Nano

Allure
In her wonderful scarves, wraps and swarthiness Marie reminded of a widowed aunt preparing for re-marriage; for Abdul her muttering to herself excited. A shared eroticism that surprised us both.

Reptile
The elaborate quiff was one thing, but what about the skin treatment after all the golfing, the pools & beaches over the years? No wonder “executive time” mornings alligator smoothing.

The News
These fatheads in their jackets, shirts & ties at boardroom tables. Still appearing with the ones by the window, in the interviewee chair and carrying briefcases coming out of buildings

Azan
Blasted out of sleep before 5AM with heavy shelling, an old man’s voice with the energy that could only be heard in the West on Fox, in sports & drunkenness.

Latte
With these preoccupations now virtually impossible to conduct conversation with any of the patrons—an inescapable conclusion, at least within such walls with this piped music, soft furnishings and fittings.

No Help For Her

This Josephine was slipping into the nether depths, no help for her. Auntie Helen had her Jehovah, together with the cats. Not the case for Freethinker Jo (when with all the Easter material—all the crosses, Notre Dame and citations—one had assumed otherwise). No end to the Whatsapp mssgs. Relentless. Unforgiving. This in the mild form was the reason people fled the app/why it was such a comforter for the utterly bereft. Even with her charges over on her patch under Blocks 3 & 4, Jo was less than dedicated, according to JW Helen; kept a very lax regime, expecting others to pick up the slack. Sweet dear. When Mu was shown her pic on the app with the pigtails in the checkered dress—Mu who had been inducted into love by some naughty nenes/grannies—man immediately suggested this was just the sort for a spot of sport. 10-15 years before Jo might have traveled the passages of amore. Now, nada. Frequent traveller (calling on others to assume her responsibilities when absent); living with her old bachelor bro on inherited money. Evenings were spent at a gathering on the Void beneath Block 8, low stools around the iron bench. Mango tarts, lemon rind, pineapple, chocolate truffle most recently, cut fruit and nuts for variation; at first dropped through the window left open for airing and subsequently hung from the bedroom door. All with the Hello Kitty stationery notes stapled. There would be hell to pay if Helen caught her snooping. Jo had pleaded none of her goodies be shared with Helen.

Inspection (Clean)

You didn’t want to stop and trouble this poor man, make him look a right fool. Was it worth it really? Back in the day they sold fairy-floss at the fairgrounds this rainbow colour that made you sick after—the Royal Melbourne Show, chundering following a ride on the Mad Mouse.Here out front of Paya Lebar MRT in the hands of a bespectacled Chinese chap in his blue polo the form was feather-duster. Sing’ had won awards for its greenery and cleanliness of course, man here aiding the enterprise. Inspect coming all do… Manpower inspect it may have been in the bitten-off, gnarly English. (There was a government department of that name, Ministry of Manpower, handling foreign workers mainly. All the illegals kept a keen eye-out.) This was the adjunct to the main station on the other side of Sims Avenue, linking the Yellow Line. An access point without any shops or stalls. Out front on the two sides trees by the roadways and raised concrete garden beds, with eight inch parapets. Stooping a little the man waved his coloured duster over the top of the walls using the point. Were he to brush horizontally, which would be better, he would need to bend further. Little imagination was required to bring up the super on his rounds. Between times in the usual way pics sent back to the office would suffice.

Murder @ the Haig

Glimpsed in passing feeding the pigeons and only once upon the lady did the realisation strike. You could not stop and stare. Possibly the woman had made a more certain ID herself immediately. A couple of weeks before she had been met in the yard out front of the house. A rather awkward meeting in fact. This is her, Helen had announced proudly with some kind of winner’s smile. The pair had been chatting by the greenery while two or three cats weaved between their feet. The English had surprised, together with the visage the woman presented. You assumed an old Chinese battle-axe, surly and sharp. On the contrary, once again here was an altogether classic soft Balkan Babushka—they were legion around the place. First word of the notorious lady had emerged about a month before: there was a convicted murderer living up at the Haig blocks, someone reported. It would turn out the deed had been done right there at the Haig—a woman who had killed her husband by her own hand. Ten or twelve towers of so many storeys, it stood to reason; the odds were perfectly in order. Hmm…. Interesting of course. Had one on the scent a little; casually, lazily. The fruiterer Mr Lim was asked, making conversation more or less one morning over the purchase. Yes, knew the lady. Quiet type; a little screwy. People kept away from her; a bit batty. What had happened? Why? How? None could bring themselves to ask, Mr Lim answered. More or less same again with Helen: gabbing one evening when she was feeding the cats on the near corner opposite the house. Here though, in this case, Helen unexpectedly declared she was in fact intimate with the party. I know the lady, answered Helen with her usual judicial air. The story went she and her husband had looked after the elderly ahma, the grannie; hubbie’s mum. Of course the work all fell on the daughter-in-law. Hubbie/son had been a bit aged himself by that stage, doddery and weak on his pins. In time god took back the old soul; they had done their best. Afterward the usual scramble for the cash. Those who had been absent before, visitors of their mother earlier at elder brother’s place, gathered now for the spoils. And promptly. Words exchanged; recriminations. How to grab the loot quick and get away? (They were lucky not to have the flat sold from under their feet.) Over that term of money-grabbing, the old, doddery hubbie had begun to echo some of the criticisms of his siblings. Blah blah blah. The wife had not done this or that right. Blah blah blah. One night continuing by the kitchen sink where the daughter-in-law/wife was busy preparing dinner. No, not dicing veggies the tired housewife; pounding chilli it must have been. In hand the mortar and pestle. Pounding. The old guy unrelenting. One word too many tipped the boiling bucket. POW! Crack! Like a lubenica, watermelon, they say in Serbia. One strike was enough; dead pretty much on the spot the old jawbones. Lady did five or seven years of her sentence; early release; temp. insanity whatnot. Here she was back at her former dwelling, returned to the neighbourhood. Auntie Helen lacked no gumption; a JW with lots of firm spirit; one who had done her own time over a matter of principle. Helen got it straight from the source. All the feeders in the neighbourhood naturally knew each other. There were alliances, as well as animosities and demarcations. Fed more than just birds this lady. (Helen herself had recently begun adding the crows that gathered on the near corner.) The sweet, redemptive part came at the end a few years later; few years back. The son, one of the children of the victim and of the killer, must have been a Buddhist. One advanced some good way in his studies and devotions. With enlightenment attained after proper reflection, the chap, the son, comes up to Mum one day in order to announce: Mother dear, when I come back, I want you to be my mother again.

Purrfect Pol. Con

The former general, current candidate for the Indonesian Presidency, Mr. Prabowo, was said by his enemies it may have been to be, like Hitler, light-on for balls. (Was it a testicle lacking, or in fact the organ itself, shot away by the East Timorese rebels? An old hand from those parts who should have known the facts reported the tidbit recently.) In this light, perhaps some of the murderous rage against the Timorese, led by General Prabowo and frankly admitted by the man, could be understandable. This morning’s newspaper carried a report of the candidate’s recent attendance at a gallery opening in Central Java where an enterprising Dutch photographer had featured Prabowo’s cat, Bobby. Blow-up coloured pics of whiskers, gleaming eyes and cute nose…. The current run-off between Prabowo and the incumbent Jokowi is a repeat of the same event of five years before, when the Napoleonic hero had tortured a white steed at his rallies. The present soft PR exercise has likely been borrowed from the Man of Steal’s campaign in Malaysia. In that constitutional monarchy the former PM’s pics of his favourite mog were drawing impressive numbers of likes, followers, hearts & whatnot. Smile, keep up the BS, deny and mystify, and perchance you have some hope of claiming the highest office in the land; in the case of the Malaysian Thief, avoidance of jail and perhaps even long-shot return to office.

NB. The Indonesian election is tomorrow, 17 April.

Ordination (Chris Hedges)

From: tam….  <ta….as…@gmail.com>

Sent: Saturday, 6 April 2019 3:13:14 AM
To: pavle rrrrr
Subject: Hedges drivel

“Will you be governed by our (the church) politics and abide by its discipline?” Hedge, “Yes.” It’s so discouraging for me. On this and Russia. So embarrassing to see him here. Imagine the hours of nonsense he had to study for this. Help me understand.

The plea from Scott needed to be answered. In a fashion, below.

But first some background.

Scott in SOCAL had provided the introduction to the writer, commentator and activist Chris Hedges. Innumerable credits to the man’s name, though in the case of this global citizen, quite unknown previously. It had been a revelation.

Chris Hedges had learned at the feet of Noam Chomsky, “America’s greatest intellectual” (Hedges). Hedges himself did exceptionally well with articulate viewpoint, historical interpretation, scathing attacks on the elites & corporates, the climate change deniers. A stirring voice.

Closely familiar with the Muslim world; fluent in Arabic; a number of years in the Balkans during the wars, before venturing further East. That the man was a former seminarian made perfect sense: the passion, the phraseology and moral standpoint all accorded. Lapsed in faith one assumed; doctrinal faith at least. Or might he perhaps be one of those strange Christian Socialists, coming through Marxism and communitarianism somehow.

There had been a stint as a speech-writer for Ralph Nader. The Clinton cartel & the Democrat establishment more broadly were roundly condemned. Obama was included in that kettle of fish that kept a lid on things.

Cornel West discovered to be a friend and ally—the African-American intellectual who had called the first African-American President a Drone and Wall Street President.

A revelation, when there was so much need in the dark days of the Trump Presidency and Bernie Sanders failing to follow up with enough hard push.

With the help of Chris and Noam we had exposed the dirty clay feet of the performing parrot Hitchens (peace be upon him where he lies); one of Scott’s former “heroes.”

But then, lo and behold! the discovery that Hedges had been ordained back a few years. Some kind of conventional Christian in wolf’s clothing it appeared; church, altar, doctrine, governing board to which submission was required.

 Scott was climbing off dat bandwagon; impossible to accept for Scott. All of the religions traded on a fundamental lie, Scott held. (A lapsed Catholic and searcher himself of course.)

The good man however sourced the home video of Chris’s ordination into the Presbyterian Church in Elizabeth, New Jersey, circa 2014. An hour and one half plus ceremony & associated.

Now read on.

Gee! What to say?
5 mins in. Don’t wanna sh_tcan the gathering too much; wanna hold back accusations of “drivel.” Kinda extend a bit of courtesy. Give them their belief and we retain ours. Is it necessary to confront and accuse?
For one thing it’s a form and manner notice. Note the metaphors: “Were you there when they crucified on the cross so-and-so & so-and-so?....” The congregation was there in spirit and continued to acknowledge and honour the past martyrs, including MLK, Malcolm X &etc.
Certainly it’s not to my taste or measure. But, you know, contradictions.

Yester. I went out to lunch with a friend, a former Metho Minister who has since crossed to the devil’s party. In the car a passage of Bach I think it must have been poured out fr the FM station more cool and refreshing, more uplifting than the aircon even. (I have listened to almost no music near 15 yrs. A freak, granted. The effect esp. heightened.) So, what about that, being a bystander to ol’ Johann Sebastian’s stirring faith? Takes some figuring don’t it my man. 
Living in this community of believers here so long, over 7 years, a remarkable experience. My wonderful Jap mate Hideo Asano—plz read his book An American Breakfast—was the first to point out to me: Far, far better to live within a community of believers, than that consumerist SH_Thole that we know so well those of us who have endured it in the West. Even if we can’t believe ourselves, mark you. (Hideo was classic Zen Man.)
Another contradiction I leave with you, Scottie. When I figure it out properly I’ll lecher know.
My preliminary remarks thus far to help you settle a bit and allow a bit of room for this man we both admire a great deal, Chris Hedges.
Not sure, and I kinda seriously doubt, that I can watch the entire 1½ hrs? Kinda plan to try.
Salam & shanti
P

P. S. It’s not just the Mussies here either, though they are my immed, brothers in the neighbourhood. My dear old Catlady in the house is a JW. Kinda nice she wants to save me for Jehovah. Another Jap friend Yasu was 10 yrs homeless; played his keyboard out front of Citylights there next to you. BIG devotee of Amma—you know, the Indian hugger maternal Mamma. Yas. tells me she’s a god; got extra atman.  (We all have the atman, but some more than others; &etc.) The Hindus—pretty damn well captivating at their best. (Buddhists & Christians somewhat less so, though they too have their angelic messengers/diminutive gods…. More sweets and fruit cups tossed in through my window this afternoon while I was out by Josephine, another Christian catlady, of a different stripe.)

Note I am not mentioning any religious leaders or doctrine, holy text and the like. Rather the life of the ordinary folk imbued with something. Something better than Surfin USA.
This is a kinda answer too for the puzzle why I’m not in Thailand in a beachside condo, where the rent would be cheaper than my digs here.
                                                                          

13½ mins now a bit grueling. Don’t know for whose benefit the service/occasion is delivered. Right now my feeling is this is a closed event for the particular group—New Jersey Presbyts and not of wider interest. Why filmed? Don’t know, unless for their records.
Eunice (Hedges’ wife) is a bit over-ripe too. Her poetry and drama mission might be OK, but, again, I don’t see the wider relevance. Maybe we ought to know how prisoners suffer. Well, yeah. Maybe some people have no idea.
Don’t quite yet wanna say “drivel.”
Ah.... Gee, it would be hard to sit through entire. You would have to have a whole lotta s’thing I haven’t got in order for that to happen. I mean on the pews soaking it all in real time.
Gunna give it another shot—hoping this dude who follows Eunice doesn’t build up too much steam.
Salam & shanti
P

Guessed I do not come to bring peace. I come to bring a sword.... had to appear, didn’t I. Think I told you. Christ not only the Redeemer but the swashbuckling Superhero. You gotta like that, the muscular Jesus righting the wrongs of the world. What good was he otherwise?

But, yeah, tedium. Still don’t wanna say “drivel.” A gathering of two dozen maybe. No reason for wide broadcast I think. I can’t however resist the peephole, not when Cornie and Chris are spotlit getting down and dirty with their godworship. My kinda porn. Don’t much like the other. Call me a nut, don’t care. Highbrows have this kinda weakness.

James H. Cone, the other chap w. Cornel up at the pulpit, spoke OK, but I wasn’t lookin to enlist after that pitch of his. Like you, bit baffled what all the enthusiasm was about: Chris had this guy as riveting damnbusting on this particular occasion of his ordination. A number of references to it in his subsequent speeches... You gotta be in the circle I’m thinking, carry some of the fire in yr belly. (Eunice again jarring, she delivered a witticism about her daring dress and glitter. Must say, the robes the ladies wear here when they enter the place of worship seems to me far more fitting. The Muslims. Any hint of fashion show outta order. You’re either doing something in these places of worship and prayer, or you’re doing something else. Muslim men sometimes bedeck themselves overmuch for the Friday attendance, granted.)

Almost a third in.

The Mussie guy I’m seeing most of here the last 3 - 4 months always avoids the sermons on the Friday. Goes for the gathering; for the prayer. I like that. In no need of direction for his worship. (Muslims largely make their own way in faith, leaders and preachers side-lined. “I have no Pope,” they will often tell you.) Nice, penetrating guy this one. Bizman made lottsa $$$$. You mighta read bout him in a recent post, “The Deep End.” You went in deep yerself Scottie. But a White guy. Big BIG difference, as I’m sure you’d know, trying to turn a dollar in foreign parts without the East India Co. behind you, or US troops bayonets drawn.

I’m taking notes as I proceed. For my own purposes.

Thought it a bit weird the bearded pastor whatever before the ol Black man, Professor Cone, citing the stream that, Never, never, never ran dry. (Think like Peter denouncing Christ before the cock crow—thrice times.) Clearly a dated occasion. The waters of Jordan aint no more. Climate change was still gettin up a head of steam back in 2014. If Chris was being ordained in this current year of our Lord there would have been another passage chosen.

Salam & shanti

P

Almost half through: Prof. Cone overrated and going on a bit long. Not sure how Hedges can sit there listening to so much praise of himself. A bit indecent. Certainly wife Eunice carried a borderline look of self-satisfaction on her face couple of camera pans. Their son—or Chris’s son fr an earlier marriage—lad looked irredeemably White—might have squirmed once under the onslaught.

A good line from MLK against the positivists: Life is a long corridor of travail with no exit sign. (Cornel citing.) Won’t suit you hearin that Scottie, you who wanna skid into the ditch with a worn out body after experiencing all the highs. But there you have it, Comrade, straight from Martin.

Phyllis the Inquisitor asks him point blank whether he will subject himself to the discipline of the church. (Near the hour.) Well, he knew that was coming of course. Rather disappointing I grant you. What the heck was he getting himself into? What has he foregone bending to that? Don’t like it no mor’ ‘n you Scottie. Can’t help thinking how it colours his encounters with the Muslims, the Buddhists and those on the other side. What happens there? He standing in the light of the Lord whatnot, and those others in a fair bit of dark strife? Lost? The vast majority traveling on this planet of ours, lost to redemption? Of course only HE knows, as the Mussies around me here would respond to any curly question. But, you know, while these pious seek their hereafter they must logically leave the rest of us behind. Their god can’t save all.

At the same time I do wanna tell ya Scottie, the man I call my ustad here (guru), does hold that Allah unquestionably accepts all. There is no hell, just as the Virgins &etc. are nonsense, according to Zainuddin Ismail Mohammad, a self-described goofy Sufi. No con. True coin. Still waiting to hear the same fr any ordained Christian Minister. Chris Hedges included with all his Arab and Black African friends.

NB. Neither am I accepting yr “drivel” bear in mind. Don’t wanna substitute another word either. Mite tedious watching I will say that much. Lacking in force. None of the oration compelling.

Salam & shanti

P

Following in his honoured father’s footsteps explains a lot to me. A great deal. This is how a blessed kind of inheritance spins onward. On my side I feel it most strongly; and consequently feel sad for people who are bereft in that regard; ie. the children of fumbling, failing, inadequate, fainthearted parents.

Missed the entirety of Chris’ anecdote about the Catholic (?) priest Bob commenting he would like to bring down the Cross from over a church where they were standing and replace it with an electric chair. Can see his point! Very fitting. You seen any of those chairs mounted high over there? (They like the rope in Singapore too. Lotta fervent Christian, Hindu & Buddhist Ministers lined up behind that State murder.)

This all around the hour. Thirty-one minutes remaining. Cakes & tea I’m expecting soaking up a bit of the last.

Haven’t noticed any prisoners attending by the way. Death-rowers evidently don’t get outings, o’wise they would have filled the pews? But one or two poor, ill-dressed mighta bin nice. They sure as hell talked a lot about ‘em up at the pulpit. None to be seen.

Salam & Shanti

P

A little guesswork required with the poor vision and failing sound: old Father Bob Smith gets his feet washed as part of proceedings. Uncertain whether a couple other feet following too. (Again, all clean feet; didn’t notice beggars or prostitutes.)

Now, a rusted-on, truly immovably rusted, fan of Cooorn’el West must keep the faith and report that littel riff at the ordination of his great friend Christopher Hedges, before his various children, fell rather short of Cornie’s best most captivating performance. None of the congregation fallin in the aisle that I did make out. A bit flat & insipid. No hype, no razzamatazz sought; no complaint. Just reporting the plain facts.

Hour ten mins. thereabout. Four dozen perhaps attending turns out. Home-stretch now. (Could any other non-church member have watched the whole thing through from go to woe? Doubt it. Curiosity. Nothing of the sort ever witnessed previously. You guys over there might get bombarded all hours.

Correction: that was 1:06min. Whereafter Cornel claims the South American Liberation Theology in fact came out of the Black church in Arkansas it may have been. No need question veracity.

Perfectly in order Cornie when he gets going after the earlier feet-washing segment moving to the point that coming in to the mission, being grounded in the blood of slavery was indispensable. That lens enabled one to understand a wee bit better so much everything else. The Black struggle did not claim ownership outright of the worst woe that had ever been in creation; but coming to terms with that history, colonialism, sexism, misogyny and all the rest could be more properly comprehended... Fully agree. And slavery more broadly too. Happened upon a text the other day that suggested early last century the hajj in fact covered for a sizeable slave trade in Mecca. None are guiltless.

Apt challenge put: how much heaven you gonna leave behind betw yr mother’s womb and the tomb?... Cornie blowing a cornet. Nicely delivered. (A minute earlier he was talking about the integral function of music in the church and in worship. Well a Black guy coming fr where he comes from, yeah, would say that. Others prefer something different. The stone quiet of these Muslims can grow on a man. Certainly no musical lightening is allowed them. (Well, not in their worship. Maybe a little in the run-up to the Prophet’s birthday was permitted, male voices in choir. But not Allah, front-on and direct. That was too much.)

The band didn’t seem particularly inspired by the way. Paid gig feel.

NB. Michael Parker Blues Band (1:14mins.). When the gal broke into Amazing Grace that was a bit of something. Not exactly Maria Call., but properly fetching.

Salam & shanti

P

So. Here we are arrived. His dear much honoured Dad.

It’s a pretty nice story he tells of being in the stairwell with him. The expected ordination couldn’t be undertaken at that stage, young Chris having his heart set on the world and reporting. Disappointing the father. For all that, dad didn’t say much. A moment’s pause, before the old man came to give the thumbs up.

You, said Hedge senior to junior, are ordained to write...

Setting off for the first war zone, Iraq/Kuwait it may have been. Like the seeking out of the deathrowers, the tracking of the US military machine maybe makes one think what’s going on there. Some kinda proving of self; seeking of the fire and trial. Wanting to watch god’s works where the wheels have fallen off. A fire-breathing, restless father mighta put that into the son.

Then these so many years later able to find the means to join his father’s ministry. Complete the circle, as he said. Not an impulse difficult to understand.

A journo at the Holiday Inn at Sarajevo or somewhere else had told Chris, — You might not be a journalist, but you’re sure as hell a preacher...

A Presbyt. Minister himself the dad. Boy/man Chris wanting/needing to follow the footsteps. Honour the good, loved father. No complaint my side for the kind of accommodation involved. Intellectual betrayal too easy an accusation.

Lucky the man who had a hugely inspirational father before him. Possibly only the Christian Faith offered the deepest resonance of this particular form.

Scott, I’m going to swallow the whole of this show as a concession to Chris Hedges, for everything I have seen, heard and read that followed & preceded this event in New Jersey. All the On Contact interviews, all the various speeches, the Truthdig articles.

1:18 thereabouts. Don’t feel like it would be betraying any principle. An allowance extended.

If the man started proselytizing and carrying on that would be another matter. All his previous references to Jesus had been OK for me. An historical figure of some stature no reason to cavil. We leave aside the rest, the leap. The deep yawning abyss confronts us, right? What kinda jump needed to clear up to each of us.

You imagine Chris would fight within the church for this and that interpretation, viewpoint and stance. One needs allies. I’d prefer some kind of commune model myself, but you know how hard.

Salam & shanti

P

Lastly.

“Senseless, stupid kindness... the more stupid and senseless the vaster it is...” And the more it conquers, it might have been.

Well, rushed speechwriting by the sounds. No wonder Ralph polled so poorly against W. wasn’t it? But he’s allowed a little infelicity every now and again. Eunice probably had a jittery day preparing a role and needed attention.

Hardly a notch above the purple & gold car sticker proclaiming the efficacy of random acts of kindness; &etc. There has been the very same push here, kindness, kindness, kindness, run over a number of years in all the media. One of the strategies the politico branding department use to restore the people’s spirit after the towers, corridors & neat garden beds replaced the kampungs, forest malls sprouted.

Finale from the band Sweet Love, Sweet Chariot—the up tempo pretty pedestrian and the first tame version even worse. Members of the congregation hoisted themselves up from the pews heavily.

Embarrassing, you said. Well, there was that. But it was possible to penetrate a little further too.

Suits and ties didna help any certainly for this viewer.

Salam & Shanti

P


NB. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcdP5c1MQ5w

Gird Your Loins

The old gang in a close huddle three rows back, animated more than usual that afternoon. Some of these groups here even in their seventies fetched back to the schoolyard—or at least the urine stream behind the houses in the kampung, the stand-up pipe for the water and atap roofs. Back in that day the boys had been bunched closer and larking more loudly of course. Still, this tight knot was unusual at the Wadi tables, certainly for that cohort; even with their families these men did not sit so close. The initial greeting had issued from one of the more circumspect uncles. Almost invariably, in passing this man offered only the most minor acknowledgement, a nod that could easily be missed if you were not on your toes. There had been a thought that perhaps the chap possessed minimal English, though this proved incorrect. Certainly from him there had never been a hand raised so high. In that first flourish the sachet the chap held had not been particularly apparent. HOY!... A second call from the group indicated something was afoot here. In the few moments between the first greeting and the subsequent the foil had been passed to the tall, stout paterfamilias who always cut an impressive figure. Something like the aspect of a judge on the bench this man; politician or all-knowing editor. The man’s joviality regularly broke out from his inner fortress, unlike the case of the first man. Trousers belted high on his midriff, shirts and shoes unfailingly. The first was shirt and shoes too, but never before gleaming like this sitting beside the tall. The tall, owl-like uncle poker faced here lifted high the foil he held in his hand, brandishing the item. A ticket to elsewhere this in his possession, glory days of yore…. Narks who might be reading, relax, no need alarm. Take it easy boys, this was not that kinda foil. Some years ago Eagle Pills and Black Ant had been favoured by the chaps in that quarter at the bottom of Geylang Road. More recently Double Coconut, Superman and Candy B (not Bee) had become prominent. The latter was US patented pharma, rather than suspicious Thai whatnot. $70 from memory Candy for 2 – 3 capsules, coming with big wraps. Five or six hours were promised and no ill-effects; a number of confirmations delivered. (Some of the product was highly dangerous of course, the chaps well-knew.) Push comes to shove for this author, however, dear Reader, none of these concoctions will be sampled. Come the day one and only one might pass these lips. Hooligan by name, first cab off the rank and none other to be trialled. Jafaar the former chauffeur had bought H. recently online and was now awaiting his chance for testing. For many, creative and pro-creat. juices were immediately set pumping in the case of Hooligan merely by the branding.