LEONARD COHEN AND THE PINK CASHMERE CUNTS

Rory Gallagher was my first rock gig. In the  stadium in 77. And it was good. But the second was on another dimension entirely. The dark witty sombre timbre of Leonard Cohen in the boxing stadium reeking of home grown weed. The still stoic beauty of his deep sonorous voice. I then made it to all his gigs including the 7pm and 9pm shows in 88 - when Dublin was great until he went Omm and disappeared up a Buddhist mountain. It took 20 plus years before he reappeared a groovy cultural icon In Kilmainham. 

The clouds of homegrown gave way to champagne selling Citroën vans. And the earnest poets in dufflecoats were now trendy cunts in pink cashmere. But I spoke or shouted to Leonard "Please don't make us wait another 25 years."He took off his fedora, placed it over his heart and spoke back to me: "I don't think I have another 25 years in me."

Swoon.

Elvis orgasmic.

Beatles squeals.

I forgot the cunts in pink cashmere. And Gerry Adams behind. And sightings of Bertie Ahern. And the minister of something and his slightly alarmed missus sitting beside me in the front row and probably the rightful owners of the empty seat I had just colonised, Fitzcaraldo like.

"I might not have a ticket but I have a right."

But the humourless bouncer from Northern Ireland didn't agree. And wasn't hip to Herzog.

Leonard was mid song and probably too preoccupied to save me.

Apparently the show wasn't all about me.

So with bouncer forehead almost kissing my nose, I left the front row to the pink cashmere cunts.

And discreetly claimed an empty seat in row 4.

Beggers, choosers.

And there was beauty. And he was wonderful. You could waltz with his generosity of spirit and his true sense of delight at performing and at being received in such an adoring manner.

Here's to Buddhism.

He went up the mountain.

And he truly transcended worldly goods.

In other words his manager spent all his money.

So he had to dump the saffron and sushi.

And hit the road, Jack.

Then once he was on it, it seemed he couldn't stop coming back.

Once more and more.

Until cancer and the armies of old age threw up insurmountable barricades.

It was all very sad and moving.

But I preferred the pre Armani days.

Just Leonard alone strumming a guitar with his deep deep voice weaving a hypnotic spell of barbituate beauty.

Sadness so deep it shimmered.

That was my Leonard.

"I found a silver needle

I stuck it into my arm

It did some good

It did some harm

But the night was cold

And it almost made me warm

How come the night is long."

That Lorca like lyricism.

That was my Cohen.

Sure I was thrilled to see in the black Armani, surrounded by female beauty and him, bizarrely, tinkling with.a synthesiser.

In lesser hands it could have been cocaine narcissism.

A total disaster.

But Leonard wasn't hanging with Warhol or sitting with Trump in Club 54.

No, he may have been in a glittering tower but he was talking to Hank Williams.

About what?

About how lonely it gets.

In the Heartbreak Hotel.

Lonely. 

Like back in the stadium.

Solo.

Strumming.

Singing.

Of tea 

And oranges.

Amidst the crystal silence.

And cabbage like reek of  homegrown.

Spellbinding.

As  he gets you

On his wavelength.

And he lets the river answer.

Did Trump dump the Kurds in exchange for Baghdadi's whereabouts?

 Has anyone ever thrown any light on what I suspect went down when Trump abandoned the Kurds and left them facing Erdogan's military might? Isn't it too much of a coincidence that Trump suddenly got news Baghdadi's whereabouts and was able to try rival Obama's Bin Laden coup by taking out Baghdadi who "died like a dog." We all know the vast extent of Trump's Obama obsession. And Baghdadi was holed up in the Turkey adjacent Idlib province. Idlib was ruled by the Turkish backed rebels who have just ousted Assad. So it would have been hopping with Turkish spooks. And Erdogan's son had loads of ISIS contacts as he sold their oil. So Erdogan would have known the whereabouts of the ISIS boss. So I reckon Trump happily dumped the Kurds as a favour to Erdogan and got Baghdadi's whereabouts as thanks. Needless to say, this is just my gut talking. But like Trump, I got good guts. I got the best guts. As for the Kurds who had endeared themselves to the progressive left, well they got a lesson in the perils of trusting Uncle Sam. Trump certainly doesn't like armed militant female forces. You wouldn't be grabbing the YPG women by the pussy. But still the YPG joined a long list of betrayed US client forces abandoned to a merciless fate.

DON'T FUCK WITH THE MAN FROM ATLANTA

Back in the day I used to use Coca Cola as a travel guide or a remote barometer eg how far beyond Coca Cola have we gone. Only ever made it to a day. And that was a Khmer Rouge controlled zone in northwest Cambodia in the early 90s. And the barrier was as much ideological as it was geographical. To get some serious clicks in, you really need to hit the Congo - like the dude who wrote the book retracing Stanleys' footsteps searching for Dr Livingstone. It was some weird trip. And truly bizarre, he noted, was the fact that it was the grandparents en route who remembered "progress" as in motorways and railroads. For the kids, the jungle was back impeding the progress of Coke. In a vivid scene, the author is hacking through the bush when "clang" - his machete hits metal, it's the Belgian rail track concealed underfoot. Trains probably brought more wine and mineral water. But the Coke would have rode in on the back of the new CIA friendly political landscape following the assassination of the Congo's new nationalist Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba. But back to Blood River and the author is taking to a canoe. He's going up river. It's dark. It's hot. The jungle screams. Sayonara Cola. We're way past the DuLong bridge and you can feel him. Sweat, decay, disease. And him. Yeah him. Kurtz. Kurtz has turned his back on Coca Cola. A pox on it and all its carbonated bubbles. Blood River, well worth reading. Anyhow as you'll see, putting a few days between you and the treacly stuff is not for the faint hearted. It's hardcore. For most people it's an academic idea, a folly The shit's ubiquitous and Musk plans vending machines on Mars. But talking about ideological barriers to Coke's conquest. I recall an Asian businessman opening up a Coca Cola bottling plant in Cambodia in the very early 90s as the last one - if the movie the Killing Fields is to be believed - was destroyed as the Khmer Rouge tightened its grip on the capital dooming Phnom Penh to inevitable fall. So here we are 28 years later and someone is trying to get the sweet black stuff flowing again. The main problem, however, was not the Khmer Rouge as Mr Coca Cola was not targeting the more remote provinces where the guerrillas were pridedominant. He was going for the population centres that the KR harried but didn't control. So security would be tight around the big towns and cities with checkpoints everywhere, manned by government soldiers who, if they saw any salary at all, were paid a pittance. So these bored underpaid grunts high on rice whiskey - the sort of shit that takes from sober straight to psychotic without pausing at drunk - and packing serious firepower would see the big bright red truck chugging towards them. Holy consumerism. It's Christmas for kids. And nirvana for Buddhists just to be culturally sensitive. It's the winning ticket. It's the shakedown of shakedowns. Captain America is here with his big fat chequebook. Hey you dumped all those bombs on us, now it's time to drop some dime and some dollar, Dolla, dolla, dolla. Love you long time. Break open a bottle. So we got a gang of kids with AKs. And they got Capt America, got him at gunpoint. Something has gotta give. Back in Phnom Penh Mr Coca Cola ends appealing to the then Prime Minister Hun Sen - himself former Khmer Rouge who bailed when the revolution started to eat its young and who just recently kindly handed over the reins of power to his young, his son, Hun Manet. "Stop the shakedowns," Coke pleaded. it was crippling, the show. was going flat. He threatened shutdowns or closure just as Cambodia was trying to sell peace and stability to investors. The pesky Khmer Rouge kept screwing with that script. So Cambodia Inc certainly did not need the added problem of rogue government soldiers shaking down businessmen especially if they had already been shook. They had paid already, paid on entry. So...Atlanta, we got a problem. But time is on the side of the bubbles. At this stage of the game, that sticky, messy shit is all over the wheels of time, if not progress. So money is on the bubbles cos it is coming. Better not be in the way. By the late 90s the Khmer Rouge has imploded. They were out of harmony, someone said. Then Pol Pot himself died in 98 and was cremated on a mound of old rubbish. It's all over now baby blue. It was a shabby swansong to a spectacular genocide and a low key but dedicated civil war. Coke is here now. The guerrillas as well as rogue government troops and shakedown artists would all be swept up and vacuumed up by the greater power of a gangsta capitalist government. Meet the new boss. He ain't talking Mao or Marx. Nah. he's just speaks fluent dollar. AK in one hand, Coca Cola bottle in the other. Two of the biggest icons of the 20th century. Click click. Now I know we would all like to teach the world to sing. 

In perfect harmony. 

Grow apple trees. 

And honey bees. 

Not to forget those snow White turtle doves. 

But sing along there suckers. 

Here's the real thing: 

Don't fuck with the man from Atlanta .

Tonle Sap -fox hole woman's touch

Hey Liz Facebook just threw these up again. And it brought back a funny scene when we were visiting the government troops who were dug in deep on that little island. In one of the fortified fox holes you spotted these bracelets and amulets hanging up with the AKs. And when you went to examine them close up all the grunts freaked out. Cos apparently the amulets were blessed by the monks and they were the spiritual version of kevlar. But while the amulets could stop a Khmer Rouge bullet they, like me at the time, could not withstand the touch of a Memphis lady. And they lost their juju. Thankfully we were leaving so we never got to see the veracity or otherwise of this belief.. Nor did we have deal with their ire at being left spiritually bereft when incoming started coming.. We were off on our merry way in our heavily armed convoy. Next stop was a different genre of danger. It was as an 🐊   farm way out in the lake. I remember walking on pens with dozens of alligators below. Then the action packed evening with the defense and information ministers at the youth militia event. Then I have a hazy memory of a nightclub. And that wailing Khmer beat. No surprise we blew getting up at 5.30 next day. Anyhow in retrospect it was morally fitting that we were late to meet the Khmer Rouge.

1,000 dollar phone calls, threatening communist officials, amputee cigarette smugglers and rice whiskey in the boondocks - the endless hassle of a wannabe war correspondent.

Was just looking at some pix of the faded splendour of 1990's Phnom Penh and its Post Office district. And it brought this old yarn back to mind:

I remember trying to use the phones in the Post Office in 1990 to try and hustle some reporting work from Ireland's national broadcaster and the Irish Times. Things had gone south when a certain Mr Saddam Hussein decided to go on a Kuwaiti jaunt within the same hour I crossed from Vietnam into Cambodia. Anyhow undeterred I took my ass to the PO and tried ringing. But the phones were routed through Russia. And other voices would appear on the crackling line. Just felt doomed. So I took my dejected ass down to the newly opened Cambodiana Hotel. And Eureka - I thought - there was a satellite phone. The only problem was it was 25US a min or part thereof. Fuck it man, no-one ever said this was gonna be easy. So I ring the two media organisations and ask them to ring me back. I reckon I have taken a hit of 150 bucks. The radio calls and promptly says if you get anything more interesting call back. Then comes the foreign editor of the Irish Times, a very talkative man. He is looking for the lay of the land etc how the war is progressing and tells me to stay in touch. So much for that. I ask the lovely lady how I owe. She replies 990US. It was 15 dollars a min incoming too. I had 1000 US in cash total on me. Another 2 thousand in traveller cheques. I offer the hotel lady traveller cheques. She says they don't accept them in Cambodia. I owe my cyclodriver a couple of bucks, the hotel/brothel where I am reluctantly staying 20. So I'm in trouble. As a man does when in trouble, I go for a drink with the cyclo driver, And I explain we need a Chinese Khmer and I need to calm down. Cos there was a bang of desperation off me. Not what you need when bargaining. Song the cyclo, who was the AFP office manager on my next rodeo, takes off. We find a guy in a hotel by the market. He offers me 95 on a 100. In the situation I felt blessed. Then the Foreign Ministry press crew wanted 2,000 for a two day one night trip with escort and interpreter up to Kampong Thom. And when I started to back out I got a lecture about the "enemies within" and a not so subtle threat that I would be locked up if I left town without permission. I was also asked to come and write an account of what I did and whom I talked to every day. Classic communist shit. Needless to say I ignored the demands. Then that evening I went into a restaurant where there was a bright young guy I would talk to. But he was avoiding me. Then as he passed, he stopped briefly to apologise and say that his parents had told to stop talking to me, that it was too dangerous. So my dream of being a war reporter was being shot apart before my eyes. I told Song I had to bail and as the mission was a disaster, I needed to get out as cheap as possible. So we got a Vietnamese Moc Bai entry visa. Then he took me to the Saigon bus at 4.30 am. The driver wouldn't take me. He was too scared to have a foreigner on the bus. So we hit the communal taxis. And the taxi boys just wanted money. So off we went. On the ferry I met a dude who had been a driver for some US embassy type back in the day and had managed to survive. He insisted I go to his village to drink and speak English. It was still relatively early. So we took motos off into the boondocks. Word spread quickly of my arrival and people arrived in their dozens to look at what they guessed was a Soviet. That fucking rice whiskey. You go from sober to psychotic bypassing drunk. At this stage the brave kids were launching darting grabs on my leg hairs. The crowd had grown to several hundred onlookers. Even through the fame, booze and heat I clicked that time was moving on. No I can't stay the night. Wish I could. So a bike is rustled up. The driver, me, my backpack and my new embassy mate who has taken to planting wet whiskey kisses on the back of my neck. The erratic driving leads me to believe the Moto dude must have joined the village booze up. Turns out this chaos works in my favour. Cos the bored border guards are stunned to see a drunken foreigner arrive on a motorbike. Soon I am their friend too. Seems I am everyone's friend. But the embassy dude's whiskey is turning ugly and he doesn't like losing me, the centre of attention. I give the Moto dupe a few bucks worth of my remaining riel adding some more for whiskey when they return. But the embassy guy has turned. He has a nasty booze face on him. And he is demanding dollars. Loads of therm. Then my new friends the border guards tell him to fuck off. And I walk out of Cambodia and stroll into Vietnam. All very chuffed with myself. But it's dead. No traffic, nothing. I doze off in the heat and wake up to the sound of a car. It's a French doc with Medicin du Monde. He's a bit surprised to see me. And he offers me a lift. Everybody is my friend. But he is going to Phnom Penh. The border closes in just over an hour but I might as well gamble on staying. So off goes the doc. The Coca Cola girls give small lumps of ice to soothe my whiskey head. Not sure if mindfulness had been invented yet but I was just trying to enjoy the melting ice on my forehead and not panic about the setting sun. When in the distance a bus appears. About half a kilometre and an hour later the bus has entered Vietnam. And who's there but the same geezer who was scared to take me 12hours earlier. But now he is going with the "everyone is Kevin's friend" flow. I am invited onto the bus and offers of money are refused. I am fucking jubilant. We drive a kilometre and stop. And wait. The lovely mother and daughter beside me suggest I get an alternative means of transport. Pointing to the empty road I try to point out that there does not appear to be an alternative. But they knew what was in store. I didn't. We were waiting for the cigarette smugglers who had got off the bus before the border and crossed overland. This was our rendezvous point. Soon they descended with millions of cigarettes. Most them of injured soldiers former Saigon grunts. So they filled the bus up and tied many more millions to the roof. It's about 5.30pm. All I have had since 4.30am is whiskey and ice and sadly not together. We drive a kilometre and we come to a bridge. We can't pass cos there are too many smokes on top. So out the boys go and rearrange the show. Then we take off. Another kilometre and we hit a Vietnamese customs ambush. What's worse they have local news cameras with them making bribery unlikely. So everyone has to admit how many cigarettes they have and pay a tax on them. You can guess the next bit, the tax figures fall short. Now those lucky enough to have two arms and two legs and only one big box of smokes make a break for it. For the next 30 mins silhouetted against the setting sun are these weird shaped humans with massive big square heads and thin tiny bodies bounding across the rice paddy. They probably looked as weird as the US Troops with full equipment did a couple of decades before. Finally darkness consumes the fleeing cigarette dudes. But back on the bus, shit is going south. I had just been marvelling at the fabled Asian patience when it snapped. Crutches and prosthetic limbs were flying thought the air as the tax compliant fought the tax dodgers. The nice lady indicated this was why she was suggesting alternative transport. The sums and occasional fights went on for a few hours. It was after 9pm when we got moving again. And it was after midnight when we arrived in Saigon. Almost 21 hours. I remember thinking at least I had a story to tell when I reminded myself that my mission had been stories to sell not just tell. It took two years to financially regroup and come back and try again. Panned out a little better the second time.

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook

Facebook