Soi Cowboy

Currently, I walk about town with a copy of Moby Dick. It is an old-fashioned, weathered, hardbound volume, complete with preface, notes, two chronologies, letters, a glossary of sea terms, etc. Also, it has large print and those musty thick pages that smell like a fallen forest. Yes, it is a big book.

"Nobody's gonna mug you!" said a friend, "that's a weapon!"

"Hmmph!" said another friend, "are you planning to read War and Peace next?"

"Wow! that's a big book," said Poo, "how long will it take you to read it?"

"About a week," I responded, but I'm a little behind schedule.

Today I saw two more films at the Bangkok International Film Festival. The first, A Life with Slate, was from Nepal. It was a bit boring. The second, Soi Cowboy, was a UK production about Thailand. It was dreadful. More Western stereotypes about Thailand. Except, these stereotypes are presented in a cinematically more sophisticated style than Bangkok Dangerous, so it wins lots of applause.

I knew I made a mistake when I arrived and I was surrounded by celebrities, fashionistas and glitterati. The theater was sold out, and pods of stylish posers were flashing their cell phones, looking for friends, and smiling at an imaginary world. The guy next to me was the author of the Thailand books for Lonely Planet. He looked shallow, totally wasted, solitary, and terribly thin, but he had ten times more substance than the glittering wannabe models and actresses. I realized: these people are not here to see a movie, but to be seen at a movie. I clutched my copy of Moby Dick, put my head down, and quietly made my way to my seat.

Perhaps I had a chip on my shoulder because I am not young and beautiful like them. But really, the movie sucked. I should have stayed home to read Moby Dick.