Chris Rock does a piece about why men get married.

“You don’t want to end up the old guy at the club.”

The old guy at the club.

Pattaya was filled with them.

Drinking, drugs, chatting with girls, going to sin here and there.

I’m a witness. I like the night life. Always have. My wife hates it.

She tolerates my going out, because she knows after two drinks I’m devoted to the paganism of drinking. Not sex. I’m a failed writer, a poet, and half-Irish. Booze runs in my blood and I don?t really speak with any farangs during the week.

As i got on my bike Saturday night she told me to drive safely and I head to Waking Street to meet my friend, Sam Royalle, at Heaven’s Above.

This go-go is run by Patrick, who owned a pimp club in East St. Louis. He has great stories about the 70s and has revive the legend of his old club at his place on Soi Diamond.

The upstairs bar is decorated in white like the Milk Bar from CLOCKWORK ORANGE. The dancers are temptations from Satan. My will is weak and I quickly order a drink. It goes down in two minutes. Thee next in five. I’m saved from any threat of infidelity, especially after Sam orders tequila shots. His girlfriend collects strays to accompany us to Casino. We drink more. It?s past midnight.

I try to escape, but Sam grabs my arm.

“One more drink.”

I’m easy and drink until someone pulls my stool from under me.

I fall through a gaggle of go-go girls. My hands clutch at them. Bras snap off their bodies. I hit the next table and then the ground. The bar staff help me to my feet. Someone laughs. A pretty girl says, “Mao.”

Drunk. Damn right. Drunk.

Chris Rock is right. It was time for this old guy to go home.

At home my wife asks, “What time is it?”

“Dunno.” I didn?t have that many fingers.”

“How much you drink?”

“One bottle of beer.”
“One big one.”

“Very big.”

“Go shower.”

I do as I’m told.
Any man in my condition at 3am would, if they know what is good for them.