the bar parking lot last week, because that’s the kind of thing happens in Vietnam. If it’s not cemented to the Earth, it vanishes. I didn’t get a new helmet. But it’s safer to ride this way, because I’m far more vigilant. I treat every ride like it’s war.

I saw a dead guy on the bridge near my work. The side of his head was smashed flat. Motorbike crash, no helmet. I know that that’s not going to happen to me. Not these days, anyway. I’m safe and I’m lucky. And things will stay that way until I get more excited about life.


Everyone recognizes that my book deal is significant, except for my mom. She said it sounded “neat.” I’m not sure if she knows what a book deal is. That it’s a hard thing to get. For most people.

For me, it just fell into my lap. I knew a guy, that was it. I didn’t knock on a million doors for this. But I still congratulate myself as if I did.

And I have proud thoughts such as: hey man, see, life will work out. God will give you your dream, your hard work will pay dividends, and brilliant joy will be yours. As long as you’re white.

Jesus. I’m getting pretty cocky over what will just be a travel book. Cocky that someone, anyone!, who works in an office has told me that I don’t suck.

They’re lying. It’s all business. They just need a semi-literate ape who’s willing to only use chopsticks for a year and sign a lowball deal in exchange for his name going on something.

And with me, they got it. I’m a millennial; I would rather have attention than income. I spent three days working on the Facebook status. And now I keep re-reading the list of people who liked it. People from high school. Allison and Erin who both married other dudes and had kids. Now everyone knows. They were wrong about me!

Besides that guy from high school who was like 5th employee Uber ever hired or something, I’m now the most successful person from my class. But come drive through Hampton, NH and you’ll see why. Not a lot of sunlight, jobs, or teeth.


I’m single again. Although that hasn’t stopped me and the ex from fucking three times, including once on the glass tabletop in the kitchen. I just noticed we haven’t wiped up the sweat smears yet.

Tomorrow I move into a 5th floor room with a busted AC in a house filled with seven other rootless wanderers. $180 for the month. In September, I go to Saigon. She’ll keep the apartment. Have Couchsurfers keep her company. I’d rather not describe the composition of the emotional cocktail my brain has been marinating in since the breakup, but I do know these things:

  • I don’t want this to be ugly.
  • I want her to win.
  • This is the kind of thing where even though she’s going to fuck other guys, she’ll still always be mine.

She’s afraid I’m going to go fuck everyone I can now. Well. don’t worry love. The women of the world have not been waiting for this day. They’ve all been too busy fucking. And not guys like me. I’m traditionally handsome. But every girl now only wants to fuck guys who look like they live in caves. Topknots and pale inbred visages. No longer do they respect a precisely-tailored suit and a visible bicep vein. The sloths now rule. The world changed while I was away. She’ll find dudes, I will find no one.

Friday night my friends wanted to go to this bar that’s out in the woods by an ancient Confucian graveyard. I had to give this girl a ride on my motorbike and she weighed more than me. The springs under the seat kept giving out and I was paranoid about the tires. She dropped a hint like an anvil: “my boyfriend and I are open.”

Later on as we all ate at the flower market she told me to check my white male privilege because I said something about not being turned on by lesbian porn. That made me angry. And I’m still not even sure what it meant. The world changed while I was away. I’m old and white and I don’t know how to connect. It’s enough to make a man vote Trump.

The next night I went out for an hour. I spent thirty minutes of it in the club bathroom flushing out of my eye after a drunk girl threw glitter in it. The other thirty minutes I drank on the stage by the speakers while a Vietnamese club rat with huge cheeks hit on me. I wanted to leave, but I felt like I had to stay at least an hour, so the night felt like something.

“What do you do?” she asked.

Hey! I thought. You’ve been waiting for this. Now you can say it.

“I’m a writer.”

“Wait, so that’s your job?”


“Wow, that’s awesome.”

And she meant it. I think.

The world changed while I was away. Everything that used to be cool is now shit. Everything except the thing I love the most.


It’s Monday. I told my readers I’d post every Monday. I had some good shit ready to go. But we broke up this morning. 4:00 a.m.

It was me. I wanted to. I wanted to be alone and miserable again. I had to tell you that I love you. I love you deeply and it burns to watch you struggle. I love you. But I love myself more. And I have to let someone else love you, and hold you, and fuck you, even though that will burn me too.

Truth is agony. I’m so tired, so weary of hurting people. But there’s no way not to. When I lie, I hurt someone. When I tell the truth the same thing happens.


You said I was going to get a good blog post out of this breakup. I did. But it’s not for me, it’s for you. It’s your tribute.


In the morning the sun was bright and clean and hot. Like the afterglow of a bomb. First day of a new life. I felt drained and dehydrated.

We’re both still in the apartment; lease complications. We ate cereal and acted like pals who’d never fucked before. Talking to you is soothing. Even when we’re trying not to cry.

I did cry. When I was in Starbucks later with the laptop open, drowning in work. Too much work to be sad. Or so I thought. I had to put my sunglasses on, but people heard me sniffing. They kept staring; people loathe you when your emotions leak out in public. Sometimes you actually feel yourself breaking.

I got back home. Rested my head on your lap. We have to wean off each other. As I got dressed to go to work I got the email from the publisher in Singapore. They’re going to give me the book deal. No contract yet. But it’s going to happen. They said, “We’re definitely keen to have you on board for the book, what do you think of the submission deadline?”

So what if it’s a tiny book about Vietnamese culture. It’s real. I’ll leverage it to get more real books printed with my name on the front. They picked me. My dream came true.

The message that changed my life, it had to come today, the day I left you. I read it and felt absolutely nothing. But you cried when I told you. You’re so happy for me. When I think of that I break down again.

I’ve never had a day like today. I can’t imagine I ever will again. I’m stunned.


I’m going to move to Saigon to finish the book. I want you to be there with me. But what I want more than that is to do it alone.

The right thing is to let you go. So you can get your old self back. Be a girl again, find some virile little boys. Me, I’ll just turn 30. Get worse hangovers. Become professional. Stay stuck in 2011 for the next 40 years. Blow out a hip, devolve into a potato, become one of the old white guys in Asia who young white backpackers make fun of.

You meant everything. Please remember that. Take me back in time, I’d do it again. Thank you.


We promised to get back together in 10 years if we’re both single. You won’t be. I will. I’m building a romantic career out of being the ex-boyfriend the husbands hate. And they should. I’m special, I’m talented, I’m lucky. I’m going to get what I want. Whether that will satisfy me or not, I don’t know yet.

Back when it ended, early this morning, I held you. You came to me. Wrapped up in the comforter. You can’t sleep without me, even when I’ve just killed you. When I held you, I forgot I killed you. I forgot that I had already left you and that I loved myself more than you.

And while we were about to fall asleep, I was truly, desperately in love with you. You’re my girl. It was simple and obvious. If I could, I’d stretch that moment out for the rest of our lives. I closed my eyes and tried to do that, one more time. But when I woke up it was gone.