notes from a former whiz kid extraordinaire

Riverside Life - Jan. 2012

2012-01-23T12:27:00.000-08:00

-A buttermilk biscuit with blackberry jam and a glass of chocolate milk makes for a nice snack.

-Too much time on my hands to think, and now that reading and writing have become my area of study, they no longer fit as well as hobbies.

-Riverside works on a lot of levels (the university is swell, there's a Trader Joe's, I live in a spacious house with a pool and pay reasonable rent), but not so much on others (it has the worst reputation on the planet; and there's a severe dearth of college-educated cosmopolitan twentysomethings painting the town on a Friday night).

-One space after a period.

-Fish Tank was a good movie.

Beijing Images - June 2011

2011-07-05T23:16:00.000-07:00

Beijing Highlights - June 2011

2011-07-05T22:51:00.000-07:00

Sat next to two silly Thai girls on the plane ride over. They wrote me love notes in Thai that I still need translated.
Thomas met me at the airport and we grabbed cheap good food just around the corner from his apartment - one of those storefront restaurants which could double for someone's home kitchen. There was a table of chinese guys next to us who kept getting up to pee on the wall across the street. This in turn made me feel comfortable shooting food debris off my tongue whenever I felt so inclined.
The apartment we're living in is posh. Might even cost over a million dollars. I should carry around photos of it in my wallet like people do with their children.

note: The correct pronunciation of Beijing is "Bay-jing." The way American newscasters say it and popular perception is a bastardized attempt at sounding foreign. Blame the French.

On day one, I hooked up with 11 other people (I'm a slut, I know), some friends of friends, and we bused it to a village 1.5 hours outside the city nestled along sections of the Great Wall that haven't been refurbished.
We stayed at an incredible house. Went hiking. Ate elaborate meals. Drank plentifully at night.

Can't use Facebook, which is a massive inconvenience considering that’s how I conduct most of my correspondence.

***

Return from countryside retreat. Eat dinner at a Korean bbq place where they cook the meat on a mini-grill in front of you. It’s like having an uninvited guest at your table. All the girls in this particular establishment have tattoos. Thomas is automatically impressed by Chinese girls with tattoos.
As for the bbq, I’m less than thrilled only getting to eat one piece of meat or onion every five minutes - the amount of time it takes for them to cook something and divide it up amongst the three of us.
At night, one of Thomas’ Chinese prospects comes over. She looks cartoonish with her big eyes and small frame, but definitely pixie cute. There is a tattoo on her wrist, so after Thomas confesses attraction for her and she responds that “It had never crossed her mind,” Thomas does not believe her.

***

Spend loads of time in the apartment reading and editing short videos compiled from pictures and vids of my trip so far. Reading The Sheltering Sky, which is quick and easy prose that hints at greater heaviness. Three Americans wandering around North African desert in the aftermath of WWII. There is a love triangle and resonant theme of Americans in foreign land. Talk of the Sahara makes Beijing feel not-so-remote.

***

Been eating loads of baozi and gong bao ji ding.
Thomas' bike was stolen yesterday, even though it was locked up. Somebody just picked it up and walked off. So we buy him a new bike. This time he gets two locks. We ride the new bike down a ways, me sitting side-saddle on the back, to a market that sells dumbbells. It is a massively arduous process getting them home.
I learn about “Beijing Air-Conditioning” - the phenomenon where Chinese men pull their shirt fronts above their nipples to cool off.

***

Bike ride around town in the afternoon. Thomas harasses me for not going fast enough on my rickety rental bike. Wend through Hutongs, past Forbidden City and along Tianemen. Feels great to be out and about.
Join Seb for Shabbat dinner at Chabad House. Seb was on the group retreat to the Great Wall that first day. Catch the tail end of services. Can’t understand anything. I only came for the free dinner and booze. There are an assortment of different looking Jews - Arabs, Brooklyn Black Hats, Russians, nerds, etc. They all know their prayers better than me. My kippah refuses to stay on my head. A man behind me points out I’m in fact wearing two stuck together. Even with just one, it keeps falling off.
There must be 100 people at dinner. I’m seated with guys around my own age. Wash hands for chamotzi. There are loads of other prayers I don’t know throughout the multi-course meal. The Rabbi continuously comes around to fill up our disposable medicine cups with nice scotch.
“They know how to party,” Seb tells me.
The Rabbi makes some spiel about nepotism corrupting the world. I am confused. I thought the Jews were all about nepotism.

I had/I have

2011-05-30T13:26:00.000-07:00

I had a cousin who was big and masculine and forced to flee the country. After which he became a woman and died in a fire.

I had a conversation with a girl in which I relayed the cool things I had done. I could see her face get all twisted up with excitement, then melancholy, at the prospect these things were unattainable to her.
I feel that way a lot, when people tell me about all the cool things they've done. It's like a drug - you get real high hearing about travels and nights out and accomplishments, and then you get real depressed thinking these things are out of reach; that they require all sorts of impossible hoop jumping.

I have a plane ticket to China for June 16th. Now don't go twisting your face.

Notes from Kansas City

2011-05-11T00:26:00.000-07:00

Dear Jared,

A couple of the guys from Small Black ended up coming to my apartment after their show in Kansas City and _____ made out with my friend on top of my washer and dryer.. And I'll have you know we had a cheers on your behalf earlier at the bar.

CG

Lovely Parentes (aka those with foresight to provide)

2011-03-12T01:01:00.000-08:00

Vital limbs of mine

2011-03-12T00:31:00.000-08:00

Many a night have you rode home with heavy eyes. Too much drink.
Who even says that?
The unique. The unique who care enough to actively emulate creative forebears.
Tired.
The man across from you is old and a creeper. You hate that term, but it applies with all fire of definition now.
When he was your age, did he know it was in his interest to provide for himself? Work hard? Get a law degree? Have kids who would be successful? That way he could at least be an old creeper with some tie to legitimacy.
No. This old man is purely a lecher. There is no purity of heart. He had never intended any different. He looks every girl up and down their entire stretch, violating them with every eye tick. He salivates with lust. He is lonely.
Fuck. I am lonely. We are all lonely.
But for him, there is no forgiveness for lack of any foresight. He lived like a Buddhist - in the present - in the worst way possible. And he paid for it. In his case, being present-minded reflected selfishness. Mindlessness was his sin.
And so he aged. Thinking nothing but of himself, with nobody to love and no children of which to pass the baton.
Farewell, thy lecher. You will suffer a fate worse than being forgotten. You will grow old and ugly. You will lust after young flesh that wishes no part of your deteroirating condition. Not only shall you be rendered irrelevant, but disgusting as well. You are a disgusting lecher who knows not his place. Just die already and leave the young alone.

The youth speaks. He says, let me off wherever on the subway. Vital limbs of mine, I shall run home.
Drop me off wherever. I care not of the leper. Vital limbs will carry me home. Big breaths. Playing woodwinds growing up, I can swim a length under water. I can breathe deep gasps to carry me across continents.
I am young!

I Keep Walking

2011-03-11T09:33:00.000-08:00

Passing by Barnes and Noble in Union Square, a teenage goth-looking girl with blue hair and pale skin, smoking a cigarette, stops me. I try and politely continue walking but she paces me.

-Hey mister, I need your help. Can you...can you buy me a nook?
-A nook?
-Yeah. I really need you to buy me a nook.
-Sorry. I can't help you buy a nook.

I keep walking and she stops, then calls after me.

-Well fuck you. When I'm rich, I'll buy myself a nook.

The dog's name is Sila, not Beatrice

2011-02-09T20:29:00.000-08:00

Chirp chirp goes the bird. Best to start off simple.
Rearrrrgggghhhhh! shrieks a Pterodactyl.
We crack ourselves up. Our onomatopoeia’s are limited.
This is how we amuse ourselves cutting through the dusk air on rickety bikes with loud spokes purchased at Morley’s annual garage sale. This year we also made off with a working 4 track recorder. JR and I are starting a band. There’s only the two of us so far. I reckon we’re off to a fortuitous beginning. He sings and I’ve got a recorder I’m teaching myself to play. We’ve written one song together. Not too surprising that it’s called “Pterodactyl”. That’s the name of our band as well, at least for now.

Dear Rory,

I remember when we would ride our bikes to the town dances, hair slicked back, smelling like aftershave even though we weren’t old enough to grow facial hair. Remember how we tucked our right pant legs into our socks so as to not ruin our nicest pair of slacks that mom bought us at the beginning of summer? We spent that whole summer moving crates in the unbearable heat and cooled off at the end of every day swinging into the lake from the vine by the high rocks. That was a good summer. I miss you.

-JR

Here You Go - January, 2011

2011-01-19T19:15:00.000-08:00

stop moving and that's it

My bro's got a dog. Beatrice, her name. B fo short. B fo beautiful beagle. B for boo - living in New York far from the dog.

Landed some peculiar but generous paying work this week in Soho helping out a friend's girlfriend's mother who is about to purchase a huge chunk of real estate in Harlem. Putting to use those quality 'assistant' skills you've got to offer.

Spend time wondering at what point, the precipice irreversibly crossed, in which people become their parents, adults; when the affectations instantiate and become truth.

You think about your consciousness, how it's impossible to verify. You think about what it means to be intelligent. Most adults can read and articulate themselves. Unless you're highly specialized, life experience becomes the great equalizer. The only necessary reality is what it takes to survive and maintain the wits about one's self.
What is so noble about the quest for truth?

Assassin confronts his target. Before he shoots, he shouts, Here you go.
After firing six shots, he turns the gun on himself and exclaims, Here I go.

You think I have no dreams but I'm a dreamer all right.
Oh yeah? What the hell do you dream about?
I dream about leaping across subway platforms, of defending you against an attacker in heroic fashion, of us being rich.
With agonizing sincerity.

How does a blind man dream?

Straight shot on the C from 109 in Washington Heights to Franklin Ave in Brooklyn. Train won't move. Without movement there is no heat. Spent whole night shivering at friend's with a broken heater. Feel tired like on mornings you had to wake up early for family trips to the airport. Only four hours of sleep. Many people regularly make do on this amount.
It's MLK day. You wonder if your thoughts are worth committing to record. Actively try and arrange them in literary way, even when not jotting down. Stream of consciousness has become affected from too much reading and other influence.
What are any longer your thoughts and not the thoughts you want an audience to hear?
Ulysses as big as a textbook in your jacket pocket. Incomprehensible. 180 pages deep and ready to quit. Seemed like a noble challenge.
In two days you will quit (at least for the meanwhile) and pick up Maugham's The Razor's Edge. It will prove a great relief.

In Finer Fashion - The Fall of Autumn

2010-10-08T21:10:00.000-07:00

Thoughts:

-If you’re a Chilean miner who has been trapped beneath the Earth’s surface in a cramped mineshaft for the last two months, for how long after your liberation will you think of every day as divine? Remember that woman who missed the ill-fated flight from Brazil to France, the one that plunged into the ocean, only to die in an automobile accident two weeks later?

-Lobster Bisque from a can is never going to be as good as you hope, even if it says “Gourmet” on the label.

After the improv class finished, I immediately began a freelance job doing administrative work for the website Howcast. It provided structured 10-6 hours, a cushy office with free cereal and coffee, coworkers who choose to communicate over gchat even when sitting directly next to each other, and no questions asked when I headed home for two weeks in August. My college friend Luke was getting married in the Upper Peninsula. Watching him tear up at the altar while he watched his bride descend the aisle was like witnessing a redwood cry. It caused me to well up before I could detect what was happening.
“Who rubbed horseradish under my nose?” I asked aloud, searching for the culprit amongst my friends.

***

Man, do I like the band Frightened Rabbit. All three albums = stellar. After hearing an interview with the lead singer I found myself mimicking his Scottish accent in the shower last night. Once when I was drunk I thought about penning them a fan letter before quickly coming to my senses. There was in fact nothing quick about it, rather I was too drunk upon returning home and passed out right away. The last and only fan letter I've written (excluding pornstars) was inexplicably sent to MMA fighter George St. Pierre following his shocking upset loss to Matt Serra back in 2007. He seemed like such a classy guy...and that French-Canadian accent.

***

Though it seems like a distant dream of a different person nowadays, I attended Interlochen Arts Camp as a youth, from ages 10-13. My subjects of focus were piano and acting, the former of which is a non-entity in my present, whereas the latter persists as but a fantasy unsubstantiated by action - the kind where I star in the film I write and direct that becomes a hit at Cannes and propels me into the annals of greatness and onto the cover of Vanity Fair, the masses and fashionistas hailing me as the next iconic sex symbol who will single-handedly end the reigns of Taylor Lautner and Angelina Jolie.
I bring up Interlochen because today at work I used google and Facebook to track down one of my closest friends from that period, David M., grandson of the camp's founder. We were both scrawny little late-bloomers, though he bloomed earlier than I. One summer he showed up and was so proud of his development that he pranced about the cabin showcasing his mangina. I laughed nervously, praying to God I wasn't next on the chopping block. My pubes wouldn't come for several more years, a fact my brother never lived down. Once in a fit of desperation I glued hair from a fake beard to my underarms, and as I kissed my father goodnight, lifted my arm in exaggeration so he could glimpse at my manhood. He didn't care. My brother on-the-other-hand made me pay with ruthless insults and slapping, not fooled for a second by the foolish ruse.
David continued right along in pursuing the talent he began cultivating during those early summers. He's currently getting an MFA in painting at Indiana University. We laughed (via LOL's) about how our first counselor stood us shoulder to shoulder, examining our backs and telling David he would be scrawny as an adult while I would be muscular due to my v-shaped back; this same counselor who transformed into a rageful tyrant after his hero, Jerry Garcia, died that summer. Who knew Deadheads could be so mean? I believe this was the same summer David fell out of the top bunk and his leg caught in the metal frame. He writhed in pain while dangling upside down as I looked on from the bottom bunk. We reminisced about another boy, Elias from Mexico, who always had a pack of chili candies and perpetually stained red lips (probably from popsicles). And then there was the older Aquinas who was extraordinary at ping-pong and chess. Aquinas once had me stand between him and another boy as he screamed into my ear asthe other boy attempted to hear the scream pass through my head and out my other ear. The tinnitus lasted for days.
I always wonder if the people I remember from long ago will remember me, for many of the people who remember me I fail to recall. As a boy, all the kids at Interlochen seemed as they might as well have been from faraway lands. When you're 9, there's no difference between living an hour away and residing in China - they're both insurmountable distances.
Two of my best friends from Interlochen similarly attended the University of Michigan. We were unsuccessful in refurbishing our bond. I always remembered the fact that Jens had been bitten by a brown recluse spider and nearly died an infant. He had struck me as fearless, much like my schoolboy pal Danny Demay who taught me to do standing front flips as an 8 year old, shaking off failed attempts of landing on the head like a gossamer on the shoulder. I can only assume the quality of genuine fearlessness, reckless abandon, is one that resonates with me for it is so far from my natural state. At Michigan, Jens joined a frat and we ran in different social circles.
And then there was Marc R. Marc had been my hero at Interlochen. He was a Mexican-American of European descent, tall, swarthy, good-looking, and with a freckle in his eye. As an 11 year old, he drove the girls wild before we even knew what girls were. No idea what he attended Interlochen for, but at Michigan he would captain the crew team, and while we never reunited in person, he was material enough for lore transferred by way of friends. As campers, the only spat we ever got into was over taking turns at playing a cabinmate's violin. We had to catch the bus and one of us didn't get a fair turn. I called him a 'big bitch.' He didn't much care for the insult. I impulsively issued it again. That's when he cracked the handle of a broomstick against my elbow. And then what did I do? I called him a 'big bitch' one final time before taking off in a sprint. As we reached the bus, being that he was taller and drastically more athletic, he caught me with one final shove that sent me careening into the vehicle's side. I'm sure we reconciled, but that's my most definitive memory of Marc R.
Interlochen. I don't want to say I was a poseur, because at that time I was talented in regards to piano and acting, but what became of them?

***

And now for some Fitzgerald quotes:

"By her three minutes of utter unwavering indifference the girl had lifted herself from a high but somehow casual position in his mind, to be instead his complete preoccupation. However much his wild thoughts varied between a passionate desire for her kisses and an equally passionate craving to hurt and mar her, the residue of his mind craved in finer fashion to possess the triumphant soul that had shone through those three minutes. She was beautiful - but especially she was without mercy."
"The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his best picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff and falsehood and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and a third - before long the best lines cancel out - and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the pictures have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture."
"There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed, biting a pencil at his desk. It was self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully - assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments were equally valueless."
"With a stray boyishness he saw himself a power upon the earth; with his grandfather's money he might build his own pedestal and be a Talleyrand, a Lord Verulam. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence, all at their maturity and dominated by some purpose yet to be born would find him work to do... With no record of achievement, without courage, without strength to be satisfied with truth when it was given him. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making careers out of cocktails and meanwhile regretting, weakly and secretly, the collapse of an insufficient and wretched idealism."

-THE BEAUTIFUL & DAMNED

The Funny Crux Never Goes Away

2010-09-30T07:57:00.000-07:00

If this city didn't have 8 million people, I would've run into you by now and articulated with laconic speech and genuine charm how you caught me during a funny crux in my life; explained away that angry tirade I made on your bed about hipsters being dead (http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/features/4840/why-the-hipster-must-die). While I've kept busy and upbeat, the thought of you still tugs at me here and there some months later.
In my last email it was hard not to sound petulant. And curses to John Cusack in "Say Anything" for holding a radio above his head outside Ione Sky's window and teaching kids like me that persistence was a good thing.
That about sums up my thoughts on this damp Thursday morning.

***

"Dude, you romanticize the old days too much! There were always games... It's just that women had less choice about who to pick."

Improv & Premiere Party Crashing: Late July, 2010

2010-09-15T08:22:00.000-07:00

Another day of improv intensive at The Magnet Theater. The class and Armando affectionately (or so I hope) refer to me as sugar tits since I wore a tight polo revealing my larger than average mammories. It's not that I'm particularly huge, it's just that everyone in the improv community is particularly puny.
I'm coming along nicely in my improv development, though I still feel awkward and tend to play it safe in my scenes. I signed up for this three week class to get more comfortable on stage and ignite the creative juices within. I needed to get unstuck, and I also needed the structure during a stint of unemployment. It's been nothing but watch and perform improv, day in and day out. I have an inordinate amount of respect for the theater's regular improvisers. They're mini-celebrities to me these days, and it seems they all live in Clinton Hill. It feels rather fateful running into them on the train rides back to Brooklyn, especially when I'm drunk.
Tonight was another episode of awkward film mixers. I used it as an opportunity to catch up with pals Matt and Aaron from GreeneStreet. We chatted with a girl named Courtney. The four of us together crashed the premiere party for The Disappearance of Alice Creed at the posh Crosby Hotel in SoHo. We passed Gemma Arterton on the way in. She inquired if I was single. I politely declined to comment being that her husband was present.

GreeneStreet's President came over and hugged me in his political way. He asked me about the beard fuzz on my face. I told him it was laziness. Then he shifted his interest to our friend Courtney before returning to the crowd. I talked with the COO and his wife for a good while about the same topics he and I used to discuss: books, higher education; life paths. I wrote him not long ago asking for a letter of rec for grad programs in the humanities/creative writing. He wrote back expressing doubt about such programs. I told him doubt was my best friend.
I swore I wasn't going to drink tonight since I had McDonalds on Monday and Tuesday and haven't exercised in over a week. That plan went out the window as the clock ticked past 11 and there was fancy free wine to be had. Servers paraded around with gourmet appetizers: fancy sliders, bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese, mushroom pastries, and other delectable goodies.
I felt like a somebody again, for a moment.

Favorite Discussion Topics

2010-09-15T07:28:00.000-07:00

Jared's favorite discussion topics (according to Leah):

- everyone having derivative opinions; reading the same media and regurgitating it for show, rather than inventing original thoughts
- the ethical perils of NYC's social anonymity
- "that kind of girl" who every guy wants because he thinks she's really nice and JUST shy of cover-model-hot to be gettable; but therefore she gets lots of male attention
- rampant infidelity
- girls like bigger guys... growing up skinny... hipster look vs. muscles...
- dilettantism - jack of all trades, master of none
- feeling compelled to say something - anything - to beautiful women
- mean girls and how you love them
- the allure of a status job

Other thoughts:

1. I'm not sure why it took me so long to realize how tasty and easy broccoli is to cook with a little salt.

2. Cereal gets soggy way too quickly in milk.

3. If we know how to compress files into a .ZIP, why can't we teleport people?

4. Seems inefficient that humans are biped. Evidence: nobody knows what to do with their arms while standing waiting for the train.

Dear Max/Dear Jared - June, 2010

2010-07-24T13:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Max,

I'm drowning in a maelstrom of self-pity. The cause?
Amanda Setton came into the office again today. The mean-looking brunette from TV shows I’ve never even seen, Gossip Girl and One Life to Live. She’s beautiful and I’m only moderately good-looking.
I really do want to see the first season of Gossip Girl, though maybe I shouldn't. Entourage used to be so much fun, but when I turned it off I got depressed. It was like, here is this really glamorous life that's not yours, now go back to your mundane existence. Some people enjoy seeing good-looking people. For me, it's a painful taunting of greener pastures.
I have never talked to Amanda Setton. Through Google stalking I discovered we share a mutual friend - my good friend's ex-girlfriend attended college with her - but I cannot mention this for obvious reasons (read: stalking, ahem, internet research, is a tough sell), and even if I did, I would have to make such a confession in front of the other models/actresses waiting for auditions. That would be beyond awkward.
The helplessness I feel with the Amanda Setton situation only exacerbates the crisis of joblessness come 6pm tomorrow. I’m 25, without riches, without dynamo girlfriend, and without creative masterpiece. Now I shall be without job. The goal of becoming a complete intellectual who expresses himself through film and writing (read: dilettante) has proven ripe with pitfalls, abstraction, and ambiguity of financial viability. When there is no structure, all frightening existential fears come to an overwhelming head.
Damnit, pretty girls kill me. This solipsistic mind of mine can only wrap its tentacles around death and girls, girls and death, death and girls, and once in a while, creative output, which it doesn't take a genius to tell me is merely a means of getting the girl and avoiding death.

-jared

Dear Jared,

Amanda Setton came over last night and gave me head while I finished my novel. I told her we had a mutual friend in common at the distribution company, but she was more concerned about using her tongue correctly and when would be a convenient time for her to come around tomorrow. Read: fellatio.

-max

Kristen Bell - May, 2010

2010-05-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

Reunited with Kristen Bell in the office today. After some memory jogging she remembered me.
It was hard to do anything but name drop and reminisce of people from our past. We acted in two plays together 15 years ago. I still have a paper plate award from her that reads: "Most likely to call when he turns 16." Her number's on the back.
At one point I said, "I guess it doesn't make much sense for me to ask you what you've been up to."
I tried to be cool but my voice kept quaking.
My expectation was that she would say, "You should totally come out with me and Dax tonight."
It never happened.
I eventually excused myself after we hit a lull. Duck-out classy.
My expectations were high, so I left disappointed. She remained reading on the couch in the lobby for another 45 minutes but I dared not to leave my little hole again.

I can't even remember what she looked like now.

Flash Fiction - "Father, Forgive Them"

2010-03-27T19:13:00.000-07:00

He was a freshman in high school: boyishly good-looking with high cheekbones; tall, lanky, athletic, red-haired, and already 16 - not uncommon in Texas where boys are held back in Kindergarten to be more developed for football. The son of a Pastor, he bore the name Luke: a good, solid Biblical moniker.

One pristine summer afternoon, having recently acquired his license, Luke was taking full advantage of his new-found freedom, cruising around in the Red Dragon, a '96 Chevy truck, windows down and a grape popsicle in his mouth. He pulled up to a stoplight singing along to "All My Ex's Live in Texas," lost in a trance of youth, song, or summer.
A rapping at his window pulled him from his state. A large black woman of indiscernible age, twenties or thirties, was talking to him through the window.
"My car just broke down around the corner," she said. "I live down the street. Can you give me a ride? Please. It would really help me out."
With beads of sweat clinging to the corners of her eyes, forehead, and upper lip, she appeared innocent enough. George Straight crooned how Texas was a place he'd dearly love to be. Luke figured her to be harmless enough. After all, she is a woman. Woman, not a man, he thought.

She gets into his car and they start driving. Out of the corner of his eye he notes her broad nose and round face. He doesn't know what to say to her. She rubs her thighs through jean shorts tight enough that they produce unflattering protrusions of fat. Assuming she's not a George Strait fan, he turns down the radio.
"It’s hot outside," she says, breaking the silence. "Can we roll up windows and turn on the air?" It comes out more command than request.
Luke, mildly put off, agrees.
At the next red light, she turns to him again.
"Man, I just lost twenty dollars, can you help me out?"
I've made a mistake, he thinks. She wants money. They always want money.
In an amiable tone, he says, "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I don't have any money. I'm already doing you a favor. I'll just drive you to your destination and be on my way."
She looks down at her lap, thinks for a moment, then returns her gaze to him.
“I’ll suck your dick,” she says. "$15 and I'll suck you off real good."

Mortification. Yes, that would be the word to best describe Luke's reaction at that exact moment. During his short 16 years, nobody had ever spoken to him in such a way. He pulled off to the side of the road and demanded she get out. She might have continued to beg and offer but he was done listening. He couldn't even look at her. With the car stopped, staring at his thighs, he ordered her to be gone. His only refuge was to be found in a quote from the Gospel bearing his namesake: ‘Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’

Flash Fiction - "Heart Stopper"

2010-03-27T18:58:00.000-07:00

It was dark outside and drizzling. I was on my way home from work, messenger bag draped over my shoulder – the modern man’s briefcase. It didn’t protect its contents very well, and considering there were some important reports inside and I’d left my umbrella at Jenny’s, I decided to pop into the nearest restaurant, one I always passed but never actually regarded until now.
The place was unassuming from the outside. Inside, it was a throwback burger joint with pink vinyl booths and a jukebox. A large grizzly bear of a man stood behind the counter tending to a sizzling grill. The lone patron was a brunette in a business suit sitting on a stool up at the counter reading Gulliver's Travels. She turned to look at me as I entered. Her face was pretty and mean-looking – just my type. I took a seat up on a stool near her but left an empty one between, far enough away to not seem needy.

The grizzly bear tossed me a menu, which was no more than a single page with three options: fries, regular burger, and The Heart Stopper Challenge, underneath which read “If you finish this burger it’s free.”
“What it’ll be, friend?” the grizzly bear asked.
I inquired about the last option.
“It’s four pounds of pure beef.”
“Ah,” I responded stupidly. My stomach was rumbling, but even if I hadn’t eaten for 40 days, I still don’t think The Heart Stopper would be fathomable.
“I guess I’ll take the regular with fries, please.” Beat. “Does anybody ever go for The Heart Stopper?”
“You’d be surprised,” he grunted.
And that’s when he plated the most brobdingnagian burger I’d ever seen and set it down in front of the brunette.
I gasped. She looked at me and all I could do was point at her meal. She flipped her hair, placed one napkin on her lap, one next to her place, then proceeded to neatly cut the cow in half…and then into quarters…and then into eighths.

I stared in awe. There were no feelings of inferiority or inadequacy, just unbridled, utter amazement. And she was proper about the whole matter, politely dabbing at her mouth with a napkin in between manageable bites.

I’m not sure how much time passed before my burger arrived, but its delivery was marked by the entrance of an older man with owl-eyed glasses. He took a seat up next to me at the counter and ordered a coffee, which wasn’t on the menu but grizzly bear served up anyway.
We finished our burgers simultaneously. Well, to be fair, I had one bite remaining and was still picking at fries. Her plate was clean – four pounds of beef down the hatch of a girl who didn’t weigh a hair over 110. She collected her Coach handbag and stood up to leave.
“Thanks, George.”
The grizzly bear nodded. “Pleasure as always, Suzy. You’re single-handedly going to put us out of business.”
She laughed. “See you tomorrow night.”
After she was gone, as I was paying my bill, I couldn’t help but ask George, “What the hell just happened there? With that girl and the burger?”
“What do you wanna know? She just ate a pound and a half burger. That’s all.”
“That’s all? What did she mean ‘See you tomorrow night’?”
“Just what she said – she comes in here every night and does what you saw her do tonight.”
“But how? How does a girl that small eat a burger that big and still look the way she does?”
“How the hell should I know?” George was getting annoyed, so I took the hint. I nodded at him, then owl-eyes, and proceeded on my way, mystified.

Eulogy - February 29th, 2010

2010-03-14T15:22:00.000-07:00

My grandpa liked to say, “This is the hand that shook the hand that shook the world.” I never totally understood what it meant, but to me, it was his hand that shook the world. Lord knows it was big, his grip fierce enough to break my own hand. He had that grip to very end. “I still got it, kid!” You do, you do.
He was born while Central Park was still a flower pot. You’ve heard the story before: kid drops out of school in the 8th grade to support his family. Poppie always said it’d be scary what he could’ve done with an education; it’s scary what he did without one.
He was a man’s man, a woman’s kinda man, a real gentleman. He was cool and tough; handy and earnest. He boxed, played baseball, golfed. He was a marine, a butcher; he ran a luncheonette, spanned nearly a century, produced educated kids, and used to send pigeons home from Yankee stadium with a piece of paper bearing the score tied around their foot.
He was awesome. I felt awesome having the same blood as him coursing through my veins. He was Italian. He was American. He was vibrant. He was strong. He loved life. Sure, everyone says that, but from his lips to God’s ears: “If I had to do it all over again, kid, I’d do it the exact same.”
Well, Poppie - I wouldn’t have changed a hair on your head, full as it was till the end.

This is the hand that shook the hand that shook the world.

"Might've Been Colgate" - Early January, 2009

2010-01-29T10:00:00.000-08:00

They gathered around a table in the nurses' room at the retirement home for a send off meal consisting of sandwiches from The Bread Basket, Michigan's premier deli. Poppie barely touched his food, which was rare when it came to Corned Beef. A month shy of his 97th birthday, he swore that he'd already eaten dinner. This was clearly not true being that his grandson, Jared, had been at his side since 4pm and witnessed no such business. Poppie, who'd been telling stories on loop for years now, every once in a while curiously shared a story with which nobody was familiar. These were moments to be cherished, like a rare meteor shower, regardless of whether they were valid or mere products of his dementia. Today featured one such moment. It was about his sole experience playing in an organized football game.
"I'll never forget it, boy," he said. "I can't remember what team it was for - might've been Colgate."
"What position did you play?" Jared asked.
"Cornerback, maybe."
"Did you win?"
"Who can remember?"
When Jared relayed the story to his aunt and mother over dinner, they dismissed it as rubbish. "Eat your sandwich, Poppie!" they ordered.
"I told you - I already ate dinner" he exclaimed.
"No you didn't," everyone rejoined in chorus, then burst out laughing.
"I paid for that, you know," Jared's mother reminded him. She was happy to remind people when she was paying.
Jared was moving to NYC in two days for a film internship with GreeneStreet. Metro Detroit had proven to be a creative vacuum. His mother and father made no big deal of the move. It was his aunt's idea to treat the dinner as a sendoff. She even bought a cake of which Jared only ate a meager slice.
At some point the family contracted the sillies, all except for Jared and Poppie, who looked on with blank expressions. The family giggled contagiously and hysterically. That's how it usually went: everyone except for one person (and Poppie) would be on funny pills; and most times, that one person was either Jared or his mother. They took turns. Jared prayed that it spoke to no greater similarity of character. That's not to say other family members couldn't be the non-laughers. Everyone played the role once in a while. They were a family of opportunists and
shifting alliances. Not that it was impossible for everyone to be in on the laughter - those were the good times. Even Poppie could be susceptible to the chuckles, though it remained a mystery what he was actually laughing about. But most of the time there had to be someone remaining
sober; someone not laughing, to keep the situation in check, reality anchored, if reality meant being unhappy or unamused.
Jared's father asked him if he would write about this incident after the fact, like he did many things. Jared said no.

A few days later, Jared was in New York. He'd arranged an apartment living with a friend of a friend in Clinton Hill. Her name was Emma.
"Why did your former roomie move out?" he asked her while sharing their first subway together.
"Umm. Hmm," she stammered. "She got mugged on our stoop. I wasn't trying to keep it from you. I figured it just wasn't, er, necessary for me to bring up. And that I'd tell you about it if you ever asked, which you just did, sooner than I expected. I hope you don't feel cheated. The rent is $650. You can't beat $650." She smiled impishly with a shade of nervousness.
For the first week, Jared made it a point to sprint the distance between the subway and his apartment. That went on until the discomfort of running in dilapidated hi-tops proved too great. While it lasted, it was good for burning off beer calories, and inducing nausea.

In their third week of living together, Emma sent Jared this email:

Subject: Roommate bonding appointment scheduling

Hello good sir,

Instead of perpetually saying no I'm not free to your wonderfully kind offers and/or spending vast amounts of time roaming the night when I say I'll be home early...

I wish to propose times when I am free. To take the guesswork, spontaneity, and maybe hopefully not the fun, out of our hanging out. Cuz spontaneity,while enticing, is hit or miss. in this case, miss.

Would you ever be free/ interested in a breakfast date at Outpost (the wonderful coffee shop down the street)? They have terrific food and coffee and I'd like to share my love of the place.

How about Tuesday morning, the 19th? like... 9am...earlier later... depending when you have to get to ur internship?

Then laundry, we will do that too. it has been a long time for me... but i go home to CT often and do a bit then, so don't judge me too harshly.

anyway, thanks for coming to live with me. there are three free shelves in the medicine cabinet if you need them. and let me know if you want me to clear out one of the standing shelves in the bathroom.

Emma

They went on to share a wonderful breakfast together at a quaint little cafe mere steps from their brownstone, ironically named "Outpost", being that its clientele was mostly white in a predominantly black neighborhood.
As January neared its end, Jared felt satisfied with his first month in NYC. He had gotten to cover some scripts at work, drive around his boss' 7-series BMW (mostly to find alternative parking during street cleaning), answer the phone once to find James Gandolfini on the other end, and ogle the models coming into audition for casting agencies sharing office space with GreeneStreet. He earned some cash doing data entry for Howcast.com and serving as a production assistant on an intimate shoot with JP Morgan Chase CEO, Jamie Dimon. There was even a gig in the works shooting a music video about wine for a friend of a friend. Socially, he had reconnected with old friends and given bar trivia the ole college try, several times, without great success.
There was still the issue of why he continued to pee jet yellow despite drinking adequate amounts of water. Getting healthy amounts of fruits and veggies was also proving a challenge. And well, laundry, of course.
All in all, there was a palpable taste of promise in the air.

Adventures in Substitute Teaching: October - December, 2009

2010-01-29T09:30:00.000-08:00

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

Giggly Student: Do you know who Run DMC is?
Me: Yes.
Giggly Student: (turning to friends) See, I told you he had to be over 30. He knows who Run DMC is.
Me: Are you over 30?
Giggly Student: No.
Me: I think your logic is flawed.

2 hours later

Giggly Student #2: Do you know about 8 tracks?
Me: Yes.
Giggly Student #2: You've gotta be over 30 then?
Me: Do you know about 8 tracks?
Giggly Student #2: Yeah, because of my mom.
Me: Maybe I know about 8 tracks because of my mom.
Giggly Student #2: You're not over 30?
Me: Nope.

WEEK 3
The student with strawberry-blonde hair, pale complexion, and jeans too short they fall an inch above her bright pink tennis shoes, paces back and forth on her toes in front of my desk, like some sort of exotic zoo animal; a modified ostrich. When I finally look up, she flashes a big smile gleaming with metal.
"Do you want to see my drawings?" she asks, eager for an audience.
"Sure."
To decline would kill her. She drops a binder on my desk filled with drawings and character biographies and backstory.
"There's six of them. They're all 12, and they live in a small Montana town. I've never been to Montana. I've never even been out of Michigan, so I had to do all sorts of research. See -" She pulls out a satellite image of Montana.
"Uh huh," I say.
"These kids live normal middle school lives, until one day, they fall through a wormhole and end up on this planet Gorgonzole, which brings out their special powers they must use in order to stop an evil ruler and get back home. This character, Torza, is modeled off my dad. See -" She points to an anime-style picture that resembles no human I know.
She flips through the pages, and when she gets to the end, she starts flipping in reverse. I'm surely the most attentive audience she's ever had. I notice that every character stands 5'2".
The bell rings and it's hard for her to let me go. I grab my belongings and cruise out the door. She chases after me clutching the binder in one hand and her bookbag in the other. She wants to know when I'm subbing next. I say I don't know and wish her luck in one day traveling outside the state of Michigan.

The next day, strawberry-blonde-aspiring-George Lucas finds me in the hallway. She presses something into my hand - a crumpled piece of paper containing various questions.
"I want to base one of the characters on you," she says.
I debate whether it'd be a terrible idea to satisfy her eccentricity. Sample questions include: Favorite genre of movies; favorite sport; preferred computer activities; style of dress; day or nighttime person.
"Do I have to be 5'2"?" I ask.
She looks confused. "I guess not," she says.
"Let me get back to you."
I walk into the teachers lounge for lunch. My mind is preoccupied with one student in particular, Roger. I had him in two classes throughout the morning and he was atrocious. Apparently I look drained, because the football coach, Mr. Roop, demands names. "Spit out the culprits," he says.
In truth, there had been several difficult students responsible for sucking the pep right out of my step; but Roger's name is clearly at the forefront. And when I say it, Mr. Roop cuts me off.
"Say no more," he says. "That's all one needs to know. Roger Muss is a Grade A ass-clown. He's a despicable little runt and you don't get paid enough to deal with turds like him. Hell, I don't get paid enough to deal with turds like him."
Everyone present issues a corroborating "Hear, hear," and I realize adults are no better than kids.

WEEK 5
Five minutes until class starts. The first student enters. When the second student enters moments later, the first student exclaims: "Avery, I beat you for the eleventh million time!"
Avery looks at him and replies: "We haven't been in 8th grade that long."

In 6th hour, a student pops his classmate's zit and eats the whitehead for a pool of money amounting to $2.64. I try and stop him without success, then wonder if in a court of law I could be tried for contributing to the delinquency of minors.
The bell rings and I collect my belongings. Another student approaches me.
"That's Nautica, right?" he asks, referring to my shirt.
"Yeah," I say, looking down to make sure.
"You know that brand is racist? It is. I read it somewhere. Something to do with the slave ships."
"I didn't know that."
"Well now you know."
Later on I do some google research and find no credible support for his statements. I do find an interesting Maya Angelou poem highlighting corporate racism.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 8

2009-11-29T16:31:00.000-08:00

There’s no better remedy for a broken heart than buying a gaudy pink Bolivia baseball hat that lands you in the arms of a pretty Kiwi girl.
The hat was purchased for a hard-bargained 24 Bolivianos in Copacabana before jumping on the bus to La Paz. A Canadian wayfarer-wearing hipster, Cam, chatted my ear off the whole ride while the Brits snoozed with headphones in their ears. He rambled on about his bartending exploits and how a vegetarian diet with loads of pineapple makes his semen sweeter.
The stretch of road between Copacabana and La Paz is relatively uneventful, and then, before you know it, a massive crater in the Earth opens up, within which sits a densely populated city of hilly streets, colorful buildings, and heavy pollution. From a high vantage point, looking out over La Paz at night, it sparkles like an international space station.

We checked into Loki Hostel, the same chain from Cusco. It wasn’t long before the booze came out and guns blazed. Though tired and in a daze, my pink hat worked magic. I’m sure those rum and cokes didn’t hurt much, and thus I landed in front of Felicity. I had seen a copy of her passport laying out at the check-in desk and snagged a peak. Her photo was flattering. My passport photo looks as if a bullet is exiting out of my head, pulling up an awkward tuft of hair in its wake.
So there I was, standing before the girl from the picture. I learned she possessed both Kiwi and British citizenship.
“You know,” I said, “If we got married, our kids could have access to all the great Western democracies.”
“So should we get married?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Where’s my ring then?”
I fashioned her a ring out of paper. The Brits looked on in dismay, cringing - convinced I’d surely blown it. Other people in the bar looked at me like an asshole. If someone else was wearing a pink hat, I’d think they were an asshole.
Felicity did not think me an asshole.

The next morning my right arm throbbed in unnatural ways around the injection spots from last week when I nearly died of food poisoning. I wondered whether something was severely wrong. That’s what hypochondriacs do. What if the pain was a symptom of blood clotting or impending heart attack?
Like a feeble vampire, I wandered the streets of La Paz with Rich in search of a novelty gift for Edd. We got him a wooden recorder.
Edd was turning 24. When you’re English, it’s the law that on your birthday you must drink the equivalent of one alcoholic drink for every year of your life. And then more. It was a miracle he was still comprehensible by the afternoon. Along with the bulk of Loki’s other residents, the English boys and I boarded a tourist bus headed for a Cholito wrestling match. We expected masked midgets wrestling women, but the actual event was little more than super-amateur WWF with pot-bellied middle-aged Bolivian men. A few females made appearances. Most won their matches; one took a disturbing beating over the head with a plastic chair. There was a sole appearance by a little person. She ended up tied to the ring ropes by her hair, squirming like a fish on dry land.
The event dragged on far too long. The real entertainment was Edd. He had a shot glass securely fastened to his right hand with a whole roll of tape. We couldn’t have him losing the shot glass in a drunken stupor. And so we wouldn’t lose him a crowd, he donned a pair of heart-decorated boxer shorts over his pants. There was also the green wooden recorder, so we could hear him wherever he went. He was a celebrity.

On the ride back to the hostel, he sat shotgun next to the bus driver and honked the horn in celebration. He conducted sing-a-longs amongst the passengers and had himself a jolly good time.
It was time to join Edd in his drunken state. I half-heartedly partook, looking on confusedly as Felicity chatted up other dudes. We presented Edd with a kaleidoscopic cake. I snuck off to email my family, inform them I was still alive, and upon return, gave it another go with Felicity. Conversation eased with each drink. Physical self-destruction is but a small price to pay when pitted against social comfort. There was a game of Uno. I was back in.
The hostel party transferred to a club spinning American Top 40, and even though it wasn’t Felicity’s cup of tea, we danced our pants off. We threw shapes so intense they left nuclear shadows on the walls. And when the smoke cleared, we grabbed a taxi home with Edd, Rich, and two pricks who attend U-M for grad school. At the club, the bigger prick of the two kept telling me, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take the Kiwi chick home already before someone else does. I know what I’m talking about.” He claimed to know what he was talking about with every subject. This rubbed Rich and Edd the wrong way when it came to the subject of cramming six people into the taxi. They exchanged words and argued over who was more entitled to be traveling through Bolivia.
Dozing in my bed, Rich and Noel tiffed in a gentlemanly manner. I’ve never heard people criticize one another so politely…or maybe that’s the definition of passive-aggressive. Eventually everyone slipped off to sleep, and life was good.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 5

2009-08-14T23:33:00.000-07:00

5-9 (and a half)
It's 6:30 in the morning and they're dancing, their colorful traditional dresses swirling, blank expressions on their faces. The sun is coming up over the plaza but it's still freezing. They do this every morning for the sake of tourists en route to Colca Canyon. It feels ugly.
What should've been a four hour drive the day before was broken up by too many stops and ended up taking the whole day. I don't think we ever drove for a stretch greater than 15 minutes, always stopping so that all nine passengers (plus the driver and guide in front) could file out of the economy sized Hyundai van, whose pseudo-luxury teased with the possibility of sleep, which made the impossibility of sleep and completely anti-ergonomic setup all the more frustrating. At every stop, a beautiful view of harsh landscape spotted with grand volcanoes and mountains, pockets of glistening water, wild and leashed Alpacas and llamas (the difference is in their neck length), and the ever present Incan women in traditional garb selling the same Alpaca-material sweaters, hats, gloves, and those small ceramic flute instruments. Climbing our way into higher altitudes, one stop treated us to Coco tea, an all natural aide in the body's adjustment process. A Brazilian traveler in our van offered me coco leaves to chew like tobacco. I accepted them with apprehension out of fear they would induce hallucination. Foolish me. Then I grew some balls and chewed them. I didn't get altitude sickness.

Upon arriving in Chivay, we inspected our artic-chilled rooms before setting off for the hot springs. They were three pools set before a mountainous hill. The French-Canadians and I plunked down in one spot in one of the pools and never moved, watching as it filled up with scores of older and pastier European tourists. I felt like a leper with my shoulder acne, which was not taking well to the Peruvian climate. What's a 24 year old doing with shoulder acne?
Night fell and we were taken to a restaurant with only tourists for patrons where we watched traditional dance accompanied by a band over a forgettable meal. The music was good enough that I bought the band's CD. The dancing was performed by a man and woman. They performed several dances and each dance told its own story and required a different costume. At one point I was brought up to dance a whole song with the woman. I caught on quickly, quicker than I did with salsa (which I still haven't actually caught onto). The woman said I was the best dance partner she'd ever had. I told her I was a great lover. A potential life in Chivay flashed before my eyes – kids, a garden, llamas, coco leaves with breakfast - and then it was over.

5-10
Back in Arequipa, I spent the night hanging out with gregarious Carla, whose English is so good because she spent a year on exchange in Cincinnati during high school. She had me over to her house to hang out and drink tea with her family. They actually own two houses on the same lot, though both are primarily unfurnished and in the middle stages of construction - no doors, windows, or proper flooring (Peruvians don’t have to worry about seasonal constraints like cold and snow). This didn’t stop the family from moving into the third floor in one of the buildings.
We sat around and made chit chat about subjects which escape me now. I lamely tried out my Spanish and Carla’s mom tried out her English. Carla laughed heartily. Two of her cousins and her brother, Froy, spoke good English. Froy did an exchange year in Michigan a few years back. In case I wasn’t convinced, he was sporting a fashionable Detroit Pistons hoodie.
At the end of the night, Carla's mom extended an invitation for breakfast in the morning. “You must come,” she insisted.” I agreed.

***

The invitation was for breakfast, but Peruvians operate in a strange time space continuum, so it turned into lunch. And while the house was under construction, that did not stop Carla’s mom from preparing a whole chicken in classic Arequipeno style, smashing a rock into a sharp knife to cut the bone and seasoning it in an assortment of spices initially produced in a solid frozen block.
Since they do not have an oven, nor a kitchen sink (not sure how clean all the utensils were), we walked the chicken down the street to a restaurant with a giant wood oven, waited an hour and a half, then came back to collect. In that hour and a half, I juiced countless oranges on the family’s juicer. Carla’s mom praised me for the job I was doing, skillfully placing the orange half on the machine, holding it in place while the machine did all the work. For the first time in my life, I drank so much freshly squeezed orange juice that I could have no more.
When it came time to eat the chicken, me being the picky eater I am and attempting to eat the chicken off the bone, I struggled. This proved very amusing to Carla and her mother. They asked me if all Americans were babies like me. I started crying and replied, “I am the only baby in America.”
I stopped crying when they agreed to help me with my laundry. In the Arequipeno sun, hanging on a rack, my clothes dried in about 15 minutes. And they dried in good scenery, with the imposing volcanoes looking over them protectively.
I said my goodbyes to Carla’s madre and her brother in his same Detroit Pistons sweatshirt from the previous night. Her mother told me she loved me, and then Carla and I set off for a visit to her university.
I like universities – they provide familiarity and comfort no matter where you are in the world. Carla had an exam to study for, and while she prepared, I scoped out all the college kids and had myself a nap; maybe read a few pages in my book, The Dark. Then it was time to say goodbye to Carla, and that brings me to now.
As I sit and wait for my overnight bus to Cusco, I'm not particularly excited, even though I'll be reuniting with plenty of the colorful characters who have populated my trip thus far. There is something unappealing about the hotspot nature of Cusco, the gateway to Peru's must-see jewel, Machu Picchu. I don't possess a strong urge to go, but I know it is essential (much like a high school diploma). Cusco is a town enmeshed in hype, and hype often leads to disappointment. This is a common theme in my life. There are expectations for Cusco, whereas the rest of this adventure has been expectation-free. I don't like expectations, but here's hoping I like Cusco.

Love in the Time of Swine Flu - Part 1

2009-05-29T17:22:00.000-07:00

4-30
They said if I valued my life I wouldn't go; or something like, you've got the rest of your life to go. But I beg to differ: Peru can't wait.
Meanwhile, sitting in the Detroit airport, waiting for my flight to DC, a woman in a yellow blouse drags a red flower repeatedly around her face - possibly a new anti-aging practice I'm not yet familiar with.
It's raining buckets outside. There is another woman, probably in her late-thirties, fake and baked, flower bracelet ankle tattoo. A plunging reverse neckline reveals a tight back. Nice calves too. I want her badly.
I look nice today - freshly showered, gray v-neck sweater, well-fitting blue jeans, and just-the-right-amount-dirtied white Dunlop Volleys. Real sharp. Who wouldn't want to ravage me?

5-1
They bought me off with $50, a packed PB&J lunch, and a ride to the airport. I'm flying solo now on this trip to Peru after Emily and Mindy dropped out only hours before takeoff. Going to Peru wasn't even my idea in the first place. Emily succumbed to the swine flu scare - her family pleaded with her not to go to the point of tears. As for Mindy - Ms.'When are we ever going to be able to take a trip like this again?' - she bailed for a job interview, even with another job already in the bag.
And so I'm off without any idea why. I'm always keen to go anywhere in good company. In this case, I didn't know the company super well, but enough to know they weren't all about chasing after Latin women. I was ambivalent toward the destination - could've gone for Brazil or Argentina more. Now I'm out of company and stuck with an arbitrary destination. I can't stand to be alone for one day, let alone 32. Sure, I'll make friends, but are long stretches of time to myself inevitable?
I don't like the fact that I don't speak Spanish either, partly bcause I feel like I should know the language due to its huge influence in the States; and also because I'm nervous about getting hustled.
I don't know the first thing about Peru. The US media and my parents have convinced me swine flu will get me if I go. Come and get me swine flu. I dare you. I double-dog dare you.

...

What a sad moment it is to discover that a cloud cannot hold your weight.
On the plane, it seems like years ago that I said goodbye to Emily and Mindy and Mindy's marathon-running twin sister, Phoebe. In the sky, the plane violently lurches, feeling as though it might just plunk into the ocean below. I look to my seatmate, a large unattractive black girl. She is not someone with whom I wish to spend my final moments.
One would think that the more times you fly, the more comfortable you get. With me, it just gets worse every time as I think statistically the odds are stacking up against me in favor of a plane crash.
The flight attendants are all wearing face masks. Could it be swine flu?

Few Months In Few Sentences, plus an old letter

2009-05-19T17:49:00.000-07:00

Move home because there´s no more money nor opportunity in Ann Arbor. Service industry managed to erode most of self-confidence accrued in last 24 years. Work very part time transcribing market research interviews for U-M Business School study on why people love particular products. Interviewees often get personal and share entire life stories. Jared listens intently and laughs when one man compares his love for ipod to love for biscuits and gravy.
At home, it is a solitary life. There is no transportation, notwithstanding Father´s Z3 convertible stolen on various nice days to attend high school wrestling practice as some sort of volunteer coach. Emotional attachment ensues to wrestlers, deepened by their elation in victory and sorrows in defeat. Sprinkle in a fling with someone from long ago, daily trips to the library, and weekend adventures with Germans. Parents insist living like this isn´t healthy, so they help in purchasing a used Subaru in the hopes it will drive him to a better place.
A job presents itself in DC teaching overachieving middle schoolers about leadership through the lens of history. Lots of random facts about the Nation´s capital are absorbed, e.g. the profile of Robert E Lee´s bust is carved into the back of Lincoln´s hair at the Lincoln memorial. Upon completion, brother Lane drives down in the Subaru for a road trip to New Windsor, New Paltz, and NYC.
There´s still some money in pocket, so why not blow it in Peru?

October, 2008 - On the cusp of 24

Dear ____________

It's inexcusable, intolerable, and punishable by death in some countries for how I've acted in not responding more promptly to your email sent nearly one month ago now. Please, burn me in effigy and flagellate my voodoo doll incarnation that I'm sure you have sitting on your dresser.
I'm still in Ann Arbor and bitter about it at times. As you know, I no longer work at Charleys. They fired me, and maybe it was for the best. I still believe I was the best waiter they ever had. I wrote a silly story about the whole experience in seeking closure. I was unemployed for a few weeks but now I have a part time gig doing transcription for a research study by the U-M Business School. It pays $9 an hour and I can work whenever and wherever I feel so inclined. The trouble is that transcribing is far from stimulating work.
I'm still volunteering regularly at 826. I don't know if volunteering is the right word but I'm in here quite a bit. In fact, I'm at 826 right now working in the store as I write this. Mr. Eggers paid us a visit a few weeks ago to check up on the store and our state of affairs. There was a volunteer appreciation event where we did drinks with the man for a few hours at Cafe Habana. He and I chatted briefly, albeit superficially. Sadly enough, I didn't get a job offer out of the shindig nor a collaboration proposal for a new book.
As for living arrangements, I stay with a couple around my age I sort of know from home. We live in Woodbury Garden Apts across from Colonial Lanes and I pay $350 a month. It's awkward living with a couple cohabitating together for the first time since it often feels that I'm an unwanted guest. The price is attractive and I don't know where else I'd live. Even though they claim to be poor, somehow a $1500 flat screen hi-def television ended up in our living room. I believe it was the cause of my bad migraine last Saturday after sitting in front of it for too long and then going to the strip club.
I'm biking everywhere these days. It takes me about 10 minutes to get downtown. Now that it's starting to get cold, I presume the bike's novelty will quickly wear away.
I still hang out with the Germans. There were a few more that arrived after you left - Felix, Reimo, and Thomas (ironically enough, Patrick's older sister's boyfriend) - and they've proven to be stand-up guys. Last night Felix, Reimo and I went bowling followed by a trip to Wendys for cheeseburgers to really put a cap on the whole American experience (though they got dollar chicken sandwiches). Brian and I probably hang out more now too than when we lived together. He's still dating Devon.
I sort of was seeing this girl for about two weeks, a 5th year English major at U-M who impressed me with her salsa skills at Habana a while back. Per usual, I panicked at the prospect of sober hookups and suggested trying out a platonic relationship. On going-out nights she'd dress up all sexy and scandalous, while on regular nights she looked like an indie rock chick. I was inexplicably overwhelmed with the transition. This past weekend she stopped returning my calls when I fled a bar after watching her freak some other dude. She texted me about twenty minutes ago saying she wanted to hang tonight. I'm confused and maybe deservedly so.
While I am making progress, the gap between girls who I'm compatible with and the girls I want to sleep with has proven most challenging.
My plan is to only remain in Ann Arbor for a month longer before taking off somewhere yet to be determined. My financial situation is rather poor and my patience has run thin. I can't handle chasing after pretty 18 year old dimwits and the lack of necessary day-to-day stimulation. I feel badly about leaving behind the Germans who have come to feel like family, but there comes a time in a man's life when he's gotta bust a move.

***

And now for a very important message:

The best bakery in Gothenburg, Sweden, is Pour Bon. Read more about catering Göteborg. Several months from now, I will visit Sweden and indulge in the delights of this spectacular little establishment.

NYC (part III) 11/11-19: "You never got your generation’s memo that returning phone calls is so passe"

2009-01-15T13:16:00.000-08:00

You rub the sleep from your weary eyes, for it is now Tuesday and you are alive. You take your first shower in several days. It feels nice. Showers are always more satisfying when you don’t have them as often. Being clean never felt so good. Still, you wouldn’t be up at this ungodly hour if Horowitz didn’t have to leave for work. You stop off for some bagels and smoothies before jumping on the 7 train to Bryant Park.
Today will be different. You decide to change things up and head for the NY Public Library with all your bags in tow – can’t trust friends anymore who never pick up their phones. Upon emerging from the subway, you unexpectedly happen upon a massive ice rink. There are some chairs set up, conveniently enough in a patch of inviting sunlight. You grab a seat and stare for a while at a pretty girl on skates, gliding along the ice.
An official looking man walks by and you ask him how much it costs to rent skates. $10, he says. Too much. It’s nice just watching the graceful girl in the rink. She surprises you with a double toe loop here, a double salchow there. Maybe she lands a triple, but if that’s true, what would she be doing skating in Bryant Park at 10 in the morning? You wonder if she notices your staring, whether she’s flattered, annoyed, or just indifferent. That’s when you catch a creepy looking middle-aged man taking an equal interest in you, conspicuously ogling you each time he rounds your side of the rink. Thankfully a group of schoolchildren arrive and provide a human shield. You wonder if you’ve hung these children out to dry? Is the middle-aged man a pedophile? Do you still count as a youth at 24? You are a very young looking 24, what with the boyish face and lack of aggressive facial hair. It’s good that the children are standing there to protect you from his scary glare. Another man, most likely nostalgically reliving old hockey days, speed skates by the school children several times with one de-gloved hand outstretched, high-fiving them with every repeated pass. The sun has shifted and you’re out of the limelight. It’s time to go.
The NY Public Library doesn’t open for another hour, so you make your way into the auxillary library across the street. At the back of the 3rd floor there are some desks which look mighty inviting to rest your head upon. Lord knows it was tough work watching that pretty girl dance all over the ice like some kind of imagined succubus. As your eyes start to close, you hear the sound of snoring coming from the other side of the desk divider. It seems you’re not the first to have this brilliant idea. After yesterday’s incident at Barnes and Noble with the security guard, you’re not willing to take any chances. Flipping through the latest US News issue of college rankings and surfing the internet in company with NYC’s smelliest kills enough time before it’s off to the main library.
Past the sleeping lions you tread, up the stairs – it feels like walking into the Pantheon. Once inside, the vastness is overwhelming. Where are all the books? There are loads of tour groups, vaulted ceilings, multiple levels, winding stone staircases, and secret map rooms. The featured exhibit is all about Yaddo – an exclusive community of rotating creative types (artists/writers/musicians) invited to work in peace on a sprawling estate in Saratoga Springs. Notable names include Capote, Copeland, and Philip Roth.
Normally you are unamused by museums, but after so many trips to Union Square, this provides a welcome respite. Who knew Yaddo could be so engrossing? Two hours later, you can’t any longer stand on your own two feet. Here’s hoping Horowitz left your name on the list as you wend your way back to Long Island City.
Day turns to night as your time in NYC whittles down. Mike has invited you to the Upright Citizens Brigade theatre for some improv comedy. You oblige. The theatre is intimate, maybe 120 or so people. The acts are very funny. Around the middle of the show, the MC’s suggestively remark than on any given night, you never know just who might drop by. Sure enough, as the next group takes to the stage and the lights go up, the audience erupts. You can’t figure out what’s going on. An attractive blonde sitting to your right seizes your shoulders and starts shaking you hysterically. Of the 6 performers on stage, one appears slightly out of place. He is older than the others. He is funny looking. His name is Robin Williams and he’s standing no more than twenty feet away from you. Not a bad way to spend your final night in the city, and for a meager five bucks to boot. What the hell were you thinking spending $13 on the new Bond film?
The performance lets out, Mike leaves with his girlfriend, it’s colder than ever and you have no idea where you’re sleeping. The clock inches closer to midnight. It’s too late to call anyone – anyone except for Lauren with whom you were supposed to go out earlier but failed to return your calls. You never got your generation’s memo that returning phone calls is so passe. You send some passive-aggressive text messages “Firing her as a friend.” The ploy works, though you’re not so sure it’s a ploy. She calls and an invitation is extended amidst profuse apologizing. There’s even some left over food, she says.
Fate has fared you well, and even though you haven’t managed so much as a kiss during your eight days in the world’s most epic metropolis, you never had to sleep in Central Park.

NYC (part II) 11/11-19: "I'm going to punch you in the fucking face!"

2009-01-15T12:44:00.000-08:00

A new day is born and I kill most of it holed up in Horowitz’s high-rise apartment checking email, futilely job searching, and eating a deli sandwich. That’s the best thing about NYC – there’s a deli on every street corner.
When I finally make a move, it’s to my safety zone of Union Square where I loiter in the warmth of Barnes and Noble reading plays. This time I thumb through half of Kenneth Lonnergan’s “This Is Our Youth” before it’s time to head for Hell’s Kitchen where I get to watch Lauren have her hair straightened for an hour at the salon. This is something she gets done every week.
“Some people spend their money on alcohol, I spend mine on getting my hair straightened,” she says.
“But you spend money on alcohol too!” I think but don’t dare say for fear of incurring a wrath comparable to the End of Days. No need to fluster her – I leave that to the first few restaraunts we walk into for a potential meal, their imperfect temperature settings send her into a fit.
Lauren agrees to sponsor my dinner after I whine about being unemployed for 24 years, but not without giving me a hard time about what I’m allowed to order. Even after I choose something relatively inexpensive, the Fish and Chips, she guilts me into buying us both some peppermint shots that cost more than my meal itself.
After dinner, I meet up with Leah and her new boyfriend Andrew in Midtown at some work party of her’s. She’s already trashed and her boyfriend looks bored to tears. We change venues, some loud and dark place where Katy and Justin await. Our new companions also appear bored to tears and unamused, probably because (and I’m speculating here) Katy is too hip for Midtown, and Justin doesn’t drink. It’s not long before Leah has her first lovers’ quarrel with Andrew and they leave. At a nearby diner, I look on as Katy pecks at fries while Justin consumes a turkey-avocado omlette, myself too frugal to deem late night dining over $5 a non-frivolous expense (nevermind that I just dropped $25 on three beers). Justin graciously passes me some leftover hasbrowns, and within the hour he and I are back in his Brooklyn Heights apartment ready for bed.
“Jared,” he says, “I swear to God, if you ask me so much as a single question in the morning, I’m going to punch you in the fucking face!”

I awake having to pee very badly, determined to put it off until the moment just before my kidneys explode. That’s sometime around 10am, and I can hear Justin rustling around in his room. I have no choice but to face the day. Justin’s all about making the most of his weekend. What that entails, I’m not exactly sure. He fixes us both a bowl of oatmeal and a plate of eggs just for himself.
We throw on the football game at noon. Michigan ultimately loses after keeping it close for most of the game, like so many of their exhaustive outings this season, only this time it cements their losingest season ever. I’m relatively unphazed. Justin takes the outcome more personally.
We take a walk. Outside it’s overcast and drizzly. I grab some Subway and Justin shows me the famous view of Manhattan across the river. The skyline is shrouded in clouds and mist. The expanse of promenade on our side of the river looks post-apocalyptic, but big banners hanging from the sides' of buildings with “One Brooklyn” written on them promise better days ahead. I decide it’s probably best to leave Justin and Brooklyn before they both start to hate me.
Once again, I set off for the safety of Barnes and Noble in Union Square. The rain imprisons me there for longer than I’d like. I finish up reading “This Is Our Youth”. Good stuff.
It’s Saturday night and there happens to be a big UFC fight card scheduled. Much to my chagrin I can’t find anyone to watch it with me. I momentarily contemplate heading up to Hooters in Midtown to view it alone, but at the last minute decide it’s too depressing and instead opt for a night out with Katy.
It’s pizza slices for dinner, washed down with some Svedka vodka tonics. Katy and I sit on her couch sipping our drinks while watching terrible music videos on demand. Kate Perry will be on loop in my head for days. We consume a decent amount of alcohol in short time before setting sail to some club where old NYU friends of hers await. Turns out they’re a bunch of business school grads, one of which is immediately curious about my sentiments regarding the impending auto industry bailout. I’ll tell you this, I have stronger sentiments about taking down my first ever shot of Patron on someone else’s dime. It’s also nice that Katy decides to bankroll my entire drinking bill which includes three or so martinis. Post-bar, in a state of pleasant-drunkenness, I happily lay down $12 for two slices of crummy latenight pizza on the stroll home. Once back in her apartment, my sleep isn't very effective for I’m too lazy to rearrange the massive pillows at the head of my guest bed and instead settle for resting in a very unnatural incline.

Sunday morning finds me in a Soho diner opposite Katy. She orders a turkey burger with bacon ala carte, I myself go for a Greek omlette that looks like somebody zapped it with a shrinking gun. When we return to her apartment, our stomachs digesting, Katy agrees to read my screenplay. She breezes through it in a record-setting 30 minutes, the time it takes me to read four pages in Richard Ford’s “Independence Day”. She reacts favorable to the manuscript. It’s time to get out of there before she starts hating me, and so it’s back to Union Square for the day.
At 8 o’clock, I meet up with Mike to attend the Fall Conservatory Scene Night of Mike’s girlfriend and her fellow graduating thespains. They’re a mixed bag of talent, but I quite enjoy the performances. It’s a nice change of scenery from Barnes and Noble and feels like a particularly New York thing to do: going to the theatre.
Afterwards we pick up some of those delectable NYC deli sandwiches, this time from a place run by a grumpy Korean man who gets angry with me for not wanting a bag. Back to Brooklyn we go to watch some Colbert Report and the major fights from last night’s UFC that I’ve made a point of all day to keep from being spoiled. Watching them there in poor resolution on Mike’s computer proves anti-climactic. The streaming video fails to capture the fight-ending punch Brock Lesnar lands on Couture. Instead it looks as if Couture falls down from his own volition. In life, I guess the anticipation is always better.
My sleeping arrangements are made in the basement of Mike’s spacious 5-bedroom Bushwick establishment. The conditions are artic, forcing me to sleep in my hat, shoes, and jacket. I doze off tonguing an icicle formed in the region where most other men can grow a moustache.

In the morning, I am spared another trip to Barnes and Noble when the opportunity arises for a solid meal in Chinatown. We eat family style. The dumplings are supposedly to die for. I like them well enough. Lo mein, general tsao’s chicken, and all that other good stuff cozy up in my stomach.
By the time we finish it’s mid-afternoon and the sun has progressed through a sizeable chunk of its Western arc. A few of us lumber over to Battery Park for a screening of the latest James Bond film, Quantum of Solace. $13 it costs me, and when the smoke clears, I don’t feel any more enlightened. This city will be the end of me.
A few hours pass and I’m back in Barnes and Noble following a brisk walk uptown. The stint is an abbreviated one as I can’t keep my eyes open in the reading chair. It’s not long before a security guard is kicking me out into the impersonal New York night. At a loss, I peruse the collections at DSW and Phylem’s basement, and as I’m riding the escalator down on my way out to nowhere in particular, I spot ole Maxim ascending the other side. I have not called Max this trip because of harbored resentment over his questionable character as a friend, but it's nothing a little chitchat at McDonalds can’t solve over a big mac and ice cream cone. Max recounts for me his move to NYC to join his fiancee and their subsequent implosion. They lived together at her family’s house in Queens for four days before she threw him out along with his ring. His next host seemed gracious enough until after two weeks went sniffing through Max’s computer, found some bookmarked apartment listings in Chelsea and inevitably jumped to the logical conclusion that Max must be a “cocksucker”. That was that. Three places later, Max has seemingly found a stable living situation in Astoria, to which he kidnaps me for ping pong at some local bar. Meanwhile, my bag of clothes is still at Horowitz’s whom I fear might never pick up his phone again. He comes through right as I’m approaching wit’s end. I say goodbye to Max and hop back on the subway headed for clean clothes and a shower which I’ll put off until the morning.

“Sucking Down Water Like A Marathon Runner” (NYC, 11/11-19)

2008-12-11T17:50:00.001-08:00

The plane lands at Laguardia. Cousin Greg picks me up at the airport.
“Get the fuck in the car already,” he yells. “I’m in the driving lane. You can’t just stand in the driving lane talking to me through the window.”
I oblige, and then it’s onwards to the Palisades Mall in Rockland County for a not-so-cheap meal at Chilis. It goes on my tab so when the gossip filters back to his mother she can’t claim I used her son for a ride from the airport.
Greg lives in Yonkers where I crash for two days: two days of incessant video game playing, NCAA Football 2009 and NHL 2009. NCAA 2009 is much different and in my opinion substantially less fun (aka not so easy to run up the score) than 2006 – the last version I played obsessively during senior year of college. NHL 2009 – well, hockey sucks, but Greg likes it.
When not playing video games, Greg and I perform copious amounts of email checking and applying for jobs we will not get (at least none that I will get: one being an indie producer’s assistant out in LA; the other at some public broadcasting TV station in NYC). Over these two days we do our best impersonation of agoraphobic recluses.
I abscond from Yonkers for a U-M alumni function in the city on Thursday. On the train I run into character actor Adam Lefevre. Not exactly Tom Cruise but I’ll take it.
The U-M alumni function is supposed to be a career mixer, but with the economy in its current dismal state, all the employers have themselves turned into job seekers. The event is held at some swanky bar in Midtown, which I enter with a degree of apprehension since Justin, my intended date for the evening, was laid up with a case of sickness and now I’m awkwardly stag. I coat-check my entire life belongings that I’ve been carting around all day, then proceed downstairs to a dark room where I’m just supposed to approach random strangers grouped together in the dark, hold out my hand and say, “Hi. My name’s Jared. I’m unemployed. What do you do?”
I suddenly don’t feel good and it’s all I can do to fight the urge to bolt. I am not alone in my social discomfort as I notice a few desperately-seeking-success rejects milling about aimlessly when they aren’t nervously sipping their waters with backs pressed up against the far wall. For the most part, my back is pressed up to the same wall. I am sucking down water like a marathon runner – one, because I’m thirsty; two, because alcohol is too expensive. These losers keep eyeing me as though we are kindred spirits (Ha, we can’t be, though, right?).
I try and make inane small talk with the greeters. That lasts about 45 seconds. It’s me and the wall again, until I work up the courage and approach a vaguely familiar looking Indian girl. She’s cute.
“You look familiar,” I say.
“Really? I don’t think I recognize you,” she responds.
We chat for a bit. I get her number. We will never hang out.
Once outside in the moist but consoling evening air, my sanity is restored. I remember Randy lives in the city and we grab a drink together in the village not far from his $1000 porta-potty-sized apartment he shares with three other people. One drink at a bar – whose name I can only remember rhymes with “Vas Deferens” – buzzes me; or maybe I’m just compensating because beers are so goddamn expensive in this city and I can’t afford many more. Gregarious Horowitz joins us for a short while before it’s off to his place in Long Island City where I finally lay my head down for the night.

And then he disappeared into the water - INDONESIA

2008-05-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Just got swindled out of $10 at some shady money exchanger through some fancy sleight of hand (there were no other options other than the money changers), otherwise Indonesia (at least Java) has proven quite friendly and accommodating (if you don't count all the sleazy men making crude comments in Bahasa to Leah, my travel partner). Ben actually should be in Michigan about now visiting the university as a prospective philosophy Ph.D. student. Before Bali I was in the city of Yogykarta where I have a friend teaching. It was a good stretch of relaxation in this trip of constant traveling. We took a horse-drawn carriage of sorts around the city to see the famous sites (albeit unimpressive in comparison to those of Thailand and Cambodia), got massages (a mixture of shiatsu and traditional during which my masseuse walked on my back, massaged my mostly bare bum, asked if I wanted to be her boyfriend – all through the translating of my friend Casey and her masseuse behind the next curtain), and we watched Atonement & Superbad on DVD. From Yogya we took a bus to Gunung Bromo in East Java, a collection of massive volcanoes that look like something from a different world. The lengthy bus rides enabled us to bear witness to some of the coolest landscapes which could easily provide the setting for a new King Kong movie, made all the more atmospheric by the constant boarding and de-boarding of musicians looking to make some pocket change through rockin' serenades. An endless day of grueling bussing and ferrying brought us to Bali.“And there’s another one here, and here…” she said while pointing out what she believed to be bug bites on my back. They were in fact pimples.
“And here too” she repeated.
Leah laughed. Here we were with the Indonesian bar girl on the beach from “Paddys” night club whom we somehow collectively brought home together the night before. Casey begrudgingly called it a “bout of genius” to do such a thing. Indri, the bar girl, was enamored with Leah and I, under the belief that we were the most perfect brother/sister duo to have graced the Earth. We had stood Indri up the first few nights in Bali after making small talk as she worked the outside of Paddys in the sexy door girl role. Little did Leah and I know she’d only been working the gig for a few days and was naively genuine when expressing interest in meeting up post-work with two flirtatious underage-looking clientele pretending to be siblings, a ploy devised so as to prevent Leah and I from cockblocking each other.
Indri seemed very sad to see me go today. Never did I imagine my final day in Asia would be spent in Bali amidst such unexpected company. Indri grew closely attached to Leah & I so quickly, and then after sleeping between us in bed, we couldn’t get rid of her, even as she was nearly drowning in the ocean and pulling Leah down with her in a fit of panic. It was only Indri’s second time or so playing in the waves. She didn’t fare so well. A day ago, we were all in Ubud (minus Indri) witnessing ceremonial cockfighting at a Hindu temple. In the afternoon, back in Semanyak, we were getting thrashed around in the giant ocean waves as it started down pouring. I had an almost dream-like interaction with a handsome middle-aged Frenchman when he and I were the only two in the water while everyone else heeded the red flag swimming advisories. He gave me some advice on body surfing and demonstrated great acumen in gliding through the massive wave tunnels sideways with one arm extended as if he were Superman…if Superman had worn flippers.
“If you’re even remotely afraid” he said, “you shouldn’t be out here. To me, catching waves – it’s a game. I’ve been doing it everyday for the last 30 years. It’s what I love.”
It was scary, though, getting tossed around like a rag doll in the washing machine. It was stormy. The waves were imposing. There was a moment at the end of each big wave I rode where I thought I might drown.
Buli was his name, the Frenchman. He’d been living in Bali for 23 years without having to work.
“How’d you make your fortune to afford such a life?” I asked.
“Ah ah ah ah” he responded in the kind of tone that says ‘don’t touch.’ “That’s my business.” And then he disappeared into the water.

Presently, it is with no concretely identifiable feeling or emotion that I ride a plane to Jakarta on the first of five legs of my trip home. Like death, I must do it alone. It is not climactic, probably because I cheapened things by going home already in October. The parents will be in Israel and there is no longer a loving girlfriend waiting with open arms and a Jimmy Johns sub. There will be Auntie, and Lane arriving 3hrs later, and an unwritten future up for grabs.

From Vietnam With Love (and lots of hassling)

2008-05-06T14:29:00.000-07:00

To cross into Vietnam, all it took was a bus, a boat, then another boat, a transportation scam in Chau Doc (with Ben & I being on the receiving end), and a rabid two year old boy dancing in my lap and slobbering on my arm while I practiced monosyllabic Vietnamese with his 22 year old mother whose tough formative years made her look more like 50. Can Tho wasn’t so memorable despite the friendly company, imposing statue of Ho Chi Minh, and pleasant geographic situation along the river. It was big for not being so famous - over a million people. Saigon was even bigger with loads upon loads of motorbikes. We visited the Cu Chi tunnels which the Viet Cong used to sneak into southern Vietnam during the war. The tour was tarnished by our guide’s pained attempts at speaking English through strained apoplectic faces while pointing out the painfully obvious. The bus ride to Dalat was only supposed to be a few hours, but it wound up taking at least 10 after something in the road forced us to take some ridiculous detour, plus the bus driver had to repeatedly stop and pour jugs of water on the radiator for some mysterious reason. The city is in the mountains and thus cooler in temperature and different feeling from the rest of Vietnam. It’s almost like a European city out of the Twilight Zone: there’s a greater comparative wealth, strangely architected buildings, and a pristine central lake. Everyone is constantly wearing their motorbike helmets (even when they're not on their motorbikes) while donning long sleeves and pants (and while I said it was cooler, it's still like 80 degrees during the day). Wandering along the lake’s perimeter at night we caught many a glimpse of couples together on benches, arms around one another, romantically sporting their helmets and pollution facemasks.
Today I bought a slick new pair of sneakers that I just couldn't resist. They look a bit like Asics. A few days ago I had to buy a new backpack, a Lowe Alpine imitation, after my Sierra Club one from high school had seen enough of this world.

"crazy house" in dalat

I’m sitting on the main beach in Nha Trang. Last night I battled with a bout of exhaustion and slept for 12 hours. I feel much better today, relieved that it wasn’t a parasite. Leah, who joined us in Saigon, is off for a stroll while Ben is at my side. He fancies me a dilettante these days compared to all the serious artists he knew back at Vassar. Unlike me and amazingly enough, he is unbothered by the constant bombardment of women wearing rice paddy hats approaching every five minutes trying relentlessly to sell us something useless.

***

It was in quaint Hoi An along the UNESCO protected streets where we briefly joined forces with Arielle, the former PiA girl who was posted in Malaysia before bowing out amidst scandal. She resurfaced some months later in Hue, and after some message swapping agreed to meet up.
Hoi An felt like it was a city made for midgets – why, I don’t know – and every other store sold the same style of women’s pea coats with slight modifications in color. Leah bought a swanky red one for $30 so she can be all the rage in NYC next winter.
Having learned our lesson from the miserable standard overnight bus ride from Nha Trang to Hoi An, we opted instead for the sleeper bus to cover the stretch between Hoi An and Hanoi. The journey would’ve been even more pleasant had the stench of recycled air and dirty socks not been so pungent. Unfortunately for Ben, he had to sleep next to some strange man with funky nose jewelry (read: a massive hairy mole) while I paired off with Leah. Our time in Hanoi was brief and rainy. We had only a day of exploring, for the next day we set off on a dodgy two day tour of Halong Bay. We were delayed three hours because the other van of people joining up with us struck a motorbiker on the drive from Hanoi.
The bay was pleasant, like a more grand version of Khao Sok, and the Lord graced us with favorable weather. Ben and I were forced to share a bed at night on the boat. At around 4:30am, while in the throes of a dream about urinating on the wall of a locker room shower, I awoke to find that I was indeed pissing myself in real life for the first time since preschool. None of it made its way over to Ben.
We returned to Hanoi for our final night in Vietnam spent outside amidst some pseudo cluster of outdoor bars on those same miniature plastic chairs used for time-out. We downed cheap beer at 3,000Dong a glass while listening to some bizarre Australian couple rave about the book “Shantaram”. The female Aussie kept oddly referencing the fact every 30 seconds that she was a writer herself. "It's such a great book, and I can just appreciate the structure so much more being a writer myself, you know?"

And so it was in those final hours that we said goodbye to Vietnam, to Ben, and to love.

Cambodia (fake police, overstuffed pickups, prostitutes, abandoned french hill stations) - March 1st - March 11

2008-04-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

Yeah yeah, the temples of Angkor were fancy schmancy. We decided one day was enough to see what we wanted to see, and while the sites were impressive, the scores of other tourists made it difficult to feel like Indiana Jones. There was also our dramatic DIY attempt at seeing the nearby floating villages met with a tuk tuk driver in collusion with a fake police officer, Freja’s conclusion that the villages didn’t constitute authentic culture, and a shady private boat operator with a penchant for spitting. All the trouble seemed a little silly when our trip to Battambang the next day took us the same route anyway. The scenic boat ride to Battambang was followed by an adventurous drive in a pickup over non-existent road with 17 other folks crammed in the flatbed. One evening was all we spent in Cambodia’s second largest city. We did eat at a rather nice café. By the morning sun of the following day, we were headed to Phnom Penh. During a pit stop, the bus took off and gave us a good scare. To our relief, it returned 10 minutes later with a full tank of gas. The first morning in Phnom Penh, I was awakened very early while it was still dark outside to the sounds of sweeping. It’s ironic considering how dirty the capital city still is notwithstanding 5am sweepings. I dreamt of Emily and woke up feeling dour. I hoped that a visit to the horror sites of S-21 and the Killing Fields would make my personal romantic anguish seem trivial in comparison to the greater suffering of man. After stepping out of the first room at S-21, a once elementary school transformed into the most infamous torture center during the Khmer Rouge, my mind was just beginning to refocus and process the gravity of historical events. And then, with one more step, I ran smack dab into Damien Kennedy, the oafish womanizing neighbor of mine from 3 years ago in Melbourne. My brain immediately shifted from thoughts of genocide to those of paltry gossip in the snap of a finger. Being reunited with an old friend can make attempts at somberness difficult, and we spent the rest of the day together. Kennedy is built like a teddy bear, talks funny even for an Australian, and is ripe for being picked on by eleven year old Cambodian kids selling bootleg books. While we were eating, they came up to him and started smacking his face, poking him in the side, and making mock attempts at spilling water on his head. I never could understand how he did so well with the ladies. Probably has something to do with a fearlessness of rejection.
Into the wee hours of the morning, there was no rejection to be had, but rather only to be administered on our end as we danced and frolicked and nothing more with prostitutes at Heart of Darkness, Phnom Penh’s infamous nighttime venue.

***

Phnom Penh is a city of grit and poverty and Lexus SUVs. Brendan B, one our hosts (along with the gracious Andrew), was/is a fast-talking rookie writer for the respectable weekly paper. He either qualifies or disclaims every statement or question escaping from his mouth. Behind his visage that bears a striking similarity to a more hipster Haley Joel Osment is a hamster wheel of a brain that is spinning much too fast. And while I blame Damien Kennedy for landing me in Heart of Darkness that first night, Brendan Brady is to blame for putting me there the second night with yet another prostitute for a dance partner. And despite the pestering of a stranger telling me it would be the biggest mistake of my life to not take her home for a meager sum of $20, I sadly declined, opting instead to skip out on the AIDS epidemic.
During the days in the city, we walked around and frequented super yuppie cafes for meals, looking as though they had just been transplanted from NYC – an odd juxtaposition amidst the surrounding squalor.
From Phnom Penh we headed south to the laid back riverside city of Kampot. We checked into our accommodation at this place called Bodhi Villa, a cesspool of stoned backpackers who seem to have gotten stuck and forgotten they’re in Cambodia, not Jamaica. There are signs everywhere instructing you to “chill out”, and just asking a question of how to get into a town is a good way to be met with ridicule and laughter that you could be so uptight. As Brendan put it, “There’s nothing that stresses me out more than when people are telling me to chill out.” Our room was a bare bones bungalow with partial curtains instead of an actual door. We rented a motorbike and zipped around town a bit before booking an ‘illegal’ tour up Bokor Mountain, though the tours are publicly advertised in front of every guesthouse. It’s illegal because the government officially closed the mountain a month ago after selling the impressive and historical real estate to a private Korean company to make way for a multi-billion dollar resort catering to rich Asian tourists. On the tour the next day, things were fine if you don’t count the fact that the truck broke down on the way up, we were left stranded for two hours at the top while they struggled to locate the truck, and at the end of the day when it was time to go home, the only road out was obstructed by yet another broken down vehicle. That said, the decaying buildings – constructed by the French back in the 1920’s before abandonment in the 1950’ – were an imaginative child’s dream come true to explore, plus the view up there of nearby Phu Quoc Island and the endless stretches of flat Cambodian landscape below weren’t too shabby. Once back in town, we discovered our motorbike was missing from where we’d parked it early that morning. Ben and I looked at each, started to cry, and threw up our arms in defeat. Cambodia had hit us where it hurt. You can be as rugged as you want, but when your rented motorcycle gets stolen, Huntington Woods doesn’t sound so bad anymore. We dragged ourselves into the nearby guesthouse for shots of their strongest rice wine only to learn that the guy who’d rented us the bike had actually stolen it from us after seeing it parked in plain view as the sun was going down. Good tactic for boosting customer relations. He returned the bike with a mild reprimand, though I still don’t understand what the hell we should’ve done if not parked it in front of the tour agency as advised; and if that wasn’t silly enough, we were further scolded by the desk guy working back at the Villa.
“Uhh, so I got a call from your motorbike rental guy last night and heard you were irresponsible with the bike” he said to us the next morning as we were checking out. Ben and I looked at each other, then back at the guy. In unison we responded, “Chill out.” On the bus back to Phnom Penh, we just barely got on as the decrepit vehicle was pulling out. It was inexplicably leaving 30 minutes early, so we didn’t have the chance to purchase tickets beforehand. The bus continued to pick up more and more passengers on route, and it only took 15 minutes before Ben and I had to relinquish our seats. For the next five hours we were relegated to these mini plastic stools – the kind used for putting three year olds in time-out – wedged in the aisles lacking enough space to properly situate my butt. For five hours, my knees performed torturous deep tissue massage on all the wrong parts of Ben’s back while the guy behind me was kind enough to return the favor.

The End of Chiang Mai – February 28th

2008-03-14T04:55:00.000-07:00

‘And so we beat on’ as John Irving always says, this time through the night on an aged locomotive, the sprinter, to Bangkok. I’ve got all my luggage since I won’t be returning to Chiang Mai. Looks like I’m carting around stowaways they’re so bulky. Thankfully I’ve got Ben with me or I wouldn’t have managed. He’ll also help to cushion my sanity since there are no beds on the sprinter overnight express and the seats only partially recline and it’s so shaky that I can’t hold my pen steady and the window is slightly too far away for a comfortable sleeping position.
I’m not sad to be leaving, even though everyone who mattered during my year was there to send me off. We even had a final supper together at the nice restaurant by the river. But no, I’m not sad. I’ve already had to suffer through three goodbyes with Emily – one in Europe, one at home, and one in Thailand; and then there was the final goodbye when we took a break that turned permanent (I guess) when she soon after found bigger and better and balder things. So this goodbye is more like a footnote. I’m kind of numb now to anything non-Emily related. I guess I was never able to fully invest myself in Thailand, always one foot somewhere else. Now both feet are God knows where, though on Saturday they’ll be setting foot on Cambodian soil.

March 1st
They call it the Wild West of Southeast Asia, and it sure is dusty enough. We crossed over into Cambodia today after busing it from Bangkok to the border town of Aranya Prathet. It was supposed to be a first class ride, but somehow we kept adding standing room only passengers along the way, one of which sat directly behind my seat so that I couldn’t recline, and when I did finally manage to drift off for a moment, the wandering fingers of a small child tickled my face, startling me awake. It was in Aranya Prathet where we met the Icelandic couple, Toti and Freja. He’s a notable chef back in Reykjavik, she’s still a student. He’s loud enough to rival the American stereotype, she keeps him walking straight by doing all their expense conversions: first from Icelandic currency into Thai baht, and then into either Cambodian Reil or USD. Together, we ambled through no-man’s land into Poipet, past fake customs agents, eerie casinos, and begging children. It was in this peculiar landscape that I randomly ran into the student president of the residential college at which I lived during a semester abroad in Melbourne three years ago.
The road leading from Poipet to Siem Reap was unbelievable – no paving, half-assed construction resulting in detours circling around mounds of rubble and potholes the size of moon craters. It doesn’t make any sense how such a major route could be so catastrophically awful, unless you believe the rumor that Bangkok Airways pays off the Cambodia government to keep the road in such a state so that people will be more inclined to fly. For 3.5 hours we wondered how the driver could see anything amidst the clouds of dust and diminishing light from the setting sun, but he still hurtled ahead un-phased at full speed. And then, after 3.5 hours, just like that, the road turned perfectly paved and the previous repetition of barren landscape, dilapidated ramshackle homes and half-naked wandering children were all replaced with rococo hotels, beaming lights, posh restaurants, and still some half-naked wandering children. It was if we had just plunged through a wormhole into Cambodia’s version of Disneyland.

Luang Prabang: Nov. 30 - Dec. 3

2008-01-09T03:57:00.000-08:00

Lane leaves around mid-November, some days later my bike breaks down during rush hour traffic along the northern end of the moat, conveniently enough in front of a bike shop which agrees to take it in, but when I return the next day, it’s been inexplicably transported to another shop on the opposite end of town. The diagnosis: something to do with a busted piston and my own personal failure to ever change the oil. Costs me $90, which is almost half of what I initially paid for the bike. At the end of November I jump on over to Luang Prabang for a little weekend excursion and reunion with Lane. On the single-engine nausea-inducing plane I have to endure some British guy citing facts he learned from Michael Moore movies. On the ground, the city possesses an understated quality – not exactly very bumping – someone described it to me as a Disneyland for French geriatrics (whatever that means). If you recall, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam were all once under the mighty colonial rule of France. There’s a beautiful waterfall not far outside of town with the kind of vine swing I’ve long fantasized about, be we decide the water’s too cool for swimming. Back in town, we climb up the centrally-located temples perched high above and possessing grand views of the city below, surrounding mountains, and muddy Mekong. At night, Luang Prabang’s equivalent to Chiang Mai’s Warm Up – the swankiest drinking hole to see and be seen – is a joint called the Hive Bar, one of the few places along with some other cafes sprinkled throughout the city that look as though they could’ve been taken right out of yuppie-town USA. At the Hive Bar, Lane and I entertain two Laotians with crushes on us the size of Texas while five British girls lap up the attention of tens of love-hungry European males, whom by tagging along with after closing lands us in a disco-esque bowling alley at 1am – the only place opened after midnight in this curfew-enforcing communist country. It’s time for Lane and I to say goodbye. We hug and I pray to Buddha almighty that he survive his travels and make it home in one piece. It will be many months before we are reunited again. (editors note: Lane did indeed make it home in one piece, although his glasses were to be broken by a monkey and his bathing suit torn off by a floating branch in Halong Bay).

The Comeback Has Been Thwarted - November 21st

2007-11-21T02:35:00.000-08:00

Dear Sir/Madame,

First of all, thank you so much for all your emails/phone calls/dropped in both Bangkok and Chiang Mai's Casting Offices.
We are very sorry to announced the Close Down of "Pinkville" Production due to the ongoing labor action by the Writers Guild of American, Mr. Oliver Stone, whom is member of the WGA, can not work on the script revisions needed to get the film ready for production.
Anyway for all your info and applications, we will still keep in our system, just in case and for any other production that may arise in the very near future. Thank you again for your understanding.

Regards,
Casting Thailand

You look like Harry Potter, again - November 17th

2007-11-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

The family came and went, leaving Lane in their wake. Tomorrow he leaves for a monastery in Ubon Ratchatani before traveling to Laos and Vietnam. It was a good 10 day run we had together – dancing, redecorating my room in a postmodern vein, and watching the television series “Heroes” – and he was by my side when I won the grand prize a week ago at Payap’s international night (the Christian university in Chiang Mai): a roundtrip airline ticket from Bangkok to Singapore on Cathay Pacific. He wasn’t by my side the other day though when somebody stole my crappy ass helmet sitting in the basket of my motorbike in front of the English department at school. It’s silly because there’s a bike lot not 5 meters away brimming with much fancier (not to mention safer) helmets begging to be stolen, but for some unknown reason, they decided to steal mine – the soup helmet with that tacky lightning bolt running down the backside.
Lane was at my side the night we walked past 7-11 a few days ago and witnessed for the first time Thais being violent. While heading back from the dance club, we were shocked to find a group of Thai guys brawling in the street with beer bottles and bats, clubbing one another while others stood aloof nursing various wounds. They even smashed the front windows of the 7-11. I heard later on that it took the police several hours before arriving on the scene. You won’t find the police anywhere in Chiang Mai except needlessly directing traffic during rush hour at intersections which already have lights.
Rewind back to Halloween, I myself had a minor brush with violence, but not with a Thai. Instead it was some random British guy in Chiang Mai to train Muay Thai. I was dressed up as a Thai university student for the occasion, standing at the restaurant adjacent from the gym and across from my friends’ apartment. I’m chatting with two friends when he approaches and I assume they all know each other.
"You look like Harry Potter” he says. “You hear that often?"
So I respond, "Only right before bar brawls break out" obviously joking.
“What do you know about bar brawls?” he asks. “Don’t talk to a crazy British guy with a glass in his hands about bar brawls.” He delivers this line while holding up the glass in his hand for added emphasis. The tone of the conversation seems completely harmless. I mean, I’m dressed up as a Thai schoolboy and the Muay Thai guys at our gym tend to have a sense of camaraderie. “You don’t wanna mess with this guy” one of my friends says, carrying on the seemingly amiable tone. “He’s got over 5 years of Muay Thai experience.”
“Oh yeah, well I’ve got 5 weeks experience” I rebuttal jokingly. “Take that.”
The next thing I know, the British guy open hand slaps me real hard across the face and breaks my glasses, then shoves me and starts smacking himself and calling me out to fight him right there. He was absolutely 100% fucking looney toons. So I did what any logical modern cowboy would do, I un-holstered my pistol and shot him three times in the chest. Or, I stood there completely in shock, looked at my friends and asked if he was for real, then was on my way before even waiting for the answer. The next day I went in to audition for Oliver Stone’s new movie being shot in Chiang Mai, Pinkville, about the My Lai massacre. Fingers crossed, for me, and also for Lane on his travels East.

A Little Tale About Tokyo - Oct. 18 - Oct. 23

2007-11-02T09:42:00.000-07:00

After a few cups of coffee, I’m starting to really feel the excitement of being in Tokyo, or maybe it’s just a nostalgic sensation for when I used to accompany mom or dad to work as a young boy, being that I’m with Rino at her office right now. Her work deals with opening up Betsy Johnson stores in Japan. For all you ignoramuses out there, Betsy Johnson is a posh designer back in the States (and elsewhere now thanks to people like Rino).
Accompanying Rino to work seemed like a safer alternative to braving the city by myself, plus what do people do in big cities anyway other than check out museums (in the case of Tokyo, shrines) and go shopping – neither of which are particularly my cup of tea. I can feel overwhelmed in NYC, which is even smaller than Tokyo, and they also speak my language there. It’s particularly frustrating for me having once studied Japanese and now since forgotten 99.9% of it, because I feel like I should know more, which makes me all the more intimidated to even attempt mere utterances out of fear of deceiving innocent Japanese people into thinking I know anything at all, to which they’ll respond with protracted rapid-fire responses that will soar over my head like an F-22 high above the clouds; and then we’ll really be in a bind. I don’t understand how anyone ever picks up languages. How lucky and unlucky I am to have been born into a world where English won out as the dominant global language. In coming to work with Rino as opposed to exploring the city on my own, one could argue that this is in fact a more culturally representative and informative experience of ‘authentic’ Japanese life in frenetic and overwhelming Tokyo. It makes it manageable, I’m interacting with her Japanese coworkers, and I’ll even put myself to use helping move boxes around and whatnot. There’s definitely an underlying feeling of being babysat here, but most girls have some kind of maternal instinct need-to-take-care-of-somebody thing going on, so what the hell, right?
Man. That initial pique of the coffee high is starting to wane and I’m wondering if I should make a run for it. What the hell am I doing in Tokyo? After helping rearrange the office, I go out to lunch with Rino and her coworkers for Thai food, ironically enough. In the afternoon I leave the nest and head for the Meiji-jingu shrine – a nice traditional juxtaposition alongside the hustle and bustle of modern Harajuku with all of its hip shopping and envelope-pushing Japanese schoolgirls. The hours are passed snapping pictures, meandering, and swiveling my head like Linda Blair in the Exorcist to take in the multifarious sensory overload. At 7pm I meet back up with Rino, now joined by her international adviser, Aaron, from years yonder during a 4 year stint at Macalester College in Minneapolis. Aaron is in his early 40’s and making his annual rounds through Asia recruiting for Macalester. While maybe a little less horny than the average 23 year old, the guy still has an appetite for a good night out on the town, so the three of us – Rino, myself, & Aaron – make for a heroic trio. We go out for finger food and drinks, later to be joined by more Macalester alumni, plus an old friend of mine from my days in Australia, Kazuhiro Shimizu. Though only 26, a fresh marriage and 6 months of working for the premier consulting firm McKinsey have sprouted some gray hairs on good ole’ Hiro’s head. Capping off the night with some karaoke in a private room amongst friends proves a good elixir in taking wandering minds off aging and other existential hullabaloo.
It’s not until the next night, though, that I hit my stride in karaoke with a little known ditty by the name of “Jump Around”. On this particular Saturday, we don’t make it out of the apartment until 4:30 in the afternoon, just lounging around and such as the sun runs its course over the eastern sky. Linner (that lunch/dinner hybrid) is had at the train station noodle shop. Over my bowl of udon, I splatter soup everywhere – on shirt, on glasses, and even on Rino. It’s quite a struggle managing to simultaneously get both the noodles and broth into my mouth.
By the time we make it downtown, night has managed to squash every last lick of daylight. It was already getting dark when we first left the apartment, because in Japan, there’s no such thing as daylight savings time. Rino tells me “It’s because the farmers get no love here.” I still don’t know what that means.
We proceed to grab a mighty expensive drink somewhere with another Macalester alum, then it’s off to an Italian feast with even more Macalester alumni – they’re taking over the world, or at the very least Japan. Hiro makes it too, and after the dinner, we gallivant over to some hole in the wall bar for yet another alumni’s birthday party – an Indian guy raised in Japan, fluent in the language, attended school at Macalester, then came back here for a career in I-banking. For the sake of this story, we’ll call him Vorin. As it quickly becomes evident, on the cusp of 24, the kid has some serious issues with drunken belligerence and dealing with the opposite sex, let alone his own sex, as he makes death threats on my life to Aaron and company throughout the evening, enraged that I lie at one point about being Rino’s boyfriend to keep him from molesting her. Somewhere along the line, Hiro departs, but not before delivering an offer to recommend me at McKinsey if I ever want a job. While it’s fun to toy around with the idea, ultimately I don’t think a big bucks consulting gig requiring 70hr work weeks and Jared Robbins are very compatible. So we bounce around various places before winding back up with Vorin and his posse in a Karaoke room overflowing with drunken idiocy. It’s quite the surreal experience bearing my soul – during spot-on renditions of George Michael’s “Faith” and House of Pain’s “Jump Around” – to a bunch of twentysomethings I don’t know, all of whom were educated together at international school.
The party then transports to some small club owned by Nigerians and packed with hookers in another part of town where we get the VIP hookup because Vorin’s a regular there, throwing around his hard-earned I-banking bucks like rice on Vodka Redbulls and god knows what else. Maybe time in Tokyo ticks differently, or maybe I just never glanced at my watch, but by the time we make our exit, daylight has supplanted the night and it’s almost 8am. Weird experience.
“You look like Harry Potter” one of the Nigerians compliments me on the way out. Snippets of dialogue transpire, I ask him where he’s from, he gets defensive, then asks me where I’m from. “Detroit” I say. That seems to impress him.
On the subway back to Chiba, everyone on the car is out cold. It’s 8:45am by the time I finally crawl into my makeshift bed on the couch, in the crevices of which I swear vicious bed bugs lay and wait to exploit my sleeping vulnerability. Good morning.

Aaron & Rino modeling on the subway

Waking up to a setting sun can be equally as disorienting as falling asleep to a rising one. That night Rino and I went to the hot springs/bathhouse. When you walk in, there’s a sign at the entrance which reads something along the lines of “No Tattoos”.
“Is that to keep out the Yakuza?” I ask.
“Yeah.” she responds.
“What about the rest of the world with tattoos.”
“I guess they just have to find another bathhouse.” The decision to not get “BINZ” tattooed in block lettering across my back had proven to be a shrewd decision afterall.
The plan was to go into the co-ed baths, but it was too late by the time we finally hopped into Rino’s Prius (decked out with GPS and a rear-view camera for parking) and made it to our destination. My excitement quickly plummeted upon finding out that I would instead be sharing baths with a bunch of naked Japanese men. I thanked my lucky stars that Aaron had opted to stay behind. I’m tellin’ ya, if you’re a gay man in Japan, there’s no better place to go than the bathhouses.
Rino and I parted ways and agreed to meet back outside in thirty minutes. I walked into my side with bag in tote containing a hand towel (for god knows what because it doesn’t cover up anything and it’s sole purpose is merely to rest on top of your head while you sit in the water), a regular towel for post-bath drying off (not to be worn into the baths otherwise be cast off as a total pariah), and a traditional robe for lounging around in the main outside area if one desires a break for some tea, arcade games, or those picture booths that yield crazily designed photo strips which can’t possibly be geared for anyone but 10 year old girls and perverts (and then me, but only as a one time ‘cultural’ experience). Before you enter the actual hot springs, you’re supposed to wash off in a semi-open row of showers with dividers that only come up to waist-height (not that you still can’t see everyone doing their business). There’s a wooden stool to sit on and wash yourself, and while everyone else was crouched down on it, there was no way I was putting my bare ass on that thing – definitely not sanitary. So I opted to be the only one standing while everyone else washed themselves sitting down on those stools most likely designed for 8 year olds put in timeout. When it came time to rinse off my crotch with the shower head spitting out water at greater pressure than the fire hoses used to suppress protesters during the 60’s, I shifted my body in surprise at how bad it hurt and accidentally shot the man directly behind me. He looked at me, and I looked at him apologetically, and for a moment we were two naked guys just staring at each other.
It must’ve been “bring your toddler to hot springs” night, because while Rino had the women’s side to herself, there were at least ten father-son pairs on my side. I was overwhelmed by the number of baths to choose from and wound up selecting one of the few uninhabited spots off in a corner, for which I remained during my entire bathing experience. I watched as the other bathers hopped from one bath to the next, but thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until after we were leaving the premises did Rino finally give me the rundown.
“Why do I smell like chlorine?” I wondered aloud.
“Because one of the baths is chlorinated. It’s just like a hot tub.”
“Well that’s the only bath I sat in the entire time.”
She shot me a funny look. “You mean you didn’t go from bath to bath?”
“No, I didn’t realize there was any difference” I dumbly responded.
“All the baths have medicinal benefits except for that one. You’re supposed to go from bath to bath and experience the various effects of each.”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“Didn’t you see everyone else going from bath to bath?”
“Yeah” I said, “but I just thought they had ADD.” I really did.

And that’s how I would like to end my tale about Tokyo. I don’t really feel like going into detail about accompanying Aaron to the international school college fair, nor my experience with Okonomiyaki, and not even my peculiar borrowing of Rino’s copy of “Kicking & Screaming” (the Noah Baumbach film from 1995) that could very easily be misconstrued for stealing. I’m done with Tokyo, at least for now.

I’ve forgotten more than you know: the end of home and the beginning of Tokyo - October 17

2007-11-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

Planes would be the perfect setting for limbo. I’m on one again, this time headed for Tokyo. I went home for the semester break and spent most of it with Emily in East Lansing. Actually, most of the time I wasn’t with her because she was either studying or in class. It wasn’t very fortuitous that she had a midterm on my departure date, so I extended my ticket two more days so that we could spend a little bit of time together when she wouldn’t be so stressed. It wasn’t meant to be, though, as she had another test to prepare for, and as they usually tend to do in law school, the professors just piled on more work. Last night I decided to go to Red Robin (the casual dining restaurant best known for its gourmet burgers and bottomless steak fries) because I had a free burger coupon to use that my aunt got me for my birthday by signing up for their online burger club or something. Emily was busy stressing, which in turn was stressing me out considering it was my last night and all, so I grabbed my book and set off for Red Robin by myself around 9:15pm in pursuit of a burger, cherry coke, bottomless fries, and some good ole’ peppy Americana atmosphere. Sporting the same dirty sweatpants I’d worn to the gym several hours earlier, I hopped into the borrowed Lexus from dad and made off into the night with my trusty mapquest directions. The trip should’ve only taken 15 minutes, but the directions weren’t as trusty as I’d hoped, and when faced with either getting onto N. Creyts Rd. to make a right onto S. Creyts, or to just get off at S. Creyts, it gets a little hairy, and the next thing I knew I was lost. It was a challenge working up the motivation to go to Red Robin in the first place since it’s a lonely experience eating out by yourself, it wasn’t exactly around the block, and most of all, I’m lazy, which is ironically what prompted the decision in the first place since it seemed like an easier alternative to cooking for myself. The trip wasn’t 15 minutes at all, and as the clock clicked towards 10, Red Robin’s bedtime, I started to get nervous I wouldn’t make it and that all would be in vain. Somehow I wound up in the boonies, doubled back to civilization, but accidentally turned the wrong way onto a poorly labeled Saginaw Rd, and when unbeknownst to me I was a mere one block away, I called up the restaurant to check my coordinates. By this time it was 9:46pm, and to my devastation, a callow male voice on the other end of the line informed me they’d already broken down the kitchen since nobody had been in the restaurant for the previous half hour. It didn’t help matters that my gas needle was now resting on empty, gas for under 3 bucks a gallon is impossible to find in Lansing, and I was too cheap to eat anywhere else.
Back on the plane, I attempt to doze off, but my body and mind are periodically overcome with sensations of acute awareness that I could die at any moment. This plane is but a man-made creation and therefore fallible like man himself. My sense of smell becomes strikingly clear, there’s a tingling in the bridge; my ears get lighter and capture sounds ordinarily beyond the sensory, and my heart rises a few millimeters in my chest. What kind of life would mine turn out to be if it were to end now? How would I stack up? Clamoring through the clouds as close to heaven as I’m ever gonna get in this material body of mine, my thoughts at times transcend a capacity for words, hovering around abstract unfathomables like the infinite - too great for my humble brain – before plunging back down into the reality of the paltry; things like Red Robin, gas prices, and 8 more hours to go on this stinkin’ plane.
I’m sitting next to a married couple in their mid-70’s also from Michigan, but the western part of the state. Sure enough, they’re conservative, Catholic, and somehow I’ve got them convinced I’m a good Christian boy – maybe it was my innocent question about the saint who stands guard at the gates of heaven (I knew it was Nicholas, I just couldn’t remember at the time). The man pats my leg whenever I say something that amuses him so, or maybe it’s when he thinks of something funny to tell me. At 76, he still works part-time as a dentist and doesn’t look as old as a 76 year old would through my eyes just a few years ago. Funny how as my parents age – they’re only in their very early 60’s – it makes older people not seem so old anymore. The man’s wife refers to her profession as “executive homemaker”. At some point she says to me, “And I’ll tell you what I say to my grandsons, I say, ‘I’ve forgotten more than you know.’” Then her husband chimes in, “I don’t think that’s the case with this boy, he seems like a rather intelligent young man.” Maybe a bit of an overstatement, but he’s probably right in this instance.
At some point after the hours have already been melding together for quite some time, I start to crack. My grip on reality loosens to the point of severe discomfort. Unable to sleep, my mind starts obsessively swirling in thoughts of death and other such unappetizing topics: the fear of never truly being happy, the inevitability of aging, and how anything with an end can be viewed as short when stacked up against eternity. Still, why does the slow motion button for life always get pushed during the most undesirable moments while something like ejaculating lasts only for a few fleeting seconds.
The plane eventually touches down, but not before the cabin crew serves us a final meal of what seems like reheated sausage egg mcmuffins from McDonalds. I’m not sure why they’re serving breakfast at 4 in the afternoon, and my internal clock gets all the more confused after I deplane, make it through customs in a snap, and step out into the afternoon light which gives off an early morning feel by the way the sun is oddly hanging in the sky. It gets dark soon afterwards as I ride the airport limousine bus to the Shinjuku Hilton where I rendezvous with Rino and Alexis. Rino treats us to a nice dinner before we set off for her parents’ apartment (or more like 3 apartments joined together) in Chiba near Disneyland.

Dear Leah - October 16

2007-10-21T18:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Leah,
I've made you wait two weeks for a response, and that's not right, but frankly, I just got scared. I remember you telling me how Dave wrote you such good emails (along with others), and while I'm not exactly your boy toy looking to get some play (or love for that matter) out of this, I still felt intimidated. And if the truth be told, I also got distracted, more so sucked into an abyss of inactivity and lounging around which after a while can get mistaken for some degree of busyness. By this time it does not matter, though, as you are undoubtedly trekking through the backward third world jungles of Cambodia or Laos where computers don't exist and the people have never seen modern marvels such as "Dude, Where's My Car". Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if you were in an internet cafe at Angkor Wat right now (if not inside the temple itself) talking to your sister in Israel on Skype. They just don't make the third world anymore like they used to (although Cambodia would probably be something more along the lines of the second world, but who's counting).
So I'll be back to the ole' stomping ground in just one short week. Today is my last day in the States before setting out for Tokyo tomorrow and I don't have the slightest clue what I'll do there. After I get done writing this email, I'm gonna make my way over to the book store and grab a Lonely Planet guide to Tokyo, but not to buy of course - we all know I'm too cheap for that - rather just for ideas.
As time wore on during my stay at home, it increasingly felt as if I'd never gone to Thailand at all. I didn't have any new stories to tell my family or friends because they all kept updated through emails and my blog, plus all my photos are posted on Snapfish. As for the rest of America, I reduced my experience to a mere cliche of "It's hot, cheap, and I don't just have to eat Thai food because there's every kind of restaurant there you can imagine." My eyes are no more clear, no details of home are any more salient, I've been creatively defunct, but I am 23 now with shorter hair and less of a sleep deficit because sleeping here goes a lot better than over there. I ate a lot of pizza and mexican food, saw my girlfriend for about 5 minutes a day due to the fact that's all her frenetic schedule could allow (ok ok, maybe a bit more than 5 minutes), though those five minutes were pretty damn nice, and I'm just about finished with this book called "Indecision" which I've got mixed feelings about. Somehow over these last few weeks I've forgotten most of the tiny amount of Thai that I knew, so I only remember 3 words now instead of 4; and no Leah, we're not tan.

The Brothers Robbins (at 3-way family birthday celebration)

Only two more days of Satit

2007-09-11T09:26:00.001-07:00

the superhero unit

Getting Bullied Again Like a Helpless 8 Year Old in Grade School - September 3rd & 4th

2007-09-07T11:03:00.000-07:00

9/3 - I'm supremely restless right now. I want to focus on writing, grading, or reading, but I can't for some mysterious reason (maybe because I looked at too much internet porn as a youth). You'd think that I'd have gotten out all the restlessness at Muay Thai this afternoon, but no. I forced myself to go work out there today and somehow wound up in the group of people that ran 5km because they were too big of dicks to tell me where to turn off for the 3km route. The worst part about the run was the boredom. Their pace wasn't that fast, but it just got so incredibly tedious. I don't like running at all. By the time I started shadow boxing, my body was completely drained. Everything at Lanna Gym is done at your own pace, so whenever you feel like being done with shadow boxing (which doesn’t take long for me since I feel silly at this point with my novice technique swinging at the air and losing my balance), you can move onto hitting the bag. With this being my third day, I’m starting to feel a bit more comfortable hitting the bag. After the bag, then it’s time to jump in the ring with one of the trainers to hit the pads. Each trainer offers something different, and as I learned the hard way on my second day, the craziest looking trainer doesn’t so much let you hit the pads as make an ass out of you by parrying out of the way every time you swing only to pay you back with a smack to the face or kick to the stomach. Supposedly this is to teach the individual how to get angry, feel like they’re a helpless 8 year old getting bullied again in grade school, and maybe teach them how to take a hit and build up some endurance in the process. I wore a nice red line across my forehead from the pad as a souvenir all weekend.
Ben and Mark had already eaten dinner without me tonight because I didn't get back until after 6. Oh yes, good ole' Mark. I saw that guy around 7pm yesterday evening and he was in his room for the night watching Six Feet Under in the buff. Mark has an obsessive personality, and since being turned onto the HBO series last week, has purchased every season (bootleg of course, but still pricey nonetheless) and finished all 63 episodes (clocking in at approximately 53 minutes each) in under 12 days. It's amazing that he wonders why he had a migraine this morning.
Anyway, he said he wasn’t going out again for the evening, but as it turns out, on his way to fill up his big water bottle at the H20 supply place down the street, he bumped into two male tourists asking him if he knew anything about Chiang Mai. Only in Mark's world would they turn out to be gay partners with a propensity for threesomes. I think the conversation went something along the lines of, "You know Chiang Mai? What, you’re gay? How about we go back to our guesthouse and consummate this wonderful newfound bond!" And the rest is history.
I was left to my lonely self eating at Smoothie Blues. I ordered a tuna melt with avocado along with a mango/passion fruit/banana/yogurt smoothie to wash it all down, though I needed some water as well since smoothies aren’t exactly ideal for washing shit down. I did a little bit of grading that should’ve been done weeks ago, but it’s just so damn interminable that I have to spread it out like vegemite (very, very thin). Back in my room I made some more progress in “Kafka On the Shore” while listening to music (albeit only certain music is satisfactory for focusing – in this case it was Mirah). I'm liking the book, especially since reading the scene in which the 15 year old protagonist gets jerked off by some twenty-something year old girl, in the middle of which she suggests something along the lines of how great it would be if they were brother and sister.
Lights out. My restlessness extends well into the night – another day gone in the march toward infinity.

***

9/4 - There’s no Satit tomorrow for some reason, so I decided to try and have an enjoyable Tuesday evening, first by ordering a vanilla Kit Kat banana milkshake at Smoothie Blues in addition to a ham and cheese sandwich with added avocado. I ate with Ben and Erica while Mark came along for the ride and settled for a smoothie as he had already eaten earlier in the night. Not only had he eaten, but he’d just got done making sweet passionate love to one of the guys from the threesome while the partner was out shopping only to return a bit later as the passion was waning. Needless to say, the partner wasn't exactly thrilled to find that he’d been left out of the fun. I tell ya, Mark's got enough drama in his life to fill a country's worth of soap operas (I hear Bulgaria is knocking down his door).
Later on, Erica and I hopped on my mobile deathtrap (aka the Honda Dream circa 1992), weaving in and out of traffic without lights and a broken speedometer on our way to the North Gate Jazz Bar in the old city where we met up with Leah and her "friend" from Yale visiting for about 10 days. I also told this guy Joe that I work with (and who gave me the motorbike) I’d stop by the jazz bar. He’s been at CMU for almost four years now and it’s obvious he’s spent more than a healthy amount of time in Chiang Mai for a young American boy of 25. He’s leaving at the end of this semester, because in his words, “It’s time to finally grow up.” Joe’s friend Zero (yes, that’s his real name) was the MC for the night at the bar, as he is every Tuesday. The first thing that Zero ever said to Ben went something like this:
"Whuddya mean you're not drinking?"
"I'm pretty exhausted" Ben replied.
"Are you kidding me? It's not like you're poring over the Torah here."
We weren't sure if we heard Zero correctly because it was such an unusual thing to say. For some background on Zero, he's supposedly a half-Jewish, half-Polish, self-loathing anti-semite (at least in the words of Joe). As for Ben, when people meet him for the first time, they often make the mistake of assuming he's Jewish. He very possibly could be the most Jewish-looking non-Jew in the history of the world, though to his credit, he has been to a seder (and maybe Rosh Hashana dinner).
Tuesday nights at the jazz bar are supposed to be open mic night, but tonight wasn't so much an open mic night as a freestyle jazz session courtesy of the club's fairly talented regular performers. The crowd was comprised of mostly Westerners plus some 3rd and 4th year English students from CMU, who as it turns out, all think I'm gay with Ben because we're always seen together on campus. "What a shame," they said. "You're too sexy." I wasn't gonna argue.
The night got all the more interesting when Leah’s boy, Dave, decided to sign up as the only actual open mic performance. He had even brought along his guitar from home, but opted instead for the electric one offered by the venue’s regular guitarist for whom it successfully belted out adroit renditions of Herbie Hancock and other jazz greats. After some wisecracks from Zero about Dave hailing from Maine, “Yes Ladies and Gentleman, there is a state located north of New York” – Dave was made to promise he didn’t like Phish and wasn’t liable to start “jamming”. It was clear from the start that Dave was in trouble, especially when some of the regular musicians tried to back him up on drums and piano, only to massacre any iota of rhythm. The crowd wasn’t very amused being they wanted to hear the cool and familiar sounds off the jazz band, and some people even went as far to laugh raucously. It was pretty awful, but at least he’ll never have to see any of these people again, not to mention Leah was totally won over by his bravery. I give the kid props, though, because he was a super good sport and didn't seem to have a mean bone in his body. As Zero concluded while sending Dave offstage, "Here's hoping the kid at least gets some action out of it." And that he did, ladies and gentleman. So alas, the story ends happily after all.

Here's hoping Jared's second book is a bit more mature - August 29

2007-08-29T07:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Jared,

Looked at ZINE WORLD. [The] review [of your zine, Jared's First Book] was not too complimentary:

"This isn't really my cup of tea - there's no narrative, and I'm having a hard time seeing this as 'art'. Here's hoping Jared's second book is a bit more mature."

I sent a stink bomb to Andrew the reviewer.

Love Dad

Is This About a Girl? - August 27th

2007-08-28T06:07:00.000-07:00

Got another letter from Lane today – Lane, that great constant in my life: you can always count on him for consistency knowing that he’s not going to have a whole lot of updates living in a Zen center baking bread everyday. Somehow, though, he’s a lay monk that happens to be girl crazy. It’s a crazy oxymoronic situation trying to live a celibate life when you’re as horny as him, but what is Lane if not a paradox? I’m actually going to see him and the rest of the family, in addition to Emily, in just a month’s time. Yeah, I decided to head home during the semester break.
“What the hell are you doing that for?” everyone always exclaims more than asking. It's a line I often hear in my life. “Are you crazy? Is this about a girl? Don’t do it man, you’re all the way over here so you might as well travel as much as you can.”
But then there’s level-headed Alexis who offered some allegorical tale involving a little girl who buys three games of pool before quickly deciding she doesn’t even like pool in the least. The girl can either keep playing pool even though she hates it, or recognize that the money is already gone and move onto something else. In retrospect, the moral of the story is a bit hazy (being that I don’t hate traveling by any means), but it has something to do with people getting caught up in these notions of having to do something because that’s what they think they’re supposed to do. In actuality, people should really do what they want to do, and while I want to travel, at this point I would rather see my girlfriend more (along with my grandpa, mustn't forget Auntie, BJ Tucker, Tucker Carlson, and so on and so forth). There are some things I gotta iron out and make sense of, and no it’s not just a $1500 booty call, though I wonder if my girlfriend would be flattered thinking of it in such terms…she’d probably think she’s worth more. Plus, I’m stopping off in Japan for five days on the way back, so I am getting some traveling in, not to mention that I plan on geographically tramping all over the region next midterm break and once second semester ends. The ticket price wasn’t bad at all, especially since I’m getting a lump sum of over $1000 at the end of this semester for having taught a “special” class at the university (which is just a “special” way of saying that the kids were absolutely atrocious). Kind of funny that I’ll be seeing my parents in the States and then a week later they’re coming to Thailand, but considering they booked some frenetically paced tour that doesn’t really include me at all, hopefully it won’t be overkill.
Working the job that I do and living in Chiang Mai could really be the absolute high-life if only I had the people I really cared about over here (though sometimes that seems to change like a fickle Shakespearean mob). Still, in spite of the policeman that blows his whistle while pretending to direct traffic when there’s no need for him to be there in the first place; in spite of the semi-prevalent sneaks-up-on-you-when-you’re-not-expecting-it gloom that comes with monsoon season and the everyday rains; in spite of the fact that most Thai grow out their pinkie nail – especially the guys – so as to be more efficient pickers (use your imagination); in spite of the fact that I can’t catch a good night of shuteye here to save my life; in spite of the student who puts infinitely more work into complaining about her grade than doing the actual assignments; in spite of the fact that I can’t tell if I’m going mad or going mad thinking about going mad – in spite of all these things, life ain’t exactly awful.

Me and My Motorbike - August 25th

2007-08-27T08:41:00.000-07:00

When you want them, they don’t want you, and when they want you and you don’t want them, they honk at you like a two cent whore. Hopefully my days of riding the songtaews regularly are over now that I got a motorbike, but we’ll just have to wait and see how trusty the old machine – which has passed through more than its fair share of owners and renters – will hold up. I don’t want to have to crawl back to those red truck mobsters like an ex-lover on my knees (not that I know what that’s like). And now for 2 questions:
1. Why does every restaurant in Chiang Mai insist on playing Shakira and Savage Garden every day on repeat?
2. Why is there a creepy old Western man in my apartment building swimming laps with snorkel gear on?

Borneo: July 27 – August 7

2007-08-14T08:54:00.000-07:00

So guess where I am? If you guessed Idaho, then you're incorrect. I'm in the city of Kota Kinabalu in the Malaysian state of Sabah on the greater island of Borneo, and guess what? It's not half as crazy as it sounds. Kota Kinabalu is a city of 270,000, and while the downtown doesn't exactly have skyscrapers – well, maybe a few – it does have a Starbucks, Esprit, plus at least a few Mercedes Benzes that I saw. The downtown is situated along the waterfront over which the sky is populated with crazily shaped clouds. Ben and I took a bus into the city from the airport, which took about 15-20 minutes. It didn't take long to walk to our hostel - a rather modern and clean environment with hot showers (not that I've taken advantage of them) and free internet. We're in a dorm room with six beds, though we only met one of our sleeping mates so far, a Dutch woman whom we walked around the city with this afternoon. We stopped by the office in town to check on the status of us being able to hike Mt. Kinabalu tomorrow and it's not looking promising. We have accommodation at the bottom of the mountain, but everything at the middle of the mountain is completely booked and has been for months in advance. I know what you're thinking: why don't we just hike the mountain in one day and cut out the middle man (being the mid-mountain accommodation), but the problem is that you must have accommodation booked on the middle of the mountain before you can get a climbing permit, which is necessary to hike the mountain. Regardless, Ben and I will try anything and everything to make it up that mountain tomorrow, keeping our fingers crossed that maybe somebody will cancel and open up room for us. It's sad because Mt. Kinabalu was the initial attraction that drew us here in the first place, so I'll be damned if I don't get to see that sunrise at 4,095 meters overlooking the edge of the world.
In our wanderings around the city, we passed through a massive food market serving all varieties of fruits, smelly fish, meat, and countless other inexplicable things. I'm struggling significantly with some of the food so far since everything has meat in it and it all looks like it was just slaughtered in the backroom before they serve it to you - bones and all.

Even though we're closer to the equator now, the weather is surprisingly bearable, maybe because we're near the water and it rained a bit to cool things off, though luckily it didn't rain on us.
Last night, Ben and I had to sleep in the Bangkok airport. It's amazing that such a modern and massive airport has such little options for sleeping and with chairs that couldn't be any less ergonomic, but luckily Ben and I were permitted to sleep on the only somewhat isolated comfy chairs supposedly being reserved for some special group that wouldn’t need them until the morning. It's not like it was a decent sleep by any means, though the alternatives would have been excruciating. I'm pretty beat right now and it's only 8:40pm here. It's probably a wise idea to try and rest up before heading off to Mt. Kinabalu tomorrow, even though our prospects of hiking it aren't looking so great, probably due to the ubiquity of 16 year old British school girls on organized trips here sporting hoodies that read, “Borneo 07”. Who would've ever thought?

We showed up at the mountain on Sunday morning, and spent the whole day unsure about whether we'd be able to hike the following morning. The odds weren’t looking so good, but there were several other people in the same boat lacking the necessary accommodation near the top in order to obtain a climbing permit. Monday morning rolled around, and after some back and forth wheelings-and-dealings, we were able to obtain a permit on the condition that we hike it all – up and down – in one day. After seeing all the other puds, older seemingly unfit women and their little children managing the climb, Ben and I figured “how hard could it be?" So with our own little Malay guide Nordan, we started up the mountain at a brisk pace - a pace that would soon prove to be quite unmanageable.
“How are we doing, Nordan?” we asked our wise guide.
“I think, maybe (pause) too fast.” He muttered back in his limited English.
After a few kilometers, we were fucked.
“How bout now Nordan, how are we doing? Are we gonna be able to make it all the way to the top?”
This time, the answer was tweaked. “I think, (pause) maybe not.”
The rest stop (where they have the accommodation and restaurant) was located 6km up the mountain, and that's the point where all the normal people complete their first day of hiking. At around 4km, every additional step for Ben and I was hellishly grueling. We were alternating between carrying my backpack, but it didn't matter - backpack or no backpack, my legs were barely moving. The hike to the top is very steep and consists of thousands and thousands of steps (which straddle the line between natural and humanly groomed) that made my previous hikes seem totally laughable, plus the air is quite thin up there at an altitude of well over 10,000 feet. Every time you round a corner, you pray that there will be a stretch of flat terrain. Needless to say, Ben and I made it to the rest stop and couldn't move anymore. There was absolutely no way we were going any further, up or down. Meanwhile, we made the hike to the rest stop in stellar time; a rate which placed us at the top of times relative to other hikers. Still, we were left with the dilemma of what to do at the rest stop being that all the accommodation was booked and we were entirely spent. As fate would have it, the one day hikers are no surprise to the mountain staff, and they knew perfectly well that our chances of making it to the top were about zilch. So for more than a few extra Malaysian Ringit, they allowed us to sleep in this contingency shit-hole shack for the night and required us to pay Nordan a few extra ringits as well. It's not like it was much of a night sleep, though, because everyone wakes up at 2am in order to hike the last 2.5km to the summit in order to see the sunrise. We slept (or more accurately lied awake) on dirty beds without sheets and pillows without pillowcases in sleeping bags which God only knows when they had last been washed. It didn't really matter much because I slept in all my clothes with my hood up. It's pretty crazy going from the heat of Thailand and Kota Kinabalu to the damp penetrating chilliness of Mt. Kinabalu.
During our seven hour comatose stint in the rest lodge, we managed to make friends with a British guy named Matt who'd been in the same failed one-day hiking situation as us, so he was in the shack with us as well as a German dude somehow paying a lot less for the accommodation, and this annoying British guy and girl who chattered away the whole night. At 2am the annoying British couple woke us up before our alarm time of 2:30, and at 3am we were off for the summit. You can't really pass people as easily during the final leg of the hike because it's super dark, slippery, and too narrow at some points; plus there a few stretches where it’s necessary to grab onto a rope tied into the side of the mountain and pull yourself along so that you don't tumble all the way down treacherous rock faces. Like I mentioned before, all sorts of people (e.g. obese computer programmers from Kuala Lumpur) who don't seem to have any business hiking the mountain clog up the route, and some individuals were even throwing up off to the side while the bulk progressed forward at a rate of -2 km per hour. Ben, Matt, Nordan and I pushed ahead, and 3 hours later of muddling through the dark over ominous mountainside, we reached the summit. Waiting for the sun to rise, it was insanely cold. Coming from Thailand isn't exactly great preparation for hiking Mt. Kinabalu, and so I shivered in my soaked knit gloves (purchased cheaply in Thailand), t-shirt, thermal, hoodie, and Addidas windbreaker jacket. Peering off into the heavens, the sun rose, but in obscurity to us as it was shrouded in clouds. We still bore witness to a numinous sky illuminating before our eyes as various surrounding peaks gradually highlighted in ethereal light as if E.T. himself were touching them individually. And then, during our initial descent, the clouds receded, the sky cleared, and all those questions of whether hiking Mt. Kinabalu was worth it were put to rest. It was a divinely august beauty.

So after the beautiful views and the 2.5km hike back down to the rest stop, it felt like we were done, and then we realized we still had another 6km to hike down. Many people had told us the hike down would be harder than the hike up, but I disagree. The hike down was infinitely easier, though incredibly taxing on my joints. The trauma of going down rugged trail has left my knees experiencing an arthritic sensation previously unknown. The last stretch of the descent was particularly boring and monotonous, as by that time I was ready to be done.
Now I'm back at a different hostel in Kota Kinabalu that some friends of ours from the mountain, Ron and Carmen, are staying at. We actually met them several days prior – which in Borneo backpacker time is an eternity – on the ride over from Kota Kinabalu to the mountain and they climbed the same time as us. Ron is a 31 year old Psychology lecturer originally from East Germany but now considers New Zealand home. He’s also a very unexpectedly sill man. Carmen is a 29 year old Singaporean girl (I consciously eschewed ‘woman’) who is a former student of Ron’s at Victoria University in Wellington and just recently graduated from there. They both came over here with other members from Victoria's psychology department to attend a symposium on...surprise, Psychology, being held in Kota Kinabalu. Carmen hiked at a slow pace up the mountain and miraculously made it to the top, while Ron was the only person to put Ben and myself completely to shame. He absolutely breezed up that geological wonder, making it all seem so effortless. He looked like a fit guy, but who knew climbing mountains back in New Zealand, doing salsa, running, and practicing Capoeira makes you into a regular mountain man. Ron actually tried to make it to the summit of the mountain on the first day with plans oof going up again the next morning, but had to turn back due to bad weather. Anyway, we might hang out with them for the next few days being that they're following a similar itinerary hitting up the beaches and then heading off to Brunei for a day.

***

Sadly, I'm not gonna make it to Brunei - it will forever be the one that got away. Ben wasn't as committed to the idea of going as much as I was, so I fault him for that, but regardless, I don't think it would have been feasible because of time constraints. In order to get there, you have to take a two hour ferry to an island and then another hour long ferry to a port 25km away from the capital city, so by the time we got there we would’ve had to turn around immediately and come back. It basically boiled down to traveling all that way and paying all that money just for a stamp on the ole’ passport and not being able to see anything at all. Not that there's an exorbitant amount to see in Brunei being that it's so small, but it would've been cool to check out the elaborate mosques and hotels and take a water taxi along the river to behold the stilt villages. Brunei is an interesting place because it's only been able to remain the autonomously strict Islamic monarchy that it is because of rich oil deposits, which propelled the micro-sized country into the upper echelon of the world’s richest. The country has an incredibly high standard of living, and every time the Sultan has a birthday, the entire population receives a gift. The sad part is that once the oil runs out in 30-40 years, they'll be royally fucked. Everyone knows how the Sultan of Brunei was once the richest man in the world, but not everybody is familiar with the infamous tale of how his younger brother - while appointed as the minister of finance - managed to blow 16 billion of the country's reserves on gambling debts, cars, hotels in Beverly Hills, not to mention gold-plated toilet-roll holders. So no Brunei for us, and I don't know if I'll ever be back here again, but it turns out that Royal Brunei Airlines flies all over the world, and if you fly with them, there's a good chance you'll have a layover in Brunei. Still, I feel incomplete, and now we have this extra day in Kota Kinabalu with nothing to do.
Yesterday we went to one of the islands off the coast with Ron and Carmen. It was an extraordinarily choppy boat ride with Ben nearly bouncing overboard up front, fearful that at any moment he would break his boney butt. The island we visited was called Mamutik; not exactly the kind of place you see pictured on postcards, plus the beach was pretty small and the snorkeling wasn't so great because of the overcast weather, though I did manage to get attacked by a whole school of fish (and get bumped by some floating rubbish that sent me into a panic because I thought it was a jellyfish). On Mamutik we also met up with the rest of Ron and Carmen's psych crew from New Zealand - of which none were actually from New Zealand, but rather places like Estonia, Germany, and the Philippines - and they weren't especially warm to us. Thus, it was mostly just Ben's hairy shoulder patches and I left to our own devices. We had planned on camping out on the beach that night, but the horror stories of torrential downpour and inadequate shelter convinced us otherwise, and so we returned back to Kota Kinabalu and had dinner at the market I described previously replete with all sorts of puzzling and alien food. I tried some chicken on a stick for starters, but immediately the bone inside the first piece made me cringe, so I tossed that aside and went for the veggies. I threw something on my plate reminiscent of tortellini, though after my first bite of that, I quickly realized that it was in fact not vegetarian at all, but instead a very unfamiliar type of meat; a type of meat that comes from the wattle of a chicken. At least the desserts were good. I also attempted shopping for some fake Nikes at a night market nearby, it's just that a 9.5 shoe size in this part of the world is considered gigantic and therefore in rare supply. I know buying Nike is the worst of the worst when it comes to being a responsible consumer, but what about fake Nikes?
We said our goodbyes to Ron and Carmen a little later, for today they are making their way over to Brunei (those wretched philistines), and Ben and I retired to our dorm room. The previous night we lucked out in getting a private room with twin beds made up like a little kid's bedroom, but last night we had no such luck and once again I was given a sheet only managing to cover 1/3 of my body. The air con was blasting so fiercely throughout the night that I awoke with icicles dangling from my patchy beard. Now we have no idea what to do with ourselves today. This morning we ate breakfast in the hostel with two kids from Malaysia, and guess what, I was the first Jew they'd ever met, so of course I had to field all sorts of questions about whether all Jews are smart and ridiculously good looking (I took some creative license with the latter), yada yada yada.
The plane to Mulu was quite small, with a capacity of approximately 25 people (give or take 25, I’m not so good at guesstimating). Everyone aboard was a tourist, mostly British, though we only filled up about 1/10 of the seats (the math is really starting to get complicated here). Looking out the window fro my seat, I saw mostly undeveloped blankets of green below interrupted only by the squiggly lines of brown rivers, making the earth look as though it were various puzzle pieces neatly fit together. How long could I survive if dropped into this middle of nowhere?
During our two days in Mulu, we explored the four major caves there. For some unknown geological reason to me, there are tons of caves in the region, but only a few are open to the public, one of which is Deer Cave, the most expansive cave in the whole wide world. While the caves were really cool, it was a weird part of the trip for me because I'm not exactly sure how to properly enjoy myself sightseeing caves. I found myself struggling to understand how exactly one seizes the enjoyment in cave viewing. It’s not like we were spelunking or doing any adventure caving (though that is an option if you’ve got the time and money). It didn't help that I found it incredibly challenging trying to capture the caves in photos because of their vastness and darkness, and capturing for me is often times what makes sightseeing enjoyable, maybe because it adds some meta dimension. Regardless, the caves were most impressive. Being there reminded me of that horror film, “The Descent,” in which a bunch of girls go caving in Appalachia and come face to face with subterranean monsters. It was all the more eerie when I wound up walking one-on-one with our guide who’s indigenously from the area and he told me about a great many weird things that go on in the caves. In a manner of total honesty he said, “I’ve been in this cave and others before when no tourists were here and nobody else was around, and you can here vivid voices and laughter coming from what sounds like a large group of people. It is believed that many people have died in these caves, but we’re not supposed to talk about that kind of stuff. Even the scientists who come here to do geological research and other studies have witnessed really bizarre things, but they keep it all very hush hush because it could seriously damage our tourism.” It sounded all the more spooky hearing it in that fantastic cave as we lagged behind all the others.
Mulu is totally in the middle of nowhere. There's no way to reach it by road, so you can either fly or take a boat. There's also no town in Mulu, just the national park and villages of the Penan tribe, which is an indigenous group of Malaysia that used to be known as the head hunters. It’s weird because the only people who go to Mulu are tourists, and so there’s a strange dichotomy that exists between them and the indigenous Penan. In all, it was a good time, and the second night Ben and I got plastered on locally produced rice wine. There wasn’t really a whole lot else to do there once darkness descended.

It would’ve only been $17.50USD per person for Ben and I to share a bed in the airport hotel, but $17.50USD could afford us five meals or more at Smoothie Blues in Thailand (the Western food joint five steps from our apartment), and probably ten meals if we got them anywhere else. We’re trying to be budget travelers, so we just slept in the airport itself on the floor. For some reason, most airports don’t provide anywhere to sleep, and Kuala Lumpur’s Air Asia terminal is no exception. They made their chairs as uncomfortable as possible, hard plastic ones lipping up at the edges so you can’t lay down on them unless you want an indented spine. By comparison, the floor was our best bet, even though I felt the eyes and stares of strange people burning into me all night. It was freezing as well, and on numerous occasions I was awakened by multifarious pieces of trash hitting me from the hands of people who’d either missed the nearby trashcan or just plain mistaken me for one. The airport sanitation worker also insisted on sweeping up by my head every thirty minutes like clockwork.
We’re going home. Two days ago we were relaxing during our glorified layover in Miri for a day, an oil town that’s recently tried to reinvent itself with a name change to “The Resort City”, which seems a tad oxymoronic (if not just moronic) because there’s nothing resort-ish about it. We didn’t do much there other than deal with our perpetually disgruntled and acerbic guesthouse owner, though rumor has it that she’s actually very nice and just can’t help her caustic demeanor. Yesterday was spent milling about the fair city of Kuala Lumpur with its Western skyscrapers and Islamic flare. My friend Stephanie from the glory days of International House at Melbourne Uni was kind enough to play host for the evening and I showed my gratitude by staining her shirt with some laksa lemak after bumbling with my chopsticks and dropping a giant piece of tofu that sent the curry splattering. She took us on an abridged car tour of some of KL’s highlights, like the Sydney Opera House knockoff and the campy technicolored ferris wheel known as “The Eye on Malaysia”. We’d already covered the Menara Kuala Lumpur and Petronas Towers earlier in the day, so don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch. It was amazing how well Steph, such a meek and innocuous lass, could maneuver so aggressively through the city’s crazy traffic, in a manual transmission no less, and she got us back just in the knick of time to catch our bus to the airport.
It’s 5:30am right now and the airport is bustling with people eating either McDonalds or standard Nasi Lemak as they bustle to and fro with little regard for anyone else or personal space. People probably bustle like this in every airport, it’s just that in other airports I haven’t had the luxury of living like a bum and awaking to such a terrible a case of irritation. At least I only have to take my malaria pills for another seven days while Ben has to suffer through thirty more.
Goodbye Borneo (and the tad that we glimpsed of Kuala Lumpur), you were a good lover. I’ll try and spread the good word.

Checklist for 10 days in Borneo - July 28th

2007-08-14T03:34:00.000-07:00

Malaria pills – check
4 t-shirts – check
4 pairs of underwear – check (why it’s called a pair of underwear is beyond me)
4 pairs of socks – check
1 bathing suit – check
1 hoodie – check
1 pair of shorts – check
digital camcorder – check
digital camera – check
lots of plastic bags for rain – check
positive attitude - check
Ben – check
poncho – no check
umbrella – no check
accommodation at Mt. Kinabalu – no check
accommodation in Mulu – no check

Back in Chiang Mai – July 23, 2007

2007-08-13T07:23:00.000-07:00

Back in Chiang Mai, things were pretty much the same. My job was still there and it was easy to jump back into routine, because in Chiang Mai, nothing ever really changes.
Today Ben and I rented motorbikes after we finished up with class and took off all over town trying to take care of bureaucratic visa shit. As soon as we pulled out of the rental place, Ben grabbed the accelerator too hard on his bike, sending him crashing into the curb and flying off like a disabled bird with tourettes. Surprisingly, he emerged relatively unscathed, but it put him on the skids a bit.
When I got back to the apartment, I found a letter from Lane waiting in my mailbox, which is ironic because he should be receiving my postcard around the same time. That means we both waited exactly the same amount of time before attempting legitimate correspondence since parting ways four months prior, though he had to wait for my aunt to send him pre-addressed and stamped envelopes before he sent his. He did say he tried to call me several times but had the wrong number. In the letter he talked about having sparked something romantic with a girl who came to stay at the Zen center for a week and whether anything will come of it, even though she had to go home and he's committed to a life of celibacy for another several months there before heading over to Thailand in October. Turns out he's already researched a respectable monastery to live in, Wat Pah Nanachat in Ubon Rachathani, several hours from Chiang Mai in a totally different province. So much for coming over to see me. He'll have to shave his head and his eyebrows as well. It's such a shame that he always has to be so extreme about things – either dreadlocks or baldness, celibacy or incorrigibility, John Denver or Catharsis.
In the afternoon Ben and I took off on our motorbikes once again, this time for some leisure riding up the mountain past Doi Suthep (the famous Temple overlooking the city) and off into the Hill Tribe villages about 20km away from where we live. It was a pretty ride, which got a little cold as we sped higher up with the wind slapping against our bare arms and legs. The Hmong tribe village was not exactly what one would expect from a tribal people as it was comprised of the same kinds of craft and purse and jewelry shops as you encounter all over Chiang Mai. They didn't live in huts or anything, but rather tin shacks with corrugated roofs decorated with satellite dishes. It was a town obviously struggling to maintain part of its traditional lifestyle in the face of modernity while apparently not having the best go of it. The people there spoke better English than most of my university students. Supposedly there are less touristed hill tribe villages further away.

Our afternoon exploits left us feeling like we got the most out of our motorbike rental. We ate dinner with Leah at this restaurant called the "Art Cafe", which turned out to be much more expensive than what was listed in the guidebook, and while my turkey burrito (with Thanksgiving style turkey) was pretty good, it definitely wasn't worth 165 baht, plus they didn't even give us free water which is a total sham when you're paying that much for a meal in Thailand (conversion: $5). On the ride back it was torrentially downpouring, even though we had already waited half an hour for the storm to lessen, but no such luck. I couldn’t see and was sure I might die since my glasses were completely spotted with rain drops and fogging up pretty bad. Guess it's back to the trusty ole' songtaews.

The European Interlude: July 11 - July 20

2007-08-08T09:07:00.000-07:00

I should’ve known they wouldn’t let me leave Chiang Mai without a fight. As a little bird informed me after the fact, in Thailand, you should always get things in writing. People like to say one thing and then say something completely different shortly afterward. Such was the case with my boss, who when I went in to hand her my substitute schedule sheet, reacted as if I was completely insane.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“The schedule and list of people who will be subbing for me while I’m gone, just as you asked.”
She retained a look of confusion on her face. “What is this for? Where are you going?” My boss always talks in a very fast and abrasive manner, like a machine gun, whether she’s happy or not, so it can be difficult to read what she’s thinking.
“I’m going to a wedding in Austria. Remember, I came in here just under a month ago and we talked about this and you gave me the go-ahead.”
“I don’t remember any such thing.”
I couldn’t tell if she was pulling my leg.
“Are you serious?” I inquired. “I came in here a few weeks ago and told you I had a wedding in Austria and you said as long as I found the necessary subs that it was fine.”
There was a long pause in which she just stared at me dumbly.
She broke the silence. “You’re supposed to be representing Princeton, right? You knew you’d be working here this year, right? I don’t know. I don’t know. You know that other girl, T___? She just decided to take off for two weeks with barely any notice. That’s not appropriate at all.”
The supply of oxygen in the room felt like it was rapidly depleting.
“But I told you about this as soon as I arrived, which was a month in advance, and you told me it was fine.” I meekly protested.
“Well, when T___ gets back, she’s going to find that she doesn’t have a position for next semester. Do you plan on just taking off like this next semester?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope not. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“So is everything all right then?”
“Fine, fine” she said in a tone that would have left complete doubt in anyone’s mind that anything was remotely fine.

And so I left Chiang Mai unsure about my job security. I flew Turkish Airlines from Bangkok to Vienna with a stopover in Istanbul. My first impressions regarding the airline were particularly drab, as were my later ones, but at least I had a whole row to myself during the 10 hour stretch from Bangkok to Istanbul. There were no individual TV screens, it was impossible to see the community screen for my section, the food was peculiar (no Pork, are you kidding me?), but it was a-ok because I pretty much slept the whole way excluding the particularly turbulent stretch a few hours into the flight which sent the drink cart lurching and the flight attendant diving. She was in a perpetually bad mood for the remainder of the flight. Such a scour on such a pretty face, and as I discovered, it seems that in order to be a flight attendant on Turkish Air, you must be pretty and wear a constant scour. Another thing I can’t figure out is why they always play “The George Lopez Show” on international flights in far off places of the world, as if it’s some kind of universal television program. It wasn’t well received in America and it sure as hell isn’t received any better anywhere else. It’s awful.
I arrived in Vienna on the morning of the 12th where I met Daniel the Swede at the airport. My flight landed slightly before his, so when he emerged from luggage claim, I was there waiting for him with a silly little sign that I’d drafted up in the interim. It was a passionate reuniting that saw us fondle each others’ balls a bit and rub facial gruff together in hopes of creating fire, then it was time to explore Vienna a bit. We walked around the city on foot, breezing past all of the churches and various other minor architectural feats because Daniel and I are such jaded travelers, though I guess the Parliament building was nice enough. Maybe it’s because people don’t know how to walk properly in Vienna, but we were accidentally bumping into someone every five minutes, to which they would meet us with harsh words and pumping fists.
On the train to Graz, Daniel and I both fell asleep, awoke to picturesque Alp scenery, dozed off again, and finally awoke in Europe’s 2003 cultural capital. Rudi greeted us on the platform, and like Daniel, didn’t look any different; still the same old Austrian Kenny G doppelganger.
Q: What did Kenny G say when he walked into an elevator?
A: Man, this place rocks!

Rudi had set us up at a really nice bed and breakfast of sorts down the road from him and right next to the church where the marriage would take place. Our room looked like a quaint version of a sample room right out of an Ikea catalogue, though much of the furniture was actual Ikea. We dropped off our bags and headed over to Rudi’s for a meal “not very representative of Austria” consisting of wraps, pute (what we call Turkey), and various “add to your liking” vegetables and condiments. There was an attempt at guacamole, so I was a very happy camper. Also in attendance at the dinner were Rudi’s fiancée Bianca, a girl named Chelsea, and her psychic mother Lori. Chelsea was once a camper of Rudi’s when he was head counselor and choir master seven years prior at Austria’s very own “Sound of Music Camp.” How Bianca wasn’t disturbed by the Lolita-esque dynamic is beyond me. On the walk back to the B&B, Daniel and I found ourselves asking the question of how we even wound up here in the first place. How well did we even know Rudi after all?

The wedding was held at a fancily architected Catholic church.
“Do you think we’ll incinerate at the entrance for being Jews” Daniel asked me.
“Who knows?” I responded. “Maybe.”
God was on our side that day and we miraculously failed to spontaneously combust. The bride entered down the aisle of the church to Bach’s eerie Toccata and Fugue – the song that’s famously used in horror movies and Tales From the Crypt (if that gives you any idea of the kind of mood it sets). This was no ordinary wedding: it was a music laden modern day opera courtesy of Graz’s own acappella choir and various tattoo-ridden and uniquely hair styled musicians wearing some bizarre-ass attire. The bride’s grandpa, a small silver-haired old man, bawled throughout the entire service, even when it seemed like things couldn’t get any happier. At some point the priest made a joke (in both German and then English) about the irony of Australians in Austria – an issue that has long confounded the world in which neither the twine shall meet or else the world might spin off its axis – which was relevant being that several people from Australia were in attendance and that’s where we all first met. After the service there were drinks served outside and I learned that “gazuntite” is actually how they say “cheers” in various parts of Austria. They had no idea that we often use it in place of “bless you” back in that hodge-podge country known as the USA. The wedding reception was held at a castle in the countryside of Feldbach. I guess it was pretty typical as far as Austrian weddings go. The first dance is always the waltz – that’s the only thing you gotta know when it comes to European weddings. Know how to waltz or face the music, that’s all there is to it. Oh yeah, for all the Austrians out there, if you’ve never been to the States before, don’t make Newark, NJ your first and only stop, otherwise your experience could be a little disappointing. This guy Philip I met still had a sour taste in his mouth over his trip to a place where he swore “they don’t have grocery stores, all the men have gigantic muscles, it always rains, and everyone eats at the International House of Pancakes.”
I left early the following morning on a train back to Vienna before jumping on a plane to Rome. Emily and I had some last-minute email swapping that left a most ambiguous meeting point in Termini Station, but luckily, amidst the five million people scurrying around frantically like insects, she found me, even after wandering to and from the hostel and waiting by the train arriving from Milan, because somehow she crazily thought I was taking the train all the way from Vienna to Rome and that miraculously it would only take a few hours. Since the reunion happened so suddenly and only after much endured stress on both parties, I didn’t get to run toward her in slow motion, pick her up and swirl her around. It was even a bit strange seeing this person, this girlfriend of mine; a girl who in two months time now came off as a stranger. To me she looked skinnier in the face. To her, I looked skinnier in the muscles. To each other, two confused people trying to find reason behind the surface. It took a while before all those old feelings rushed back, just like at the beginning when I used to get so excited around her that I could lose my food at any moment. In actuality, I did lose my food several times in the beginning, and after the beginning, and all the way up until the present.
After some cleaning up (on her part, not mine) we went out for a bite to eat with some friends she and Patrice had made from the hostel: a chronically clammy-handed Brazilian and a guy who very well might’ve been the real life Bubble Boy from Nebraska. The next two days, we did all the touristy things one does in Rome, though I missed out on the Coliseum and Roman Forum, which they had already gotten out of the way before I arrived. I had arranged for Emily and I to have our own hostel each of the two nights we were there. The first night we had a really nice room somehow obtained on a fluke, so the next morning we had to move to the hostel’s other location – confusingly enough, the hostel had three locations, all located on opposite ends of the city. They weren’t even really like hostels, but more like rooms rented out in a private flat. Both nights it was ridiculously loud outside our window. Why the city of Rome chooses to empty its dumpsters at 3am is perplexing, and why it takes an hour to do so is an even greater mystery. Our bed at the second location was elevated in the middle, so every time Emily and I came close to embracing, like a modern take on the chastity belt, the peak would hurl us down our respective sides. Maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. The bed in the first hostel location wasn’t comfortable either, and the following few nights, our bed at the campsite in Sorrento was even worse. The bed in Sorrento was actually two beds squished together with vicious protruding springs on the attack against our vulnerable backs and sides and stomachs throughout the night. There was also the nuisance of being sandwiched between the noisy restaurant/drinking area and our cabin cluster’s community picnic area. All this talk of dolorous beds made me forget to mention that between Rome and Sorrento, we stopped off for some pizza in Napoli where it was born. The dough tasted like Naan and the men in Napoli tend to make gross amphibian-like faces with fluttering tongues at passing by females. I’d take a slice of NYC style over Napoli’s finest any day, but that’s not to say Napoli doesn’t make decent pizza, it’s just that I prefer Pizza Hut. Sorrento was beautiful, just like Ems, so it had that much going for it. During the days we took trips to Capri and Positano. On the boat to Capri, it was reassuring to learn that Europe has its share of white trash as well. It was also reassuring to see people with BMW’s camp out in Sorrento at the same place as Contiki tour constituents, and doubly reassuring to see that Australians – with merely a population of 30 million – are still taking over the world. As the Australian backpacker I sat and ate Kebobs with in Istanbul said, “Oh gosh. Do you think we’re worse than the Japanese?”
“Eh” I began, “At least you guys don’t always throw up the peace sign in photos.”
That’s about all I remember from Istanbul. I saw Turkey’s equivalent to the Sistene Chapel in the Aya Sofya and got a stamp in my passport. Five hours in that city were a total whirlwind.
That whole day was kind of a whirlwind. I left Emily at 4am in order to walk the 3km to the train station for a 5am train in order to be on a 6am train leaving out of Napoli that was crucial if I wanted to make the perfectly timed train out of Rome to the airport where my flight was set to depart at 10am. As rough as that was, it wasn’t as rough as saying goodbye to Emily, but I’ll spare you the sentimentality.

It's Olive from Little Miss Sunshine

Truly, we're from Positano; no tourists here.

The Thai Must Think They’re Under Attack – July 4th one day in hindsight

2007-07-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

I waged war on the ants tonight. I’d given them more than ample time to leave my apartment peacefully, but they remained defiant. I couldn’t stand to watch my desk move with them anymore, so I took back the Raid from Ben and went to town. Those strip things would probably be more effective as new ants continue to pop up where the other ones had been wiped off the Earth just minutes earlier.
Yesterday was July 4th and a bunch of us attended the festivities put on by the US Consulate. It was a pretty surreal spectacle – some might even say a freakshow. Who knew that there were what seemed like a 1000 Americans in Chiang Mai? We also musn’t forget about the few pretty little Thai girls in attendance on the arms of various sleazy old Yanks. The shindig cost 50baht to get in and got you a raffle ticket to boot, but sadly I didn’t win anything – not the jade necklace, nor the 2 night stay at the Four Seasons, nor the airfare for two to Taipei or Laos, nor the membership to the American University Alumni library with books as current as 1950. Within the walls of the consulate, the party was held in the outside courtyard. The Thais walking along outside must have been completely confused about the weird patriotic karaoke blasting from inside and the fireworks display later on must’ve led them to believe they were under attack. If I do say so myself, the fireworks were rather impressive considering my expectations consisted of a solo firecracker smuggled in from Kentucky. Speaking of Kentucky, a lot of the people in attendance looked right out of the “Bluegrass State”. I still can’t figure out what so many hickish families are doing in Chiang Mai. Of course, there were the expected missionaries, some meatheads, disenchanted twenty-somethings from the NGO’s or fake Reuters knockoffs, and so many little kids that seemed to come out of nowhere. Many people had on patriotic shirts and donned flag-painted faces. One odd woman had cat whiskers painted on instead for some enigmatic reason. As for food and drink, there was Subway, McDonalds, Starbucks, and some other random stations, like the hotdog one that ran out within the first hour. If the food stations and Coca Cola sponsorship ads abound weren’t American enough, there was always the watermelon eating competition. Maybe it was the inner mom inside me, but I was worried that someone could easily choke on the seeds. On a side note, I just learned that “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” and “God Save the Queen” are the exact same song with different lyrics. We should be ashamed of ourselves.

Life of Pai (not that I even like the book), June 30th – July 1st

2007-07-07T11:00:00.000-07:00

On Saturday morning the PiA crew took a spur-of-the-moment trip to Pai, a small little hippie town hidden in the mountains and unlike any other place I’ve been in Thailand so far. It used to be a mecca for all sorts of traveling artists and the sort, but according to modern cynics, it’s now a played-out getaway overrun with lame Farang. For me, while there were plenty of beer-guzzling Westerners abound and dreadlocked Thais who still act like Bob Marley is alive and well, Pai was an awesome weekend respite, though many of its occupants consist of once-travelers who never managed to escape the town’s laid-back allure.
We took a mini-bus to get there on a road that had plenty enough of dips, climbs, and curves to make me nauseous. Accompanying us in the bus was a quiet Australian and an obnoxiously affectionate and big-schnozzed Israeli couple who couldn’t keep their hands or lips off of one another. Ben and I had a good chat to help pass the time, though at one point the Australian said to himself but loud enough for us to hear, “Americans are funny.”
I turned around and went, “Huh?”
“You Americans are funny” he continued. “You guys talk so much and you talk so fast.”
He pantomimed with his hand some kind of yapping motion. Yet another remark that I just had no idea what to make of.
“In my town, we have this competition” he went on. “You know that show Gilmore Girls? Well we have to listen to this 50 second sound clip of Gilmore Girls and guess how many words were said. It’s always somewhere around 50 million or so.”
Go figure. People from four hours outside of Melbourne in the country must have a lot of time on their hands.

Nell, Alexis, & Leah

Once in Pai, we set out for our guest house, which turned out to be located on the main river in town – the kind of muddy river that you think of when envisioning a stereotypically bucolic Asian landscape. While walking along a quaint little road, we passed a sign that read:
"Laundry
20baht
monkey"
I was confused, but not for long. As I turned my head around, I came face to face with a baby monkey tied to a post and looking me in the eye. It scurried around within the available slack, futilely reaching for bananas that must have seemed within range to the tortured soul.
We rented motorbikes and set out exploring. We were gonna go with bicycles, but the guy at our guest house advised against it, saying that the roads would be too steep. Sure enough, he was right. There was no way we would’ve made it on bicycles.
In Chiang Mai, Ben and I don’t really find it necessary to own motorbikes because of the availability of song-taews, not to mention we’re both little woussies, but riding on the motorbike for the first time would be like a paraplegic one day waking up to discover a newfound control of their legs(not that I can say what that's like). It gave us a new found mobility previously unfathomable. And let me tell you, it was exhilarating – riding out of town into the countryside of fables and zipping around on those little death traps of ours. It was probably the act of riding the motorbike itself that proved to be the highlight of my trip. It reminded me of going out on Jetskis when I was younger and rules didn’t exist on the wide-open seas (or in my case, semi-contained lakes). When you ride on a jet ski, there isn’t really a destination, it’s just the act of speeding aimlessly around that makes it so much fun, and thus was the case with the motorbikes, except we had super cool destinations available as well (like the waterfall and Temple on the Hill). Did I mention that Ben was my passenger? There wasn’t really much debate as to who would be the driver. Sounds eerily like a metaphor for our relationship…
After an afternoon of motorbiking in and around Pai, we’d seen ourselves a Chinese village, the waterfall (at which only a chubby nine year old Thai boy had enough balls to go down the ad hoc waterslide created from a section of smoothed out rock as an entirely all Western audience looked on in amazement), and the solo landing strip in the middle of a field that is officially known as Pai’s airport. Oddly enough, there were a few times I turned my motorbike on and it would then turn off immediately (yeah yeah, I was giving it enough gas). Luckily this was during the downhill portion of the journey, so I was able to coast even with the engine off like Kerouac in “On the Road.”

Retardedly spelling out PiA in the countryside - a sad attempt to make the newsletter

As darkness settled, we grabbed dinner at an Italian restaurant, making it something like the fifth time in seven days that I was gorging myself on pizza. The restaurant didn’t seem to be doing so well on this particular night as every party that came in after us subsequently wound up leaving within a few minutes. Maybe there was some correlation between that and the fact that they never got around to bringing us the goat-cheese salad that Nell ordered (note: Nell is one of the PiA girls). They did wind up bringing out Leah’s goat-cheese salad though, and ironically enough, their goat cheese tasted like nothing of the sort, but rather more along the likes of Mozzarella.
With our stomachs full, we moved onto a bit of boozing, first at some entirely Thai afterwork-type hangout blasting a dubbed version of “Bean” on TV, and then a series of entirely Farang infested watering holes, several of which request taking off your shoes before entering. While that’s all good and nice, it didn’t seem like particularly shrewd policy after I accidentally shattered a glass and everyone was precariously walking around barefoot.
My buzz didn’t actually kick in until we got ourselves a bucket of SangSom and coke. SangSom is this cheap Thai liquor that tastes pretty similar to rum. At some point while in transit between bars, someone drunkenly rode their motorbike into a ditch right in front of us. There were plenty of people around to aid in his rescue, some of whom we got to chatting with. They were a crew of British kids, and after the girls headed back for bed, Ben and I were left in their care. Most of what I remember involved ranting about my cultural inferiority complex that tends to spill out after a few drinks whilst in the presence of people with seemingly fancier accents. I’m pretty sure Ben and I also offered up our best Cockney impersonations which were passé even before we began.

Cut to scene: Ben and I made it back to our room and the conversation went something like this:
“Whoa” I said, laying my head down on the pillow. “I think I’ve got the spins.”
“Really?” he responded. “I don’t really feel that drunk.”
“I didn’t either, but now that I’m lying down I feel it a lot more.”
Ben hit the lights. A few seconds passed.
“Ok” he said. “I’ve got the spins now too.”

The Best – June 22, 2007

2007-07-01T08:25:00.000-07:00

There was an earthquake here a few days ago, a 4.5 on the Richter scale, but I seem to have been the only one completely oblivious to its occurrence. My first earthquake and I didn’t get to feel it at all. It was small, so most people just felt a little tremble, but I missed it and don't know how.
As it turns out, my dad isn't closing down his office, I just happened to have slightly misread the email from my aunt. He's just closing it down on Wednesdays to try and cut costs. Auntie is now in search of another job for that one day and inquired about working at BRL. I let her know it was probably the worst idea I’d ever heard.
This afternoon I worked for two hours in the self access center on campus sitting in an air conditioned room waiting for students to approach me with questions. Nobody did, so I just read and wrote for two hours and got paid the same as what I get for teaching; easiest money I ever made, though it was hard not to fall asleep. My stomach was grumbling, so I grabbed a bite to eat at Boat, a diner just down the road from CMU. The club sandwich served to me was undoubtedly the weirdest club sandwich I've ever had. I don’t know if it could even be considered a club sandwich. Instead of turkey and ham, it contained egg and hotdog and some other questionable ingredients. Luckily I was hungry enough that it didn’t matter too much.
Back at Baan Thai, “Best” came to pick me up on his motorbike before heading off for Muay Thai practice. Several weeks back Song-Si tried to set me up with someone knowledgeable about Thai boxing, and through a series of completely random introductions, “Best” and I were introduced.
“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I asked struggling to understand through his accent.
“Best.”
“Bass?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you spell that?”
“B-E-S-T. The best.”
“Wait, your name is Best? Are you serious?”
“Yes. My name is Best.”
“Best” is obviously his English nickname, but he doesn’t even pronounce it properly. So after several weeks of failed attempts to coordinate a training session, today was finally going to be the day. We drove back to the university gym and he introduced me to this 40 something year old Italian guy who's supposedly sweet at Muay Thai and happens to be earning his Bachelors Degree in philosophy from Payapp, a Christian university in Chiang Mai where the other PiA girls teach. It made me a little curious wondering what a 40 year old Italian man is doing studying Philosophy at a Thai university, but I decided to let it go. As I later learned, there are even English-speaking Europeans that come over to Thailand and major in English.
I tried to put such nonsense out of my mind before Best and I entered CMU’s gymnasium replete with badminton nets, a corner designated for the ping pong team, and another corner occupied by a boxing ring. We proceeded to work on fundamentals, which somehow I never seemed to have learned back in the States – things like upside down push-ups against the wall and various leg strengthening exercises while maintaining proper hand positioning. These proved quite challenging as anyone who knows me has seen my rare breed of chicken legs. I tried to make a few excuses and attributed my lack of balance to being flat-footed. That didn’t stop me from letting loose on the punching bag when Best asked me to demonstrate my skills. Everyone in the giant gymnasium watched as I threw a mix of coordinated and uncoordinated jabs, crosses, uppercuts, and wild kicks.
Best was nice enough to give me a pair of hand wraps to keep for good, and we practiced the ancient art of “Bong, Bat, Bit, Bo”, which roughly translates into something along the lines of block, move, something, something. We finished up with some general stretching, more bizarre push-ups, and some weird spider-man crawl type thing in order to "rid the chest of its lactic acid." Afterwards we went into this kid's room who lives in the back of the gymnasium and watched bare-knuckle Muay Thai matches on dvd until Best's girlfriend arrived with his motorbike and he took me home. Before saying goodbye, he mentioned that for next time I must gather together three lotus flowers, three sticks of incense, and a candle – something about an offering for the Muay Thai spirit. (note: It’s now a week and a half later, Best has since been AWOL, while the three lotus flowers, three sticks of incense, and candle are all still sitting in my fridge)

The Dinner Party - June 18th

2007-06-25T06:27:00.000-07:00

I came home and couldn't sleep, so I did the logical thing: went insane for a bit. I couldn't bear to eat at the university today either. One can only handle the canteen food subsidized at 15 baht per meal – the equivalent of 40 cents – so many times in a row before reaching a nausea plateau. At least that seems to be the case for me, who knows about everyone else.
So after my failed nap and general restlessness, I went downstairs and took two steps before reaching the biggest Farang hangout in town, Smoothie Blues, where I ordered a chicken quesadilla, which always tastes a little funny. Probably something to do with the cheese (or whatever imitation stuff) they use. I brought along my “Southeast Asia on a Shoestring” travel book and tried to plan out a trip to Cambodia and Vietnam for the midterm break at the end of July/beginning of August. Once I had some food in me, I took a trip to the gym with Mark and had myself a workout.
We walked back amidst a torrential downpour, which left me the most soaked I’ve been in my life, but it felt good after working up a sweat. On our way, we picked up a cheap bottle of wine (that wasn't so cheap being that Thailand isn't exactly famous for its wine) to bring to the dinner party we were invited to over at Titi's - the 50 year old Indonesian woman who works at the Asian feminist NGO and happens to like dancing as if she was 21 again. Ben, Mark, and myself all know Titi through Joof, a fellow teacher at CMU that’s 37 but looks like he’s 21. 21 seems to be the magic number here. (note: Joof actually looks more like he’s 27, but then my line about 21 being a magic number wouldn’t have worked so well. Sorry if anyone feels betrayed.)
So the three Americans made their way over to Titi’s place. We arrived to find that she had prepared quite the feast. The spread included things like Tandoori chicken, eggplant lasagna, salad, Chinese-inspired doughy things with bean paste in some and pork in others, cheese covered grapes, and real Mi-Goreng specially for me (because I told her about being obsessed with the instant kind, to which she was floored), and to tell you the truth, I prefer the instant stuff more, though I could never have admitted such a thing. Maybe it’s the MSG in the instant stuff, or maybe it’s the absence of real fish sauce (which I blame for subsequent stomach ailments later that night), but instant Mi-Goreng is just unbeatable.
The three of us were the youngest by far at the soiree, and it was kind of strange how everybody acted completely stand-offish to us. I've never felt that incapable of socializing in my life.
We also happened to be the only Americans, except for this twice-divorced 62 year old insane red-headed woman from California. She loved to ramble on and on about this banana farmer 25 years her junior from Dominica that broke her heart. Daphne was her name, and she owns some natural beauty products company. We were grouped with her by default because nobody else at the party was really interested in talking to us and Daphne proved to be inescapable.
There were a couple of women from Indonesia and the Philippines, a Thai astrologist, a Kiwi man with a wild-west type moustache, this Aussie couple that was “too cool for school”, and an ethnically Fijian/Indian woman from Fiji who had lived in Australia, thus accounting for her twinge of an Aussie accent.
“I’ve been to Fiji before” I mentioned. “But I spent a little less than a week there and only got to do the touristy things.”
“Typical” she muttered.
“I wish I’d gotten to see more, it’s just that I was bounded by time constraints. I wanted to visit while my friend from Fiji was there, but alas, it wasn’t meant to be. His dad is actually a professor at the university. University of the Pacific, or something like that.”
“Oh really?” Her interest was piqued. “What’s his last name?”
“Narsi.” I replied. “He’s a professor of economics, I think.”
“Uh huh. I know who he is.”
“Really? That’s crazy. There must be hundreds of Narsi’s in Fiji.”
“Fiji’s not that big, you know.”
“Isn’t there around a million people?”
“No, about 900,000, and most people know of each other.”
“Still, that doesn’t seem too small.”
“Oh, it’s small.”
“Whatever.” I thought.
And that’s where the conversation ended. She just turned abruptly and started talking to the person on her other side, leaving me to my own devices for about the millionth time that night. At some point I briefly entered into conversation with the Aussie guy (of the aforementioned “too cool for school” Aussie couple). As it turns out, his wife has worked for the feminist NGO over the past three years in Chiang Mai while he’s passed the time as a “domestic engineer”. In case you’re not familiar with the profession, it’s just a fancy way of saying that you’re an unemployed bum just piggy-backing off your significant other’s salary. I love to be lazy, but three years of hanging out doing nothing while your girlfriend goes to work everyday? C’mon, man. And then he had the audacity to take needless potshots at me for being American (note: one would think that international NGO workers in Thailand would be above such puerile nonsense, but then one would have to think again). After taking the higher road for a few minutes, I caved and offered up the most pathetic retort I could think of while on the spot, something along the lines of “It's only the people that come from small countries with napoleon complexes that feel compelled to take potshots at people from other countries." I instantly felt supremely lame. I took another potshot earlier in the night from this seemingly nice and innocent Filipino woman that didn’t even make any sense. When I was complimenting Titi on her amazing cooking and expressing my gratitude, this Filipino woman said, “Are you saying that cause you mean it or just because you're American?" I still don’t even know what that means, but I guess I was just saying it because I was American after all since I lied about the Mi-Goreng, though I wasn’t lying about being sincerely grateful and impressed. That’s more than I can say about any of the other people.
Later on in the evening I had another run-in with the woman from Fiji. She was busy comparing bellies with the Aussie guy and said "At least I've got an excuse being 5 months pregnant and all." Not too long after I stepped outside to find her puffing on a cigarette.
"Aren't you pregnant?" I asked.
"Yeah, so what" she fired back.
"Umm, well, isn't smoking while pregnant not supposed to be the greatest idea?" I stammered.
"Who says, western medicine?"
I started to feel very uncomfortable and not really sure what to say because she was so adamant.
"I don't think it's just western medicine that says smoking while pregnant is bad. I think it's kind of a universal understanding."
She shot me a quizzical look.
"I'm not judging" I said, obviously judging, "but isn’t that cigarette you're holding a Western cancer stick?"
Silence.
“Ok, whatever you want to do, that’s fine.” And then I excused myself really awkwardly.
The night progressed, and right as we were leaving, the woman from Fiji was smoking another cigarette and said to me, "I have a secret to tell you."
"What's that?" I asked.
"I'm not really pregnant" she said. "I was just saying that to make Derrick [the Aussie] feel worse about himself. Just thought I'd let you know."
At that moment it became all the more awkward because if it wasn't a baby we were talking about, then we were just simply discussing her belly fat at that point. I wanted to stare at her belly and separate fact from fiction, but then that just would have been too weird. And then we had to walk the crazy red-headed kook home.

Why not go out on a limb? - June 13, 2007

2007-06-14T02:40:00.000-07:00

Plane tickets to Austria just went up three hundred dollars over night. I could kill someone. Not really, but still, I feel sick about it. I knew I shouldn’t have waited, but Rudi – the one getting married - didn’t respond to me soon enough with the “a-ok” and the computers at work yesterday wouldn’t load the payment page properly. Maybe if I hold out a bit longer a deal will present itself. See, I’m supposed to go to Europe for Rudi’s wedding. I know what you’re all thinking, Why are you going to Europe when you’re in Asia for a year…Shouldn’t you be exploring Asia? And yes, it is damn expensive, but you see, I made a promise a long time ago to Rudi. Plus there’s another pull that I’ll get to in a minute. Rudi – if you make your way back to the earliest postings on this blog – is a good friend (whom some refer to as the Austrian Kenny G.) that I made in Australia while on a trip comprised of international students traveling along the eastern cost. It was “the east coast odyssey”, though much less an odyssey than per se a romp of sorts. Beyond the majority of Americans, there were three Europeans on the trip: Rudi, Daniel, and Jonathan. Jonathan has pretty much left the picture since becoming a father back in Denmark. Who would have ever thought a child shakes up your priorities? As for Daniel, the Swede, I can’t get him out of my life. He obsessively stalks me everyday on Skype and Gmail chat, seemingly in this for the long haul. Daniel will also be making his way to the wedding in Austria, thus making it a reunion of sorts. We better not have to share a bed.
The other deciding factor in this European sojourn is that my dearest Emily will be in Europe around the same time, so I’ll be joining up with her in Rome after the wedding festivities wind down. She will be traveling around Italy for three weeks with her friend Patrice, so I’m quite psyched about the prospect of jumping her bones, ahem, I mean licking her face, ahem, I mean spending some seriously quality time with her for about five days.
I had to find subs for all my classes and was particularly nervous about running the whole charade by my boss, but she just put it matter-of-factly:
“A few years ago we had an American teacher. His name was Alex. Alex went back to the States for the December holidays and promised us he had found a sub. After the December holidays, several students came and complained that no teacher had shown up for class and so they had missed out on a week of studies. So we fired Alex. We also fired Miguel, the one who was supposed to sub for Alex.” Point taken. I’m actually at the middle school right now having finished up with my daily dose of 7th graders. Thankfully, my last class after lunch was serendipitously cancelled due to some sort of assembly. Still, that didn’t stop the last class before lunch from ruining my day. The first three hours were fine, but I was ready to murder the last class. I decided to test out having a quote of the day, though I should’ve known in advance that metaphors would be lost upon such little buggers. Today’s quote was by Will Rogers and went as follows (try not to laugh): “Why not go out on a limb? That’s where the fruit is.” So after first hour met me with universal faces of incredulity, for the subsequent periods I added a visual aid for clarification. I drew an incredibly lame tree to illustrate a “limb” and defined the word “risk” for them. You know, because going out on a limb is like taking a risk, right? Anyway, I also drew some fruit hanging from one of the tree limbs and captioned it “this could turn out to be the best fruit ever”. Then I pantomimed for the class what it meant to go out on a limb by awkwardly simulating climbing out on a tree branch. If that wasn’t enough, I further explained that the risk of going out on a limb was that there existed no such guarantee of not falling or the fruit being delicious, but that if they didn’t try, they’d never know. Still, after all this hand-holding, in the initial 15 minutes I’d allotted, most of the students hadn’t even managed to copy down the quote. So I made my way around the room and worked with various kids on an individual basis. “Write down something” I said. “Anything! Don’t worry about drawing the tree, I just put that up there to help you. I want you to tell me what you think this quote means in real life. What does it mean to not know if you don’t try? What are some things that could be considered ‘going out on a limb?’” So after another 10 minutes, as I made my way around the room, everybody was still fixated on drawing their trees. I was infuriated. “FORGET ABOUT THE TREE” I screamed while erasing the tree off the board. “I swear to God, if another one of you keeps drawing that tree, I’m gonna strangle you. Write, don’t draw. Got it?”
I gave them one last chance. Ten minutes later, everyone was still drawing the tree. I hate 4th hour. The other classes might not have been brilliant, but at least they didn’t fixate on the tree. My favorite interpretation of the quote came from a meek girl in 2nd hour. She said, “The fruit is too sweet and a monkey will come eat it.”

Back home, my Dad is supposedly getting 1-2 phone calls a day from people interested in buying my car. He’s been having more success than I did when I tried, though my best effort consisted of a small ad hoc sign in the window facing away from the street. Still, as soon as people hear the price, they take off for the hills. How can people think that a 2004 Mazda 3 in perfect condition is gonna go for under 10g’s. They must be smoking crack.

2 HOURS LATER

It’s official: I’m going to Europe. I found a decent flight on Turkish Airlines flying into Vienna on July 12 and leaving out of Rome on July 20. There was a flight leaving on the 19th for $45 cheaper with only a two hour layover in Istanbul as opposed to the nine I’ll be forced to endure, but I figured it was worth it for one more night with my lady; but a small price to pay for love.

Bad sleeps, the ants, Mark's in the hospital - Saturday, June 9th

2007-06-09T20:50:00.000-07:00

I woke up early this morning, maybe because I've been waking up every morning at 6:45am, or maybe because I had to pee intensely. Needless to say, I forced myself back to sleep and awoke around 11:30am to find 3 missed calls from Leah, who's staying at the guest house, completely unsure about what to do, and has probably been up since 6am due to the jetlag. Leah is the latest member of PiA to arrive in Chiang Mai.
I want to eat a bowl of my coco-pops (coco crispies) right now, but I don't have any milk and I'm too lazy to walk downstairs to the 7-11 next door and buy some. There are all these ants crawling around my room now I think because I left out my spoon with some yogurt crusted on it for a day, but I can't figure out for the life of me where they're coming from. This one-by-one slaughter that I've been carrying out isn't the most effective.
Just a few minutes ago I got off the phone with Mark, who called me from the hospital to let me know they're refusing to release him until his insurance info is cleared up. He might just end up walking out on his own very soon if they don't let him out. To offer some background, Mark - one of the other Farang CMU faculty members from Coe College in Iowa, who looks strikingly similar to actor/comedian Brian Posehn - suffered food poisoning from eating at the very same Mexican restaurant I ate at with him (along with 10 other people) the other night, though he's the only one who got sick. He talked my ear off for about 36 minutes straight, probably because he's been so deprived of social interaction.
"And so in 'The Commitment' by Dan Savage" he went on, "They go to British Columbia to get married, just symbolically at least. They're not from British Columbia, and it's not even legal there, but then, I have to go. Bye"
Without warning, after blabbering for those 36 minutes, he hung up on me. I assumed it was because someone had entered his room offering hope of a timely discharge. There really was a God and I had been saved from Mark's desperate chattiness...And then he called me back five minutes later and went on for another 36 minutes. (note: Mark, if you're reading this, I like talking to you. Don't get the wrong idea. You're a beautiful person, even if you look like the mailguy from Just Shoot Me).

Vaccines, 90 cent medical exams, & monstrous 7th graders – June 7th

2007-06-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

I got the vaccination for Japanese Encephalitis (JE) the other day at the hospital. It’s a 2-shot vaccine, so I have to go back in another week. The hospital was fairly nice and not half as ghetto as I was probably expecting, though the waiting rooms seemed to be a little packed. Maybe they’re like that back in the states and I’ve just never noticed, probably because when you go to get a shot you don’t mingle amongst the people with eye patches and gauzed heads. Back in the states, the vaccination costs something just shy of $400. Over here it’s something like $15 in total, plus it doesn’t have any of the risky side effects that the vaccination carries over in the States. Kind of ironic that my parents had me get vaccinized for Rabies, but not JE, which actually seems to be the much greater risk over here. Even though most of the everyday people I encounter in Chiang Mai have never even heard of JE, the doctor at the hospital who I spoke with was quite aware of its seriousness and 100% recommended the shots. After I get the next shot, I can go and camp out in rural Thailand, naked under the stars and free of mosquito repellent. That’s actually probably not the smartest idea because I still have to worry about other mosquito-borne diseases like Dengue Fever, not to mention that mosquito bites suck in general, but it’s still fun to think about.
Continuing on in the realm of hospitals and doctors, I recently had to get a medical certificate proving that I’m healthy in order to obtain a work permit and the doctor’s checkup cost me 90 cents. All they really did was take my blood pressure and fill out some forms.
“Are you healthy?” the doctor asked.
“I think so.” I responded.
“You look healthy" he said with a big smile. "Have a good day.”
And that was that.

On other fronts, I had my first teaching experience with the 7th graders yesterday. After being introduced to the entire student body during an early morning assembly, I’m pretty sure it’s not too much of an exaggeration to say that life went downhill from there. It was grueling. Teaching five hours of the same class to completely out of control 12 year old kids is kind of like being Bill Murray’s character in Groundhog Day (only without the devious perks). You have to do the same thing over and over again, all the while being forced to maintain some semblance of interest in a class full of kids who talk at the top of their lungs except when they’re called on and then they turn into little church mice.

Flashback to yesterday while in the thick of it all…
Oh my God, I’m really teaching middle school monsters. They’re infinitely more rambunctious than the middle-schoolers I remember back in the states and the furthest cry from the stone-faced university students. I futilely tried to lay some discipline foundations at the beginning of class because I was told it’s better to start off firm and then lax up as the semester progresses and not the other way around. I’m not sure if my “Hey, everybody, be quiet and don’t speak when I speak” qualifies as starting off firm, as I continuously have to “shh” them and talk really loud, not to mention it’s only 25 minutes into my first class. I’m actually writing this in the middle of class while they work on an activity in pairs interviewing one another about their English nickname, number of siblings, hobbies, and what they would do with 10 million baht (editors note: not surprisingly, everyone wanted a new house and car, though one random kid did say he would burn it).
I just tried to end the activity and nobody’s paying attention to me. This one runt toward the front of the class refuses to stay put in his seat. Is it permissible to choke kids in Thailand? I wonder to myself.

Afterthoughts: While I singled out several kids in semi-failed attempts to elicit participation from the class, I’m pretty sure I accidentally picked on the only autistic kid in the whole school. I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I had no idea.
Another kid randomly came up to me after class, an incredibly small, young looking boy with thick glasses and a face somewhat reminiscent of a simple person. He inexplicably took my arm and began holding and gently caressing it. His initial hello was all I could make out. And then I blacked out.

First Day of School - June 4th

2007-06-04T03:15:00.000-07:00

Today was the day I became the man I was born to be. Eh, a tad bit of an exaggeration. It was my first day of teaching and I had one class. For some inexplicable reason, I teach one class on Monday and Thursday, and three classes on Tuesday and Friday, plus the 5 hours straight of 7th graders on Wednesday. This morning it was English 203 for second year university students. I’d been warned they would be a tough crowd, and so sure enough, I felt like a stand-up comedian that was flopping for the first half of class. Everyone just sat stone-faced as I tried to elicit class participation in going over the syllabus. I’m pretty sure nobody understood 98% of what I was saying, but then we played a spur-of-the-moment ice breaker that involved each of the 25 students selecting an English nickname and writing down one thing that they really enjoy. Turns out I have Mickey and Minnie in my class, and they respectively enjoy playing on the computer and traveling. Turns out the class also contains a “Winnie” and some guy that prefers to be called “arm chair”. This one flamboyant boy – who dramatically gushed when he saw that I was his teacher upon first walking in – selected “Elizabeth” as his nickname, much to the chagrin of everybody else.
The weirdest part about today is that while I know I came over here to teach, it never really sunk in that I was “actually” going to be teaching. Somehow I had gotten the impression that people who go over to Asia to teach just walk around saying they’re a teacher without having to do anything. Whoever thought that I’d actually be placed in a classroom standing before 30 some-odd bloodthirsty Thai university students? (They’re actually the most silent and polite people I’ve ever encountered, at least so far) Whoever thought that I’d be an actual lecturer? Whoever thought, whoever thought, whoever thought…

Chiang Mai: The Legend Continues, June 3, 2007

2007-06-04T03:14:00.000-07:00

Maybe because my intake of sugar cereals was so strictly moderated as a youth, but it still brings back a forbidden pleasure as I sit here eating a bowl of Thai-version coco crispies. In addition to the coco crispies, my room is also stocked with Mayo, chili beans, cream of potato soup, breakfast bars, tuna, and Mi Goreng instant noodles chock full of msg. I was able to obtain all these things at the farang supermarket, where my buddy Kati was kind enough to bring me. She’s actually been carting my bum all over town this past week, and while she pretends to think I’m crazy, I know that in her heart she has a soft spot for me. Kati’s age is impossible to gauge, so I had to resort to other measures in figuring out that she’s 32 (she’ll kill me if she ever sees this). She ages incredibly well being that she looks like a 15 year old, as do many of the other Thais that I have befriended (age well, that is, not look like 15 year olds). Kati also has a strange preoccupation with Winnie the Pooh as evidenced by her Pooh phone case and Pooh stuffed animal in the back of her car.

I asked Kati about products in the US that say “made in Thailand” and whether those items are manufactured in sweat shops. She said that those factories have perfectly decent conditions. What I’ve come to discover is that Thailand is fairly well developed and not as dirty as one might think. It’s Indonesia that’s more sketch according to Kati as she deterred me from buying the Tim Tam’s manufactured in Australia’s next door neighbor. “I don’t trust things made in Indonesia” she said.

I start teaching class on Monday. In addition to the 2 courses (2 sections each, so four in total) that I’ll be handling at the university, I picked up 5 hours of teaching 7th graders every Wednesday. Word on the street is that I’m gonna have more than my hands full with the 7th graders, but the people at the Junior High thought I’d be a good fit being that I can match the energy level of any 7th grader they throw my way.

Some random nonsense: In the Thai version of Wal-mart, twice a day the Thai national anthem comes on over the loudspeaker and everybody stops what they’re doing for the song’s duration.

Touristy leftovers from Bangkok

2007-06-01T07:11:00.000-07:00

Chiang Mai: translating and transportation, warmness and newfound credibility - May 29, 2007

2007-05-31T08:53:00.000-07:00

I get Al-Jazeera in my room, along with MTV Asia. I should be set for life now. Maybe I should offer some context: I got an apartment in Chiang Mai after only my second day being here. Thomas and I meandered on over the measly 3.5km through sauna-like weather to the university yesterday and met up with Song-Si, Chiang Mai University’s (CMU) foreign relations liaison. After signing some papers and hearing various faculty vent about the atrociousness of last year’s PIA fellow, we jumped into Song-Si’s car for a ride. It was nice to finally have a friend in a new city, not only for translating and transportation, but warmness and some sense of newfound credibility over the other hillbilly travelers. We didn’t drive very far before Song-Si made the mistake of partially driving off a curb high enough to deal her car some significant damage. Luckily some nice people from the nearby Mr. Car came by and helped us push her car out of danger.
And so we arrived at one of the nicest apartments in town. 18,000 baht later for a down payment and it was mine.
My apartment is in the ritzy western district of Chiang Mai, and while it lacks a gym, there’s a Powerhouse directly behind it (ironically much fancier and more expensive than the one back home, though lacking dumbbells heavier than 75lbs) and a Starbucks across the street.
Thomas and I attended our first Muay Thai fight last night in which two 7 year old kids viciously went at it to kick off the lineup that included various mismatches and an international headliner featuring an Irishman and a Thai. I took some flack from an Irishman sitting next to me for cheering in favor of the Thai even though the Irishman in the ring held a significant size advantage and I had just been informed that every match-up between a westerner and a Thai always seems to be rigged in favor of the westerner.
“How can you be rooting for the Thai?” the Gallic inquired.
“You said it yourself, it seems every match-up is rigged for the Westerner” I put in my two cents. “Not to mention the fact that westerners have been coming over to this part of the world and exerting their dominance for too long: it’s time for the Thai to rise up.”
“Isn’t that what you want to do, though? You said it yourself you want to do Muay Thai. Don’t you want to get into the ring, fight them, and win?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
“And another thing" he continued. "You shouldn’t be rooting for the westerner because he’s a westerner: you should be rooting for him because he’s Irish.”

Siam, shopping without buying, Chinatown, and Khao San

2007-05-31T08:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight I figured out that my laptop plugs into the outlets just fine and I don't need an adaptor or converter for Thailand (editors note: this later proved to be false for electronics without internal converters as I discovered by instantly blowing out my alarm clock). So I'm on my laptop right now stealing wireless from Asha guest house after sneaking the password from another guest earlier today.
This morning we slept in until almost 11 despite being awoken several times with a start throughout the morning by someone shouting on a loudspeaker, bizarre music, and what sounded like gunshots. After some dallying around, we headed out for Siam Square. The day was basically a shopping extravaganza, except I didn’t really buy anything. Ironic, I know. We started off at what seemed like the ritziest mall in Southeast Asia - the legit one with Dolce & Gabanna, Gucci, Versace, and a fancy aquarium (which we didn't enter because it cost $8). After Siam Square, we made our way over to the MBK: this other gigantic shopping center filled with all the fake stuff (which wasn't as cheap as one would think). The only thing I wound up getting was a fake light blue polo for about $5, though some random guy told us that wit the guys’ fake polos, the colors wash out after putting it in the laundry. Thomas said I could've haggled him more, but I'm not into this whole haggling thing (editors note: I’ve actually become quite good at haggling in the week since). I wasn’t particularly impressed with the MBK.
I'm actually quite hungry at the moment. Oddly enough, I haven’t been finding the right places to eat in Bangkok. Maybe it’s because most of the best food comes from the street vendors, which I’ve been warned to avoid for hygienic reasons. Today all I had was some cereal and fruit in the morning, a little bit of sushi, a smoothie, and an overpriced plate of noodles at the most expensive joint in all of Bangkok’s Chinatown. If Bangkok's crazy, Chinatown in Bangkok is even crazier (and nobody even speaks Chinese). It was crazy and congested; lined with vats of boiling oil that could pour onto you at any moment while traversing the sidewalk. It’s also noteworthy that there are no traffic lights in Bangkok - except for maybe about two which countdown from 60 and nobody heeds anyway - so crossing the street is the biggest bitch the world has ever known. It's a horrifying experience. In this city, street names and maps go out the window. Not only is trying to cross the street or find places nerve-wracking, but so is riding in a taxi, not just a tuk tuk. In both cases you could die at any moment. The driving lanes are also sizably smaller than in America.
In Chinatown, we couldn't find the restaurant we were looking for recommended by the Lonely Planet that I stole from the guest house (on the cover of which the “Thai” part in Thailand is crossed out and inexplicably now reads "Fakeland"). While walking around we noticed that there are very few actual restaurants in Chinatown, but instead street food stalls (and remember what I said about street stalls, though Thomas has been partaking and so far encountered no problems). That's what everyone does, though, and that's where all the good food supposedly lies. I couldn’t cave, and so we walked all over and couldn't decide on anything, eventually settling on the most expensive and fancy place in town. Thomas and I both ordered the cheapest dish – it was like $6, whereas everything else on the street was basically less than $1. At least I got to do a number two in the only nice bathroom in Bangkok’s Chinatown, and we were on our way in our first Tuk Tuk. A tuk tuk is one of those auto-rickshaws; basically the world’s most dangerous taxi. You have to haggle them with prices and a lot of times they don't take you where you want to go, but rather to shopping places that pay the tuk tuk drivers a kickback for customers. Tuks Tuks are smaller than cars and ride almost like motor bikes, so they weave in and out of traffic like you wouldn't believe. This particular ride was crazier than any roller coaster, especially because our driver was young, dumb, and full of ___. They're cheaper than taxis, but you also breathe in all of the pollution and can fall out during a sharp turn. Miraculously we made it to our next destination in one piece: Khao San road. One word: overrated. Thomas chose 'dodgy'. As it turns out, that's where all the (mostly dreadlocked) westerners reside along with a bevy of Thai youth and some very strange characters indeed (most of them trying to sell you bootleg stuff like TEFL certificates, licenses, and various other documents). Kind of strange that a lot of the people who visit Bangkok and stay on Khao San don’t really venture beyond the strip until heading off to the idyllic beaches. At least they get to witness the bizarre Thai man making animal sounds who reveals his secret trick if you’re willing to shell out 25baht.
I guess Khao San is one of those places you gotta check out for yourself, but it’s just not like what you’ve imagined all those years. The same thing goes for Patpong and the notorious ping pong shows, but we won’t go there (at least in this blog). Once again, I’ll just say this: overrated.

I've never sweat like this in my life - May 24, 2007

2007-05-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm absolutely exhausted even though it's only 8:22pm - the jet lag is hitting hard I guess, not to mention that we walked all around Bangkok. I must admit, the Bangkok of my imagination was considerably cooler and more exotic than the Bangkok of reality. It doesn't really feel like I'm in Thailand, maybe because I've held all these preconceived notions of what it ought to be like for so long. Still, it remains incredibly hot. I've never sweat like this in my life. Last night's sleep was incredibly bizarre - the bed was stiff as a board, and yes, you guessed it, the room was filthy hot. Thomas got in around 12:30am right after I had passed out, so that kind of threw things for a loop and I couldn't really get back to sleep. We talked for a while and the last time I remember looking at the clock, it was around 2:30am. Being that our biological clocks are all fucked up, we awoke around 7 - actually, Thomas awoke around 7, inadvertently woke me up with his noise and I couldn't get back to sleep. We made our way into the city after a short walk to the skytrain that took us to a ferry taxi that carried us up the river to our destination: the temples of What Po and the King's Palace. Both were incredibly extravagant and rococo. I took plenty of pictures and video footage so you'll basically get to share in the entire experience minus the pollution, annoying impostors trying to hustle you every step of the way, and the excruciating amount of roundabout walking that we endured. We also indulged in the famous Thai massage at the hands of the renowned masseuse's of What Po. Now hold on, hold on. Before you get all bent outta shape - THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING SEXUAL ABOUT IT (if you don't count the bizarre butt rubbing part). My masseuse was not at all attractive and it was at a legitimate joint where I received the massage in an open room alongside all the other people getting one as well. And to tell you the truth, in spite of the fact that she did some nifty things I'd never seen before, she hurt me like a motherfucker and at times it felt like she was doing some Chinese pressure point torture instead of a massage. It also weirded me out a bit that she started things off by massaging my dirty feet and finished with using those same un-washed fingers on my face and head. Needless to say, I'm gonna have some nasty pimples and sore ass muscles in the morning. We got back to our side of town not too long ago and I must admit: I sold out. I ate Pizza Hut for dinner, which costs more than triple any Thai meal you can get. Strangely enough, it turned out to taste exactly like the pizza hut I've come to know and love. The reason I got it is that so far, the Thai meals just aren't cuttin' it - each prior meal has left me hungry and unsatisfied. My attempt at being vegetarian hasn't worked out so well either as the menus have proved challenging. As for money, while Thailand is much cheaper than America, I've still managed to drop almost $60 in two days (including Taxi, meals, 10 bottles of water, hostel, etc.) Speaking of cheapness, Thomas and I met this asshole earlier in the day - a pompous/contemptuous nerdy traveler from California - who tried to haggle an old lady vendor selling him a chicken breast down from 25baht to 20baht when for him that would be a difference of 20 cents and for her a difference of survival (maybe that's a tad bit dramatic, but still). In the end, he refused to settle for the 5baht difference and walked away. It was some petty shit and I hope that I don't ever turn into that.
Thomas and I were planning on heading out to the notorious Khao San road - if you remember from "The Beach", it's the place where travelers convene to party like rockstars and exchange the kind of travel secrets you can't find in books - but we're not going anywhere. Pretty much after I write this I'm heading off to bed. Today was a long day.

On a tangential note, I've learned to count to 100 in Thai.

Broccoli & Carrots: First Night in Thailand - May 23, 2007

2007-05-24T07:18:00.000-07:00

It's about 8am back in the states right now and 7pm here in Bangkok. The plane ride wasn't bad at all as Thai Airlines turned out to be nifty and I managed to sleep most of the flight (about 14 hours). I tried watching "Night at the Museum" with Ben Stiller, though it couldn't hold my attention and so I turned it off halfway through. I thought it'd be a shrewd move arranging for a vegetarian meal on the flight, but I wound up kind of regretting it when it turned out to be just vegetables (broccoli and carrots) and the guy next to me was indulging in salmon and filet mignon (there wasn't actually any filet mignon, but you understand...) The flight attendants continuously walked around offering unlimited booze, wine, and even cognac (indeed cognac) which I partook in none of. When I got off the plane, customs was a cinch and I retrieved my bags without hassle. I was out in two seconds flat before facing a bombardment of shady taxi cabbies and fake information people. Somehow I made my way to the legit taxi services, finding a ride for 400baht to take me into the city (later I found out I'd been overcharged by about 50baht and the cabbie never even turned on the meter, but being that 33baht = 1dollar, it wasn't too bad considering it was over an hour ride). Let me say, I went from one traffic clusterfuck in NYC to another traffic clusterfuck in Bangkok. Thank God I don't have to drive. To offer a humorous anecdote, I accidentally tried to get into the drivers seat in the taxi after forgetting that they drive on the opposite side of the road here. Now I'm at a guest house/hostel somehwhere in the city not too far away from the thick of things (Phayathai to be exact). Bangkok appears to lack a definitive center. The area actually seemed kind of like a slum at first while driving in - there were all sorts of stray dogs running around (which made me grateful I got my rabies shots) and these kids playing some sort of hybrid game between hacky sack and volleyball. It's pretty damn hot/humid now (about 90 degrees) and you can forget about AC. I should probably change into shorts or something. Ironic that I was wearing a hoodie while deboarding the plane. Right now I'm just hanging out at the restaurant/pool/bar/internet area of the hostel while waiting for Thomas to get here in a few hours.

"Why are you going all the way over there?"

2007-04-27T06:25:00.000-07:00

A typical conversation with the women at the office...

"So where you going again, China?"
"Close. Thailand."
"Now why would you wanna go there? Is that just cause you couldn't find a teaching job here that you gotta go all the way over there? I knew the economy was bad, but I didn't know it was that bad."
"Nah. That's not why I'm going over there. I'm going there because this is the opportunity of a lifetime."
"Is that what you wanna be in life, a teacher? I mean is that what you went to college for?"
"No."
"Well you be careful, watch out for all those drugs and men dressed as women. They got a lot of that stuff over there."

And then they proceed to ask me about my brother who worked here for a few months before fleeing to a zen center completely isolated from the world, neatly nestled in the mountains 16 miles outside of Carmel Valley, CA. It's called Tassajara and can only be reached by a dirt road that is rendered impassable every so often when heavy rains wash it out. You can't call Tassajara either, but rather an operator service in Carmel Valley (remember, 16 miles away) takes down a message and then someone from the zen center has to come and pick it up. The irony is that the inhabitors of Tassajara can make outgoing calls via a satellite phone with a one second delay, but that can prove to be quite annoying if delayed laughter and soporific pacing aren't exactly your style. I'm exaggerating, it's not really that bad. And for your information, my brother is doing quite well, thank you very much...you don't have to ask every single day. Nothing really new happens when you're living in a zen center. It's kind of like living in a retirement home, the only thing that changes is the winning numbers for bingo. Lane's big news for the month is that he now gets to be a bread baker in addition to a dishwasher extraordinaire. He sure is moving up in the world. :)

Dukes in Durham - April 25, 2007

2007-04-25T16:58:00.000-07:00

If I were in a band, we'd be called "Dukes in Durham". And if I had access to a filesharing program and a cd burner, this is the mix cd that I'd burn:

The Divorce – Yes
Greg Laswell – Amazed
Camera Obscura – I Don’t Do Crowds
Rogue Wave – Be Kind – Remind
Akron/Family – Shoes
Of Montreal – Bunny Ain’t No Kind of Rider
Fleetwood Mack – Never Going Back Again
Chris Garneau – Baby’s Romance
The Finches – Last Favor
Loney, Dear – I Am John
Page France – Windy

And, if I continue to write anymore right now, I'm gonna be a dead man. It's 8pm and I've now been at BRL Billing for 12 hours trying to rack up as much overtime as I can before departing.

$617 to Bangkok - 4/20 (snickering)

2007-04-20T06:30:00.000-07:00

Oh man, oh man...I just bought my one-way airline ticket to Thailand after procrastinating for weeks now. Over the past few days, the cheapest flights I'd been able to find were for around $760, but then this morning I stumbled onto one for $617 and pounced on it without reading any of the fine print, so let's hope that I'm not $617 the poorer without ending up in Bangkok. The flight is through Thai Airlines and also happens to be non-stop. I wonder if 17 hours and 10 minutes continuous on an airplane will turn me into a vegetable. Speaking of vegetables, I put in a request for a vegetarian Asian meal just to be safe.

Princeton again, streaking, PB&J, and bribing a Mexican guard - 4/13/07

2007-04-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

So I'm back in Princeton again, this time for my TEFL (teaching english as a foreign language) certification. I left at 6:20am this morning with Thomas, another kid in the program who happens to attend U-M, and we made it here in 9.5 hours. Thomas is from East Lansing, speaks 4 languages, once drove to Montana by himself in a straight shot so he could go hiking for a week, and a few years back went streaking through a lecture hall at Michigan State during an organic chemistry exam with two of his friends wearing nothing but a wool hat and a bandana covering his lower face. He was also nice enough to pack us PB&J sandwhiches along with some home made cheese bread with squash on top and a bunch of fresh fruit.
Anyway, like last time, I'm in the library again killing time before our class begins at 6:30. I think Thomas and I are gonna go crash on some couches like vagabonds to recharge before the action begins.
In other news, I failed to mention that a few weeks back Emily and I took a trip down to Florida so she could visit the University of Miami. We stayed in Ft. Lauderdale with my Aunt Roberta, where one morning the climax of our trip occurred when Emily got lost running in the identical looking subdivisions. She had to bribe a Mexican guard in order to use his cell phone and call me. After accidentally hanging up on her the first time and some miscommunication about which subdivision she was lost in, we were reunited and she wasn't very happy. That's all for now, I'm off to nap.

April 2007 - Congratulations

2007-04-04T09:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Jared,

We are so pleased to be able to send you to a place we think is a good fit. So this is it! The official email that says Congratulations - you have been offered a post with PiA for next year. I am really excited to be able to tell you this and as we discussed we have you earmarked for the position as a lecturer at Chiang Mai University in Chiang Mai, Thailand. We are sure you could do a great job anywhere, but the post in Chiang Mai came up as the first choice!

Princeton in Asia

So the cosmos aligned in my favor and through some weird stroke of luck, I'm going to Thailand this May for at least a year to teach English and become a Muay Thai champion (though I've been warned about the prevalence of HIV in the country, so blood transfusions might pose a slight problem). There you have it, I'm off to the land of hot trannies and happy-ending massages (note: that's what anthropology majors call exoticizing the other).

My First Jiu-Jitsu Tournament - Feb. 24, 2007

2007-02-26T05:40:00.000-08:00

I took 4th out of 16 (though I was ahead 7-0 on points in the 3rd place match before sort of giving up).

Can you say "JARED'S GOT A NEW MUSIC VIDEO"...

2007-02-16T22:08:00.000-08:00

http://www.ifilm.com/video/2823916

1/19/2007 - Afterthoughts in the afterlife

2007-01-19T12:47:00.000-08:00

So my interviews with Princeton in Asia went well and I think I probably got the gig. I'll either wind up in Chiang Mai, Thailand, or Penang, Malaysia (familiar to some people as the setting for that Vince Vaughn film, Return to Paradise). Anyway, if I am accepted, it will be a tough choice. Penang has amazing weather, a fabulous beach, sweet accomodation, and better pay. Chiang Mai meanwhile is a significantly more bumpin' city inundated with vespas, Muay Thai, and happy-ending massages. I'm still waiting to hear back from the JET program in Japan, though, so that might be an option as well.
After I returned to NYC, I made my way back to Yonkers for a brief interlude with cousin Greg before going out with Mike and his girlfriend for the evening (and by going out I mean that we never made it out of her 4 x 5 ft apartment except for a 35 minute roundtrip trek to a club with a cover charge well beyond our means so we turned around and left). Anyway, when I got to Greg's apartment, I found him sitting on the couch engrossed in the playoff game between the Colts and Ravens on tv. The best part is that he had a Colts' baseball cap and a Ravens' baseball cap placed on the table facing off in front of him.
"Greg...are you serious?" I began. "There's no one else around to even witness your spirit"
"Whatever Jared. Just because you wake up in the morning and no one else is around doesn't mean that you sit around naked all day. Right?"

He had a point.

1/13/2007 - NYC & Princeton

2007-01-15T12:55:00.000-08:00

So I'm in Princeton, NJ, right now killing some time at their university library before I head in for my interview to see if I'm good enough to qualify as an international fellow. Funny, I already thought I was an international fellow being that I've been around the world a little bit. Anyway, I don't know what to make of this campus. I'll tell you one thing, it really sucks when you have to poop while traveling, because it never seems like there's an available place to go when you need one, especially on a college campus, so I always tend to search out the closest library wherever I'm at and seek refuge there. I had quite a time just getting to Princeton to New York. I almost got on the wrong subway back in the city, wasted a ticket, barely made the train out of NYC, and then didn't have time to buy a ticket before boarding a $2 shuttle to the campus and therefore had to pay an extra $5 for purchasing it after already boarding the shuttle. I stood in the pseudo-light-sun showers after deboarding the train getting my bearings for a moment and debating whether or not I was feeling intimidated being amidst an ivy league campus. Being the overcompensator that I am, I just decided to start being ultra critical of everyone I passed instead. I flew into NYC on Thursday afternoon and hung out with my cousin Greg. He's a 33 year old big kid who never really matured beyond his college goofball self, and together we went to one of the top 5 largest malls in America just outside of Yonkers. That night we watched "Fearless" with Jet Li and practiced our Chinenglish (kind of like Spanglish, except that neither of us really speak any Chinese, though Greg did study Mandarin for a bit and lived in Singapore for several years among many other countries - he truly is an international fellow). Yesterday I met up with my friend Mike who recently graduated from NYU film school and works freelancing as an erotic fiction writer for magazines such as Penthouse in addition to serving as a production assistant on various music video and other types of film shoots. I killed the rest of the afternoon at the Borders right next to Madison Square Garden perusing through a GRE study book and researching my potential trip to Puerto Rico with Emily at the end of February.

New Year's Eve in Chicago - The End of 2006

2007-01-09T13:04:00.000-08:00

Max at least provided some amusement by putting a gigantic hole in the wall of the Marriott Hotel stairwell after attempting to save Emily’s friend, Jen, from taking a disastrous spill herself. Jen, the girl we stayed with during the weekend, had quite the New Year’s Eve. She got a bit too drunk and then had the genius idea to smoke hash, leaving her in a bad state puking all over Emily’s friend, Calvin’s room at the Marriott. Jen had no qualms about pulling the trigger several times in attempting to aid her puking process, and she did it with a relative ease and familiarity that sent off warning signals in the head of her friend and fellow cast-mate in the off-off-broadway show, Spellingbee. This friend, Christine, who happened to be high on hash herself, proceeded to freak out in believing that Jen was bulimic. The conversation went something as follows:
“Oh my god, Jen, you’re fucking bulimic. I can’t believe it. You’re fucking bulimic.” Christine screamed as tears soon began to follow. She was high, mad, sad, coupled with some other indiscernible emotions rolled into one ball of weirdness.
Emily chimed in while sitting on the bed watching the fiasco unfold. “She’s not bulimic, she’s just drunk. You need to chill out.”
Un-phased, Christine continued with tears streaming down her phase. “Jen, how can you do this to yourself? You’re fucking bulimic. I’m calling Kristin and telling her. This is a serious problem.”
Jen, not exactly functioning in top form, wags her finger at Christina. “It’ll be our secret.” She slurs. She obviously has no idea what’s going on.
“Christine, are you insane?” Emily asks. “She’s not bulimic. I’ve seen millions of girls do this before. Obviously you never went to college.”
It’s too late, though, as Christine has already begun leaving a message on Kristin’s voicemail with a firm resound that Jen is bulimic and this must be remembered in the morning after everyone sobers up.
We all split soon afterwards. Christine refused to leave with us and abandoned Jen to our devices in getting home. Getting back to Jen’s took forever being that it was New Year’s Eve and impossible to hail a taxi, so we were forced to take the “L” with Jen iron-clasped to Max’s arm and puking every step of the way. Happy New Year.
Oh, on an end note, there was this adorable little black pug named “Olive” that belonged to one of Jen’s roommates and constantly insisted on wedging itself between Emily and I while sleeping together at night on the world’s most narrow couch. Olive was adorable, but she smelled kind of bad and snored. Emily hasn’t stopped talking about wanting to get a French Bulldog for the last two days.

December 20th - Peacoats and Pocketchange

2006-12-20T06:38:00.000-08:00

I'm hurt that after several months on ifilm, my genius "doodoo dance" film has only gotten 45 views. I think that's an all time record for the least amount of views in the history of the website. Anyway, while the upload quality isn't terribly good, here's the link anyway (feel free to watch it multiple times in trying to make it look like a popular video)

http://www.ifilm.com/video/2752099

In other news, I recently put in my applications to teach English abroad next year through the JET program and Princeton In Asia. The earliest I'll probably hear back from either is in late January. My brother Lane applied to JET as well, so if all goes well, maybe the both of us will be living together somewhere in Japan by this time next year indoctrinating Japanese youth with forbidden knowledge on how to be crazy like a Robbins bro.
Meanwhile, I'm still working at Beaumont's satellite billing center. I think I can feel a tumor taking shape inside of my head from all the countless hours I've spent in front of the computer. I can't tell if it's the hypochondria or if I'm really developing carpal tunnel syndrome. There's a young guy in the office who wears a brace on his wrist as a result of our taxing line of work, data entry. I'm actually at work right now as I write this.
Lane, I, and Emily all went to see Jeremy Enigk in concert (formerly of the seminal band Sunny Day Real Estate) the other weekend. While I haven't really been a fan of going to shows for quite some time now due to the endless standing and awkward eyeball exchanges with all the hyper-conscious teenage and twenty-something scenesters, Mr. Enigk was a pretty passionate guy (which can only be expected when you're one of emo's founding fathers). Since the concert was at the Shelter in Detroit (a rather intimate venue), we got to stand right up at the front of the stage merely inches (maybe a foot) from Enigk's face. When he opened his mouth to sing, even though I knew what his voice sounded like, it was still a surprise hearing such soothing melodies pour forth. He just doesn't look like the kind of guy capable of emitting that level of prettiness. Needless to say, it was a cool show. We followed it up with a late nite stop at the coney island in Royal Oak for some fries and rootbeer. Actually, Emily ordered a milkshake, but who's keeping track...
Speaking of Emily, it was her birthday last Wenesday. It was a bittersweet day - she had to go home to St. Clair for her Aunt's funeral, but she also got accepted into her first law school (not to mention that it was an amazing UFC fight night). Her and I went out for what we anticipated to be a fancy meal at Fiddleheads on Friday night, but the service was poor probably due to the fact that they were closing up in an hour and we looked like two 18 year olds that probably wouldn't tip well, not to mention that one out of my four pumpkin raviolis didn't even have anything in it. Fuckers.
In case you're wondering, my burgeoning mixed martial arts career is going well. I've been training brazilian jiu-jitsu and Muay Thai out at a gym in Commerce Twp for a little over a month now. It should only be a matter of time now before I step into the cage and forever put an end to my burgeoning modeling career.
Lastly, Lane and I finally put together my zine compiled of adderall inspired rants and doodlings primarily from my Freshman year of college (with some added bonuses of journal entries I did when I was 7, 9, 16, and various other ages). It's aptly titled "Jared's First Book". And now, I must depart. Sayounara, Quakers!

December 1st, 2006 - James Dean

2006-12-01T13:04:00.000-08:00

James Dean was bisexual. It is well documented that he slept with many men and probably a much greater number of women. This kind of stuff had to be kept very hush hush back in the day, though, for if the public were to find out that the leading man whom men admired and women adored was actually a dandy, the world would have crumbled. The movie studio producing his films had to go out of their way to fabricate different headlines alleging Mr. Dean with various actresses to keep his bantering with boys on the downlow.
The rebel without a cause was only 24 when he died after colliding head on with another car while riding in his Porsche 550 Spyder, which he had affectionately nicknamed "Little Bastard". In addition to killing James Dean, the car and its parts would prove nothing but disaster for anyone that subsequently came into contact with them. This became known as "The Curse of Little Bastard", which went on for 5 years until the car mysteriously vanished on its return in 1960 to the original customizer, George Barris (who later went on to create the Batmobile).

The Days of Office Work

2006-08-28T15:20:00.000-07:00

I work at an office, a medical billing office, where I sit at a computer updating addresses for hours on end - hours that I'll never get back. I dream of being a mixed martial arts fighter and have listened to over 75 episodes of This American Life on NPR. I've listened to so much This American Life that I've begun relating everything in my life back to the stories I've heard on the show. I basically moved into Emily's apartment (Emily being my girlfriend) which is 5 minutes from my parents' house where a racecar bed and trillions of stuffed animals still occupy my room.

A Joke

2006-07-17T21:21:00.000-07:00

What did the leper say to the prostitute?
Keep the tip.

The Fight - A delayed post from mid-April

2006-06-19T12:12:00.000-07:00

They're not really interested, maybe because I'm not telling the story
right. You can't blame me. It's my first time telling it. But maybe
it's because they're reacting how normal humane people should react
when hearing a story about a stupid fight. Honestly, what good
reasons do kids have to fight on college campuses?
Anyway, I got in a fight last night. I'd be lying if I told you I
really knew what it was about. There was this kid on my friend's
porch being confrontational, and so I sauntered up looking to get in
on the fuss. I'd like to say that I broke the kid's nose because he
was dropping f-bombs (that oh so hateful word faggot), and I've even
possibly deceived myself into thinking he swung first. Who are we
kidding? I'm so sexually frustrated that the aggression has to come
out some how, this kid was up to no good, and so that was that. I've
never been in a fight before; plenty of wrestling matches, but never a
fight. My fist just kind of acted on its own accord when it cut
through the air and connected with his face. Then when he tried to
retaliate, it was only natural that I headlock him to the ground
before resorting to the ole' ground and pound. I hesitated at first
before throwing those blows while he was under me. I think I even
offered him the opportunity for a ceasefire, but it wasn't meant to
be. I connected at least three solid times while on top of him, then
people were pulling me off, but nobody bothered to restrain him as he
tried to attack me again. My glasses got knocked off during the
ruckus, though luckily someone found them, even if they were severely
mangled. It wasn't until after I had left the party did I notice his
blood all over my favorite Addidas jacket.
So I try and recap the story for my friends this morning, but it
doesn't go as planned. They're not really as interested as I
anticipated. For Christ sake, these are the kids that talk about
their close calls with fisticuffs weekend after weekend. So here it
is, my actual brush with fisticuffs, no close calls this time, and
they don't even care. Maybe because we're all about to graduate from
college and this shit doesn't matter anymore. Before telling them,
though, I debated internally whether or not the incident was even
worth sharing, kind of like deciding whether to share the scoop after
getting with a cute girl. The truth is, I don't know how I feel. I
don't really feel anything. They might not be interested, but it was
still an interesting experience. Now I can die knowing that I've at
least been in one fight. The bloodstains on my jacket have washed
away, and in a short while I'll be off to have my glasses fixed. The
proof will be all gone, but the legend shall live on.

long time no speakeasy - May 22, 2006

2006-05-22T11:28:00.000-07:00

A letter to my British friend

Yo, buddy, it's been a while. But then again, we're not supposed to be great at this whole correspondence thing (as you so eloquently once put it). Anyway, I'm a university graduate. Pretty crazy, I know. I've been done with school for about a month now and I've done absolutely nothing. I can't even manage to get a job waiting tables in Ann Arbor, even with a college degree. I told myself I'd find a job and dedicate my summer to reading and writing, but about three weeks ago I met this girl and my whole plan went awry. I always figured that getting myself a girl would provide me with a muse and the necessary inspiration to write my first hit screenplay (let alone first screenplay at all)...quite the contrary my friend. I've never been so content with being such a bum. I can't get a job, but at least I got myself a pseudo-girlfriend (we're very touchy about the labels). She even came back with me this past weekend to meet my parents, which turned out surprisingly well. Other than that, I have zero plans for the future. I'm quickly running out of funds, which proves difficult when trying to support a burgeoning alcoholism. At the very least, if all else fails, I've decided to move to Colombia with a friend in September. She has a job teaching bilingual education there with a place to live on the beach, so I figured I'd accompany her along and stay there for as long as it takes to become fluent in Spanish. Hopefully my Latin background will prove useful. Beyond that, I was thinking about interning at a film production company or potentially pursuing a masters degree in documentary filmmaking a few years down the road. My schedule is pretty open for the rest of my life and I'm not too picky, so if you know of any jobs or happen to be looking for a partner in crime, let me know. I'll fly out to London, Berlin, or Bosnia first thing in the morning. Let me know what's up man, it's been quite a while and it'd be great to hear from you. Take care in the meantime.

Some day in March (the 19th to be precise), 2006

2006-03-19T20:25:00.000-08:00

Nobody reads my blog because nobody knows it exists. I guess that's sort of liberating in a sense because that means I can write whatever the fuck I want and it doesn't matter. So instead of sending emails to myself all the time with notable quotables and random other shit, I might as well just post it on here.
Random quote #1 (and I'd rather not remember the pedantic text from which I lifted it): An individual's capacity to make sense of the world presupposes the existence of collective traditions; but individuals must be able to experiment with these collective traditions by being allowed to live at their limits.

So yesterday I drove down to Ohio to see one of my friends from studying abroad in Australia, the famous Daniel Sgrizzi. He was touring the East Coast with his band Make Me, and they were playing a show right outside Cleveland at some high school kid's house. It was a surprisingly awesome show. It was also nice to see Sgrizzi again for the first time in close to ten months. As fate would have it, the guitarist from the band they were touring with, Flagship Niagara, was a kid I'd met briefly through a mutual friend two summers ago at New York University. Though I'd only met the kid for a few minutes, I recognized him by his incredibly distinct tattoos. After the show, we crashed at the Make Me guitarist's aunt and uncle's house who live in the old Rockefeller ranch (whatever that means). What I do know is that it was an awesome house in the middle of nowhere and the family raised fighting cocks. Now I'm back in Ann Arbor again trying to finish up the semester so I can go nowhere fast. Nowhere can't be any worse than hear though, and I hear they don't have Latin there either.

December 11th, 2005

2005-12-16T13:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I blew out my tire on the highway heading back home from Ann Arbor to check out the Berkley wrestling tournament. In light of the unexpected turn of events, I stopped by to see Poppie who appeared to be more unhappy than I’ve ever seen him. It’s because they have him basically locked up in a drab hospital room in a building filled with people who passed their prime back when central park was a flowerpot. I wonder if there’s a more feasibly humane way for him to live out the remainder of his life. Never in a million years did he ever fathom life would be like it currently is for him, and the scary part is that he’s making me realize it at only 21 years of age.
I went out to lunch with Auntie at Rams Horn before dropping in to see the ‘rents’, who while might have been happy to see me, as usual expressed it in the most conceivably opposite way. Upon returning back to Ann Arbor later in the evening, Allen treated Brian and I to an extravagant feast at Red Lobster. We filled ourselves up on lobster, crab, shrimp, heavily buttered biscuits, grilled trout, mashed potatoes, veggies, and of course I washed it all down with my usual order of cherry coke. And also as usual, Allen made all sorts of indecisive revelations on topics ranging from food, to girls, to teleportation, and of course circling back to girls again.

2005-10-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

Laners & I at Marshall Fields

Latin, menial work, autumn, and aimlessness - excerpts from letters

2005-10-21T12:44:00.000-07:00

WHAT DO I DO?

I spend time with my roommates, watch a few movies here and there, lift weights,occasionally work at the dining hall, am constantly bombarded with questions about future plans, and study latin. I turned 21 on Monday and got a blender, a juicer, some new chord pants, and a nice shirt and tie. I also got a pictureframe that I put a polaroid of me and my parents in. Lane's currently visiting from his Buddhist Monastery abode in California for mine and my father's birthday. Daddy dearest turns 60 tomorrow. Not a whole lot else going on,though I keep trying unsuccessfully to find time where I can take a trip somewhere.
I didn't observe Rosh Hashana or Yom Kippur, so I guess that makes me a bad Jew (not that I ever do). I've been too busy thinking about things that I have to do but can't bring myself to do. I often feel like I'm headed down a path to homelessness. Intensive Latin is overwhelming (even though I don't even do as much as I'm supposed to for the class), and I get nauseas thinking about the applications I have to fill out for internships and jobs for when I graduate (even though there’s only two and both are relatively easy). I don't know how I'll ever survive. It’s a running joke in my life that I lived in a plastic bubble until just recently. Present times for me are like being in a Woody Allen movie with all of the neurosis, minus most of the fun.
I gave my friend Allen (the Australian exchange-student) a concentration pill a couple of weeks ago in the hopes that he would write a screenplay we mutually conceptualized. Considering I haven't been able to write one to date (because God knows why), the plan was for him to write a masterpiece that we could both take credit for and become famous. He would do all the work, I'd do all the musing, and together we'd ride one another's coattails all the way to the top. I guess I'm always looking toward other people to save me, but maybe one day I'll learn the moral of the story that says only I can save myself (or Jesus, depending on who you ask).

Sometime in late August...

2005-09-10T20:52:00.000-07:00

I've been back home for about three weeks now and I've had so much time on my hands, I don't know what to do with myself. School doesn't start for another few weeks and I haven't been able to get a job, but that hasn't stopped me from hopelessly applying for a bunch. I've been watching tons of movies, doing a bit of reading, eventless hanging out with friends, and much staring at the wall. Did I mention that I've been looking at tons of internet porn? I probably should have left that part out.
In case you're interested, here's a summary of how the rest of my travels turned out in Fiji: From the moment I stepped off the airplane I felt like I was getting royally hustled. My flight out of Melbourne had been delayed a day and I hadn't been able to get in touch with Dan and Chris. I was greeted at the airport by a bearded Fijian woman who mysteriously knew me by name. She swept me away to her office and I found out she had been the travel agent for my friends. She told me I owed her $67 cash for an up-front deposit and was supposed to meet Dan and Chris on some island the following morning. I was forced to pay in cash, there was no receipt, I had no way of getting in contact with the guys, and my ATM card miraculously stopped working. Meanwhile, some girl that I had just met on the flight over named Anna was waiting for me while I tried to sort through all the nonsense. Turns out she was the past president of JCH college.
Somehow things wound up working out, and somehow Anna and I had to share the last bed left at some shady hostel that night. When we walked into our room, there was some guy just standing in there naked. Mind you it was a multiple-person room, but this guy made no effort to throw on any clothes even after acknowledging Anna's presence. Total weirdo.
The next morning I set off for Mana. It was like paradise, except that I got sick on my second night and puked up everything in my system. While on the island, we stayed at this cheap lodge but kept leeching off the resort and all of their activities. The first night I won three times at Bingo for a grand total of $35. At coconut ice cream making the next day, though, I got busted for being a backpacker and they kicked me out, but not before I got to have my ice cream. Because we were backpackers eager to save money any way we could, instead of taking a proper boat from Mana over to Beachcomber, they put us on the smallest ghetto jetboat while the weather conditions were terrible. The waves were incredibly choppy and I'm pretty sure I broke my tailbone, not to mention that I might have just as well jumped in and swam by how soaked I got during the ride. One of the waves hit me so hard that I was knocked straight backwards and almost out of the boat. Another near death experience was while watching the fire twirlers at a bar one night. Three times the flame stick flew out of the twirlers hand and landed in the audience, once even setting a guy's clothes on fire. Don't worry, though, the flames for those shows aren't typically as hot as a normal flame.
After Mana we went to this crazy party island called Beachcomber. Instead of picking up any cute single girls, we managed to befriend this 24 year old associate professor of neuroscience from Ottawa who was getting harassed by this shady guy from LA all night. I also sort of won the chess tournament on the island earlier in the day and was rewarded with a free jug of beer that I couldn't even really drink because my stomach was still recovering from the bad fish that I think I'd eaten the night before. Dan and I and Chris were the only three that showed up to the chess tournament at first, then some other random stragglers, I beat Chris, he beat two other kids, I refused to play another game because I was mentally drained, so I won somehow. We also played tons of scrabble (the weather was pretty bad outside). I still had two days on the mainland after Dan and Chris left, so I spent them latching onto this British couple.
So that's Fiji in a nutshell.

June 20, 2005 - 6:11pm

2005-06-20T01:11:00.000-07:00

IH is turning into a cemetary and I'm getting kicked out of here in 5 days. Not too long ago I went to Sydney where I had a grand ole' time. Riding on the coattails of mommy and daddy's bank account, Lane and I got to take a fancy tour around the city and visit the Blue Mountains. Later that night we went to see an amazing dance performance at the Opera House called "Grande". There were all these different dances set to famous piano pieces (with the piano as the focal point of the whole show) and some avant-garde multimedia shenanigans thrown into the mix to keep things interesting. The piano player even started plucking on the piano strings like a guitar during the performance. Early the next morning, the family split and I was left to my own devices. I scoured the entire city on foot, hit up the Sydney Film Festival with a screening of "A Day Without A Mexican" (about what happens when the Latino population of California mysteriously dissappears overnight), and finally settled in at a hostel in the seediest part of town, Kings Cross. I quickly made friends with these two Irish guys, Jamie and Ray, and we headed off for some partying at The Rocks (the oldest part of the city). We wound up at an Irish pub, and miraculously enough, everyone was Irish, not just people of Irish blood, but those actually from Ireland that speak with an awesome accent. Ray and Jamie said it was as good as being in Ireland. Afterwards, we made the long trek back to Kings Cross and visitied the shadiest strip club imaginable. The following day, the three of us took the ferry to Manly Beach, which provided us with quite a dandy view of the city. When dusk started to roll around, I said goodbye to the Irish lads and set off for a new hostel as far away from Kings Cross as I could get. In my new room, there were 4 guys and 6 girls: 4 Americans, 1 Canadian, 1 Frenchman, 1 Israeli, 3 British, and a partridge in a pear tree. We chatted it up for several hours and the other Americans kept trying to convince the others that peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches are actually tasty. The next morning I set off for Bondi beach with two girls from Montana. In an effort to prove to me how nice Montanans are, they packed me a PB&J sandwhich and fed me Tim-Tams. At 2pm, it was time for me to set off for the airport to make it back in time for dinner in Melbourne with the European crew.

June 10th - 3am

2005-06-09T09:59:00.000-07:00

I've got an exam in ten hours and I have yet to begin studying. I'm pretty sure that I don't care about it too much, though it is a little disconcerting watching everybody else around me frantically studying their asses off - kind of makes me feel like I'm just killing time before a brutal demise.

I've had other things to worry about. Tonight I discovered that my credit card has been frozen (and now cancelled) after somebody in Ohio was running up my tab. Before I could sort this out, though, I nearly had a nervous breakdown upon realizing that there is no general telephone operator in Australia. This made things especially difficult trying to purchase my last minute ticket to Sydney for tomorrow.

Lane and I went traveling to the Gold Coast for 6 days. I wouldn't be going out on a limb to say that it probably wasn't the ideal place for us in that everyone was very pretty, dressed very fancy, and were very superficial. There's not much of a place for a straight-edge buddhist crazyman in a party town, though the kid can sure dance like he's drunk even when he's sober. The world just ain't ready for Lane Robbins (nor Jared Robbins for that matter). We still had a jolly good time nonetheless, even if Lane keeps trying out his newly discovered Australian accent. We hung out with two English blokes the first couple of days, Stu & Raj. They all attempted to eat part of a red chili pepper and paid for it miserably, especially Stu who after fingering the seeds thought it wouldn't be such a bad idea to rub his eyes. Lane took a surfing lesson with a guarantee that "if you're not standing up by the end of the lesson, the next one's free." Well, Lane didn't stand up, and he didn't get another free lesson. He did get several vouchers for free Big Macs at McDonalds, but that doesn't do much good for a vegan.
Stu & Raj were traveling around on holiday throughout Australia in a camper van they rented (decked out in tag lines like "Man created alcohol, God created Pot. Which do you trust?" and spray painted portraits of Cheech and Chong on the side). It was all pretty ironic considering neither of them smoked, but Lane and I hitched a ride with them up to Brisbane for a day. We split off from the Brits, hit up a Koala sanctuary, and upon returning to the Gold Coast, were placed in a room with two English girls. They were straight outta high school, taller than me, and somewhat attractive. It was pretty awkward in the beginning, but nothing like a good episode of Australian Big Brother to smooth things out.
In sum, traveling with Lane made me feel like Tom Cruise in Rain Man. Regardless, I wouldn't trade him for any other brother in the world (though maybe a sister).

May 15th - 9:24pm

2005-05-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

It was a good weekend. On Thursday night I got a massage from Lily (even though it makes Neil jealous) and then went out for a late bite to eat at a Malaysian restaurant called Bis Me. The food was pretty similar to Indian, except there were these two amazing dishes I've never tasted before: a Roti Bomb (basically a pastry doused in a sugary butter sauce) and banana and coconut paste-filled rotis. Friday night was an IH party at the Union Bar. Later on I had an extensive chat with this Canadian born-Australian citizen-educated at an American International school in Oman-ethnically Pakistani Muslim girl named Maria. We talked about religion and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Nothing really new, provocative, or truly opinionated was said, though I always feel a personal responsibility for dispelling the common misconception that Jews can't be cool. Saturday I woke up early to go work with Neil on his parents' pseudo-farm in Sunbury. They own 57 acres and have 3 cows (some kind of miniature Galloways), a bunch of sheep, and an alpaca that thinks it's a sheep. We made $60 each for 4 hours of somewhat half-assed work that consisted of stacking the fireplace with wood, raking leaves, removing covwebs, stacking more firewood, and chopping down dead blackberry bushes. I accidentally snapped one of the pitchforks while trying to use a metal ledge for leverage. Afterwards, Neil had to coach his 15 year old sister's basketball team. She's 6 feet tall and looks older than me. Neil is 6'4", his dad is 6'7", his middle brother is also 6'7", and the oldest brother is 6'9". When I got back to Melbourne, I went out to a traditional Japanese restaurant with two Japanese friends (Hiro and Moe) where I spent $35 on a meal and sake that made me cringe. Today I played footy for IH and had a few good tackles. We lost, but still did better than expected. Afterwards I napped for four hours.

April 8th - 17th

2005-04-28T00:53:00.000-07:00

The week after East Coast Odyssey:

THURSDAY, April 8 - International House Ball (bought my outfit at local thrift store, Savers. Spent most of the night futilely trying to reconcile with some girl after telling her honestly that she hangs on every guy.

FRIDAY, April 9 - Was up till 5am writing one of three big essays for the semester, this time on whether war is likely over the Taiwan issue. Spent a good amount of the day flying around on Adderall and asking British Craig all about England.

SATURDAY through MONDAY - At the Grampians hiking around and eating lots of Pistachios. I returned home to find that my room had been ransacked. Turns out it was this girl Louise playing a prank on me, but then I pranked her back by saying that her scholarship had been revoked and she was being kicked out of college because of the incident. She began tearing up immediately, so I had to tell her I was kidding or else she would have had a nervous breakdown. Word to the wise, don't pull a prank if you're a baby.

TUESDAY - Marcus and Jordan came over for dinner at IH and we partied afterwards at College Square (the American student microcosm) playing quarters with the rest of the crew from Melbourne Welcome. Jordan basically took over my role in the crew at College Square after I went off to live at IH. We often joke around that he's my doppelganger.

WEDNESDAY - Dinner with Marcella at IH followed by one of her usual "I'm so deeply troubled inside and make it obvious but won't tell anyone about it" moods. We walked back to College Square in silence, parted ways, then I went to the East Coast Odyssey reunion party (complete with fingerfood and wine).

THURSDAY - Popped an Adderall to make screenwriting class more interesting. IH scholars dinner was at night followed by lots of dancing and drunken fun at Puggs (the local bar where everyone goes).

FRIDAY - Daniel the Swede's houseparty with Shannon, followed by meandering around Fitzroy St. with 2 Danes (one of which was Jonathan, my tentmate from East Coast Odyssey), Daniel, Shannon, a crazy German and some American. The other Dane (not Jonathan) kept trying to get Shannon in the sack all night to no avail.

SATURDAY - Watched "The Medallion", "Last Tango In Paris", and "Trekkies". At night, I got dressed up and went out to the casino with the College Square guys. Jordan and I pooled together our money to come out $5 on top at the roulette table and I retired from gambling. Upon returning back to IH, I looked at porn circa 4am in the computer lab and prayed there weren't any hidden surveillance cameras.

Notes - Been spending lots of quality time with Neil and Lily lately. Neil is a 6'4" white Australian while Lily is a 5'1" Chinese girl who is told by other Chinese that she doesn't look Chinese. I think she looks Chinese.

- Been listening to lots of A.C. Newman and Snow Patrol.

- Poppie's been moved into assisted living and the burden of transferring all his belongings along with everything else has fallen on Auntie's shoulders.

- Lane is still struggling to graduate within a few weeks and there's a possibility his advisor might not pass him for the third semester in a row.

- Played ping pong tonight for the first time in a while and it felt good.

March 21 - 2am

2005-03-21T02:00:00.000-08:00

- Back home, Poppie continues to grow more feeble and disoriented. He fell a few more times and it has been decided that he can no longer live on his own in the retirement home and must be moved into assisted living.

- Nobody had even heard of refried beans when I first got here, and now I just discovered another set of tortillas, beans, and cheese in the community fridge that undoubtedly belongs to one of the newly enlightened Malaysians on my floor.

- I took a long nap tonight at 8:45pm knowing full well that it would only exacerbate my already fucked-up sleep schedule, but I was too unmotivated, bored, and tired to care.

- Ethnic cliques have begun to solidify at International House, though there are definitely some exceptions.

- Ironic thought: How many racist white kids have Asian tattoos?

Mar. 12, 2005 - 4:37am

2005-03-11T09:36:00.000-08:00

I still haven't done my laundry. I did shave my head bald for the Leukemia fundraiser, "Shave For A Cure", and people have been calling me brave and commendable all day long. What they don't realize is that it wasn't really that big of a deal for me to chop off all of my hair. In fact, I've been looking for an excuse to do it for quite some time, and essentially, this allowed me the opportunity to do a good deed and get a free haircut at the same time. Now I've got to worry about not getting sunburnt on my scalp.
Today (I guess it's actually yesterday) also marks my first day of Self-Help at International House, in which a person helps out around the college and in turn receives a deduction off their housing bill. I was assigned to maintenance, and so I trimmed hedges, mowed a lawn nobody ever even sees, and moved around furniture with the woman in charge of Self Help, Dot - a 70-something year old lady that's 5 feet tall and loves to swear.

Mar. 8, 2005 - Noon

2005-03-07T17:27:00.000-08:00

I just can't bring myself to do laundry. I've completely run out of clean shirts and I think today is gonna have to be the day; this is the point in a game of Russian Roulette where the gun goes off. A lot of times I even have a hard time bringing myself to shower because I just don't want to be bothered. The previous 5 days are one such example, but the streak had to end because there was no way Regine was going to be a happy camper sitting next to my smelly head - even with a hat on - seeing "Lawless Heart" last night.
This past weekend I took a trip to Lorne on the Great Ocean Road with some kids going to compete in the Victorian Lifesaving State Championships. They all came in last place. One kid not only finished last, but he actually came in with the first kids in the 2nd heat of a swim race when he had started in the first heat.
The weather was quite cold and rainy, so I never even made it into the water. One of the days in Lorne we went to see the waterfalls and hiked 8km in the rainforest. On Saturday night at the pub, I ran into this Dutch-Indonesian girl who had been in the Melbourne Welcome program with me. We talked for a bit, then I made a joke that I'd never been kissed and she suddenly landed one on my lips, subsequently telling me that I could no longer use that line now. That's as far as it went, and soon afterwards a brawl broke out between an Aussie Footy Club and the bouncers. The police eventually came, but not before the footy players dropped their pants, smacking their asses and flapping their cocks out in front to further taunt the bouncers.
Lorne was fun.

March 2, 2005

2005-03-02T07:32:00.000-08:00

The pace of life here is slowing down. My hair is growing longer and I haven't looked at internet porn in over a month.

Feb. 27, 2005 - 3:50am

2005-03-02T07:21:00.000-08:00

I think that I've tried to call Lane more times here than in my entire life and I have yet to get through to him once. How can a mobile number always be fucking busy?

19 hours, 13 minutes later

RANDOM THOUGHTS
People often make excuses for why they haven't accomplished the things they want to in life. I'd have to say that I've long placed the blame on being single for 20 years. The quintessential problem/distraction for me has been girl trouble and the subsequent insecurities/bitterness it has produced. Just because I haven't gotten my love life in order, though, doesn't justify a lack of forward progress in pursuing my creative ambitions. Now that I've recognized the problem, the trick is to rediscover what those creative ambitions are and do something about it. (editor's note 2.5 years in hindsight: I'm absoutely cringing)

When you believe everything that can be said has already been said before, it's easy to see why people are cynical and disenchanted. Of course life is going to be boring when you think that everything there is to do has already been done before. But for fuck sake Jared, don't be one of those people... (editor's note: Did I mention I was cringing?)

Feb. 26, 2005 - 5:45pm

2005-03-02T06:59:00.000-08:00

-Dilworth got DQ'ed from districts after he'd already qualified for regionals due to unnecessary roughness in the consolation finals match. He'd been consistently ranked top 8 in the state at his weight class throughout the entire season.

- I had to babysit this girl named Alex last night while she was hammered to ensure that some sleazeball Aussie didn't take advantage of her, but I think she wound up hooking up with him anyway. By the way, they don't call it hooking up here, they call it picking up.

-My group won trivia night for International House's O-Week (orientation week for all you lame-o's out there) and I carried on the IH tradition of maneuvering underneath a table and around back on top of it without ever touching the ground. I was the only person this year of 160 kids to accomplish the feat without fucking up at all.
They consider me a fresher at International House considering it's my first year here, even though I'm older than mostly everyone else. Melbourne University (along with all universities outside of the United States) don't have a greek scene, so instead they have various colleges that serve as pseudo-fraternities (they're even called fraternitas) within the larger university. It's kind of like the greek scene on a larger scale, minus the negative stigma, though I did experience my fair share of hazing. I had to do this three-legged ice kick around IH with my leg tied to another fresher (some poor guy from Malaysia or Singapore - I can't remember) and every corner we turned, there was an o-week leader waiting there with some kind of sick substance to throw on us (ala soy sauce, honey, flower, tang, clumps of shit I don't even know what, etc). It was all in good fun, though, and now I don't feel so bad about not rushing Delta Sig back as a freshman at Michigan.

note: I was never forced to participate in any of the hazing activities, but the o-week leaders kept using reverse psychology on me and said that I would regret not taking part in such rich IH traditions for the rest of my life. What can I say...I'm a neurotic sucker!

Feb. 18, 2005 - 6pm

2005-03-02T06:55:00.000-08:00

I think I might be bipolar. It should also be noted that I watched The Young and the Restless earlier today. What's worse is that I did it on my own accord and kind of enjoyed all the cheesey drama. I even found myself relating it back to my own life.