A Bowl of Stupid

So I'm feeling pretty stoked right now. I did something today that officially qualifies as being one of the coolest things I've done since moving to Thailand:

I took a trip to the most famous temple in the world for 'Yant tattooing' — Wat Bang Phra, in Nakhon Chaysri, Nakhon Pathom Province, Thailand (it's said a tattoo from this temple can protect from danger or even death — and given my track record, you can see why I went there).

For those who are unaware (myself included, to some extent):

Sak yant (Thai: สักยันต), also called yantra tattooing, is a form of sacred tattooing practiced in Southeast Asian countries, including Cambodia and Thailand. Sak yant are normally tattooed by Buddhist monks or Brahmin priests.

The Wat Bang Phra Buddhist temple, about 30 miles west of Bangkok, is one of the most highly esteemed locations for Sak Yant. Dozens of monks and master artists, who have spend years perfecting the art, can be found there. Many people — including two (2) monks I wound up giving a ride back to the Bangkok bus station — travel from far reaches of Thailand and Cambodia just to get 'inked' by the monks there.

I don't yet have a picture of the new tattoo (located on my upper shoulders, extending up the length of my neck to the base of my skull), but I'll post one as soon as I get the chance.

The experience was kinda trippy in and of itself — a local friend of mine recently got a yant tattoo from Arjan Noo, the preist here in Bangkok that received worldwide fame for giving Angelina Jolie the yant designs adorning her back. So, together with a friend who was here yesterday visiting from the States, I decided to go and get inked by this guy.

The only problem? Now that Ajarn Noo is famous, a blessed tattoo from him costs about US$1000.00 (ONE THOUSAND U.S. DOLLARS) — which translates into three surfboards, for the rest of us. Naturally, we were inclined to say 'fuck it' to that high-fallutin' shit.

Just the same, we still wanted to look at getting inked. So we wandered over to the shop on the Sukhumvit that I got my last design done, where the artist told us that we could also get Sak Yant done at the sacred Wat Bang Phra — where Noo apparently trained — for the equivilent of US$5.00 (FIVE U.S. DOLLARS).

Okay, let's review … admittedly talanted yet incredibly over-hyped 'tattoo artist to the stars' — versus — true Buddhist monks practicing a sacred craft, hand crafted traditional artistic designs, 'blessed' protective mantras on me for all time, no celebrities, no bullshit, … and oh yeah, for only Five Bucks?

That's a pretty tough call, right? Yeah, that's what I said too.

Unfortunately, my friend left last night, so she couldn't get any ink done. So I made solo arrangements for the trip to the temple instead.

Despite having been told, and reading online accounts (the Wikipedia account was particularly accurate) about the Wat, I STILL had trouble at first figuring out how the whole process works (c'mon, it IS bloody Thailand). However, I was lucky enough to run into 2 monks who spoke decent English and helped me along. The pair had travelled 250 kilometers from their temple near Cambodia for the day, just to get tattooed at the Wat.

Thanks to them, I was also lucky enough to be admitted into the group of people waiting for Hiwong Pi Nan, one of the younger masters to come up in recent years, who has developed a rather large following of disciples since his tattoos are finely detailed and absolutely beautiful.

Before entering the temple, you must buy flowers and cigarettes (about US$2.00) as an offering to Buddha. These offerings are given to the monk, and then 'recycled' for the next batch of devotees, with the money used to support the Wat. The tattoos are done in groups of about 15-20 people. When the previous group is complete, the monk blesses the next batch of offerings and the next group of people.

When tattooing, the monk dips a slender 15 inch double-pronged metal rod (think barbeque skewer) into a dark inky liquid (said to contain a combination of coloring agent, palm oil, herbs, and snake venom). He then repeatedly, rhythmically, and quickly punctures the skin. Small dots of ink and blood appear, and with repeated applications, the small dots eventually form an overall design.

For me, the precess was far more painful than the modern machine-needle tattooing (or even the bamboo needling) I've had done in the past. As such, I eventually resorted to rythemic breathing and chanting mantras to focus out the pain. It helped for a bit … until I could hear/feel the metal rod literally 'POPPING' in and out of the skin of my upper neck — at which point, I kinda lost concentration and started giggling (which I think may be a 'no-no' in a Buddhist temple, I'm not sure).

After finishing, the monk say a quick prayer and blows of the tattoo. You then go to the next temple building, where the temple's master himself also blesses the tattoo (and, in my case, he also 'topped-up' the pre-existing "OM MANI PADME HUM" Sanscrit prayer mantra I already have on my upper back).

And that was that.

Honestly, I feel incredible right now. I mean, really freakin' good!!

Usually, I come out after getting a new tat feeling kinda worn out. But for some reason, that's not the case today.

Is it the protective blessing placed on me through the new tattoo? Who knows. I don't particularly believe in any of that religious mumbo-jumbo, but there are more things in Heaven and Earth, dear Horatio, so you never know …

Or it could just be the mutherfuckin' snake venom.

Anyhoo, I'll post picks of the new ink as soon as I get a chance (hopefully before I leave for the Philippines tomorrow).

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To the entire Lawler clan — all my thoughts and prayers to you all. I'm truly sorry fo your loss. Here's a dedication of sort — I apologize if this is one of the 'goofy' Beach Boys songs your mom liked.

The Beach Boys — Wouldn't It Be Nice

Namaste.

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Gone? Gone, you say?

Not so fast, motherfuckers …

Yep. God bless the baggage handlers at Merpati Airlines and Air Asia in Jakarta and Bangkok.

Admittedly, for more than a few minutes there, I honestly thought I'd have to go back to Bali again on another shopping excursion — this time for 2 MORE new boards, plus replacement rashies, leggies, suits, and booties.

But apparently my bag is now sitting in the Bangkok airport, waiting diligently for me after being hustled back here on the same night-time flight I took back here — and only 1 day later.

Major, MAJOR props go out to the baggage handlers and customer service reps at both of those airlines — NONE of whom speak English as a first language, yet from whom I still get better service, and better results, than with other airlines I've flown with back in the U.S. (cough, cough … AMERICAN … cough).

Granted, I don't yet have my board-bag (or its contents) in my grubby little hands, but I have double independent confirmation that the bag is sitting in the Air Asia 'lost luggage' department at the Bangkok International Airport cross-town — which is a far cry better than having them languishing in the depths of another airport located in another country. Right?

It's funny. I never thought I'd be a good dad. I still don't, really. I'm just far too selfish and I don't really give a high-holy shit about anyone or anything else. But now I feel like I just went through one of those junior high 'Home-Economics' projects where you have to take care of an egg for a week in prep for parenthood.

Really, I thought I lost my eggs there for a moment. But I've got them back, god-dammit. I've got them back.

One word of advise, never let your surf gear (or your eggs, … or your kids too, I guess … whatever) out of your sight. God bless you all.

Excuse me, I think I'm gonna cry.

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There's an interesting subtext — a conundrum — underlying this whole 'blogging' business.

For me, blogging began as an attempt to capitalize on my interest in the Internet (read: 'computer geek') — through the use of online advertising and retail. That idea went the way of the dodo when I made the decision to abandon the capitalistic American existence for a few years, in favor of a more simplistic life in the tropics of Southeast Asia.

At that point, blogging essentially morphed into nothing more than an easy way to memorialize my trip — physically and emotionally — and maybe make available some information about the places I'm visiting, mainly for myself, my friends and family, and anyone else with an Internet connection and a shit-load of free time on their hands.

Unknowingly (and unintentionally), this blog has also become useful in another way. When meeting people abroad, rather than handling out my phone number, email address, or other typical contact information, it's infinitely easier to write or tell people to look up my website.

In my case, I'm not sure if they feel it's an accurate description of me (the most likely scenario) or what, but the name of this blog tends to stick in peoples heads like a dull butter knife.

This is obviously a good thing. It's easily allowed me to maintain contact with people I've met from all around the globe (most of them Swedish, for some god-forsaken reason). However, it also allows a greater, albeit not complete, view of my persona to people who may not otherwise get an unfettered glimpse of my full persona until later on into a friendship.

It is for that reason more than any other that I've changed how I write this blog.

Before I revealed my true identity (yes, I am a fuckin' superhero - so shaddap) and started using this site as my own 'Universal Business Card' ("Call me!"), I tended to write bitter and scathing posts about politics, pop culture, celebrities, and a number of other divisive issues.

But I've since tried to tone down the content of this blog, so as not to offend any of the people I've met, or may meet, either with different views than mine or otherwise infected by the 'politically correctness' dictating the terms of conversations with people from the States and Europe.

Indeed, I've already had one acquaintance ask me, upon reading this site, why I hated India (and Indians) so much. After pointing out the dirty hippy's and the innumerable burning trash heaps, as well as the debilitating viral infection I picked up there, I found myself apologizing (and feeling guilty for appearing as yet another Eurocentric racist). The same goes for many other issues, as well — even music.

In trying to tone down my vacuously sardonic sense of humour (admittedly, a humour that quickly wears thin and most persons with an IQ greater than 70 don't understand to begin with), I've wound up unintentionally offending, and being overly-apologetic towards, more people than I otherwise would, because I've unknowingly disregarded their political sensitivities — both online and in the real world.

Who knows, maybe I've just been hanging out with too many Ozzies. Whatever.

While talking the other night with a friend (coincidentally, yet another Swede — I swear, they're everywhere), we got to the whole topic of maintaining a blog. Somewhere during the course of the conversation, I remembered how the word 'blog' is the shortened version of the term 'web log' — as in a personal log … about your personal ideas, experiences, and relations.

In that regard, unless they're selling something (ahem), if someone feels comfortable enough to post all their personal shit online anyway, what's the point in censoring material to possibly placate the sensibilities of people who won't understand the verse, or the underlying motivations. Admittedly, we do not live in a vacuum, and it's simply good manners not to knowingly offend people — 'do unto others' and all that.

I agree with that sentiment entirely, and I sincerely try to live my life in that manner. But there are limits — especially in the context of writing your personal thoughts vis a vis a semi-private forum on the Internet.

With that said, I will say this one more time for anyone paying attention — I've got some fucked up personal views, I live a different kind of life than most, and I have some brash and (often times unfunny) humour. I know I'm not a racist, a misogynist, or an evil vapid soul (most nobody is, really). But I will apologize up front if anything I say may come across as offensive or insensitive.

I'm writing this shit for me as much as for you. So I will write how, when, and about, whatever-the-fuck I want. Just as I really don't know you, you really can't know me simply by reading the stupid, random shit I may throw up on some website from time to time.

I know I've raised this issue before in the past, whenever I lose track of why I'm even writing this shit. But once again, it's my fucking website, and I thought it was about time for another reminder.

P.S. This is the maid speaking.

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Nota Bene: I struggled with publicly posting this long and somewhat contemplative entry because I don't wish to convey to my friends, family, and/or other readers that I'm in any way depressed, because I'm not. To the contrary, I am settling in here in Bangkok quite nicely. However, I wrote this back in India to pass the time whilst confined to my hotel bed in the final throes of the Dengue Fever. I wasn't feeling quite as 'upbeat' then (although I was, ironically, listening to the same U2 song as in my last post). So I'm posting it, confident others will understand, as I do, that context is everything.

I honestly don't know where to begin, or where I'm going with, this post. I really don't. I'm still a bit fevered still, so I guess I'll just have to talk (or write) it through.

With so much time on my hands lately (see post re: Dengue Fever), after sifting through too many books and movies to even recall, I find myself now at a point where I can do nothing more than lay in bed, listen to my music, and think. It reminds me of how I used to pass the time when I was in high school.

Now, most of my thoughts rifle through memories of the people I've met, the places I've seen, and the things I've done throughout my adult life. For some reason, most of my thoughts begin by centralizing around old friends and past girlfriends.

I use them as 'indicators', since I immediately relate certain friends and girlfriends with different chapters of my life — my formative years, high school, college, law school, working in California, living and working in Miami, and — most recently — my travels abroad.

And then I get distracted, lost even, in recollections about the smaller subplots during those times that gave each of these larger chapters their own particular context and flavour — the different jobs, cities, friends, lovers, hobbies, movies, and music.

When I was younger, this 'meditative recollection" used to be a truly enjoyable exercise. It gave me the opportunity to recall some remarkable things I had otherwise forgotten. However, as I've grown older, it's become more and more difficult to keep track of the ever increasing number of chapters — with more and more characters and subplots lost to time. The difficultly lies not only in the loss of time, but in the accompanying melancholy that comes with the realization I can no longer fully recall people and things which at one time meant so much.

It is for this reason that, while I do not condone, I understand those people who, despite not properly 'fitting' with their friends, spouses, or loved ones, choose to maintain such limited connections simply because it allows such people a greater, more immediate connection with their past. Peripherally, it also helps to limit the number of 'chapters' in their life — possibly to a more manageable level. The less chapters, the less likelihood of remembering JUST how old you are, and JUST how far away those lost years are.

I could of course be wrong, I mean, what the hell do I know?

Fortunately or unfortunately, I am not one of those people. I'm much more demanding and restless. And while this allows me to meet a greater number of people and visit a wider range of places, there's only so much time to maintain friendships … and there's only a limited amount of space in my brain to remember all of those lost years and friends.

No, I'm not trying to recreate my youth. But yes, I do miss it. Very much so.

I miss my youthful exuberance. I miss knowing the better part of my life is yet to come — set out in front of me as a fateful mystery. I miss my old friends. I miss my old girlfriends (even the selfish bitchy ones … okay, maybe not them so much), I miss my old toys — the motorcycles, the cars, the surfboards, the snowboards. And I miss my old homes — the apartments, condos, and houses, and the cities, states, and countries. I miss them all.

And while I'm still glad I had the time to have experience all of those things and I still eagerly look towards the future, I simultaneously curse time for wrenching my past away from me — without my having even noticed.

So that's what I'm doing now — I'm sitting here awake at 3 a.m. in a half-fevered stupor in some shithole in India, listening to U2's "A Sort of Homecoming", trying to think about all the great places I'm heading this summer, but instead lamenting over all of the friendships, places, and experiences I've lost to time.

I know I can't return to those times. And I know I can't recreate as they once existed the close friendships I had before everyone got married, and divorced, and had kids, and got re-married, and moved, and got new jobs, etc., etc. And yes, I am thankful for all of those glorious memories from my past.

But goddamn it, I really wish I could, just for a moment, go back 20 years to that time when I could hang out in my room listening to "An Unforgettable Fire" with my friends dreaming about everything still to come, laid out before us as a glorious mystery.

This just isn't quite the same.

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(A view down Phloen Chit from the Sukhumvit line BTS station)

One of the best things about traveling abroad with (relatively) no time limitation and (relatively) no agenda is the ability, and indeed, the tendency to randomly meet a larger range of people than you might otherwise by simply living in one place. Indeed, one of the reasons I initially decided to leave Miami was due to my ever-diminishing circle of friends — whether due to marriage, relocation, diverging interests, or whatever.

Since then, however, I have been alternatively blessed and cursed to meet some truly amazing people throughout the course of my travels. The blessed part of this is, of course, getting to meet such great people. I now have people I very much want to go visit all throughout the world — the UK, France, Australia, the Philippines, the Netherlands, Sweden, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and yes … even India (among others). The downside is that, due to the transitory nature of my life, I don't get to spend much time with these folks which, to put it simply, really sucks.

It truly is one of the larger issues in my life right now — how to regularly deal with new 'best friends' whom, in all likelihood, will soon lose that 'status' whenever one, or all of us, move on (or goes home).

Another, and connected major, issue is the fact that I have no home. As I've mentioned previously, my friend who was so kindly putting me up in his extra room in Singapore has since 'flew the koop' — he's moved back to Miami with his new fiance. Similarly, my other mate who was letting me crash on his couch in Singapore will, in all likelihood, be moving back to the States in the near future (plus, staying with him was never a long term option anyway; indeed, I haven't even been back to Singapore since early last November).

However, another benefit of living with (relatively) no time constraints or agendas is the ability to simply 'ride the crest' of whatever wave may be passing by at any particular time — both literally and metaphorically.

Presently, due to a bizarre sequence of events I'm not at liberty to discuss, this 'wave' comes in the form of the ability for me to take over a friend's lease here in Bangkok for 1-2 months. Initially, I thought twice about doing it since surf season in Indonesia is just about to pick up. However, after thinking on it for a bit, I thought it just a bit too coincidental that an opportunity like this would come up right now.

• Right now, when I've just met (and/or gotten to know better) some really great people here in Bangkok who have already taken me in as one of their own — just when I've been lamenting the transitory nature of my traveling friendships.
• Right now, when all I really wanted - needed - was a few weeks (at least) to relax and catch my breath between surf trips, like I would do in Singapore last year — just when I was contemplating quitting my travels en toto because I just wanted to sleep, with no pressure to stay, somewhere safe and comfortable for a little bit.
• Right now, when I was already looking from India and Sri Lanka towards Thailand as a place to take a deep breath and restore a sense of myself again after 4 months on the road.

Given these coincidences, it seemed the right thing to do, y'know?

Don't get me wrong, I'm still heading to Indonesia for a surf trip in a few weeks. But at least I've got a home to come back to — which, quite candidly, is a greater comfort than I ever thought it would be.

And no, it's not perfect. I mean, I've been living in bamboo huts for the greater part of the past year, and Bangkok is a huge, modern, crowded, bustling city (very similar to NYC, in my opinion). And Bangkok is more expensive than India, Sri Lanka, or even the rest of Thailand (again, think NYC vs. rest of USA).

But it's still relatively cheap (around US$250-300/mo. rent at a good location about 1/4 block from the Skytrain). And I have friends here I'm looking forward to spending time with. And the rail and bus lines are easy. And the food is both diverse and delicious. And English is spoken pretty much everywhere.

And most importantly, I have a place to call home for a month or two. Tonight, at last, I am coming home.

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I was 19 years old when I got my first tattoo. It was 1990, I was a sophomore at Arizona State University, and I guess I thought it was about time to get a tattoo.

Recently, however, I haven't been able to pinpoint just why I wanted, or how I even came to the decision to get the tattoo. Nor have I been able to recall exactly the thought processes that led me to pick that particular picture — the one directly above — to get permanently etched on my skin.

This image in question is of Calvin & Hobbs, the 2 title characters in a popular comic strip popular in the 1980's - 1990's, written and illustrated by Bill Watterson. For those of you not familiar with Calvin and Hobbes, the comic followed the humorous antics of Calvin, an imaginative six-year old boy, and Hobbes, his energetic and sardonic, albeit stuffed, tiger (named after Thomas Hobbs).

Granted, my mom wasn't thrilled to see the tattoo — especially when she realized it would not come off no matter how much soap I used. But when I got the tattoo, the comic strip was ubiquitous, well-known, and loved by both men and women. At the time, it was the best of both worlds for me — guys thought the tattoo was cool, while girls thought the tattoo was cute. It was great.

Unfortunately, times have changed.

My tattoo no longer held that same sway with my audience of late, thanks to a variety of factors — Bill Watterson's retirement of the comic strip in the the mid-1990's, the ravages of time and sun exposure to my skin, and the seemingly ceaseless efforts of American rednecks whose numbers are legion who chose THAT particular comic to decry their outrage over the quality of Ford trucks.

As such, for the past several years, the result has been a bluish blur on my left shoulder resembling something some people in some places vaguely recalled seeing at some time in the past. Moreover, this problem was exacerbated after I left the States. As a result, lately, all I seemed to hear was:

"Oh wow, is that an old tiger tattoo on your arm? What, were you in the French Foreign Legion or something?"

Uh, not so much … no.

So I've been searching for years for a 'replacement' tattoo to cover up ol' Calvin & Hobbs. Either fortunately or unfortunately, I was never able to find something I liked enough to replace them, nor have I been in many places where getting a tattoo was a practical (or healthy) idea.

But eventually I designed my own cover-up tattoo, and I'm now in Bangkok — one of the premiere locales in the world to get 'inked'. So I figured it was about time to finally ink it over up with the new design.

That's what I did today. Actually, THIS is what I did today:

The design itself is larger than I otherwise would have gone with, but it was necessary to cover the original. And the photo isn't the best — it doesn't show some of the smaller details (there are some wave designs and cross-hatching that my camera can't pick up), but all in all I'm pleased about how it came out.

Given all the issues with the old tattoo, I thought getting this new one would be a non-issue. And quite frankly, it was … until after it was gone. It was only when I saw the figures of Calvin and Hobbs slowly disappearing under a blanket of fresh black ink that I finally remembered the underlying reasons, and circumstances of, why and how I got that first tattoo.

I won't bore you with those details — most of which are inane and irrelevant to everyone but myself and my former college roommate Stacey (who came with me and got his first tattoo at the same time). But I will say this much: I am a bit sorry to see it gone.

Although it was old and faded and much of its initial meaning lost to the ravages of time, every time I looked down at my left shoulder, I was unknowingly reminded of an earlier — and very happy — time of my life. I haven't consciously thought about those college years for quite a while. Nor have I thought about the comic strip itself for a while.

My apologies, but I'm keeping my fond youthful memories to myself. I will, however, remind those of you who are interested of at least one of the reasons why I chose those particular comic strip characters to first decorate my skin.

So, to summarize, I quit my job and life in the States to go goof off traveling around the world for a few years, where I eventually go and cover up a tattoo of a comic strip poking fun at the same societal norms condemning goofing off from which I fled.

Well goddammit, if that ain't irony, I don't know what is.

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It's now official — after Darfur and Iraq, India is my LEAST favorite tourist destination.

I've been laid up for the better part of 5 days now with what a local pharmacist says is probably Dengue Fever.

Admittedly, he may be wrong and I could have merely caught a really bad flu virus, since the only way to diagnose Dengue is via blood tests. But there's no way in HELL I'm letting anyone in this country stick me with a needle — doing it in Sri Lanka was bad enough. So, for bitching purposes alone, I'm just gonna assume I've got the Dengue.

He may be right — there's been an increasing number of cases in India over the past year, and I've been dealing with the symptoms described as being associated with the virus.

I've had a high fever on and off for the past 5 days — relieved only by copious doses of Ibuprofen (taking aspirin apparently makes it worse). I had a slight rash across my shoulders. My digestive system is in a worse state than Brittaney Spears' career. My eyes feel like they're gonna burn right thru my skull. And EVERY SINGLE BONE in my body aches. Intensely.

Yeah, there's a reason they also call this thing the break-bone fever or bonecrusher disease.

So I've been stuck in my room for the past several days doing anything I can do NOT to go crazy with boredom — reading books by the kilo, surfing the internet (when available), watching DVD's, and trying to get the most entertainment value as possible from my fever dreams.

The fever broke early this morning (but unfortunately has just resurfaced this evening — yea!), and I'm starting to get feeling back in my eye sockets. But I still can't eat anything, and I still feel like I just went 10 rounds with Bobbitt.

Hey, I'm not complaining (well, yes I am), because it could be worse — much worse. In that respect, I'm grateful that I'm (apparently) getting better. But, all in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia.

I leave India in one week. Let's hope I don't catch a parasite or get rolled by a gang of rogue monkeys in the meantime.

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Ahh, the Philippines. What's there to say about a country whose two national beers are 'San Miguel' and 'Colt 45′?

Even before my more recent sojerns into the world outside the lower 48, one of things I've always enjoyed about visiting and/or moving to new places was that undefinable feeling of 'getting' the new place — learning its people, its culture, its … rhythem.

This typically comes for me from walking a place for several days. I quickly learn the layout of a city, how the residents get around (nobody walks in L.A., right?), the location of surf breaks, or (most importantly) the 'vibe' of the local population.

And usually, the time frame in which I usually 'get' a place is fairly short — within a matter of 1-2 days or, in some places — like Singapore, for example — within hours.

Indeed, when I first arrived to Arizona from Philadelphia for college, I was able to grasp the underlying 'vibe' of the Phoenix area really quickly. A vibe to which I immediately connected in my core that filled me with gratitute that this new place would be my home for the following several few years (and potentially forever). In retrospect, I was not incorrect in my feelings towards the city.

More recently, I have similarly been able to determine if I hold a connection - wither positive or negative - with a place in all my recent travels abroad. Several places I thought I would immediately connect with I immediately did not, like Bali, Indonesia. Meanwhile others, like Krabi and Singapore itself, I felt an almost instant gutteral connection.

And then there's the Philippines.

There have been far too many times over the years where I just KNEW how something would play out and I still refused to succumb to that inner voice telling me the way things were. And after a couple weeks here, I wish I was a bigger slave to my initial instincts (especially after reading 'Blink' by Malcolm Gladwell).

I had the most awkward feeling when I first arrived in the Philippines (hell, even before I got here) — a feeling I just knew will come to fruition, yet still wanted to put to the test).

Within minutes of my arrival in the Manila airport, I felt, no, I KNEW that, unlike any of the other places I've been to (at least in recent memory), I would never, never, NEVER be able to 'get' the Philippines.

It's really kind of hard to explain. Shit, given the frenetic disorganized pace of Manila (and indeed, the whole country), it's hard to describe what the fuck was going on even in the 30 square meters around me when I first got 'in country', let alone what the entire country is like. However, I'll try to explain it by using my own personal 'country comparison' barameter — the only tool I really know how to use:

I find Cambodia to be a more severe, meloncholy, and less 'centered' version of the beautiful, tourist laden Thailand.
I find Malaysia to be the more organized, more forward thinking, 'a-type' twin sibling of Indonesia, which still doesn't yet seem to be as concerned about keeping up with the rest of the world.
I find Singapore to be an asian version of Miami - cosmopolitan, international, stylish.

The Philippines are not so easily defined.

The closest I can come to describing the Philippines is that, to me, it is a mix of the permenant corrupt disfunction of Mexico, with some of that carefully cultivated 'laid back yet still safe third world country' feel of Costa Rica, while also having a low cost of human life (very low) prevelant in so many similar places. And add into this morrass a violent Muslim revolution going on in the Southern islands (immediately south of where I am now), and you've got some interesting Television.

Upon my initial arrival here (and since), I've encountered such a wide array of inexplicable conduct (and stories) by the Philippinos with whom I've met, such as would give an aspirin a fucking headache.

For every 1 Philippino that looks to you like 'hostage bait', there are another 4 who seem to be genuinely nice people. But honestly, I still have a hard time figuring out which is which.

Maybe it's because the country itself is a 'mish-mash' of used parts from a variety of different sources. A look at a local menu will tell you just how confusing it is — a mish-mash of Malay, 'lite' Thai, cheap Mexican (Spanish), and bad BAD AMerican food (think balony, canned corned beef hash, and white bread as main ingredients for a 'pepperoni and sausage' pizza — I only WISH I was kidding).

It's all so very confusing.

There is a 'hate-hate' relationship between the Filippinos and the money-toting tourists now afflicting their much maligned islands. Every interaction is a dance between wanting to believe in the good of people and having to protect oneself from the desperation that poisons every interaction.

Maybe that's why I'm having a hard time getting a grip on things. Hell, I took a boat out to surf Doku Island with an Israeli kid who has been here for 3 months now and told me that HE still doesn't get this place. But unlike me, he's a sadist and plans on giving it another month to find out.

I still want to test that feeling, on the off chance this place is as beautiful as it sometimes appears. So I'll be staying a full month, but unless something changes my opinion, no longer. I'm obviously willing to learn about a place, but there's gotta be a limit.

Regardless, be it neither a good nor a bad thing, but I really think I'll wind up leaving the Philippines without ever 'getting' this country.

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Note: The next few posts were actually written in the last couple of weeks, but I only now have the opportunity to post them as the rains have calmed down for a couple days and the beach roads are back 'open' (using the term loosely).

And as Dee was so kind to point out commenting on my last post, I don't have spell check here in the wild, wild west Filos. So if I spell anything wrong again (like 'Goa', India), feel free to kiss my big white ass. But I mean that in the nicest way possible.

The combination of my recent motor-bike injury and the seemingly omnipresent rains have left me with an over-abundance of time this past week.

I can't surf or SCUBA dive because I can't get my injured knee wet. I can't drink alcohol because I'm on antibiotics. I've been limited in my use of electricity and phone because the power has been intermittingly shutting down due to the rains.

It's a hassel to go anywhere cuz all of the roads are flooded out and/or beyond slippery. And I've been left reading books by the bushel in an attempt to quelch the boredom factor quickly slipping in.

I've tried to use the extensive free time on my hands to do some serious meditative introspection. Unfortunately, that has led me to again debating the entire basis of my lifestyle (i.e., living abroad searching for surf).

Back in Indonesia, this stuff made sense. You have a surfboard, they have surf, it's cheap, and you can stay for months at a time and not get too bored.

But just what the fuck am I doing here in the Philippines? And now?

The weather is dismal. The surf has been dismal. The locals THEMSELVES are bored out of their mind this time of year (which leads to some REALLY dodgy pastimes). Options are limited.

At this point, it's painfully obvious that I've lost track of the entire basis why I initially left the States in the frist place. Indeed, I now only vaguely recall such grand aspirations of living abroad on virtualy nothing, having nothing, and being responsible for nobody but myself. Oh, and doing nothing but surf and sleep, of course.

It's the stuff of dreams, right? Not so much.

The journey is never as liberating as we anticipate.

I haven't felt that peaceful vibe I briefly had in Indo for some time, and I now feel like I'm again swimming against the currents. Even before I stopped working last year, I felt that 'flow' — then, pushing me out of the practice of law and out of the State of Florida.

But I fought those currents — fought them hard for a good 15 years, pursuing a career and lifestyle I didn't want. But finally, I gave in to the flow, allowing them to take me wherever. This led to my inevitable exit from a legal career and Florida (and the States).

That time of first releasing myself that 'flow' was, although disconcerting, probably the most satisfying period of my life. I don't regret at all leaving everything I had. However, I think I lost that feeling soon thereafter, reverting back to 'American Me' soon thereafter — status and money concious to the core.

I briefly had what I was looking for — that feeling of peaceful nonpurpose — and then it was gone. I've been searching for that feeling for the past 6 months throughout Southeast Asia. I want very much to again feel like I know which way to go.

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Well folks, given my history of injuries and the active lifestyle I pursue, one would assume I would have gotten injured much earlier during living abroad. Thankfully, I haven't … until now.

The good news is that it was nothing too major, and I should be fine (I don't want to jinx anything, cuz there is still potential for infection). The bad news is that I'm probabky gonna have a really nasty scar on my left knee and I won't be surfing for the next week or so until the stiches are sufficiently healed.

It was only 2 days ago when I decided to stay here in the Philippines for a full month. I made that decision based partly on the quality of Mahi-Mahi here, and also figuring that although I've not yet felt the right 'vibe' here, I should at least give the place a chance. As part of my preperations for staying the month, I rented a room with a kitchen so I can cook my own meals rather than having to constantly dine out. I also rented a motorbike so I can go to the markets in town to buy food and other supplies, as well as to ride over to the various surf breaks not within walking distance.

Yeah, some of you can already see where this is heading.

Anyway, the surf on this side of the island has been pretty dismal for the past several days — the northen winds blowing out any significant waves left from the 2 typhoons in the area. I had heard, however, there is a decent surf spot up towards the northern tip of the island. Yesterday morning, I decided spur of the moment to check it out.

I never got there.

I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Don't ask me where I made the wrong turn or where I wound up, because longtime resdents here on Shiargao that I've asked can't even tell me where the fuck I was (ironically, one person who did know told me I was up near a place called 'Salvation'). All I know is that almost immediately after I turned off from the main road, the 'road' — usiing the term euphamistically — changed from flat pavement to an unpaved path consisting mainly of huge puddles of mud and rocky hills.

Every so often I stopped to ask directions — each time being reassured in broken English that yes, this REALLY was the proper way to the north end of the island. Based on these directions, I continued on until I literally ran out of road (the road turned into a walking path that turned into a drainage draw, that finally ended on the beach next to a comicaly small fishing villiage). There, I was told (read: wildly gestured to) that I had indeed gone the wrong way and I needed to go bAcK almost to my starting point and take a completely DIFFERENT (and paved) road north, since where I was wasn't actually a road.

I had just turned around to make the trip back towards the main road when the heavens opened up - WIDE open. If you've never been to the tropics, you really should make the effort to do so. It is a remarkable thing, You can't imagine just how much water can fall from the sky at one time until you see it in person. It really is amazing.

Anyway, the 'road' almost immedaitely began to flood, resembling a small creek more than a road. I hadn't gone more than 50-100 meters after turning around before I hit a steep rocky incline. My my back tire hit a slicked up rock and slid out from beneath me. Thankfully, I was only going a few km/hour at the time, so I avoided any serious injury.

After falling, I picked up the bike and took it to the top of the incline where I better could take a survey of any damage — both to me and the bike. Luckily, I was able to keep the bike from getting too damaged by cushioning its fall with my body. My left leg, to be precise. I was pleased to first see that my left foot had only some minor scrapes that would heal in a couple days. But then I caught sight of my left knee, although it didn't really hurt.

I'm not sure how it happened, but when I looked, I saw a huge gaping wound right below my left kneecap. Specifically, in a rough circle about 2 inches in diameter, the skin was simply gone, exposing the tendons and other tissue below.

It really didn't hurt, but it looked knarly as hell.

I was (and still am) more concerned with infection, considering I had to ride the bike back through the 10-12 kilometers of this flooded and rocky 'road' before even making it back to solid pavement. Every time I came to another muddy expanse of water in the road, I had to pick up my left leg in the air so as to avoid spraying any 'goo' up inside my exposed kneecap.

I remember thinking to myself that this was turning into one hell of a long bike ride, however, as soon as the rain stopped and I got back on solid pavement, I'd be able to get the wound quickly attended to.

Err, not so much.

My trip back to the main road was long, but reletively uneventful. However, once there, I fell victim to my own expediency. See, the exit point back onto the main road was about halfway between the main towns of General Luna ('GL') and Dapa. As I am staying out past GL (where most of the ex-pats are), I decided to hit the medical clinic there, so as to avoid a long drive home after gettting treated.

When I got to the GL clinic at around 11:30 a.m., I found that the doctor doesn't come in until 13:30 (1:30 p.m.), and I would have to wait another 2.5 hours before I could get stiched up there. Instead, I got back on the road and headed back again where I came from — towards Dapa — specifically, the Dapa hospital. Well, I guess you could call it a 'hospital.'

It actually bore more semblance to an auto-body shop than what we in the West would call a 'hospital.' My first clue in this regard were the chickens wandering around just out front of the building. My second clue was the dog that wandered into the 'operating room' at the smell of my blood — looking for scraps, one would assume (No, I'm NOT kidding. I couldn't make up this shit).

I wasn't able to get treated when I first got there, since the only doctor in the hospital was busy delivering a baby. So, after having already left my kneecap exposed to the elements for a couple hours, I would have to wait a bit longer until after the little brat was ushered into the world (just kidding … but not really).

Now, I truly believe that how one deals with adversity is a sign of their true character, especially in an unfamiliar environment. So yesterday, I was particulally self-concious about not appearing as just another self-absorbed American looking for special treatment while screaming 'don't you know who I am?!?!" (although I was, admittedly, feeling a little like that inside).

For that reason, I didn't make a big deal about getting hurt in the first place. Nor did I bitch about having to drive back from GL to the Dapa hospital. I was not about to start losing my shit now, especially considering there was a local Filippino fisherman also there, stolidly waiting for treatment after getting his calf ripped apart by a moray eel.

An intake nurse looked at my injury and told me how much it would cost — 50 pesos for consultation, and another 75 pesos for the stitching. Le me repeat that, the entire treatment cost the equivilent to about US$3.00.

She also told me what I'd need to get for my treatment — sutchers, a needle, bandages, and a local anesthetic. I was given a prescription of sorts, and then told to go to the pharmacy in town to buy the equiptment. I paid 10 pesos (about $.25) to a guy on a tricycle to take me there and back. And after I got my suppies, I sat there silently waiting for delivery (quite literally). The total cost for all those supplies was only about another US$5.00 (admuittedly, the antibiotics I bought afterwards were sorta expensive, about US$50.00). So, it was a total cost of about US$8.00 to get treated (man, Micheal Moore's movie 'Sicko' was good, but you can't really grasp just HOW fucked up the US medical system is until you get treated outside the country).

Anyway, the baby refused to accomodate our schedules, and after a time, the doctor and trauma nurse from GL came to Dapa (ironically, they didn't even open the clinic in GL, but instead came straight to Dapa to help out in their E.R.). The fisherman rightly got his mangled leg treated first (apparently, the moray eels out here can be downright vicious). The 'OR' was open to the public, and various members of his family and the general public who happened to be there (myself included), wandered in and out surveying the proceedure.

Once again, this guy was so quietly stoic about the whole thing that I was concerned about looking like a weak-willed American when next it came my turn to be stiched up. Fortunately, I have a uniquely high pain tolerance. Unfortunately, I also have a really bad habit of giggling like a madman in response to severe pain.

As they got started on my knee, we all realized just how fucked up it was (is). Not only did I tear out a huge chunk of flesh, but the adjacent skin that remained was ripped from the tissue underneath, leaving a 'hole' under the skin. I know from prior experience that is the real danger (when I was in college, I had torn my right calf muscle resulting in an abscese that got infected and almost killed me due to my lack of treatment). It was also tricky due to the placement of the injury. I've heard this before, but I was reminded again yesterday that the knee is one of the hardest places to treat an injury.

The doctor and nurse were, however, absolute professionals when it came to cleaning and debriding the injury and stiching me up. Indeed, but for the dog looking for scraps and the locals looking to see if the American would start screaming in pain, their treatment was better than some I've received back in the States. They even gave me a mask and let me sit up to watch the proceedure (except when the local started wearing off and I started giggling like a nutjob). The hospital staff was also extrememly kind to me, and I thank them all immensely for their help.

I'll probably have a nasty scar on my left knee, but if the drugs do what they're supposed to do, I think (hope) I'll be fine. I'm taking some pretty powerful antibiotics for the next 7 days, just in case. During that time, however, I won't be unable to go in the ocean. So, no surfing for the next week. No worries, I'd rather get healed up (plus, the winds have picked up, making the waves unridable for the next 5-6 days anyway).

I go back in a couple of days for a check up (I hope I can make the US$3.00 consultation fee), and hopefully any chances I'll be healed up in a week. I just hope no more dogs wander into room.

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One of the reasons I've grown so fond, so fast, of the lifestyle and peoples in Southeast Asia is because I see in many of them an adaptation of the underlying precepts I've sought from my whole 'Vision-quest' sojourn:

They have the desire, if not simply the need, to disregard all of the complications and dramas and phobias and self-introspection carried around by Americans, in favor of simply living. To borrow a phrase — they have the ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.

When I was out in the boonies of Indonesia, forced to live without electricity and potable water and other such luxuries for weeks at a time, I felt like I was at least starting to leave all that stupid shit behind. Really, in that situation, one realizes that it doesn't matter who Paris Hilton is fucking this week, or what office intrigues are going through, or how much money your colleagues are making, or in my case, ever the psychological effects of the many beatings I took as a kid.

All that shit gradually became superfluous to the art of actually living. I was beginning to find, more and more, that I neither wanted nor desired to waste my entire life questioning my self-worth in relation to everyone else, either emotionally or monetarily.

In the grand scheme of things, it just doesn't matter.

But now, every day I'm back in the States, I find those little things gaining more and more importance. I'm getting upset about again being confronted with continuous questions of employment and money and status and … 'normality.' And I find myself becoming frustrated and angered by these matters — matters that I should know really don't matter.

I once again feel like I've unwittingly been cast in a Broadway show with people who, despite their impressive resumes, are nothing but a bunch of amateurs. For the love of Christ, "life surely isn't as complicated as these brilliant fucktards are making it out to be … is it?"

• Do we really need to worry so much about having a car, or boat, or jewelry, or … whatever?
• Do we really need to work in shitty jobs we hate just to buy shit we don't need?
• Does it really matter if we smoke and drink and eat shitty foods, if they add enjoyment to out lives?
• Do we really need to over-sanitize our food, and our water, and our homes, and … our entire fucking lives.

Simply stated, I am growing more and more pissed off having returned to a culture that — either knowingly or unwittingly — tries to make us miserable and question ourselves.

So, once again, I find myself looking forward to returning to Asia — if only to regain my footing and a sense of what is truly important in my life.

Perhaps, as some think, I really have got much more 'soul searching' to do in order to find happiness, regardless of my locale — I personally don't think so, since 'soul searching,' by definition, interferes with 'life living'. But regardless, my underlying recognition of 'that which truly does not matter' seems to come to me easier outside the States.

I spoke last night to a very good lawyer friend of mine who told me that, apparently I'm the hero of all the the blokes in his Boston office — giving up everything the way I did. I really do find this type of praise (or envy, whatever) to be comically ironic.

People spend decades envying others and trying to 'fix' their unhappiness while losing sight of the fact that, by doing so, they are wasting the lives they're trying to save.

I'm not a hero. I'm not even looking for your goddamn support or condemnation anymore. But the longer I have to put up with it 'tete a tete,' the more I'm gonna recall why I was so pissed off in the first place. Regardless of what happens, I'm not gonna be one of them.

Enough. So fuck them. And fuck you too.

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KB and I drove down to visit with my folks in Philly last weekend.

Being in Boston for the month, I would have been an even worse son than I already am had I neglected to visit the parentals after traveling half-way back around the world to a city only a couple hundred miles away without making a visit. Plus, at this point in my life, I'm pretty sure the whole 'jewish-mom'' guilt trip thingy gets more powerful the closer you get to it's source.

My parents were never that thrilled in the first place with my decision to give up a fairly cushy legal existence in favor of residing in various chicken coops throughout Southeast Asia — that's just a given. However, that disapproval was compounded by the fact that my folks are … hmm, how would you say it? …

well, … they're old.

In particular, gven a superior intellect, my dad remained single until he was 41, and he is now well into his 80's. But even now, he's still as healthy as a horse (last April before I left the States, the battery on my Jeep went out while my folks were visiting, and in response to my statement that maybe we should attach jumper cables, my dad told me that he would push-start the Jeep and that I should 'just get in the car, ya' pansy').

Regardless, given their age and locale, it was recently brought to my attention that my parents, in their retirement, now resemble — creepily so — Jerry Seinfeld's parents from 'The Seinfeld Show."

One particular event last weekend — one of many, unfortunately — drove that point home.

My folks still live in the small West-Philly row home where I grew up. And after living in the same place for so long, with a drop-off in the number of long-term house guests (to about none), my parents have let the house fall into a level of repair suitable to them.

The house is not in disrepair by any stretch, but there are certain things my parents have grown accustomed to living with that I (and perhaps other people) would change or fix.

One of these items is the lock on the door to the main bathroom (immediately adjacent to the 3 upstairs bedrooms). It's not that the door doesn't lock, it's just that it doesn't lock as well as it maybe should. As such, given the proper motivation — oh, like pulling on the door handle, for instance — the lock will disengage and the door will open.

This isn't that big of an issue as my parents have been married for 45 years and I'm guessing there are no more sacred places (or scents) left to shock either of them. So … no issue.

But now you've got your (prodigal) son visiting from Southeast Asia with his new girl, and it would probably be a good idea to at least try to maintain an illusion of bathroom privacy. So, house rules: if the door is closed, it's pretty much in your best interest to leave it closed.

To this end, when I went to use to bathroom early the first morning after we arrived, I saw the bathroom door shut. Not a problem, I would wait a few minutes until the current occupant was finished. However, for the first time in my life, I saw a new, hand-printed sign tacked onto the bathroom door, reading (and I shit you not - no pun intended):

I was, for a change, rendered relatively speechless as I went back into the bedroom to tell KB that her urinary options had been surreptitiously reduced in half whilst we had slept.

Given the fact said 'downstairs bathroom' is without a shower, we decided to expand our bladders through rhythmic breathing and meditation, and wait for 15-20 minutes until said 'bowel movement' was no longer 'in progress.'

As we sat there talking, we lost track of time for a bit. But about an hour later, I decided to make another check on the status of my dad's (or my mom's) 'movement.'

I found the door still shut, with the 'sign' still firmly tacked onto the bathroom door. Apparently, there had yet to be any 'progress.' We decided to keep waiting a bit longer rather than brave the cold depths of my parents basement bathroom,

KB: "No worries. Let's give your dad 5-10 more minutes."
Me: "Okay."

And then, 10 minutes later,

KB: Umm … do you think your dad's okay? Maybe you should check on him."
Me: Uhh, okay.

After going back outside and seeing the bathroom door still adorned with my mom's (at that point, apparently woefully optimistic) signage, I finally broke down and called out to my mom downstairs,

Me: Hey, MOM! Are you downstairs?
Mom: Yes, honey? What do you need?
Me: Uh mom, do you know when dad is gonna be done in the bathroom?
Mom: What do you mean, sweetie? Your father's down here with me reading the newspaper.
Me: (Silent reflection)
Me: Uh, well there's that new sign on the bathroom door that says … uh, well it says … it says the bathroom is busy.
Mom: I know, but didn't you try the door?
Me: (Additional moment of silent reflection)
Me: Well, no mom, given the condition of the lock, I didn't think it a prudent course of action at this juncture.
Mom: Don't be a wise-ass. You could have just knocked on the door.
Me: (Slipping into meditative trance to contemplate situation)
Me: Well, yeah sure, but why is the sign up in the first …; uh, why would I have to knock if there's a … what I mean to say is 'why was the door …'
Mom: Yes, sweetheart?
Me: Uh, never mind, we're gonna use the bathroom now.
Mom: Okay, we're not going anywhere.
Me (halfway under breath): Of course you're not, you're old.
Mom: I heard that - don't be a smart-ass.
Me: Okay, okay … I gotta go (running to bathroom in classic 'gotta pee' posture)

And while that whole episode — and the remainder of the weekend, for that matter — reminded me of just why I sorely needed to move halfway around the world to avoid my parents debilitating 'quasi-jewlogic', the whole thing just reeked of 'Seinfeldian cuteness' to KB.

Indeed, when we finally made it downstairs and I ignored my parents reminding me - over and over - that I 'could have just knocked,' KB was grinning like a little school girl, whist I sat there in silence, trying not to listen to the coffee-stirrer from Starbucks that was loudly urging me to ram it into my eye-socket.

I used to think Seinfeld was so funny. But now? I saw a commercial for an episode earlier this week, and I could literally hear my mom berating me for not knocking on the bathroom door.

Ugh, Where the fuck is the nearest Starbucks?

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Tell me thy company, and I'll tell thee what thou art."
-Miguel de Cervantes

I'm supposed to be using this time providing my loyal readers with soaring tales of the early stages of my travels throughout Southeast Asia — the surf, the islands, the people, my new computer, the food.

But quite honestly, I really don't feel like doing that right now.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I can keep my mouth shut for 2 goddamn minutes when I'm asked in person about the places I been in the past few months. However, I just can't seem to put pen to paper (as it were) to satisfy my promises to friends and family - describing in detail for them the treasures I've seen to satiate desires both subtle and gross. Indeed, even my love of this very blog has, to some extent, fallen by the wayside.

At first, I promised myself that I would write regularly about my travels — if nothing else than but as a reminder to myself when looking back in later years.

The blog would also serve as a reminder of my initial dedication to take full advantage of this 'once in a lifetime' opportunity. An opportunity which, in my astounding good fortune, the fates bestowed upon me — to travel the world unfettered by significant economic and emotional ties (although I am not, by any means, "rich"; nor have I completely forgotten my friends and family on the other side of the world).

In making that initial promise to myself, I truly believed (and still do so) that taking several years off from life to explore the world, and experience new peoples, cultures, and places … that this will eventually make me a better person — which is ultimately the only thing we can really control in our lives, right?

However, in so doing, I knowingly discarded numerous other equally gratifying 'once in a lifetime' opportunities that may have otherwise been available to me, or which, then unbeknownst to me, may have presented themselves to me at a later time. Primarily, although I consciously decided to travel for several years on my own, I'm now starting to feel the bite of that decision in that, but for this blog and the occasional Instant Message (in large part), I've not really been able to personally share the experiences I've had, especially with someone I care about — which understandably diminishes them on some level.

Moreover, one of the other problems I've faced so far is the knowledge that the closest thing I have to a 'home' is my mate's extra room here in Singapore, where he so generously lets me store my shit while I'm traveling. Indeed, living out of a suitcase, which in itself is fine, may possibly be starting to take its toll after having lived in one place for so many years.

It may be that this will eventually beg the question: 'At what point does this global search for new experiences and spiritual enlightenment devolve into an endless quixotic reconnaissance mission for windmills?"

But then again, maybe not. It could also be that I'm just acting like a little bitch.

Shit, it's only been several months since I left the States in the first place. Perhaps it's just been a particularly frustrating week. Or perhaps it just takes time to grow comfortable living a full-time 'gypsy' lifestyle (since, unlike all the other backpackers who frequent this area, I have no real 'home' to return to if and when I decide to stop traveling).

Regardless, at this stage, my ego alone wouldn't allow such issues to impede the progress of the '07-'08 "Stupid World Tour." As such, I'm heading out for a couple months on Tuesday — sidelining the surfing aspect of this whole venture, and traveling overland up through Malaysia and Thailand, up through Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, and Myanmar on my way (hopefully) to Nepal by mid to late October.

I'll be here still for several more days, during which time, I'll write some more about my last trip to Rote, Indonesia (where, among other things, my hosts lovingly gutted the goat we were having for dinner right in front of us). I also plan to be traveling through places with electricity and internet access - so I can update on a more regular basis than once per month.

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