It was time to call in the FBI. There was Alex in chaos all over again. Less than 24 hours after we had organised his room to be cleaned by a long suffering, well tipped maid, it was once again a tip. Worse than a tip this time. An empty bottle of Vodka. A smashed bottle of no doubt half drunken whisky. And a bottle of rum, through which he was progressing. It was about 20 hours since he had last seen him, after Alex had spent most of the day lounging on his bed, taking off his clothes, putting them back on, a big, sweaty bloke. So much for clean sheets, he thought. Everything in the room was chaos; as if Alex had been looking for something; a blind grope, for money, for alcohol, for anything of value. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing was of any importance. No dignity remained.
Alex could suffer, he could die. No one would notice. No one but him and Gary; the most fragile and unconvinced members of that strange fellowship; the reformed, flickering in and out of the real world, the sane world. Well this was one spectacular swan dive; not just spectacular, sad, disturbing, cross witted, cruel in intent and focus. As if anybody cared. If you want to see a bunch of self obsessed, self absorbed, self interested people then go to an AA meeting. It's in God's hands shrugged one old timer with 60 years sobriety, told of the predicament, of their friend drinking himself rapidly to death. Oh, I wouldn't want to see that, I can imagine, said another, recently expelled from Saudi Arabia for hitting the piss.
Already Alex had been fitting in the streets, finding himself in hospital. He had been frightened enough to go to meetings; and had embraced the fellowship; impressed by people with time up. Many of them weren't impressive; but why spoil the illusion in one so young? So sick? So frightened? And now one so rapidly approaching the final strait, one so clearly drinking himself to death; in dramatic, suicidal fashion. Brought on by what? Who knew? I just wanted to get laid; was one comment. But was it that? Could anything bring on such a cyclone of self destruction? He didn't know. Did there need to be a precipitating factor? Could anything make a difference? Was there any way to deal with this situation. Not your problem. Leave the city. Head north. Protect yourself.
Yeh, well, in no good conscience could he leave his friend in that state; knowing he was likely to fit in his room, alone, knowing this path, this particular drunk, for whatever reason, was entirely life threatening. So he called in the cavalry. He rang the FBI. And the old agent, who, he could tell from the intelligent gleam in the eye, the way he looked at him exactly, smart, assessing, humourous in that liquid, rapid jumping of thoughts, laced with irony and decency; just an operator. And in the world he came from saying "he/she's an operator" was the ultimate compliment. And within 90 minutes he was there. It was one of the most impressive things he had ever seen. After all the crap, all the garbage he had ever heard, all the hypocrisy and nonsense that bedeviled meetings and made them such cliched pieces of shit; after all of that, there they were, these looming, strong, no-nonsense, determined, experienced blokes.
And he knew, as well as he had ever known anything, that he had asked the right person, reached out to just the right character; someone who could deal with a situation he had no idea how to deal with. They took control. Debriefing in the lobby. Their almost amused questions at the price of the hotel; a world away from the millionaire Bangkok American luxury they no doubt lived in. Here in the free world, the wild west, the Asia of their dreams and indulgences and freedoms. Well the street could do with a bit of beautification, they joked. And then the room. Alex unconscious, still. Immune to the noise of the television, to all of them moving around the room. The place wreaking of spilt whisky. And finally; after finding out the name of the hospital; after finding a taxi; after getting him at least partially dressed; the shoes kept coming off; but at least, for once, the shirt stayed on; and then. You want to do this easy way or the hard way? You want to go wet or dry? This mumbling wreck, so recently so charming, articulate, intelligent, was strong armed into a cab and taken to hospital. Where he was strapped down after pissing himself. And who, God the universe fate or whatever willing, he will remain for some time to come.
From Gary Ulrich on the previous days events:
He answered the door on the second attempt to wrest him out of his bedroom turned trash bin. His face was both recognizable and unrecognizable at the same time. It was Alex, no doubt about it. Yet he possessed a most infantile look upon his face. It was blank, devoid of registering who we were for the first thirty seconds.
He was battered and bewildered. Somehow a substance which was legal in almost all societies had reduced him into a blithering mess in a very short time. I had never seen such a meltdown due to alcohol. He must have injected the moonshine I surmised.
He managed to utter the word "food" and mime it to ensure we understood. He then said,"carbohydrates". He was now functioning like an unfortunate stricken with Turret's syndrome, shouting out words with no control.
We knew exactly what he needed...a piece of greasy chicken. We marched down a few blocks in the stifling heat which was both exhilarating and debilitating. We ordered up five pieces of chicken, some pork feet in a bizarre sauce, and three bags of Pepsi. We hurried back.
Alex spotted the chicken and his eyes widened. He took a grand total of two bites of the fried fowl and threw it down. He curled up for a minute or two before suddenly rolling over and almost at once grabbing the bottle of cheap whiskey and slugging down three large gulps.
He soon began to recess into a deeper infantile state. This time curling up with his head on John's lap and crying like a baby. John soothed him, his fatherly instincts immediately surfacing to his conscious, a sort of second nature.
Eventually Alex was transported to the 9th floor so that the Haz/Mat unit a.k.a. the maid, could enter and clean, disinfect, and sanitize the room which had undergone unbearable abuse over the last three days or so.
I left the Romance Hotel pondering the legality of such a potion that could reduce a grown man from a reasonable person to a mere child in three short days. The maid had smiled and asked, "whiskey?". It was somehow alright with her that he was a mental slug, as long as good old alcohol was involved. If that same man-child would have lit up a joint he would most likely be in jail. I walked down the street vowing to never drink again and wishing that somehow that would really be the case.
Editor's note:
Ulrich's report is entirely accurate; except only Gary could call the Bangkok heat exhilarating.
THE BIGGER STORY:
http://news.smh.com.au/breaking-news-national/greens-eye-three-labor-seats-after-polls-20100322-qpvd.html
The Victorian Greens have raised hopes of snatching three seats from the Labor government after strong swings against the ALP at the weekend.
The Labor governments in Tasmania and South Australia suffered swings of 12 per cent and almost 8 per cent, respectively, in state elections on Saturday.
Victorian Greens MP Greg Barber said state and national polls showed the Greens vote was surging at a rate only seen three times in the past 17 years.
He is hoping the swing will be enough for the Greens to finally take the three marginal seats of Melbourne, Richmond and Brunswick from Labor hands.
"If you look at the two published state polls here in Victoria... they both show the same thing: Greens up, Labor down and Liberals sideways," Mr Barber told reporters on Monday.
"I think that sort of result could easily be delivered here in Victoria.
"I think there's a lot of disappointment out there with Kevin Rudd and there's also from the Brumby government a sense of complacency on issues such as water and public transport, where they haven't planned for the long term or they've been less then diligent in getting those plans implemented."
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-weiss21-2010mar21,0,7559774.story
Sixty years ago this week, King Bhumibol Adulyadej arrived back in Thailand. The 22-year-old had lived abroad most of his life. Named king four years earlier on his brother's death, he was coming home for his coronation. The royal navy was drawn up for review. A jet squadron soared overhead. Half a million people lined the streets in celebration. As one biographer writes, "To astrologers, the heavens proved the great event: three days before Bhumibol arrived, hail fell on Bangkok for the first time since 1933."
The Massachusetts-born, Swiss-educated, jazz-playing Bhumibol might have seemed an unlikely fit for the Thai throne. But over the decades, the king has earned Thais' reverence -- even worship -- for his generosity, humility and devotion to his people.
Paradoxically, however, the world's longest-serving monarch may be a victim of his own success -- or, more accurately, his legacy may be tarnished by the lack of a smooth succession. Now 82, Bhumibol is ailing, and no one knows what will come next, which is raising tensions and rattling investors in Bangkok and beyond, especially as the nation is embroiled in political turmoil.
The king has long been a symbol of unity in Thailand's increasingly fractious political and social arena; a trusted referee whenever conflict threatens to spiral out of control. Now, the question on many people's minds is: Can Thailand's unstable democracy outlive its beloved king?
Since 2006, when the military toppled the popularly elected prime minister, Thaksin Shinawatra, a fierce power struggle has divided Thai politics. Thousands of protesters, the "red shirts" -- mostly rural and poor and whom the ruling elite believe telecommunications billionaire Thaksin is financing and fomenting from abroad -- continue to pressure Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva's government for new elections.
The "yellow shirts" -- monarchists, the military and urban middle class -- rightly criticize the Thaksin administration's abuses in office, but their preferred alternative amounts to continued domination by Bangkok's privileged, in a country where the population's richest fifth is roughly 13 times better off than the poorest.
The Thai Supreme Court's decision in February to confiscate $1.4 billion of Thaksin's assets, stemming from charges of corruption, has prompted fears of violent confrontation between the camps. The red shirt protesters have been demonstrating in the tens of thousands this month.
In December, a frail Bhumibol emerged from the hospital, urging Thais to put "the common interest before their own interest." But some fear that his death, whenever it occurs, will spark chaos in this country of 65 million.
The 1924 Palace Law of Succession establishes primogeniture of male heirs, suggesting Crown Prince Maha Vajiralongkorn will try to fill his father's shoes. Unfortunately, the crown prince lacks his father's discipline and standing; one longtime Bangkok businessman told me that doubts about Vajiralongkorn's fitness for the job were "beyond any return."
Sample computer pictures. Thai internet cafe. Laptop stolen.
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