Here Today, Gone Tomorrow

So, I have this good friend back from the States. When I knew her a few years ago (before I left for Thailand), she was so great. Young, beautiful, bright, energetic, and fun. She worked as one of my assistant’s at my last job in the U.S., and I always stated that she “was the best assistant I ever had.” And I still mean it today.

So, when a few months ago she wrote me, looking for a job, and I just HAPPENED to have an opening, it seemed perfect. In a frenzy of excited emails and lots of paperwork and preparation, the friend arrived! (Let’s just call her “Rory”). I was so excited to see her at the airport, and we talked of things we might do. I found her a little bit more reserved than I’d remembered her, but 1) she was a couple years older now and 2) she’d just got off one of the most hellish things a person can do – fly transcontinentally.

As the days went forward, strange things began to surface. I was a little surprised at her immediate need to be in luxurious western malls, hanging out in Starbucks and downing Dairy Queen on a daily basis (usually you don’t need your “western fix” until a great deal of time has gone by and the veneer of Bangkok begins to rub off). I was also surprised by her insistence that she live in a “foreigner” area. This is Thailand after all, filled with….Thais. Sure, there are a couple foreigner areas, pockets really, and very expensive (the people who live there are often paid Western salaries which enables them to live like emperors and emperoresses here. I didn’t really yearn to be around Westerners until like a year and a half had gone by and I started to fantasize about Mexican food, Barnes & Nobles, and speaking English how I normally would (and not slowed down or dumbed down). I think that’s when I started watching a lot of movies here (something I still enjoy a great deal).

Yet, she was very determined to do certain things like finding a dream apartment, locating a long and beautiful place to walk, and using her new job here to quickly dig herself out of debt. Quickly, I tried to tell her that all three things were a little far-fetched for Bangkok unless you work for the U.S. Embassy, Unocal, or a drug lord.

“There is NO ‘Target’ in Bangkok.”

This my own personal saying, and what it means is this: in Bangkok, there are usually only two tiers to things – really cheap and fairly shitty quality, and super expensive and fantastic quality. The “Target Department Store” genre (cheap to mid-priced items of fair to good quality) is not readily available. I’ve found this annoying myself, especially when it comes to clothes. I am not fat, but I am big (tall with a medium build). Considering most Thai women have narrow shoulders, tiny chests, and could fit their entire body in a shot glass, you can imagine how finding clothes to fit my Nordic frame isn’t so simple. I’ve only found two places to buy clothes easily “off the rack,” and at both of them I spend much more money on something like a t-shirt, than I EVER spent back in the U.S. That’s just the way it is.

Rory had a very difficult time finding her dream apartment (1-bedroom with all the foreigner stuff that are considered treasured amenities here, i.e. a large room, air-con, hot water, pool, work-out room, etc.). Also, she was disappointed by the location of our school (Northwest Bangkok, a bit of a distance from the “foreigner” or “farang” areas which are in the south and southwest part of Bangkok).

Also, she realized (this one surprised me) that she wasn’t going to get rich teaching in Thailand (no one ever does…this isn’t Japan or Korea five years ago!). Admittedly, I have more disposable income than I have EVER had in my life due to the incredibly cheap cost of food and relatively cheap cost of living overall. And, during my three years here, I have JUST managed to pay off all my evil credit cards back in the U.S., and this was with me wiring a very hefty chunk of my paycheck home each month.

Rory was taken around to five apartments in the immediate area (we have long since learned that a teacher living too far from school is a VERY unhappy teacher). Dealing with Bangkok’s early morning traffic can send anyone over the edge. Rory wasn’t too pleased, or couldn’t afford them, and looked further. It became a rabid quest with her, and consumed her day and night, leading to hours on the internet searching out websites, and calling brokers. Luck wasn’t with her, and as the days slowly crept buy, she became increasingly frantic. I didn’t know what to do since we always offer our new teachers the five local apartment complexes and that’s about it. I myself am a teacher, and not an apartment broker, and my limited Thai doesn’t enable me to find out where the good places to live are.

During all of this, I kept urging Rory to come to work. We had an interim course which is basically like a light-hearted summer school course until the next semester begins. This was her chance to teach a no-failure class and get her feet wet before the next semester began and it got real serious. After being denied several days in a row for various reasons (I was being pretty patient, wanting her to be able to do her own thing), finally the final day of interim courses arrived.

I informed her cheerfully that this was “the big day” as I woke her up that morning (she’d been staying with me). She asked what I was talking about, and though a little surprised and annoyed, tried to keep my chipper exterior and remind her that this was the last day to teach. She asked if she could “come later in the afternoon,” and I felt myself sink inside. I felt I had been patient long enough, and had felt quite alarmed at her lack of “get up and go.” She’d always been so take charge back at the previous job. I never had to tell her anything twice, and she worked by herself well. This time, she seemed to grudgingly drag herself from event to event. She informed me that she had a meeting at 10am with the broker again. I firmly asked her to change the appointment. This was the last day and there wasn’t time for her to show up late in the day (most classes are taught before noon). She reluctantly got up, showered, and then came out solemnly in a towel and sat on the couch. After a moment, she said,

“Um, I have something I need to tell you. You may be angry.”

Oh fuck. So many times in Thailand I have had “the talk” (in its various forms) with many people. It is never good, and it’s always dramatic. I waited tensely. I was informed that she really wasn’t going to see the broker, but in fact was scheduled for an interview an ANOTHER school that was paying about 10,000 baht more ($250 USD) a month.

I felt a wave of anger wash over me like rapid lava. I felt my hands begin to shake. I was shocked at how angry I was. I was simply shocked. I had given my FRIEND a job which had made me feel a little weird, but since she was such a good person and such a fantastic worker, I thought I could be fully justified. I had pulled strings to get her here. We had done tomes of paperwork justifying hiring her from the U.S. I was letting her stay in my home (until the arrival of my mother two weeks later). I had let her avoid work, (something I would have been firmer with another new employee), and I had ignored her distant, sullen nature in telling myself that it was jet lag, new country jitters, homesickness, etc. I kept thinking she’d snap out of it once she found this coveted apartment. I was a fool. Again.

She spluttered that she probably wouldn’t get the job anyway, that she “MIGHT not take it,” and that she “might not like the school.” Ha, fat chance. An American girl here is like a golden nugget. It’s probably the most sought-after teacher of all native English speakers. American accents are often preferred and women are a rarity (and deeply desired, especially in international kindergartens). It just happened to be an international kindergarten. Fuck.

Not to be overly dramatic myself, but I felt rather betrayed. I guess there’s so much background she couldn’t have known – how fantastically difficult it is to find good teachers in Thailand. How excited we were to have a happy, energetic woman on board (the school will be all male after my departure). How there was only a week and a half until the next semester began! Whoever we desperately found to replace her would be rushed into writing long plans for the entire semester in a short amount of time (unfair to him/her). And of course, this was my friend. Someone who had come all the way across the U.S. For me to give her a new life, for her to take a position teaching position she was well-suited for.

A few more days went by, and there was no apartment. She was leaving early in the morning to seek out long walks, and coming back with meat on sticks (she’s into the no-carbos diet which was intriguing and yet mystifying to me! There’s nothing like that here, especially with the required quota of rice each Thai must intake in a day). Finally, this morning while entering a local internet café to search for apartments again, she was suddenly bitten by a small, stupid, yippy dog (I hate these fucking things. Thais love them and will pay through the nose to own the snobbish little overly-breeded rats). This was the last straw. She was in tears. She was utterly miserable. First, she called home. Then, she asked to talk about it with me. She was so sad, which I felt terrible about, but didn’t really know how to deal with. At some point she began to lash out at me for my lack of assistance, caring, understanding, etc. (another stunning moment). I was immediately defensive, as I thought about how hard I had tried to do everything right. Giving lots of advice when needed (often feeling like I was annoying her with too much), and backing off when she was hinting how much she needed to be alone.

I tried to calm myself down after that and explain to her that I wasn’t trying to be critical or negative (wow, she’s REALLY sensitive about any criticism about her no-carbs diet), but was trying to keep her realistic. Her expectations really were only going to give her future grief (like living far from work or pining for the perfect pad). I think she …kind of… understood after that, and though she said she wasn’t “blaming” or “accusing” me, I had the distinct feeling she really was.

Within minutes she was on the back of my motorcycle on what would be a lengthy and exhausting dash across town to purchase her a plane ticket back to the U.S. (and later another lengthy wait at the hospital to get a just-in-case rabies shot). That’s right, a week after her arrival, she was packing it up and shipping it out. God. I have to admit, after all this, I was a little relieved. I have been here awhile and have seen people like this again and again and AGAIN. The best thing is to let them escape as soon as possible. If you try to keep them “to the end of the semester” (to please parents or make things cleaner), everyone ends up unhappy, including the children.

So, tomorrow as the sun is rising over the Chao Phya river, Rory will be soaring toward the Pacific, back the “comforts” of home (she has her own demons to face back there). As much as I hate how this all ended up, I know it’s really for the best. “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end was right. I hope you had the time of your life.”

A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle -- A-
This book follows the life of "Henry," a strong, street smart child who grows up in the slums of Dublin, and later becomes involved in the formation of the IRA and the revolution surrounding it. Though slow to get into, the book is a fantastic read and is more than the typical "God, nothing could be possibly more miserable than being poor and growing up in Ireland" book. It delves into so many areas, explores so many issues, and was so intertwined with real historical events (including the many appearances of Michael Collins), that I kept wondering if Henry Smart was a real historical figures (nope). Good historical fiction, as well as a good look at poltiics, family relationships, feminism, and the effectiveness of violent revolution.

Crash Into Me (Again)

I’ve been riding my motorcycle for a couple years now and have felt utterly comfortable and confident about it. One thing I particularly like about riding my motorcycle is how I am able to focus like an air traffic controller. Having an annoying case of ADD all my life, it’s nice to be able to focus so completely on something and feel alert and not sleepy as a result.

It was Saturday and time for French class. The French embassy is quite a distance from my house and I decided to ride the motorcycle the whole way to save some time. The great thing about riding a motorcycle here is that it can cut travel time in a half, and often even more so. I was about halfway there and making a right turn at a major intersection. There was a taxi on my left, who suddenly decided he had to be in my lane RIGHT NOW! Sometimes you see this in Bangkok – a car makes a sudden and violent turn into another lane – pushing their way through a small spot that opens up. I GUESS he did not see me. I don’t know. He sure felt me, for he hit me like a…well, I’d like to say a mack truck, but it was really “just” a taxi.

I felt the taxi slam into the side of my body and felt my body bounce a few times against the taxi. It’s amazing how you can recall minute details and at the same time, things all seem hazy. It’s also amazing on how a pasty, soft human being like myself can have all “natural” instincts for survival kick in less than a single second. Soon, I was on the asphalt, my bike revolving on top of me, and I quickly extracted myself from it. And yet, at the same time, I quickly looked up, just in time to watch that fucking asshole of a taxi sail off into the sunset, without a care in the world. At that moment, I think my heart sank to my now-scuffed shoes. It’s one thing to be hit, it’s another thing to watch the thug race away in a cloud of disgrace. I laid there for a moment in disbelief, and then looked around to see if anyone was coming to help me.

No. No one.

I slowly limped and led the now, slightly-bent bike to the side of the road. Traffic, relieved to see me clearing the road finally, resumed. I sat there on the defunct motorcycle for a moment taking it all in. I had just experienced a hit and run. No one stopped (unless I was blocking the road). No one helped me. And the taxi drive was probably halfway to China by now. I looked at what appeared to be my only immediate injury – a bloody and banged up elbow. As time wore on, I would be happy and unhappy to find my only other injuries were minor – cuts and scrapes on my arms and legs. Good thing I was wearing my giant helmet.

I have to tell you, being the ‘victim’ of a hit-and-run is rather heartbreaking. That may be a dramatic term, but it was how I felt. The first time I was hit, it was very different, with several people offering to help and being kind. Now, I felt as if I was simply a temporary and annoying road block for the Bangkokians.

Luckily, a police hut (small little huts that sit at major intersections to do traffic duty and such). I slowly made my way over to him on the other side of the road. He was polite, but completely unsympathetic. He informed me that I was “unhurt” (Ha!) and that the taxi driver was long gone, so there wasn’t anything he could do. Obviously, he was going to do nothing.

I called my Thai friend (roommate) and told her what happened. I have noticed that no matter how calm you may feel, once you begin telling someone you care about it, all your emotions flood out. Yup, that’s right, I was crying like Jimmy Swaggert (he would’ve loved Bangkok!). Now, Thais are polite and kind, but they’re not always known for their compassion (like when I was told on September 11th to “shake it off”). My roomie was laughing at my crying, though she did let me know she would be on her way immediately. I spent the next hour sitting in the tiny, though thankfully air-conditioned, cubicle with the cop. At least my roomie would come and play translator (my Thai only gets me so far), and sort of take care of me. I didn’t want to do jackshit but maybe have a bit to eat and sleep.

My roommate arrived – with a friend! Although I knew and liked the friend, I have to tell you, the last thing I wanted at that moment was to socialize. (I’m not great at it even in the best of health). I spent the next couple of hours treating them to some “strange” (to them) food at Outback Steakhouse.

Oh well.

Someone finally tries to bribe ME!

Okay, well, sort of. During my few years in Thailand, I believe I have handed out a total of three bribes (two in Thailand, one in Burma). That's about one a year. Not too bad, I guess. Still I usually carry a 100 baht bill (about $2.50) in my pocket when on my motorcycle just in case. You never know.

So, I'm eating at one of my favorite "farang" or foreign food restaurants. I've gone a few too many times, especially since the manager greets me with a warm greeting of recognition and informs the waiter to put me in my usual table. After a typically satisfying meal, the waitress, who has been especially attentive, brings me the check. She happily announces that she has deducted 10%. Thinking this was just part of the frequent-eater-appreciation comments I'd been getting that day, I smiled and told her how nice that was, thank you, etc. etc. Then she promptly plunks down a piece of paper and a pen next to me.

It takes me a moment to realize just what exactly this is -- a ballot. Ahhhh okay. *mild amusmant, though no surprise*

It's for one of these "Best Restaurant of " that you have in nearly any city over 10,000 people in the world. The waitress kindly pointed out exactly where I could fill in the name of her restaurant and informed me how she'd happily collect my ballot as soon as I'm finished.

*snicker*

Is my integrity worth 10% off of some chicken fingers and french fries (and a damn fine fruit smoothie!)? Not exactly, but it did give me the opportunity to vote for a lot of my other favorite restaurants (like the fantastic "Bourbon Street Grill" for Cajun food). And yes, this bribing "American" restaurant was one of my favorites as well. Why else would they greet me like Norm in Cheers?


Quickie Book Review: The Four Feathers by A.E.W. Mason

I really enjoyed this book, written surprisingly back in 1905. Despite a) it's slow beginning and b) it's potential at first to be some boring, 'how glorious men, war, and camaraderie are' book! It does have that whole "honor Honor HONOR!" theme suffocating you throughout, and the romantic aspects in it are a bit idealistic, but in the end, it is still a beautiful book about personal redempetion, zen-like patience in achieving a noble goal, and maybe the most realistic part -- overcoming the anvil-like issues our parents can thrust upon us. I recommend it! I've already acquired a copy of the film, which in the trailer seems fantastically different from the book (sigh), but still am anxious to see it (and still waiting for Pride and Prejudice to arrive too!).

Pride and Prejudice (and Snobbery) by Austen - A

Pride and Prejudice (and Snobbery) by Austen - A

You know, if I were to be honest with myself (and the rest of the world) I would admit that I have at times had "issues" with the English. I think the main reason has to do with snobbery. I hate it. I am a snob about snobs, I guess. Maybe it's because snobbery is so connected to class. Maybe it's because snobbery has to do with being cruel to usually innocent people (another thing I have trouble accepting). Maybe because snobs just fucking suck. Anyway, I've never been a big fan of English lit, especially since anything written before 1930 seems to talk about the rich rich English with their pretty dresses and horse carriages and fine ways. *puke* I finally read Austen's Persuasion several months back, and though I didn't think it was a work of staggering genius, did find it entertaining.

Of course, Austen pokes fun at snobs. I had a debate with an English friend whether she is playfully poking fun or more subtly calling the upper class a bunch of self-obsessed assholes (I leant toward the latter argument). So, anyway, I just recently picked up and finished Pride and Prejudice and found that I really loved it.

Maybe that will make some people groan, but it's true. Maybe it has something to do with the idiotic romantic in me I keep imagining long dead, or maybe it's the old cliche that all women envision themselves as Elizabeth (though don't we all envision ourselves as the main characters in MOST books!?). And sure, you could see the eventual outcome of the book by about page six, but still, it was a winnner with me. Maybe because it's a fun blend of intense romance, like all her books, while REALLY taking a look at snobbery, cruelty, contradictions, selfishness, and an array of other ridiculous things in society at that time.

One thing I find very interesting, is that in Sense and Sensibility (of which I've only seen the movie, not read the book), the wild, outspoken, free-spirited girl is, though punished cruelly for her actions, portrayed in the end as being a very positive thing. That it is the free spirit that is the true soul, who is free of all these idiotic pretentions and self and society-inflicted misery. And yet, in Pride and Prejudice, it is the sister with these same free-spirited characteristics who is potrayed as close to evil as one can get. She's improper, she's outspoken, she's without shame, she's hurt her family's reputation, she's a fucking idiot! She should just marry the asshole everyone hates and go on with what everyone is assured of as a miserable married life in order to salvage a shred of her family's dignity.

I'm not interested in becoming a total Austenphile now and delving into what I am sure are tomes on the subject of her and her books. Instead, I've ordered the BBC Pride and Prejudice DVD to be RUSHED to me through the mail! How else to top off a great book than watching the stiff and strangely attractive Colin Firth mumble on the screen! *flutter*

DISROBED

I was having one of those days where you have time off, and really want to use it well, but your original plans fall through so you’re left scrambling to make something significant of what’s left of the day. I finally decided to ride on over to the “Temple of the Golden Mount.” This mouthful of a temple has always been a favorite of mine. You climb it slowly through a series of steps that are only comfortable for geishas or tightly-constricted monks. It’s like riding a stairmaster to top of a mountain. Along the way, as you encircle it, are various ancient trees, statues, and other Buddhist images and artifacts. This is about the fifth time I have come here, but it certainly was the most interesting.

I got there right about 5:30pm, and I knew it might be closing just about now. So, as I was hurrying up the tiny stairs, I came upon a figure on the side. There were some cement benches and some trees. I saw a Thai man who was dressed only in what could be described as a giant loincloth/diaper (kind of what you’d see strapped to a sumo wrestler). He was making these movements back and forth..back and forth..and I was slow to understand what was going on. “What is he doing….is he exercising….that…doesn’t….look quite right. Wait a minute, is that a PENIS I see? Holy shit!” It seems the young man was doing his very best to get it on with a cement bench. During this whole time I didn’t break my stride up the stairs, but was completely stunned. I’ve never seen anything like this in Thailand before. I kept walking as if all was normal.

Yet, it was not over, those thankfully less dramatic. Only about 15 feet from Mr. Eager Beaver was another man, passed out on the path to my left, in a classic too-much-Thai-whisky pose. You’d expect an empty bottle in his hand, with the last few drops slowly seeping out to the ground. But no! In this man’s outstretched hand was a slightly-mangled box of….Chiclets! I kid you not! It was a box of gum! If you saw everything save his hand, you would swear the guy was passed out from booze. Maybe he tried to freshen his breath at the last minute before going unconscious.

And what is strange about all of this is that it is a temple, a very important one that tourists flock to, heaving themselves slowly up the baby steps, and stopping along the way to catch their breath or ring a giant bell of which they have no comprehension of its significance. I’ve never seen such things at a temple before, which would be comparable to a man rubbing up to a statue of Mary in a catholic church.

Finally, I reached the top, after being warned by each descending tourist that the roof was closed. This was disappointing since the roof is, of course, the whole point of climbing this stairway to heaven. On the roof, next to the giant golden stupa, you have a 360 degree view of Bangkok which gives the city a kind of beauty and dignity impossible to see in daylight.

At the top, the doors were closed, but a few people were hanging out on the steps, taking in the view and enjoying the strong and cool winds that blow at that height. Standing there was the obligatory monk, looking a little nervous and eager at the same time. There were also the people taking care of the temple (those who locked the doors and sold tourists water, soda, and cheap Buddha images), who were looking impatient with the hangers-on.

It wasn’t long before the monk had struck up a conversation with me, as well as a good-looking young Thai man who worked there. I was surprised to be attracted to the Thai man since it’s a pretty rare thing for me. It’s difficult to feel attraction to someone who clocks you in the femininity department. This guy had enough masculinity (hair on his legs, hooray!) to not make me feel like a Nordic giant, and he spoke English well, another rarity. I felt myself torn between the over-eager monk who was obviously trying to establish a friendship in order to “practice his English” as he said, and the cute guy who had an interesting story. The cute guy had just recently “disrobed” from the monkhood which was hinted at in his hair which was in the Caesar stage of the growing-out process. The 27 year old said he had been a monk for the past 13 years! When I asked what would make someone “disrobe” (I know, the word is just too much, isn’t it?) after all that time, he said, “Well, I think a monk’s life is too smooth…and I want my life to be kind of….rough.”

Oh REAL-ly! OOooooooh! I found him even more attractive until he said this…..

“And I had to disrobe now, because I want to be a flight attendant and there’s an age limit for joining.”

“Umm, okay. That’s fair.”

Time went on with Eager Monk Man and Cute Disrobed Man. Finally, CDM said he had to go, and waved goodbye. I was left there with EMM politely listening to him going on about a Buddhist temple in NYC, while the vision of my body sprinting down the stairs after CDM was repeating itself in my head. After a couple of minutes, I kind of hinted to the EMM that I should probably get going. As we were making our way down the steps, the EMM suggested I could come to see his room in the monk compound (of which the temple was a part of).

WHAT?!?!?!

A monk is inviting me back to his room? Is that…uh…right? Awkwardly, I declined, saying I better be going. Before I reached the bottom, CDM was there with two old women who were probably his relatives. Meanwhile, the EMM had scrawled out his name, address, phone number, and email on a slip of paper and offered it up to me (a woman cannot touch a male monk), of which I took and stuffed in my pocket. Then EMM slunk off, probably embarrassed that I hadn’t accepted his invitation. Though I admit that I’m curious as to what a monk’s room looks like, it didn’t feel quite “ria proy” as a Thai would say, or “proper.”

The CDM seemed to be lurking a little, which was what I was hoping. As they saw me approach my motorcycle, the typical gasps and exclamations were made followed by the usual compliments that *I*, a WHITE GIRL, could possibly ride a motorcycle by myself. Words of “good good” were murmured for a bit. The guy asked if I was going out for fun and I said I was headed to a place not far away where I would be getting dinner. One of the old women said he was going near there too. I asked him if he wanted me to give him a ride…..

This was the big moment….

“Um, I have to go eat dinner with my aunts here. I’m not leaving for a half hour.”

Well, that’s it. I’m not going to wait a half hour, especially since I’m on my way to dinner myself and it’s getting late. CDM blew it! I got on my bike, and drove off. Alas!

I guess I could always go back to the temple…but then I'd have to deal with EMM who hinted again and again that I could always find him there at the temple. Ugh.

Well, maybe not.

Ceremony

I always finds ceremony interesting. I often think of what my old professor and friend told me about how grad students are like serial killers. They travel the foreign countryside, extracting tales from aging natives, scratching notes in notebooks. And then, as the aging native reveals his/her story, usually long held close to the heart, the storyteller dies, from the relief of release. I was aghast when I first heard this, and another professor asked if I had any respect for ritual. Hmm, I don't know. Probably not.

Of course, ceremony or ritual in a foreign country is a lot more interesting than in your own country, where you may not even recognize it as such. What I find fascinating (and also at the same time, sometimes boring), about Thailand is the need for ceremony at every level, for every reason, at any time. I have a quick example.

So, I’m at work on a Thursday, busy as usual. I’m at the tail-end of a staff meeting that I am running, including at that moment, a staff development seminar, where I am introducing a new writing activity for the classroom. A Thai teacher bursts into the room and after giving rapid apologies, demands that me and my assistant must immediately proceed to a ceremony about to start. What ceremony? Why? Where?

These questions are never easily answered in Thailand, unfortunately. Finally, I got a “where” out of the teacher and after throwing on a fresh coat of lipstick (looks are everything here), we proceeded to the named location. As we bypassed running and happily screaming children, we were directed into a small assembly room. We were immediately shocked to see lavish decorations all around, the Thai version of elevator music playing, and a small group of obvious VIP’s sitting or milling around. Through another set of doors a little dessert and coffee bar had been set-up. On the stage was a long table draped in pink satin with large arrangements of flowers placed here and there. What was this all for? The signing of a contract. The umbrella school I work at is about to (re)start construction on a massive building which will eventually house our own little school (as well as many other things). This large affair was for the simple 30 seconds of signing (and additional 4 minutes of photographs afterwards) that this would encompass. I was relieved actually. Often ceremonies like these can drone on for hours, where I find myself performing all sorts of Jedi mind tricks on myself to try and stifle the ear-splitting screaming going on inside my head, begging to be released from this motionless sitting position, where I have been listening to the same speech in Thai for over 45 minutes. I always want to sprint from the room, screaming bloody murder. My usual escape, if possible, is to feign having to use the restroom, then having a leisurely stroll around the hallway for as long as I can without arousing anger or suspicion. Then, back to my statue-like sitting and waterfall of thoughts. It seems the art of ritual here is the art of sitting still.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling A+

Yes, I admit it. I am a Harry Potter fanatic. I’ve done the first book with my English class. I’ve read every book. I’ve bought various paraphernalia from the film (including the jammy pants I’m wearing now). And I’m constantly LOOKING for new things to buy. So, after receiving my pre-paid copy of Harry Potter book five, I took it home and put it on the shelf. I knew, as soon as I started reading it, I’d be obsessed. I think I made it about four days before I gave up and cracked the massive book open. Once that began, there was to be no stopping. I took it to work, to the gym where I awkwardly read it while pumping away at the exercise bike, at the bank, balancing it on one arm with my passport and banking documents in the other. In one week, the 776 page book was finished. I never read that fast in grad school, or at least, never enjoyed reading that fast. I think I started crying on about page 700 and didn’t stop til the end. It’s a kid’s book! Though I wonder how many kids have the attention span for such a mammoth-sized “children’s book.” I guess we’ll see. All I know is that for me and my adult friends, the Harry Potter books are absolutely obsessive page-turners. One friend finished book three and then begged me to rush home and get him book four. He didn’t want to go a day without it.

My only beef with the whole book has to do with the last 50 pages or so. Don’t worry, I don’t believe in spoiling a book/movie. Rowling does a good job in conveying the frustration and sometimes rage that Harry Potter, now a 15-year old boy, is experiencing in his tumultuous life. But at the end, a book which has been building to such a hyper pitch level that I could barely stand it, sort of ends in a gentle fashion, where you kind of go, “Um, okay. Well, that’s it then? Okay…” Plus, after all this crap that he endures, he’s still a pretty pissed off boy at the end of the book. Ahh adolescence!

I must say, the most intriguing character in this series is Professor Severus Snape. An interesting aspect to him was revealed in this book, and I hope he will be further expanded and explored in the future ones. He’s probably the most rounded character of the bunch and I’m really pleased that Alan Rickman has been cast as him. He’s doing a fabulous job. The only character of whom I really feel deprived was Remus Lupin, probably because he seems like the kind of guy I’d have a huge crush on in real life. Man, now I’m going to have to wait YEARS for the next movie and book. *sigh* Back to my beloved Roald Dahl books.

My Lack of Moral Fiber

So yesterday I paid my second ever bribe here in Bangkok. Considering I've been here for nearly three years, and I daily ride a motorcycle all over the damn place (illegally), I consider that a bit of a triumph. That's kind of what happens to you here, you morals change. For many, they change dramatically. It's most interesting to me in Americans who are not aware of the intense sense of integrity that has been woven into their system through the years. "A bribe? What the fuck? What kind of backwards, corrupt place is this? Can't anyone DO something about this?"

The funny thing about morality is that it's really a facade, in my honest opinion. Whether you're a murderer or a priest, your morals are a very fragile thing. They can change much more easily than you'd ever think, and not because of some earth-shattering reason (someone's holding a gun to your head), but often, for something simple. My prime example: convenience.

That's the true reason most people pay bribes here. Simple convenience. You're stopped by a cop for some reason (and to be fair to the Thai police, the three times I've been stopped, I was breaking the law, though two of those times I didn't know it), and he tells you how he's going to write you out a ticket for like 400-1000 baht. Then you have to take the ticket to the police station (far away, and if you know anything about Bangkok, you know that it's a total hassle to do even the easiest things), where you will pay it there. You're sitting there in traffic, you're on your way to meet someone, go to work, etc. You flash 100 baht the policeman's way. At first he acts offended. After a few minutes of his striking several poses in your direction and looking over his shoulder to make sure other motorists are not gaping at him, he grabs the cash and waves you off. "Phew!" you whisper to yourself or to your passengers. "Glad that's over! Let's get out of here." The bribe is passed, you're on your way, and no thoughts of going to hell, bad karma, or the blackening of your soul crosses your mind.

Yeah, that's pretty much what happened to me. I was riding my motorcycle, with a friend on back, across the new Rama VIII bridge. Just on the other side is the infamous Khao San Road (a la Nasty Backpackersville) where several of us were meeting for an Indian meal. I was riding up up up the bridge, and after clearing the hump and coasting down, I saw him. The lone policeman next to his motorcycle, and directly in my path (the side margin of the road). I started going, "oh shit, oh shit, oh shit." Usually I just avoid eye contact, but I'd have to run over him to get past him, so that plan wasn't going to work.

Yeah, he stopped me. He then told me that motorcycles weren't allowed on the bridge at all! Okay, that was a bit of a shocker. Not allowed on the bridge? Not that there aren't other bridges, but it's not like they're set real close together, and this was a brand new one. He told me it would cost 1000 baht. A hefty sum here! (about $23 USD and about 1/3 the monthly salary of about 60% of Thais). And damn it, we were already late (I had the guest of honor on the back of my bike), and people were already calling us on the phone and complaining).

With such a giant quote of the "ticket" I was to get, I knew the policeman wanted a bribe. That sum was way too inflated to be real. I fumbled into my pocket, all the while apologizing and trying to be charming enough to get myself off, until I pulled out about 140 baht and told him that's all I had. He kind of sneered and looked around nervously, but I knew it would do. Holding out it plainly on a busy bridge wasn't too inconspicuous, so I rolled it up and held it low. He looked around, struck his various poses, and then did a move that would have impressed David Copperfield. With a wave of his hand and flash of light, my money disappeared and the friendly policemen said he'd even escort us off the bridge for our trouble. Wow!

So, there it is. My second bribe ever (the first was for driving my motorcycle down a "bus only" lane). Do I feel bad? Truthfully, yeah, a little bit. I am perpetuating a corrupt system. Why? So, I can get to dinner a few minutes earlier and make the bad policeman disappear! *poof* But really, it surprises you when it's over. You kind of go, "that was it? My eternal damnation was that easy and that...dramaless?" Yeah, pretty much. There goes my "Get out of hell free" card.
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QUICKIE BOOK REVIEWS

Sweet Thames by Matthew Kneale - A
This is my new most favorite author in the world. By accident, I noticed my swelling bookshelves housed TWO books by him (chosen seperately at different times and bookstores). I went on to buy a third book by him. All are completely different and completely wonderful. Though none can top the greatness of his English Passengers, Sweet Thames is still a kick ass book of mid-19th century when the sewer problem of London was reaching epic nasty proportions and the infamous Cholera outbreak was on the verge of erupting. In the center of all this is an ambitous engineer and his own personal dramas. Historical fiction is always my favorite and this guy is fantastic. Academic and accurate without being too serious and dry. Entertaining and funny without being ridiculous. And with the ability to make yourself feel connected to the most unfortunate character in the book. Or is that just me?

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf - D
THANK GOD I finished this damn book!!! Oh Virginia, I tried SO hard to like this book. I felt some sort of obligation since you stuck all those rocks in your pocket and marched with such determination into the sea, yourself. But god, this book SUCKS! I hate stream of consciousness! I hated how this book dragged on and on and on like some sort of slow moving nightmare. I hated this book even more than The Map that Changed the World, and that's pretty bad.

The Lady Tree by Christie Dickason - A
Absolutely loved this book (more historical fiction) about young Englishman with a dark past who is forced into hastily earning a sizeable fortune in the crazy world of investment in 17th century Netherlands. I love any historical fiction that shows me a time/place I don't feel too familiar with (and that's not hard), and this book fit in nicely. It was fun to read and very gripping in parts, making my heart feel clenched. Absolutely recommended (though the whole Lady Tree part seemed totally irrelevent, though I know there is a sequel that should deal more with the actual "lady tree").

The Lost Continent by Bill Bryson - B
A very fun and often totally hysterical book to read about a now Englishman's (American-born and raised) road trip throughout the U.S. Fun to read, though it does drag on a bit and start to feel repetitive.

Phuket Paradise? Part II: Love Lost (Is that a shark?)

So, it’s been awhile, but I’m going to continue my stories on my sort-of recent trip to Phuket, the island paradise (and requisite beach stop of any tourist) in Thailand.

The second day in Phuket was my time to go and do one of these planned adventure trips. Basically, you go up to one of a bajillion tourist operators, who all have the same brochures (go swordfishing! Go white water rafting! Go to the Phuket Fantase show! etc. etc.). I purchased two, and the one I went on first was a trip to Phi Phi island (pronounced “pee-pee,” … yeah, I know) where I was to see many gorgeous mini islands and go snorkeling. They picked me up early the next morning, and in the van was another man who said hello to me. I noticed right away he seemed to have a Scandinavian or German accent, but would have to wait awhile before I found out for sure. The next stop let on a whole slew of crazy young Japanese men, probably around 18-22 years each. Though it was like 8 in the morning, I think they may have been drunk, or probably still hanging on their inebriation from the night before. They certainly found me interesting and tried to make awkward, loud, and “let me impress my buddies” conversation with me. It was partly funny and partly really fucking annoying considering how early it was.

Soon we were at the dock and were loaded onto a very large ship with dozens of other tourists. A long boat ride ensued, which was fantastic. Gorgeous blue water, and these strange “islands,” some like a real small island size, and others almost like giant pieces of rock jutting defiantly out of the ocean, covered in green vegetation. They were all different shapes and were just sitting there in the middle of the ocean, not in view of any mainland or large islands. Just there. We passed dozens of them and I never grew tired of the beautiful view. I had another good view too. The young man in the van had turned out to be a Norwegian (hooray! I love Scandinavian men), and was not only good-looking, but interesting, considerate, and funny. In fact, in a weird twist of fate, he kind of looked like the Nordic version of the ex-love-of-my-life, a New York Jewish guy (I know, but I swear, the connection was there!). They had similar faces, bodies, and smiles. Anyway, this guy was different enough for it not to be weird or make me think I was doing some strange subconscious replacement.

I couldn’t believe my luck. As I have mentioned more than once, living in Bangkok is a total disaster for a single, white female. One other remarked that “we white women” feel “invisible” since no white man wants to date us and the Thai men see us more like a trophy. I don’t know how much I agree with that, but I have never found living here even remotely easy in the romance department. Since Western men are basically sucked off the arriving planes and scuttled away by eager Thai women and Thai men, I’ve found, tend to be embarrassingly immature and difficult to communicate with, dating here is….complicated. I’ve had to placate myself with the occasional Western man (mistake), the occasional Thai man (disappointing), and the occasional ex-lover flying into town (fantastic, but fleeting).

Anyway, so here I am on this beautiful ocean, the air is very hot but the wind is strong and this guy is great! He keeps offering to buy me drinks (no, not get me drunk, Pepsis and water too), and has even mentioned that I’m lovely. *cheer* We are occasionally interrupted though by this gaggle of older Japanese women. About every 20 minutes, one confidently strides up to me and motions that she wants to take a photo with me. So there I am having my picture taken, flanked by these Japanese women in their sun hats and big sunglasses. They never ask the Norwegian guy, in fact, they purposefully push him aside. Do they think I’m a celebrity? I have lived in Thailand awhile and had a lot of interest in me for various reasons, but I have never had strangers walk up to me and demand a photo. It was all very strange and very amusing.

Anyway, the young man and I are talking for a couple hours and are sharing our lives. After mentioning this gay friend of mine, I must have given him the cue he needed, because he reveals that he too is gay, and has been in a relationship for like four years with some gorgeous Swedish man.

*SOB*

“Oh, the humanity!” [sic]

I felt like a big, shiny balloon slowly deflating. Of course, I couldn’t change my positive feelings toward him just because I wouldn’t be able to sleep with him now. I tried to be mature about the whole thing, and I was, but still. What a shitty deal. No wonder I have so many gay friends. I think I attract them with some secretion I must put out. I’m obviously not putting anything out to any heterosexuals here, ‘cause I’d sure put out if I could! I’m no slut, but I’m no nun either. Though if I don’t get out of here soon, I might as well be.

Nevertheless, the trip must go on, and since he and I were on different tours, we separated once we got to Phi Phi island. I was truly sad to see him go. And I went on to a lunch, some time on the island, and finally to another smaller boat to go out snorkeling. It was the first time in my life that I have successfully snorkeled (I have some difficulty snorkeling/scuba diving because of the breathing), and thank GOD it worked this time! It was absolutely amazing. There I was, floating at the top of the water, looking down at sea floor just 10-25 feet below. It was like pressing your face up to a page in a Jacques Cousteau book. It seemed so unreal to see things you’d see on a documentary or in a glossy coffee table book just suddenly there in front of you. Sea urchins, coral, various brightly colored fish, and even some sort of snake at one time….which led to an slightly embarrassing moment.

After seeing the snake, and not knowing if that was a GOOD thing, I quickly turned around and quickly pumped my finned-feet back to the boat. As I got closer, I shouted up to the guy, “There was a snake, a snake. Is that dangerous?” I said it all in Thai, but “snake” was said in English (they know it by the English name as well). A Russian man swimming nearby heard me, but somehow heard, “shark” instead of “snake” and began to totally panic. Without fins, he frantically swam back to the ship, terrified. He finally was set straight and relaxed a bit. The Thais, in their typical way, told me, “Oh yeah, they’re dangerous. Just try to stay away from them.”

Oh, okay.

It was fantastic anyway, and after a long day, I returned home. Horribly sunburnt, but happy. More on the sunburn later. *shudder*

Salsa, Frida, and Book Reviews

So, I had this kind of embarrassing experience. I've joined this gym to get my fat ass motivated and moving (the astounding price I paid for the first three months is enough to get me to go anyway). They have a wide assortment of aerobics classes every day from dawn to well past dusk. I noticed a "Latin" one listed and was pretty excited, since I love Latin music and dancing. It took me a couple weeks to work up the nerve to join though. Not only was it listed as an intermediate level, but it was late at night. So, one night I worked out hard in my t-shirt, umbro shorts, and cross-trainers. I did all the required running and sweating, as well as some weight training. Sweaty and ready for an aerobics workout, I walked up to the room. Outside I saw a small Thai woman dressed very stylishly in a swirly mini skirt, sexy orange shirt with a little orange scarf tied around her throat, and some flashy high heels. Truly in my mind though I was rolling my eyes, "Why do people come to the gym dressed like this???" I walked into the workout room and saw that everyone was wearing skirts and high heels. ???

Turns out that it was a Latin DANCE class (Salsa, to be exact). I was both thrilled and appalled. Also turns out the cute little orange woman was the instructor! (okay, the clothes are therefore approved). There I was in my mammoth shoes (I'm already large by Thai standards), with an impressive sweat ring circling my neck and down my back. Everyone else was fresh as a daisy and seemed to know what the hell they were doing. No one was really volunteering to dance with me. Nonetheless, I gave it a try, and besides standing around alone most of the time and feeling like an idiot (there are never enough men to go around at these things and I can't ask some guy to pay a load to join the gym for this), I had a pretty good time. In fact, I went again, wearing my heels and smelling April spring fresh. This time they said I was a good dancer, which was a total lie, but I am much better! Hooray! Here's to tackling your fears, even if you think you look like an ass. Now I can salsa! Kind of!
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Just saw the movie, Frida here. I admit knowing nothing about this woman before the film (besides the few things you heard about her body, her husband, and her sexuality, sadly, less about her art), but after this movie, I sure would like to learn more. Wonderful film; best I've seen in awhile. It's rare that I'll hate a film, but it's rare I'll love one too. Also, the soundtrack is fucking fantastic, so run out and buy it. Chavela Vargas' (herself a past lover of Frida),"Paloma Negra" (an old recording) is fantastic, as well as her live performance in the film itself, La Llorona many years later.

Quickie Book Reviews

The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - A
Sure....it's outdated, and features wisps of racism (Africans called "savages"), sexism (all the women are beautiful, helpless, and long-suffering, or ugly and evil), and some interesting drug use (Holmes' interest in cocaine, for example), but you cannot beat these stories. My ear-flap hunting cat's off to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's arrogant, asexual hero and his helpful, also long-suffering sidekick, Dr. Watson. Bonus: This book contained actual reprints of the stories as they appeared in The Strand magazine nearly a hundred years ago, complete with the original delightful illustrations. It'll take you about a century to read this (it makes "bible print" look magnified), but it's well worth it.

Immortality by Milan Kundera B+
Okay, he's one of my favorite authors, though kind of confusing or annoying. And though he claims he doesn't write philosophy, he's not fooling me. This novel deals (mainly) with the analysis of what it is like to return to your home country after many years away as a "refugee." And in his usual style, he takes out long passages to focus and deeply analyze single words and how that one word is interpreted by different kinds of individuals. I really liked it; he always makes me think and he must have about 12 good quotable quotes in each novel, this one no exception. I will be giving it to a friend as a gift, but if you're not as epileptic reader as I, I recommend you read the fantastic, The Unbearable Lightness of Being instead.

Quickie Book Reviews

The Sex Killers: Thirty Fully Documented Cases of Men and Women Whose Aberrant Sexuality Drove Them to Kill (Lucas) C-
I'd be lying if I said true murder cases don't interest me. I used to watch the tv show Unsolved Mysteries religiously and did read In Cold Blood and Dead Men Do Tell Tales (fascinating books, though a bit tedious). Though it presents a wide variety of macabre and interesting cases throughout the 20th century, I found myself perplexed and confused by the writing of The Sex Killers. It seemed archaic, prejudiced, and unprofessional, particularly toward homosexuals. I looked for a copyright page and found none. (??). After a quick search on Amazon, I found it as an out-of-print book, with suspiciously little information, including no copyright. Titilating cases, but terrible writing.

The Lovely Bones (Sebold) A-
Well, Kundera complained that there was no re-invention of the novel going on, but Sebold here sure made an attempt. I don't think she did anything revolutionary, but she did come up with an intriguing plot -- a young girl is murdered and transported to heaven where she narrates her tale. That's where the book could have taken off into Kundera's hopes and dreams, but Sebold had a different idea. Instead, she focused on what the death of a child does to a family -- each individual and all the interconnecting relationships within and without the family unit. And not just for a few months, but for several years. How does death rip apart two people, how does it make someone flee and someone else fight? As all this is going on, the suspense of catching the killer is always looming large in the background, sometimes rather distractingly, as you fly through the book. Well-written and enjoyable.

A Walk to Remember (Sparks) B-
Okay, I know this guy has had two books made into movies, but umm, I don't get it. I read this book in just a few hours. It was sweet and occasionally humorous, (a story about a painfully religious girl and self-absorbed rich boy falling in love), but overall, it felt like one step up from a Sweet Valley High or Harlequin Romance to me. Not to mention a fairly predictable and sickly-sweet ending. I gave it a B- for its ease and speed (I do believe how enjoyable a book is should not take away from its legitimacy), but I can't really recommend it as a great read.

I had CNN news on just now, which should be renamed to AWAT - "ALL WAR ALL THE TIME (WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE?). It reminds me of how we used to call the History Channel, "All Nazis All the Time." It was more funny then. Now, it's kind of weird. I guess Americans do love their wars.

What really freaked me out and caused me to write at a moment when I was going to run off to take a shower instead, was CNN showed Bush, giving one of his usual stuttering, spluttering speeches on America. And basically, I listened as he hinted that after we take care of this Iraq thing, that Syria is next! This because he knows that Syria has "chemical weapons" in their country and just "might" be making conditions to accept Saddam's cronies "if" they should cross the border.

*SCREEEEAAAAAAMM*

Syria is next? What the hell is going on? Is the entire world just a Risk(tm) game board to Bush? A woman on TV hinted that since it looks like the US won't be finding any "weapons of mass destruction" and they can just claim that they've all be scuttled off to Syria all along.

*gulp*

I have to admit that Bush scares me very much. I don't think he's maniacal, but I do find most of what he does shocking, unbelievable, and frightening. Clinton was President for eight years and never found the pressing need to go after Iraq RIGHT NOW! Like I've mentioned before, I've spent years listening to Europeans say how stupid and arrogant Americans are. I've always been so annoyed by that and defended Clinton as best I could. But now, now I feel I'm without a defense. I do love my country, but I cannot defend the actions of my government. That feels awful. .

Quickie Book Review: The Art of the Novel by Milan Kundera -- B+

The always fascinating and always verbose Milan Kundera, one of my very favorite authors of all time, but also one who can be awfully confusing. I don't know if the man is a total, cool, out of this world genius, or an incredibly arrogant man just trying to be. I guess my not being able to figure out either one doesn't make me much of an Einstein either. This book discusses, in the form of essays, interviews, and speeches, the "death of the novel" meaning, the death of any kind of real innovation in the way it is written. Examples such as Cervantes, Fielding, Kafka, and Flaubert are all offered, as well as some lesser-known ones, like Broch, as past examples of breakthroughs in the evolution of the novel. Kundera fears that the evolution has come to a grinding halt, perhaps forevermore. There was one personal piece of humor in this for me. It has been a rare event that I have never finished a book, even if it was boring, predictable, or rambling. I can name three books I failed to finish: Don Quixote by Cervantes, Tom Jones by Fielding, and The Metamorphosis and Other Stories by Kafka, though I ardently claim that I am "still reading" Kafka. I did read the title story. It freaked me out. Anyway, this is recommended for people into Kundera, into philosophy, into the art of writing, or all of the above. I liked it.

War, What is it Good For?

I hate this war, I hate this war, I hate this war. Was this REALLY necessary? REALLY? Would Dubya place his God-fearing left hand on a stack of Bible's, raise his right hand and claim that our Lord could strike him down where he stood if he is lying (a favorite expression of my grandparents)??? Could he do it with a straight face? I have watched televised tomes of this war, despite the fact that it's only been a week. It's like watching Monday Night Football in the U.S. All the flash, graphics, and enthusiasm, yes, ENTHUSIASM for this. Though some of the enthusiasm seems to have waned since a higher majority of troops seem to be dying in "friendly fire" (hahahah what a ridiculous term!), then by Iraqi soldiers. And Dubya and that scary Rumsfeld seem indignant that the entire country didn't fall like a house of cards and the Iraqis didn't fall to their knees in adulation. Put it this way... I am no great fan of George W. Bush. I didn't vote for him, and I think he's been a fantastically flawed President (to put it diplomatically). If he was gone tomorrow, I might just throw a party here, complete with cake and confetti. And yet, I wouldn't want a massive, highly-technological force of Mongolian soldiers marching into Washington D.C., intent on murdering him and "freeing" me.

WHY WHY WHY didn't we just assassinate Hussein?? Was this SO damn impossible to do? If we hate him so much and want his "regime" to end, couldn't we have sent in some specialized spy to stab him, poison him, blow him up? Is this that naive of me to believe? Must we sacrifice probably thousands of people (on both sides), to get one man (and his sprawling family)? Are we really going to unearth the mother load of mass destruction? Is crippling the UN worth it? I volunteer as assassin. Can I get away with wearing a burka in Bagdhad? That might get me through. I could strap some explosives to my body and play the great martyr. Better me than thousands of others. Isn't that the point? No civilian casualties?

DOGS IN THE SOI, II

I saw something horrible and strangely touching tonight. If you have ever been to Bangkok, you’ve seen the stray dogs. Although some may disagree, I think it’s one of the biggest, most disgusting problems of Bangkok.

When you first arrive in Bangkok, if you are even the tiniest bit the animal lover, you are appalled and disgusted with blanketing of stray dogs throughout the streets of the city. I can’t even imagine what would happen to one of those PETA people. They must go totally out of their mind, start convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Kind of apt, actually, since a high percentage of these “street dogs” have rabies. I’ve only seen one myself, though apparently you can’t “see” it. The stereotypical foaming at the mouth dog (that I saw so many times in my children’s book on Louis Pasteur as a child), is rather rare.

But, I always did consider myself a lover of animals. It used to be almost more than I could humanely bear as a child to be told again and again “No” to my request for a dog or cat. Almost the moment I could have a pet, I did (the day after I moved into an apartment that could have one – only cats). I still have one of the two kittens I got from the humane society that day. A now, nine year old female cat named after a Milan Kundera character.

Here in Thailand, it is always unbearable at times. Puppies abound, frolicking through the crowded streets, facing speeding cars, indifferent motorcycles, annoyed people, other aggressive dogs, fleas, ticks, rabies, and some other diseases that were totally unknown to me before I arrived here (seeing a dog who has totally lost all of his fur is a pretty dreadful thing). If the dog’s lucky, it will make it a few years without a broken leg, torn-off ear, gauged-out eye, etc. Furthermore, the life of a dog is the canine version of Lord of the Flies. You know that rare occasion when you are in the presence of two dogs fighting? The wild growling and flying fur? It’s quite frightening?

MUAHAHAHA what a joke! That sound is so damn common here, I have literally tuned it out of my hearing capabilities. I have heard what I thought were human screams, and rushed outside only to find street dogs going through their thrice-daily fight for territorial domination. Each pack of dogs owns a very small strip of the street. Anywhere from about 10-200 feet. Several times a day a dog from the adjacent “territory” will wander in (usually purposefully) and a ferocious fight will ensue. The screams, growls, and yelps are surprisingly dramatic and loud. Torn body parts and bloody wounds are often the result.

Yet, a dog here will almost never face starvation. The Thais take “animal loving” to a different plane than that in the U.S. Here, as Buddhists, Thais believe in taking care of living things, of not killing any creature. This means, after every Thai family finishes dinner, they usually dutifully wrap up their rice and spare meat, and place it in front of a group of thankful stray dogs, who wolf it down quickly. The dog may be limping, bleeding, have half its hair gone, but it won’t miss dinner! In fact, the school I work at takes 1-2 enormous plastic garbage pails (the kind you have in your garage or fill up with raked leaves) full of the food children scrape off their trays at lunch, and dump it in a nearby vacation where a large family of dogs feasts. It’s no wonder these dogs multiply like…rabbits.

Sure, most people can see the irony there. Is it better to let stray dogs on the street continue to breed, go through their Lord of the Flies lifestyle, itch, scratch, whimper, etc.? Or is it better to “save” them from such a life (and clear the damn street as well!) by euthanisizing them and creating some damn dog shelters to take care of those who might be adopted? Of course, if I had it my way, it’d be the latter, but that’s because that’s how it’s done in my country. Also, I can’t stand to see these dogs suffer so badly just so they can “live.” Just recently I gave my neighbors (who have, at last count, have 9 dogs) a flea & tic spray since their dogs began to lose their hair.

Well, what I’m getting at is a bit different. That was a big introduction, because I guess it still really bothers me. Plus, I see all these puppies who are so damn cute and sweet grow up to be wild dogs, prowling the street like the Crypts and the Bloods, with an even shorter life expectancy. I want to take them so bad (even the cats, though they have it slightly better), but having no yard, and already two cats inside the house, I can’t. I did get two kittens once and took them home. Two weeks later they were both dead, despite the fact that one was rushed to the hospital and put on oxygen. The vet informed me that they took a sample of 10 stray cats off the street, and 7 out of 10 of them had feline leukemia. The two kittens I took home almost killed my current cat. Though the kittens died, she lived, because she was a healthy adult cat, but she did spend a scary four days in the hospital.

Okay, back to my story (2 pages later). I was in my home tonight, my home with few windows, but two thin front door right on the street. The dogs in my “territory” are very familiar with me and I love them dearly. As I was typing an email for work, I heard a dog yelp. This in itself, like I mentioned, is not rare, but this time…it was different. Sometimes, you just know.

I scrambled to put some pants on, and ran outside. It was dark, but I could still see a dog, one of the puppies, laying on the ground, writhing around wildly and screaming in pain. Ambling slowly away was one of those worker trucks, used to carry low-income workers from job to job. The obvious culprit.

The mother dog, was standing over the little girl puppy. As each of the other street dogs approached, curious or with evil intentions, I do now know. She growled viciously at them, attacking them repeatedly, to keep them away from her baby. I approached slowly, and watched as she cried and cried, desperately licking away all the blood that was pouring out of the puppy’s mouth, as if to stop it. The puppy continued crying and gyrating for another minute before it was still. The mother dog turned to me, knowing I would not hurt her or her baby, and I whispered, “Oh, mama dog.” (That’s my name for her). She turned and took a couple steps up to me, crying and crying, just like any other mother. I stroked her head again and again and told her I was so sorry. She turned back to the baby and continued licking it until the blood stopped flowing from its mouth. Then she went on to try and lap up every drop of blood that surrounded the puppy, splatters from the crushing tires. She couldn’t seem to stop. She seemed to want to resurrect her baby. Who can blame her?

I then marched toward the truck, which had headed toward the river (not far from my place). I found it some distance off, the driver parking it at the end of a long gravel driveway. My hands were on my hips. I was fuming. He yelled out, “What?” in Thai. I didn’t know how to communicate this. I slammed my hands together to try and symbolize his crushing the puppy. I yelled out in Thai, “The puppy! You did it! Your car! It’s dead!” He knew he had hit it (and had not stopped). He yelled out, with little concern, “I didn’t see it!” I stomped off. Hardly much in terms of seeking retribution, but there really isn’t much I can do. The smallest consolation in me is that he knew I was furious at him. I hope I “ripped his face open” (one of the absolute worse things that can happen to a Thai), at least a little bit. In the end, it’s a street dog, no one will really care. They might give an “awww,” but that’s it. This also at some point gets to one of the things I’ve experienced about Thai culture which has really really really bothered me. This lack of taking responsibility for ANYTHING. The fact that the guy said “I didn’t see it,” and therefore in a sense, admitting it, was surprising to me, despite his indifference. So many times, I have watched as people here flat out deny doing something wrong, even if the action was witnessed (sometimes, right in front of me). This is natural in children, but it is one of my greatest pet peeves in my life regarding all human beings (adults) – not taking responsibility for when you cause harm, pain, annoyance, etc.

In the end though, I walk away from this with some warmth inside. Seeing that mother dog try to simultaneously protect and revive her baby was more touching that I can convey. She was able to communicate everything – her desperation, her fear, her grief. I think I saw more humanity tonight in a dog than I have seen in some human beings in my current life. That, is so sad.

Phuket Paradise? Part I: Galloping Heroine Loses It

In Thailand, Phuket is known as the default southern destination. The south is full of dreamy-looking islands and a magnet for those into scuba diving. I, myself am not much of a scuba diver, for two reasons. One, I've never been rich. Scuba diving is like photography, oil painting, snow skiing, etc., where you have to invest quite a bit of money just to be involved. I hate shit like that. One great thing about Thailand is that I've been able to fairly easily afford oil paint here, since it's about 1/5 the price it is back in the U.S. Well, everything is about 1/5 the price it is back home, which is why, maybe one day I will be able to scuba dive. The second reason I don't scuba dive is that I have a suffocation phobia. No kidding. I'm actually beating it, and I think I'm almost over it, but it's taken my whole life. This will show up anywhere on day 2 in Phuket which comes later.

I decided on Phuket for a couple reasons. One, it's kind of like living in NYC and never going to the Empire State Building or living in Paris and never going to Louvre or going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I've never been much of a beach person, since I find that I get quickly bored sitting on a beach, and I tend to burn...quite painfully....despite lavish applications of SPF 10,000. But, I won't be in Thailand forever, and my mother who is coming several months for now, has refused to go to any island location, preferring the dangerous and exciting-sounding "Burma" as her choice.

When I told my friends I was heading to Phuket, they kind of wrinkled their noses and went, "Eww." Not because Phuket is gross, but like any "native" who lives in Thailand, it's kind of an undesirable place to go. Someone who really knows Thailand doesn't go to Phuket! Phuket, full of white faces, Thai prostitutes, its massive over-development geared toward the dollar-clutching tourist. Those who REALLY know, go to the more remote areas, those with the mosquito net and the fan for lodging, those where there are no white faces (save their own) to be seen, those places that are more "pristine."

Whatever! You know, call me what you will, but I do like things to be a LITTLE bit easy. Fuck, if I'm going to ride a bus for TWELVE hours to get to the damn place, I don't want to be welcomed by a straw hut that is never quite cool enough, except when you're taking your ice-cold shower. I don't want to go to an island where the infrastructure is so thin, that there is nothing I can do with myself except..sit on the damn beach! I want to do stuff! And I need the organization to be set up to allow me to do that. I don't care that that view is not popular, especially with the backpackers. Well, that's FINE, because to me, a backpacker is only a nasty hippie with giant bag strapped to its body. They pinch pennies in such a way, when it comes to accomodation and food, that even Thais go, "Damn, what's wrong with these people?" I met someone once who produced a popular map in Bangkok. He said that it never did sell well on Khao San road (this is the mecca of all backpackers in Bangkok, teeming with them getting drunk and getting their hair braided or made into dreadlocks - ugh!). This mapmaker once said, "I don't get it, they won't spend $2 for my map, but they'll spend sixty fucking dollars for beer." There you go. I don't want to hang out with these people. I'd rather be a snob with my air conditioning (usually only $5-10 more in cost), and go on an organized excursion.

And that's what I did. Hour after I arrived I had already been picked up by a minivan (a really mini van, not one of those fantastically disgusting monsters that lumber all over the roads in American suburbia) and was happily bouncing up and down the hills toward the Phuket Riding Club. When I get to a new tourist destination, there are two things I always want to see more than anything: dolphins or horses. I know, sounds silly, but it's true. I love to ride horses, though I'm not very good at it. And dolphins to me are just a magical, wonderful animal. In New Zealand I "swam with dolphins," in water so cold, that it gave me instant images of the sinking Titanic. Incredible experience.

So, there I was, galloping down the beach like a 19th century European heroine. Hair streaming in the wind, (well, I was wearing a helmet), and my skirt flowing behind me (I was wearing jeans). It was exciting, though frightening. With each step, my tourist bag banged into me with such force, that it distracted me from the romantic imagery floating through my mind. (At this moment I still have two scabs on my hand to show for it). At some point, after a particularly energetic gallop, I looked down and noticed that one section of my touristy-bag was completely unzipped, apparently from the fervor of my horse's run. Whatever had been in there, was now, GONE! *gasp* I frantically started unzipping the other pockets (these tourist bags have 55 zippered pouches each), to see what was missing (#1 in my mind, my money!). Well, no, my money was there, my disposible camera was okay, and even my sunglasses were there.

Phew!

Wait a minute...the two receipts for excursions I had already paid for seemed to be gone. Well, that was not good, but it wasn't a total tragedy. My receipts were only receipts, they still knew I was going. Still, my guide and I retraced ourselves carefully, despite the fact that the tide was now coming in and had advanced quite a bit in the short time we'd gone by. Sadly, no receipts. Ahh well.

An hour or so later, with my first sunburn (arms and face), I was deposited at my bungalow and felt pretty good. I opened my bag to get out my wallet and... you know what comes next. Gone! My wallet had been in that pocket that had emptied itself somewhere on the Phuket beach! *sob* Not only was a bit of money in there, but more importantly, my ATM card (argh) and my driver's license, which believe it or not, was good until the year 2038! Losing one's ATM card is never a warm and fuzzy feeling, not to mention I would spend $40 in phone calls to the US canceling it hours later. I had called back the horse ranch, asking the guide to retrace our steps again, this time looking for my tiny black wallet (my wallets always resemble the kind men stick in their back pockets, not the giant beasts women tend to carry). The young guide said he couldn't find it...damn damn damn.

Is that the end of the story? Well, no. I did have the ATM card for my savings account, so I was not left high and dry. That night, burnt and dejected from the missing wallet, I showered and headed toward a very nice restaurant. I tend to spend money to make myself feel better (big surprise), and a wonderful meal was just what I needed. The restaurant, Sala Bua, was just what I needed. Sitting on the beach, with warm lighting and beautiful wooden furniture, and best of all, fantastic food. The meal was almost perfect until.... *ring ring ring* The horse guide was phoning me. Maybe they found my wallet! I answered the phone and soon realized that no, he had not found my wallet, but he had found a discotheque and was very interested in showing it to me. Oh, just great. Now, my Thai isn't fantastic on my best day, and here in the South, it was even more difficult to understand. Of course, after a long and painful conversation where I must have said, "I don't understand you" in Thai, about 12 times, I got the gist of it all, and kind of panicked. I did NOT want to go out with this guy, but if I was a bitch and spurned him, would I ever get that precious wallet back? Finally, the phone call ended, but that was not the end of it. Again and again my phone flashed "HORSE" (what I had programmed into the phone to identify the horse guide's calls). I answered the phone three more times before I told him (again and again in my unimpressive Thai) that I was NOT alone, I was with a friend, and yes, he was a boy. Finally, HORSE stopped calling...at least until the next day, when he made one last ditch effort at midnight. That time, I didn't answer.

Quickie Book Reviews

Just got back from Phuket and it was totally amazing. I'll be writing little quips in the next few days. I had extreme highs and lows during my 4-5 days in the island paradise.

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Mr. Foreigner by Matthew Kneale -- B+
Well, not the masterpiece that I thought English Passengers was, but yet still a very entertaining book. If anyone has lived in Asia for any length of time, you'll see several hilarious parallels to your own life. This is the story of an young Englishman stuck in Japan teaching at a crappy English school and dealing with his confusing Japanese girlfriend and her frightening family. I read the entire book on a single bus trip, to give you an idea of what a quick and easy read this is.

Disobedience by Jane Hamilton -- B+
You can never accuse a Hamilton book of being "light reading," (I almost jumped off a bridge after reading A Map of the World), but this book is probably as close as she can get while still maintaining that dramatic focus on trauma within a family. A teenage boy inadvertently reads his mother's email (that fact is still hard for me to swallow), and discovers she's begun an affair with an immigrant violin maker. The book traces the boy's life as he traces his mother's affair through her emails to the lover and her best friend. The book is quite good, on the verge of being extra special, but never quite getting there. Lots of questions about family and how we feel about them (particularly a son's love for his mother), are touched on. The characters in the book are interesting, to say the least, including a younger sister obsessed with Civil War reenactments. Recommended.

Damn it, Keats

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THE WRITING LIFE: A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS AND INTERVIEWS (written by National Book Award Winners) Grade: B
- not a bad book, and certainly interesting (to me), but unless you’re really interested in the process of writing, give it a pass.

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So, the other night I read my first Keats poem ever. Not bad. Despite my almost violent love for the novel, I’ve never been a big fan of two other forms of writing: the short story and poetry. Sure, there are some of each that I enjoy, (I still get all dreamy like a 15 year old girl when reading Pablo Neruda), but overall I just can’t get into poetry. I’ve tried, but either I find it silly, boring, or confusing. Plus, I simply don’t think I have the patience for it. To me, poetry was a bit like reading Aristotle or Kant. (Most poetry) you can’t take it to the beach and read it casually while sipping your Mojito. It takes a focused and committed mind, something I sadly, have not always had. There’s a reason I love multitasking so much.

ANYWAY, the point of this, was after I read that first Keats poem (very nice, loves nature, la la la), it inspired me immediately to write this poem on the back of my dental bill which was on the floor next to my bed. I wrote this in about 2 minutes, so don’t expect … well, Keats. Maybe another reason I’ve never loved poetry is that I could never write it well, and that’s always bothered me…

For now the hour has advanced quite late
An exhausted body is my current state
And though it is to slumber I should go
I cannot part from this book so
My weary eyes are locked to the page
Though nervous mind frets on tomorrow’s rage
Of a morning body struggling to rise from bed
Feeling much too like a soul half dead
If I only I had not begun that Keats
I would not have felt such physical defeat
Of unrested spirit cursing the day
And seething with the work in the way
Before the rendez-vous with the pillow when
Be felt the full-length kisses of the sheets again
Until then I glare at dawn’s early light
And promise self to do what is right
And not read my Keats while I lie in bed
But when then is a fitting alternate?
To fill my dreams with Kafka, Kundera, or Woolf?
Perhaps I should just forget all books
And soak up the television’s rays
And dream instead of Happy(ier) Days

Brief Book Critiques! (Yeah, I know)

I’ve decided to do very short book critiques after all (despite what I JUST said a few days ago). I think my one redeeming quality is that I will keep them VERY brief. Easy to read or skip, depending on how you feel that day. I find that the emotions that build up in me after reading a book (whether because the book is great, tepid, or ferociously terrible), scream to get out. So, if I put just a blurb on each, I’ll feel better, and it’ll also help to keep me focused on my blog. The first books I’m going to do is 1) the one I finished tonight, The Map that Changed the World by Simon Winchester, and 2) the one I finished a few days ago, English Passengers by Matthew Kneale. I’ve already hinted what I feel about each. Since these are my first two, they’ll be longer than ones I’ll do in the future. Really.

THE MAP THAT CHANGED THE WORLD (Simon Winchester) Grade: C-

*long, silent scream* I’m sorry, but WHY WHY WHY WHY is this book an “international best seller?” Is this like the Stephan Hawkins book where everyone buys it and no one reads it or just pretends to? This book was 299 pages long (I kept flipping to back and checking it the whole time I was reading it), and it was FANTASTICALLY boring. Unless you really really REALLY like geology, run far far away from this book. Though it claims to be a biography about the unfortunate founder of Geology, William Smith, it’s more a long and tedious blabber fest on fossils and stratification in England. I think it’s already starting to leak out of my brain. Though the story about Smith is compelling and tragic, it doesn’t REALLY begin until the last 100 pages of the book. The 200 pages preceding that just go on…and on…and on. If it wasn’t for the fact that I feel an almost divine power over me to finish every book I start, I would have turned this into toilet paper long ago. The only other good thing I can say about it, is that it does paint a detailed picture of the horrendously painful injustice of classicism in 19th century England. Otherwise, unless rocks get your rocks off….. read Hawkins.

ENGLISH PASSENGERS (Kneale) Grade: A+

This book rocked (pun intended)! Historical novels are my favorite, especially ones about places I am not too terribly familiar with. This book is just that (set just about 50 years after the book above, in the mid to late 19th century). It is set in Manx, England, and eventually, Tasmania (known then as Van Diemen’s Land). A crew of bootlegging Manx men get stuck with a charter of three unlikable men (a desperate priest, a self-promoting doctor, and a spoiled brat forced to go by his parents) for a quest to find the Garden of Eden in Tasmania. Various fascinating and comical lives are intertwined together in this part tragic, part hysterical novel. The life of “Peevay,” a half-English, half-Aborigine boy is one of the most fascinating of the book. The way the author can explore so many different cultures and make you feel so deeply engrossed with each one, really deserves kudos, especially his focus on Manx and native Tasmanian cultures. I could get into all the other artfully dealt with subjects (colonialism, religion, self-promotion, etc.), but … naaah. As for the “historical” part of this fiction novel, I hope Kneale really did his homework on this, because otherwise he’s sure fooled me. Well done. I really enjoyed it and look forward to the next one I read.

The Method Behind the Magic: the Death of Mr. Rogers

Read Mr. Cheek’s commentary on Mr. Rogers here.

Okay, things that don't have to do with yawn-inspiring business or anything remotely-related to Iraq doesn't get to me too quickly here in Bangkok, but I have finally found out about the death of Mr. Rogers. How very sad. It's one of those moments where death's icy realization washes over you. “He will never be here again. No children alive now will be able to see him, experience him. I just kind of assumed he’d always be around.” Okay yeah, luckily there are 30 years of reruns, but I guess it’s just not the same.

The sad thing about Mr. Rogers is that he’s a magical, warm, and fascinating man when you are in diapers. As soon as you “grow out of” him, which doesn’t take long, he becomes the subject of playground ridicule. Young kids mimic, “Won’t you be my neighbor?’ and the taking on and off of various articles of clothing. I feel ashamed to admit that he goes from demigod, to a joke in just a few short years.

Years later in high school, I took a class in Psychology. I was fascinated with the subject and I was fascinated with the teacher (a Zen-like man who taught four days a week and then actually flew to Columbia University once a week, EVERY week, to work on his PhD in Psychology). He asked us to watch an episode of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. I taped it and watched it. So, a few days later when he asked who had done the assignment, I raised my hand. He immediately called on me and began what was a fantastically frightening and exhilarating hour of focus on me (in high school, it always feels awkward to have so much attention placed on you). Really, he was just using me as a source to bounce off of, and throughout the hour, he slowly deconstructed each segment of the Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood hour. He revealed how every layer was backed by careful childhood development research, and Mr. Rogers’ own two PhD’s in the area (is this true?? I looked for proof on the website but couldn’t find it). Every movement had a purpose, every phrase had a goal. All was geared toward the child, his/her individuality, development, and self-worth.

WOW!

It was an amazing day in my life. Suddenly, I had rediscovered the (Method to the) Magic behind Mr. Rogers. He was a genius! He was loving! He was thoughtful! He knew what the fuck he was doing! I felt shame for all the years I had laughed at his old-fashioned and “dorky” ways. I even had a very un-high school-like thought of looking forward to a day when maybe my own children could watch Mr. Rogers (and I could watch it with him/her, caressing my little secret of what was really going on). Now, I’ll have to be happy with three decades of reruns. Thank god for television. Thank god for Mr. Rogers.

I’m back: February’s over! WherethehelldoIgonow? Beer Time. Critique not Books

I know I haven’t written in awhile (déjà vu?), and I’m a little bit inspired simply because today’s date is 3-3-3. I think that’s pretty cool. Anyway, you must understand the month of February in Bangkok. It’s pure evil. Well, if you’re a teacher who works on the Thailand, rather than the international, school, schedule. February has two demons buried in its belly: 1) final exams, for which a Thai 2nd grader shoulders as much pressure as an American first year med school student. And 2) the final end-of-the-year, you-must-be-successful-or-just-go-kill-yourself, the-English-better-sound-clear-and-fluent Performance Extravaganza! *throws confetti* The foreign teachers are totally focused on their upcoming, drawn-out vacation, the Thai teachers are going out of their damn minds trying to get the kids to dance well and review Math all at the same time. The parents are competing with each other over their child’s rank (yes, they are ranked from 1-loser), and the kids, well, they’re just confused.

Yeah, it was a fun month.

Now, I’m free! *dance dance dance* Yeah, scoff at my cutsie astericks, but that’s how I feel! It was a tough month, a tough year, filled with all the laughter and tears of a Lifetime Channel movie. The funny thing is, now that I’m free, I don’t know what the hell to do with myself. I’m sort of stuck in one of those situations where you desperately need to save money, and at the same time you’re like an agitated horse in the gate, waiting for Kentucky Derby to start. I’m in Thailand! There’s dozens of interesting, gorgeous places to go! And I’m surrounded by fantastic places, both near and far. How can I just waste time and my LIFE by not exploring everything like a rapid bloodhound? Or maybe I should use this money to go back to New Zealand and try to find a job there (it’s where I’d really really really like to live next, probably won’t happen though).

Besides spending money, the only other drawback is my solitary status. As I’ve mentioned in the past, I quite enjoy living alone and doing things by myself. Sometimes, I actually turn down invitations to go out, or to a party because I’d rather just stay home and do what I want to do. I hate the thought of being “stuck” somewhere for hours and hours with people who may or may not be interesting. And as you know, when you go out, “beer time” does not equate real, Greenwich time. For instance, when you’re out at a bar, and someone says, “I wanna go home soon,” and you’re already thinking the same thing, your heart soars! You’re probably drunk and tired (and a little bored), or you’re sober and REALLY bored. But of course “soon” in beer time is at LEAST one hour, sometimes two. You just have to sit back. Or the other infamous words, “Just let me finish my drink first.” *wince* I know what this means, the 45 minute, nursed beer.

I’m not trying to say I don’t enjoy going out, I really do! In fact, just recently I went out with some friends and had the most fantastic time. It was one of the few times I found tequila really fun as well. (Unfortunately, not all my friends found tequila to be such a chummy companion by the end of the night). But I guess I hate not being in control of what I can do. I have this good friend who lives way out in the boonies and is hosting a party at his house. 1) The distance = a total loss in power for me. I can’t just leave so easily or “disappear” as friends do at times when you go out and they’re either drunk and wandering or drunk and about to shag someone. 2) There is the very distinct possibility that many people I feel rather awkward around will be there as well. What do I do? Strand myself out in the middle of a rice field with people who make me give that fake, corners-turned-down smile? Or am I a bitch of a friend and make some obvious excuse? Ahhh the boring choices of an obsessive girl.

Well, the great thing about vacation though, is now I can read even more!!! Man, I really love reading. And though I imposed a total moratorium on buying ANY books for the next 8 months, I’ve already broken it and bought THREE yesterday. A book on Phuket. A Milan Kundera novel (love him!). And another by Matthew Kneale who is my new “favorite author RIGHT now!!!!” author. I’d love to write my own critiques about books, but I am not confident that I could possibly add anything worthwhile to the monumental amount of nauseating criticism already out there. Nor do I feel like I have the intellectual lingo to do it right. This is not a statement of insecurity, just of fact. I will be happy to discuss the fantastic, “English Passengers” by Matthew Kneale if anyone likes, or the fantastically tedious “The Map that Changed the World” (why the fuck is this an international bestseller??) with anyone who’d like to. It’s just that if I add something to the world of writing, I want it to be original, in the sense that it’s me, and not another one of them.

Return of the Psycho Ex-Pats (*snore*)

Despite my many attempts to ignore, tolerate, or work around “Mafia Boss,” he still keeps coming back. Like 99.9% of expats in Bangkok, I work as a teacher. I enjoy this most of the time, despite difficulties such as cultural conflicts, miscommunication, unreliable or insane employees, or nitpicking parents. But by far, the biggest pain in my lovely ass is the Mafia Boss. He goes by many names, not all given by me, but I have yet to hear one that is particularly flattering. He’s surely one of a kind though. For someone who works in a school, he has an amazing knack for making people feel like they’re “in the Cold War,” “working in a cutthroat business, not a school,” "working for a tyrant," or "like being with a tempermental 6 year old."

This man’s for real. I was thinking of writing one of my usual blogs about him. There’s enough information to go on and on, but now that I’m writing, something I normally love to do, I find myself getting tired just by the thought of discussing him again. Anytime I try to describe him, my lips spill out unbelievable hyperboles which I’m sure only takes away from my validity. No one is this bad. No one is “out to destroy you.” “Dynasty” was a soap opera, not a reality-based tv show. But oh baby, people like this DO exist. They are dangerous (though they achieve much more in the area of drama than they do in pure results). They care more about their own image and recognition than they do for the welfare of their employees and the children they teach. It’s all about image and power. This is what’s so depressing. I spend SO much time trying to improve the school I’m a part of, which is often an uphill battle as it is, that trying to fight some slob who wants to be king of the world, and sees you as an obstacle in his way, is absolutely exhausting. How to get rid of someone who the school keeps because he is loyal (though they admit, flawed), but who causes pain, anger, and chaos around him?

Okay, now I’ve already written more than I thought I would (it helps to be watching “The West Wing” on the side and coming back to this on commercials).

In other news, the cool season is here finally *HOORAY* I went swimming and it felt really good. A charming ex-boyfriend is in town (and brought a nice pair of shoes!), and I have fantastic teachers working for me in our school. Now, if we can make it to the end of the school term alive and intact (end of February), then maybe, JUST maybe, there really is a god.

But probably not.