1968 – A divorced Dutchman named Louwrens Voorthuijzen who proclaimed himself God and renamed himself “Lou the Eel Vendor”, died. He mixed marketing European eels with proselytism. His followers considered him a living God on a mission against evil.
Petrillo’s dyspeptic advice for the unwary traveller in Thailand:
Always remember, nothing is what it seems.
Pookie’s adventures in Thailand:
THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE
Pookie awoke the next morning feeling not much better than he had the night before. Nevertheless, he got up and went out to have breakfast because he thought it would be best to get some food into his stomach even if he could not keep it all down.
At the café he thought about how lucky he was to get sick while at the pharmacy and not somewhere else and how fortunate it was that the pharmacist was so kindly.
He also began to contemplate the decision that had been plaguing him for a while, whether to remain here in Paradise by the Sea or return to the US, at least briefly. It did not appear that his preference to drift and allow circumstance to decide for him was going to save him the trouble of figuring out what to do.
His plan was to travel to the US in late November of early December, remain there for two weeks or so and visit with family and friends that he was finding he missed more and more. He could also see, for perhaps the last time, his mom, now 91 years old and living is a rest home. Toward the end of the month he would travel to Italy with Hayden and stay in Milan until H’s mom returns from visiting her parents and boy friends in Thailand. Then he could return to Thailand or go to Ghana, Ecuador or another low-cost jurisdiction.
But it all ment too much planning and effort for him. What about his apartment? Give it up and perhaps lose the opportunity to live in a place he had grown accustomed to? What about the hassle of Thai Immigration again? And finally there was the cost. He would have to dip into his meager savings. What to do” What to do?
He finished his breakfast, went for a brief stroll along the beach and returned to his apartment, feeling exhausted. He laid on his bed trying to deal with these matters as well his feelings of inadequacy to do so. Eventually he drifted off to sleep. The last words he recalled bouncing around in his mind were “Tomorrow is another day.” And indeed it will be.
Mopey Joe’s memories:
TOO MANY JOES (CONT,)
Although this story is mostly about Joey, me, it is appropriate that it begins with my grandfather Joe or Peppino as he was sometimes called, because of the shadows that his life and legends cast upon the family, especially me. I always considered him as heroic character. A view not shared by everyone, especially his wife Elisa and my mother.
Joe was a big man. Not as tall as most Americans, but above average for italian immigrants of the time. He was the ideal mesomorph, broad and blocky with heavy strong muscles. His body looked a lot like that of Rocky Marciano the undefeated Italian-American Heavyweight boxer. This physical type is not uncommon in the mountains surrounding the Mediterranean Sea.
These mountain people differed in culture and history from those people who lived in the lowlands. They were probably the original inhabitants driven into the highlands by the waves of invaders that swept across the mediterranean basin for thousands of years. There they remained undefeated except by economic adversity. The mountains were harsh and unproductive, good only for the herding sheep and goats and the hiding of the smugglers and brigands who provided additional sustenance to the meager resources available to these mountain people.
Joe was born in a small village called Prato on the slopes of Mt. Vergene in the mountains above Naples. Prato is not far from Avellino a largish mountain town. I know little about the town, never having visited it. The little I do know I learned from uncle Aldo, my fathers youngest brother, who visited it shortly after the Second World War and found the partisans and fascists still shooting at one another as though the war continued unabated. He left quickly. As far as I know no one in our immediate family has ever visited the village since.
1. The wisdom of Miracle Max:
Miracle Max: “You rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.”
The Princess Bride
2. Today’s album cover:
(I don’t know what to say.)
” War makes thieves, and peace hangs them.”
Nicolo Machiavelli The Art of War
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. November 2, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re thai r ment, by 3Th. October 10, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 7, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 31, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 27 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This ant that fro re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 4, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 11, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 14, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)
- This and that from re Thai r ment, by 3Th. October 15, 2010 (josephpetrillo.wordpress.com)