Leary here.
Adventure tourism? Gosh. It isn’t adventure if you know where you’re going to sleep that night. Or even if you’re going to get to sleep somewhere. When you think about it, though, none us knows for sure where we’re going to sleep tonight, or if we’ll still be alive to do this sleeping. Life itself is an adventure, forget about your diving holidays. It’s all in the mind. Darn it. Life is life, and it’s always what you make of it. If you want it to be an adventure, it’s an adventure. And if you don’t want it to be an adventure, it’s still an adventure anyway.
I once read a report that claimed a sizeable number of men known to have died while having sex were having sex, at the time, with someone other than their wives. You tell me: Is this an argument for or against adultery?
I was with five of those guys when they shuffled off, Leary. If you want to know the answer to your question, come up and see me some time.
Gosh. Hi, there, Sable. (Nice name.) It’s too late for me–I’m dead already. (The wet me is dead, anyway. The qubital me is doing very well indeed, thank you.) But if I hear of anybody needs a good euthanasianist, I’ll let you know right away.
Story of my life: I always go for the nice stiff.
Get real, S.! It ain’t over till it’s over, as Yogi Berra wisely reminds us. The Bangkok elite can still win this sucker. All they have to do is mobilize their pampered jades and pour into the streets and beat the red shirts to death with their Blackberrys.