Two days ago the Old Roue telephoned from Bangkok. Sirens were in the background. His voice was stressed. “You hear that?”

“What’s happened?” I thought his building might be on fire.

“I don’t know but there’s a large plume of smoke coming from beyond Silom.” His voice was stressed like he’d breathed too much helium.

It was lunch time. “Are Thais eating at the quick-kee-o stalls?”

“Yes.” The Old Roue was ready to seek a bomb shelter. David Bowie’s PANIC IN DETROIT was the one song on his cerebral jukebox.

“Are the TVs on?

“Yes.” His blood was pumping faster than an 80 year-old man blowing ja-bah with two go-go girls.

“Any newscasters back-imaged by burning city streets?” I had to calm him down.

“No.”

“Then it’s probably a factory or slum fire. Calm down. Plus there’s nothing you can do if a bomb goes off. Other than die or be grateful it wasn’t you.”

“But I moved away from New York to get away from all this.”

“And you did.” My raison de depart had been the birth of my daughter and avoiding Americans thinking the world was out to get them. ”Those New Year’s Eve bombings were political messages between the ruling factions. Not Muslim Separatists or Al Quada operatives. You’re safe here plus you’re having sex with women a third of your age.”

The Old Roue was well-preserved for 61. “I suppose then everything is okay.”

“Of course it is. Don’t worry about a thing.”

The next day The Nation published a photo of a burning gas station. No one was hurt and the old roue was once more secure in the knowledge that no one was after him as opposed to everyone being out to get us in NYC.

Especially the French with their deadly lake of wine.

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