Last night the local police visited Pattaya’s #1 Go-Go to enforce a 60 Day shutdown thanks to a third black eye for onstage impropriety. Heaven Above will be dark for the following two months. No more white on white couches or crazed go-go nudity.

   
The owners are taking a much needed rest, while the bunny dancers have migrated to other Walking Street establishments. This diaspora will benefit several go-go bars, but could nights of wonderful wickedness be numbered in Pattaya?

Yesterday I was at the Welkom Inn with several longtime German residents. Each member of the Porsche Reich complained that the city is becoming too Disneyfied. Heinrich was sitting at the bar, grappling with a rubenesque woman. His eyes searched the ceiling for the CCTV camera. “What I am doing now is illegal. No more bad behavior. Soon we will only be able to shake hands. Big Brother is watching.”

Piss tests, police raids, CCTV cameras.

Babylon on the Bay has its do-gooder enemies.

Sam Royalle swears nothing will change in the long-run, but New Yorkers said the same thing about Times Square. The Deuce’s hustlers, pimps, dealers, streetwalkers, go-go bars, and clip joints were closed by the mayor and 42nd Street is a tourist destination for mall shoppers from over lands.

Fast Food and the Gap versus junkies and runways hookers.

I cast my vote for Sodom and blame Rudy Guiliani for transforming Manhattan into a no-fun zone.

Taliban morality from a wannabe Mormon president.

America hasn’t had a bald president since Ike and Rudy is no Ike.
No all his posturing at the WTC NYC retains vestiges of its tawdry past, as evidenced by the revelation that Aussie Labor Leader Kevin Rudd almost drank himself into political oblivion at Scores of Manhattan.

Scores is an up-market go-go bar for stock-brokers and bankers with their ties around their heads. Lap dances are $20 for 3 minutes. Private sessions in the back room can run a G$US. Beer cost the price of a short-time on Soi 6. I’ve been a couple times on the cuff of my rich cousin.

“We love this place.” His friends shout after a hard day of bilking billions from the money markets.

Russell’s boss bought me a lap dance. An offer I couldn’t refuse. A naked bionic blonde danced about 1 cm meter from my body. She could have been a Penthouse model.

The bouncer two feet away insureed insure I wouldn’t get touchy. He was a buzzkill. After 180 seconds the magic carpet ride ended with a toothsome smile. “Come back later.”

My fun begins where Scores ends and I left without saying good-bye to my cousin, who was negotiating a menage a trois for his client, a hedge fund manager from Chicago, who was howling like a dog chasing a Whiskey train.

All good boys seem to suffering the same affliction at Scores, for :abor favorite Kevin Rudd guzzled past his voice of reason and woke the next morning to tell his wife he hadn’t any recollection of the previous night. “I can’t remember a thing.”

This excuse worked for her. End of story until the incident was leaked to the Press.The slur backfired, for the convict-blooded Australian public like a man with a little mustard on his shirt. After all they elected the champion beer drinker, Bob Hawke as prime minister.

“Good on you, mate.” Seems destined to be replaced by the movie BARFLY’s famed tagline. ‘Drinks for all my friends.”

Rudd also benefited from the possibility that the story had been leaked by his opponent, Foreign Affairs Minister Alexander Downer, once photographed at a charity event in high heels and fishnet stockings. Outing himself to his secret desire.

Better a drunk than a TV might be the campaign slogan for Rudd, but he will take the higher ground since he is Mr. Clean, once his wife has washed the spew off his shirt.

Good thing he never showed up at Heaven Above, because everything in Pattaya is on CCTV.

Smile. You’re live.

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