Slices of Life, #15

“No life is boring if properly recounted. His given name, Quyết Chiến, means Determined to Fight. Quyết Thắng means Determined to Win.”

with gratitude to Linh Dinh at Postcards from the End.

Vung Tau, 11/3/25

Nguyễn Quyết Chiến — Nov 05, 2025.

An extraordinary story imperfectly told is better than one simply ignored. I will now tell you about a Vietnamese-American in Oklahoma. If alive, he’d be at least 75. His given name, Quyết Chiến, means Determined to Fight.

In 1972, Chiến was tasked with diverting ARVN troops away from the main thrust of an NVA assault. Basically sacrificed, all men in his unit died, but Chiến was captured. Weirdly enough, the ARVN officer recognized Chiến’s Nghệ An accent. Not only that, they had attended the same school. Instead of turning Chiến over to an ARVN prison camp, where at least beatings awaited, he reported Chiến as a “Chiêu Hồi” defector.

Spared, Chiến made broadcasts for the South Vietnamese, then he became a spy. In groups of three, these elite commandos were airdropped into North Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, to collect information. Of course, many were detected and killed, but Chiến survived.

Just before the Fall of Saigon in 1975, Chiến was in Vũng Tàu. As everyone, including armed ARVN soldiers, scrambled to get onto anything that floated, Chiến noticed a hysterically sobbing boy. Grabbing this kid, Chiến was determined to take him along, but they didn’t manage to get onto any boat. Now, Chiến was stuck. Death seemed certain when he’d be caught by the North Vietnamese. He’d betrayed them, after all.

Chiến’s father had fought under General Võ Nguyên Giáp at Điện Biên Phủ, and his younger brother, Nguyễn Quyết Thắng, had died during the Vietnam War. Quyết Thắng means Determined to Win. Chiến had also betrayed his family.

Again not shot, Chiến was sent to a reeducation camp way up north. Even more miraculously, the warden took a liking to Chiến, so made him a barber. Though he barely ate like everybody else, Chiến wasn’t really beaten up or put into solitary confinement. After just over five years, Chiến was released. This, too, was a stroke of luck. ARVN soldiers jailed under five years weren’t allowed to emigrate to the US under the Humanitarian Operation program.

Before leaving, Chiến had another frightful encounter. His old man had come south to look for him. Instead of giving Chiến a sound beating, his dad was shocked at how thin and poor Chiến was, so all was forgiven.

“You don’t even have an extra bowl!”

To feed his father, Chiến had to borrow one from the house next door.

I have no idea how Chiến survived in Oklahoma, but he made enough money to revisit Vũng Tàu at least once.

Vung Tau, 11/5/25

Worst To Be Safest — Nov 05, 2025.

Two days ago, I told Mrs. Seven I was headed to my grocer to get some cucumbers. Immediately, she handed me 10K (38 cents) so I could buy her the same. Hating to go anywhere, that’s mostly how she shops. Another time, she asked me to get her mosquito repellent lotion. Years ago, she risked going to those five-story buildings where many Russians lived. Somebody there sold killer sausages, she’s told. On the way back, Mrs. Seven got seriously lost, so never again.

She’s “hai lúa,” or “two harvests.” That’s a slang for hicks. They don’t know anything beyond their two harvests. And yet, a much younger Mrs. Seven went as far north as Hanoi and crossed into Cambodia to dance. Once she had to perform outside a theater filled with corpses, freshly butchered by the Khmer Rouge. Many were decapitated. When Mrs. Seven was a star at the Palace Hotel, a Taiwanese and a Frenchman fell in love with her. Others, too.

Even lives not so eventful are filled with turmoil, perhaps more than usual. No life is boring if properly recounted. Though I’ve talked much shit about the painter at Ông Bầu, his story is astounding, so let me sketch Mr. Đại, as he did me today.

His father is from Cẩm Giang, a village in Bắc Ninh, a thousand miles north of Vũng Tàu. In 1883, they converted en masse to Catholicism. During the First Indochina War, it was occupied by the Việt Minh, however. From there, they shelled French troops around 1950, so Cẩm Giang was in danger of being wiped out by French bombs. Them Frogs had planes. Since Đại’s dad was about the only one who could speak some French, he was tasked with saving his village. Approaching them with a white flag, he shouted, “We’re all Catholics! We’re not Communists!”

When the Việt Minh occupied Cẩm Giang, they forced each house to display a portrait of Hồ Chí Minh. Now, those were put away. In their places were crucifixes and portraits of Mary, Joseph and Jesus. Seeing these, the French were satisfied these villagers were indeed Catholics, so they didn’t bomb, rape or steal. They paid for every chicken, duck or pig. Unfortunately, they couldn’t stay. When the Việt Minh returned, Đại’s dad was in deep shit, so he had to flee way south, alone. Left behind was his wife and oldest son. Dead, he would have been useless anyway.

Ending up in Huế, 430 miles south, he joined the army of Bảo Đại, Vietnam’s last emperor. With a steady salary, he decided to remarry, but suddenly, his wife and son showed up. Hearing this from Đại, I protested, “What’s the chance of that?! How did your mom end up in Huế? Plus, it’s a huge city, even then. What were the odds of her running into your dad?”

“But she did,” he shrugged. “They were still in debt to each other.” It’s a Vietnamese expression meaning intertwining fates haven’t finished their courses.

In Huế, then, a second son was born, then his parents came to Vũng Tàu. Here, Đại appeared. Except for a dozen years in a New Economic Zone, he’s never lived anywhere else. As a city dweller thrust into the jungles, Đại didn’t have an easy time, obviously.

“I had been in the Boy Scouts, so that helped. Plus, I was befriended by a peasant from Quảng Ngãi. He showed me what to do. I also got help from an ARVN who spent years in jungles.”

Most incredibly, Đại still had his art supplies. In the middle of nowhere, he kept drawing with charcoal and pastels. Though Đại had no idea when his ordeal would end, and he had no audience, art kept him going.

In the late 80’s when most Vietnamese were still abjectly poor, Đại somehow went to China. He’s also been to Cambodia.

(L): Vung Tau, 11/5/25 ; (R): Saigon, 10/30/25

Had Đại been exposed to oil masterpieces over decades, he would likely have become a much better painter. Even most Americans have never seen an actual Manet, Vermeer, Hopper or Lucian Freud, etc. In the entire USA, there’s just one Da Vinci. Though books could be had anywhere, few bother to read even the best their culture has produced. Belligerently, defiantly and gleefully savage, millions march towards their Golden Age.

Finishing this at Ông Bầu, I see Morose at her laptop. Two days ago, I told her about La Gi, a town just 60 miles north. She’d never heard of it. “Go to Bình Châu, have lunch, then head to La Gi. It’s fascinating!”

Everywhere, everyone and everything is, but you’re not going to catch much if you’re always glued to a screen, masked and earplugged. Landing in Saigon after a three-hour flight from Guangzhou six days ago, I photographed one such man. From Chicago, he’s always well protected. It’s worst to be safest.

Vung Tau. (L): 11/8/25 ; (R): $3.65 on 11/10/25

Cecil Hotel in LA? — Nov 10, 2025.

This morning, I bought four cucumbers, four tomatoes, ten brown eggs and three fistfuls of shiitake mushrooms. Charging me $3.65, my grocer was apologetic, “Produce prices have gone up. There have been all these storms and floods.” Days ago, the tomato crab soup lady, Mrs. Tím, also lamented about prices. As with nearly everywhere else, Vietnam is increasingly slammed by natural catastrophes, with Hội An, its best preserved historical city, deluged with a record 42 inches of rain in 24 hours just two weeks ago. Huế, a capital city in the 17^th and 18^th centuries, suffered the same. Most horrible are houses or boats destroyed. Many thousands of people simply lost everything.

Several climate engineering techniques were tested, refined or perfected during the Vietnam War. Chemical weapons, too. Agent Orange is still deforming babies and killing people here, plus in Laos and Cambodia. Though made in the USA, Uncle Sam has always denied any responsibility. That’s just how he is. Boastful, bombastic and gleefully genocidal, Trump is the perfect personification of Uncle Sam. Those who love Trump aren’t ignoring his worst traits. They admire and envy his sadism, selfishness, shamelessness, vulgarity and infantilism. They wish they were Trump. MAGA men who must lie nightly next to aging wives can only fantasize about grabbing underaged pussies. Life isn’t fair.

A barista at NaLi Beach has just died from complications of Agent Orange. Telling me this at Coffee Seven, Sơn said he was surprised to find out this man was 36-years-old. He was so stunted. As NaLi Beach’s security guard, Sơn saw him each day until two weeks ago. Even gravely sick, he couldn’t afford to quit. Since he served me just once, I can barely visualize this man.

Bet you’ve never heard of Agent Purple, Agent Blue, Agent Pink, Agent Green or Agent White? Only God knows what else Sam sprayed here so liberally. What cute names, almost like a child’s crayon set.

Typing this at Ông Bầu, I notice another customer, in her late 40’s, clipping her toenails. A feeble young man with slender, easily breakable fingers is texting. Đại the painter was here sketching. Two days ago, he brought his four-year-old granddaughter. Sitting very still, she drew birds, cats, the sun, a cloud and a tree.

When I complained about everyone staring at phones, Đại said his wife has a 20-year-old nephew who’s so addicted to the small screen, he barely eats and has no actual friends. Responding to TikTok challenges, he taped his face, then genitals. He’s now on medications.

Just now, a man in his 60’s walked in with a retarded girl of about nine. Like me, they’re sitting in Ông Bầu’s small courtyard. Their low table is just a circular board resting on two truck tires. It’s so sweet to see this old man so patient and gentle towards his granddaughter. She’s eating a pretty good looking bánh mì. On her back is a cartoon cat. Now that she’s settled and enjoying herself, he starts focusing on his cellphone.

Coffee Seven is no more! Mrs. Seven has just been evicted by her half sister. Let’s call her Lanh. Though Wikitionary only defines it as fast or quick, shiftiness is implied. Devious and ambitious, Lanh is at least 20 times richer than Mrs. Seven. When her mom and stepdad got old and messy, she maintained social distancing, all right. It was Mrs. Seven who had to wash their asses thousands of times. Instead of thanking or reimbursing Mrs. Seven, Lanh is showing her the door. In months, that property will be converted into another mini hotel. Vũng Tàu already has hundreds.

Knowing she was leaving, the neighborhood loanshark came by to embarrass Mrs. Seven. Like many people up and down this street, she still owes him some money. This 68-year-old with a pot belly exuded smugness. Speaking loudly so all could hear, Pot Belly smirkingly said Mrs. Seven wouldn’t be able to close her eyes at death. This ugliest curse, he repeated several times.

Finally, he turned to Liệt, the retired teacher, to talk about Trump. Without the Donald, China would have swallowed up Vietnam already, Pot Belly sneered. This idiot with a third grade education was only drafted into South Vietnam’s Regional Forces near the end of the war, so saw no fighting. He wasn’t reeducated in any prison camp.

His first break came when his daughter married an old Aussie, then his son wedded an ethnic Chinese with some means. From his kids, then, he got enough cash to become a loanshark.

With her two dogs, Nọng and Milk Cow, Mrs. Seven has moved into her older daughter’s house half a mile away. I kept urging her to set up a sidewalk café on Đồ Chiểu, but who knows if I will ever see her again. Sơn, too, must find a new morning spot.

Left behind is a tree her dad planted decades ago. It wasn’t even on his land, but across the street. “It’s still your tree,” I joked, “so cut it down to sell the lumber!” As a parting gift, I gave Mrs. Seven some Nepali green and black tea.

Seriously thinking about returning to the US to take care of some business, I’ve looked into hotel prices in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle and El Paso. I’ve even considered staying in Juarez, across a short bridge from El Paso. In LA, the only reasonable priced hotels are around Skid Row. Stay on Main where Melissa Lam was found dead in a rooftop watertank is now called Cecil. That’s affordable. For weeks, its water tasted funny. We still don’t know what happened to Melissa.

In that fabulous land, there are no truths, only fairy tales about Lincoln, Roosevelt, JFK, RFK, MLK, Malcolm X, Moon Landings and 9/11, etc. Nothing ever said about it is remotely true, except when uttered, tweeted or pontificated by that radiant and anointed being who’s always right about everything.

Trump, Miller, Schumer and Dinh — Nov 11, 2025.

The sadistic mastermind behind ICE is Stephen Miller, a Jew whose real name is Glosser. He’s greenlit masked thugs to attack even citizens in broad daylight. There’s no transparency about the thousands kidnapped. Many were plucked from inside courthouses as they obeyed American laws. Racial profiling is rampant. Trump and Miller creamed their pants Christening one concentration camp “Alligator Alcatraz.” Judeo Christianity rules! I’d not be surprised if many victims have been tortured or murdered. Not realizing they may be next, MAGA morons cheer. In the meantime, they’re just bankrupted or starved.

Trump’s Democratic opposition is led by Chuck Schumer, the highest ranking Jew ever in the US government. Though enjoying a surge of support due to revulsion to Degenerate Donald, Schumer’s Dems have given up fighting for affordable healthcare. Us vs. Dem in US politics is always smoke and mirror.

Trumpers, though, will laugh off street protests or online outrage.

Darth Shredder, “Dems literally had NO REASON to cave… They had the polls in their favor… huge election wins to solidify it and momentum on their side. Republicans were seen as the villains, trump was losing support and getting desperate by taking away SNAP. What was the frickin point of even shutting it down in the first place? They not only got nothing… they lost the narrative and shifted all the blame to them. I’m done.”

Love One Another, “Chuck Schumer orchestrated this Kabuki Theater. He’s a lying TRAITOR! WE WILL PRIMARY YOU, CHUCK. MAGA NOT DEMOCRAT. HOW DARE YOU! Chuck just killed over 50,000 of us each year, who can’t stay alive without medical care.”

SkyP1e, “I started dialysis this year the cost comes to about $80,000 annually. I’m on disability and my private insurance dropped me right after the dialysis started so I applied for Medicaid. I eventually got approved but it took about six weeks of constant attention from me to get there. Chuck might have just killed me tonight. Thanks a lot scumbag.”

Seriously, though, how can you take people who call themselves SkyP12, Love One Another or Darth Shredder seriously? They’re no more real than Catdompa, Gigolo Joe, Mister Charlie PhD, Trinity or Arbeit Macht Frei, etc. Passing impotent gas, pseudonymous commenting perpetuates tyranny.

Genocides and economic collapse must go on.

Trump’s lead negotiator in the Middle East is Steve Witkoff. This Jew misled the Iranians into thinking the US was negotiating in good faith, but Trump colluded with Jews to attack, before bombing them himself. Though holding no official position, Trump’s Jewish son-in-law Jared Kushner has just met with Netanyahu to sort out what to do with the remaining Palestinians in Gaza.

Israeli real estate firm Harey Zahav cheerfully chirps, “Wake up, a beach house is not a dream!” Jews are salivating at moving into a Gaza free of Arabs. Trump envisions his golden statue, hotel and casino lording over them. How many prepubescent shiksas will be imported? Pain is their ultimate aim. Trump’s fingers still work, at least. Dumpster diving MAGA morons can follow the action on Truth Social or TikTok. Since they can’t afford to fly an hour to see dying grandma, they won’t be anywhere near Trump Gaza. Jews don’t care to see such vulgar red caps or T-shirts anyway.

“JESUS IS MY SAVIOR. TRUMP IS MY PRESIDENT.” “GOD, GUNS AND TRUMP.” “Liberty Guns Beer Trump” for LGBT. “IT’S GONNA TAKE A FELON AND A HILLBILLY TO FIX THIS.” Show up with any of these in Tel Aviv to be spat on.

Speaking to the Republican Jewish Coalition on 10/31/25, Lindsey Graham proudly declared, “I feel good about the Republican Party and where we’re going as a nation. We’re killing all the right people and we’re cutting your taxes. Trump is my favorite president. We’ve run out of bombs. We didn’t run out of bombs in WWII.” Graham has been a senator for 22 years. Before that, he was a congressman for eight years. Though usually less crude, most US senior politicians have exactly the same posture, ass up, that is, towards Jews.

Last Sunday, Trump appeared at a Commanders vs. Lions game. Though he was loudly booed or given the finger by nearly everyone present, a White House video of this humiliating incident shows Epstein’s best buddy given a hero’s welcome. It begins with Air Force One flying slowly over Northwest Stadium. A football with “TRUMP—COMMANDER IN CHIEF” and a jersey with “TRUMP” are shown. The latter, framed, is presented to him by the team’s owner, Josh Harris. This Jew with a shady business history has had much dealing with Jared Kushner.

It’s a nation of scams, lies and spins. Still thinking about a brief visit back, I checked Las Vegas hotel prices. With delight, I discovered 14 nights at Excalibur, right on the Strip, was on sale for just $359.74. The normal cost is $1,269.33. In small print, though, there’s this easy to miss bit, “Not included in price (collected by the property): Resort Fee (Pay at property) USA 714.28.” How many foreign visitors only discover this when checking in? No other country tries to pull off such a stunt, but then, again, no other nation is ruled by Donald Trump, Stephen Miller, Jared Kushner and Bibi Netanyahu.

Yesterday, I also got this email:

Though a bit long-winded, it sounded exactly like Trump, so of course, I immediately sent all my savings to The Donald via PayPal.

Forget San Francisco, Los Angeles, Seattle, El Paso or Las Vegas, I will fly straight from Saigon to Dulles Airport, then take a limousine to the White House. To its swarthy driver, I’ll bark, “Trump has me covered. I’m his Official White House Advisor, so step on the gas, motherfucker! Any delay and I’ll have you deported. Where are you from anyway? Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen? Go back to where you came from, dickhead. Crawl back into your Bin Laden cave!”

Since it’s nearly freezing in DC, I will need to buy a cashmere coat, for the occasion, you know. In this tropical climate, a Binori or Canali would be very tough to find. Plus, I just sent all my cash to Trump. Enthusiasm, fanaticism or just stupidity can even lead to suicide, or at least death by a thousand cuts.

Vung Tau, 11/12/25

22,630 Days — Nov 12, 2025.

On my 62^nd birthday, I’ve allowed myself to go mad, or, rather, to revert to a madder, more irresponsible self. At 9:35AM, I’m on my second BeerLao, though the first was somewhat shared with Như. She hardly drank her iced glass. Now, I’m sitting outside a liquor store that has maybe 30 types of beer. Four feet from me is a masked crone no taller than 4’9”. Across the street is Mrs. Tím, the crab noodle soup lady. Under her conical hat, she’s cleaning up and putting her tables and chairs away.

Until a minute ago there was a recorded song from inside the licker joint. It’s played for the owner’s 21-month-old daughter. I first heard it nearly 60 years ago. It’s about some frog sobbing in a corner. Tagged on stanzas include a dog, monkey and other animals. There’s an obscene version of a girl pissing in a corner.

Come out here, what’s that sitting in the corner?
Only her back is shown. Oh, it’s a girl!
It’s a girl pissing, with only her back shown.
Oh, she’s a bad girl!

That didn’t just leave a profound impression on me at age 8 or 9, it has defined my entire life, I’m sure. Without this ditty, I could have been a venture capitalist, five-star general or president of the United States of America. Now, I’m permanently traumatized.

A couple months ago, I challenged Như to finish her book in a year. It’s coming along. Two weeks ago, I said I’d give her a serious spanking if it’s not done on schedule. I was born to coach, mentor or just be an asshole.

This morning, I told Như about Raymond Carver and Harold Brodkey. Over decades, details may slip. Recently, I insisted to D.W. Shumway my Mariners lost to the A’s by identical score, 6-0, on consecutive days in 1976. Problem is D.W. was at the fuckin’ first game! I only heard it on the radio in Salem, Oregon. It was the Angels, and not A’s.

Me this morning, “Carver wrote about being in some Yakima laundromat and feeling rather sorry for himself. That really resonated with me. I was living in Grays Ferry, this shitty neighborhood in Philly. Though I didn’t know it at the time, Grays Ferry kids, these Irish, Catholic boys, were selling soiled underwear to this creep, Uncle Eddie. He lived in Center City’s best neighborhood, Rittenhouse Square. Just the name alone, you can tell. Though he was a UPenn graduate and had a wife, Uncle Eddie was a closet faggot, with a shit fetish. Lying under a glass table, he enjoyed staring at shit oozing from these boys’ assholes.”

I’m not sure Như wanted to hear all that around 7AM. I did have a point. Uncle Eddie had a vision, which he followed. He was more artist than most artists. If eating shit is intrinsic to who you are, don’t overmask it.

Me on Brodkey, “This guy was so heavily promoted, and he was excellent. His prose is much better than Carver’s. Brodkey has the most amazing passage about pussy licking, and it went on for four or five pages! He seemed so honest and candid, but it turned out Brodkey was a queer. He had to admit this because he got AIDS.”

Như, “Queers can be amazing at pussy licking because they don’t like penetration. They must focus on that!”

“You must write about that, too!”

Như said that as a child, she was always screaming inside her head. As a kid, all I wanted was to grow up as quickly as possible, so I could escape.

“We’re all helpless children,” I said. “You’re not really in your 30’s.”

“I feel like I’m 23.”

“Bullshit! You’re about 8-years-old, at most. I’m 4 or 5.”

Of course, writing is one way of dressing yourself up, to sound more intelligent and in control, you know, but if your baby, malformed or monkey self cannot seep out, you’re a waste of time, if not a criminal.

“We’re always dressed up.”

“Even when naked, we’re dressed up.” She’s trying to outdo me!

Not willing to concede defeat, I cited Andre Dworkin’s Intercourse, “She has some of the most amazing insights into being naked I’ve ever read.”

At age 70 or so, poet Stephen Berg pulled down his pants at a gathering of maybe six people. “Look at that,” he shouted. I wasn’t there, though. Versions of this story must be circulating around Philly, at least. “Why did he do that?” I asked Như. “What’s the symbolism of that?” Berg’s infant or beast got loose, and not for the first time. This time, he wanted to be caught.

Như talked about sabotaging every relationship. Having turned away from everyone, she felt a perplexing guilt.

“But you’re not going to change.”

“I’m not going to change.”

“You’re getting even.”

Like me, Như decided early on to never have children. We can’t justify passing on our despair, resentment and horrors. Unhappy children are most trapped.

Without that frog song, I could have been a Vince Lombardi or, at least, a Pete Carrol, but instead, I’m just a canceled, wrinkled toddler drinking a $1.50 large bottle of BeerLao in perfect weather. Imbibing nothing but perfectly content, at least in appearance, that masked mummy keeps turning her vigilant skull with its murky eyeballs back and forth, as if there’s much to look at on this drowsy, terribly boring street.

All week, I thought about returning briefly to the States, but my US banking and Vietnam residency issues have mostly been solved. A visit to Guam, the first US territory I entered way back in 1975, is still a possibility. As the native land of the Chamorros, all of the Marianas should be one nation, I’d think. Instead, Guam will likely be the first territory to be completely wiped out during the next nuclear war. The Chinese DF-26 missile is even nicknamed “Guam Express” or “Guam Killer.”

The rest of the Marianas would be uninhabitable, but that’s probably true of everywhere else, too.

About Linh Dinh (@linhdinh):

‘Before being canceled, I was an anthologized poet and fairly prolific author, with my last book Postcards from the End of America. Now, I write about our increasingly sick world for a tiny audience on SubStack. Drifting overly much, I’m in Cambodia.

Born in Saigon, Vietnam in 1963, I lived mostly in the US from 1975 until 2018, but have returned to Vietnam. I’ve also lived in Italy, England and Germany. I’m the author of a non-fiction book, Postcards from the End of America (2017), a novel, Love Like Hate (2010), two books of stories, Fake House (2000) and Blood and Soap (2004), and six collections of poems, with a Collected Poems cancelled by Chax Press from external pressure. I’ve been anthologized in Best American Poetry 2000, 2004, 2007, Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present, Postmodern American Poetry: a Norton Anthology (vol. 2) and Flash Fiction International: Very Short Stories From Around the World, etc. I’m also editor of Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam (1996) and The Deluge: New Vietnamese Poetry (2013). My writing has been translated into Japanese, Italian, Spanish, French, Dutch, German, Portuguese, Korean, Arabic, Icelandic, Serbian and Finnish, and I’ve been invited to read in Tokyo, London, Cambridge, Brighton, Paris, Berlin, Leipzig, Halle, Reykjavik, Toronto, Singapore and all over the US. I’ve also published widely in Vietnamese.’

AHH: Please support this wonderful writer on his Substack! Thanks