The Business of Bangkok.
Unresolved the world of spirituality—Golden Buddha effigies awash in a piercing halogen cone of brilliance, reclining figure of the Wat Pho Buddha, Emerald Buddha at the Golden Palace, The Golden Mount. They stand, sit, lie–eternal, placid overlooking the weekend market, 30 acres of shops 3 x 4 meters with the wares of Asia competing with Western knock-offs. Lightly fried rice cakes arm wrestle diet cokes for shelf space. And then there is Pat Pong. Flanked by a 2-block strip of Japanese restaurants that in turn, host their Thai, “hostesses.”–The distilled sexuality of the red-light district. Reed-thin bikini-clad girls bored to stupor share the stage with two dozen gleaming poles, metallic objects of surrogate affection. If they were not already dehumanized by their roles, the circular number discs that are placed on their miniscule suits deliver the finishing touches.Menus are touted by men on the street, selections wrapped in plastic to survive the thousands of anxious sweaty hands who that have held them. The hymnals of sexual extremity. “Pussy” graces every line. “Ping-pong Ball” and “banana” don’t even make the top ten. Upstairs, without variety at the end of a short flight into a blue lit room stands a flock of six women lazily dancing on a step raised platform, wearing only the thinnest of tops, fully exposed aforementioned “pussy” awaits the proper currency exchange to courtesy and perform with the previously cited nouns of choice. Buddha wonders if the magic of humanity is in the emerald jade images, or the versatile “pussy” smoking a filtered cigarette.