Here's a tip for you: If you are conversing with someone and they mention a glut of news about someone famous, the person in question has probably just died. So over a plate of hot Thai curry I found out that Liz Taylor was dead. This information was part of the sexy versus beautiful discussion that crops up with some regularity between film freaks.
Audrey Hepburn, Catherine Denueve, Ingrid Bergman, these are my classic modern film beauties. Hell, Ingrid Bergman, whose film career ended decades ago still influences people. Billy Bragg and Wilco recorded a song about her in 2007-ish, showing that the Grrl's still got it.
On the other side of the discussion there are the sexy stars. The parade of sex kittens includes Brigitte Bardot, Ursulla Andress, our American throw-down Raquel Welch and modern day actors like Penelope Cruz.
Anyway, it was a lovely way to pass the dinner.
In a few hours I am climbing on a plane to Tucson. I would love to say that my main motivation is to spend time with the genetic envelope but that would only be partially true. I need sun and heat. I need it bad. Even the most manly-men I know are muttering and cursing the inescapable rain and wind and cold that have vanquished spring here in the GreyNorWet, apparently forever. Not being a first rank Manly-Man, I am quailing under the incessant rain like Gollum from a winged Nazgul.
Later.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Day # 136 Masochism
Yes, I understand, governments the world over are crumbling. Its what they do, eventually, all of them. Yes, yes, even the Estados Unidos. And no, I did not resort to reading, listening or viewing it on the news. I can't help but hear people talking.
Well, the regimes are just going to have to fall without me. I got bigger fish to fry today.
Have you ever stuck your hand in a doorway and then slammed the door, just to make sure it still hurts when you do? I know you have Brothers and Sisters. We all succumb from time to time, hopefully less as the river of life flows by. Now being an old geezer, such as I am, you would think enough water has drifted by my idle gaze whilst I was sitting on the bank for me to know better. But sometimes, I say sometimes, I'm as thick as a whale sandwich.
Today was one of those times. Guess what Holmes, still stings like that crap my old man would paint on my brother and me.
When we were kids, my mom believed in Vicks Vapo-Rub. My dad swore by the healing benefits of Mercurochrome and my mom's mom was all about calamine lotion. Mostly, when my brother and I got bloody, whether self-inflicted or fraternally inflicted, we tried to hide the fact from the parental or grand-parental units. If they could catch us, Grams dotted us with calamine, then Bob would paint us with mercurochrome while we wiggled and screamed. Carol would pretend to comfort us after the trauma of the dad treatment but that was only a feint until she could slap a handful of Vapo-Rub on some exposed part of our bodies. We grew up smelling of eucalyptus and covered with red stripes and pink dots. If we were Aussie kids we might have run off to join a sympathetic family of Koala bears but we were so funny looking they probably would have thrown us out of the pack or troop or whatever Koala collectives are called.
These days, without benefit of any of the old palliatives, that damn door still looms in an I-double-dog-dare-you sort of way. I tell you, its enough to make a bitch coyote eat her pups.
Well, the regimes are just going to have to fall without me. I got bigger fish to fry today.
Have you ever stuck your hand in a doorway and then slammed the door, just to make sure it still hurts when you do? I know you have Brothers and Sisters. We all succumb from time to time, hopefully less as the river of life flows by. Now being an old geezer, such as I am, you would think enough water has drifted by my idle gaze whilst I was sitting on the bank for me to know better. But sometimes, I say sometimes, I'm as thick as a whale sandwich.
Today was one of those times. Guess what Holmes, still stings like that crap my old man would paint on my brother and me.
When we were kids, my mom believed in Vicks Vapo-Rub. My dad swore by the healing benefits of Mercurochrome and my mom's mom was all about calamine lotion. Mostly, when my brother and I got bloody, whether self-inflicted or fraternally inflicted, we tried to hide the fact from the parental or grand-parental units. If they could catch us, Grams dotted us with calamine, then Bob would paint us with mercurochrome while we wiggled and screamed. Carol would pretend to comfort us after the trauma of the dad treatment but that was only a feint until she could slap a handful of Vapo-Rub on some exposed part of our bodies. We grew up smelling of eucalyptus and covered with red stripes and pink dots. If we were Aussie kids we might have run off to join a sympathetic family of Koala bears but we were so funny looking they probably would have thrown us out of the pack or troop or whatever Koala collectives are called.
These days, without benefit of any of the old palliatives, that damn door still looms in an I-double-dog-dare-you sort of way. I tell you, its enough to make a bitch coyote eat her pups.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Day # 133 That Which is Caeser's
If my life is judged by my tax return, I live a simple existence. I don't own a house anymore. I don't have a small business, tuition credit, massive medical bills, nor do I qualify for a farm credit, damn the luck. My risk of an audit by the IRS is so low, according to my tax software, that I have set a new standard for which there is not a green enough colour on the little "Green-or-Red" risk icon. In short, I am extremely unremarkable to the IRS. Since I aspire to fly lower than the radar, that is a good thing. Perhaps as a more and more random and innocuous little cog I will soon drop off of the gear altogether.
If you haven't figured out by now, today was tax day around the Crash household. Its a short event without much hand wringing and the "Jetson's" factor has made it even more painless.
When I was growing up one of the popular television cartoons, at least at our house, was the Jetson's. This happy little cartoon sitcom featured the nuclear family of the future. George Jetson toiled away happily at Spacely Space Sprockets bringing home the bacon for daughter Judy, Jane, his wife, his boy Elroy and also to pay for all of the gizmos that the future had to offer. Robot maids, mechanical pet dogs, treadmills that run amok and video calling were all far flung fantasies of the future.
Now, as I fling my tax return into the ether and within hours am told, electronically of course, that the IRS will drop my little return right into my little checking account, electronically of course, I am beset with the Jetson Factor. Hell, the only thing that hasn't come to fruition from that cartoon is flying space cars that fold up into a brief case. Everything else is there and more. Mechanical Dogs: check. Video Calling: check. Robot Maids: Honda is on it if you have the dough.
Now, when it comes time for Caesar to call due his note, my computer and software remember all of my data from last year, ask me a few questions, request the smallest amount of information and in a very short time render up that which is Caesar's. For all of this there is not a scrap of paper to attend to. Although some people still send me actual paper copies of things, the amazing tax gnomes go straight to the bank, electronically of course, and get their own copies, electronically of course, thank you very much. Paper? What an anachronism.
In looking at the present, and the future, from a seat firmly rooted in the past, I don't consider myself a Luddite. I love my I-touch, I Skype my peeps and I access my desktop remotely from my laptop. All the same, as I embrace these things, I still look at them a bit askance I am formed and influenced by the perspective of my youth. That which was fantastical then has become mundane today.
Then there are the things that do not change. Caesar still requires the rendering of that which is his. The collection and disbursement methods are considerably more sophisticated but the collection must still be made so that the welfare of the citizens can be looked to, the roads maintained and the Pax Romana extended. Or so it should be.
While the collection due is indeed made, I suppose the welfare of the citizens, the state of the roads and most certainly the peace are as elusive as the flying space cars that fold to a handy briefcase sized carrying case. On those I am still waiting.
If you haven't figured out by now, today was tax day around the Crash household. Its a short event without much hand wringing and the "Jetson's" factor has made it even more painless.
When I was growing up one of the popular television cartoons, at least at our house, was the Jetson's. This happy little cartoon sitcom featured the nuclear family of the future. George Jetson toiled away happily at Spacely Space Sprockets bringing home the bacon for daughter Judy, Jane, his wife, his boy Elroy and also to pay for all of the gizmos that the future had to offer. Robot maids, mechanical pet dogs, treadmills that run amok and video calling were all far flung fantasies of the future.
Now, as I fling my tax return into the ether and within hours am told, electronically of course, that the IRS will drop my little return right into my little checking account, electronically of course, I am beset with the Jetson Factor. Hell, the only thing that hasn't come to fruition from that cartoon is flying space cars that fold up into a brief case. Everything else is there and more. Mechanical Dogs: check. Video Calling: check. Robot Maids: Honda is on it if you have the dough.
Now, when it comes time for Caesar to call due his note, my computer and software remember all of my data from last year, ask me a few questions, request the smallest amount of information and in a very short time render up that which is Caesar's. For all of this there is not a scrap of paper to attend to. Although some people still send me actual paper copies of things, the amazing tax gnomes go straight to the bank, electronically of course, and get their own copies, electronically of course, thank you very much. Paper? What an anachronism.
In looking at the present, and the future, from a seat firmly rooted in the past, I don't consider myself a Luddite. I love my I-touch, I Skype my peeps and I access my desktop remotely from my laptop. All the same, as I embrace these things, I still look at them a bit askance I am formed and influenced by the perspective of my youth. That which was fantastical then has become mundane today.
Then there are the things that do not change. Caesar still requires the rendering of that which is his. The collection and disbursement methods are considerably more sophisticated but the collection must still be made so that the welfare of the citizens can be looked to, the roads maintained and the Pax Romana extended. Or so it should be.
While the collection due is indeed made, I suppose the welfare of the citizens, the state of the roads and most certainly the peace are as elusive as the flying space cars that fold to a handy briefcase sized carrying case. On those I am still waiting.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Day # 132 Oh, the Temptations
While I have nothing but respect for, and fond memories of, the Motown wonders that gave us "My Girl" and "Papa was a Rolling Stone", those are not the temptations which are tickling my nosy nature.
Regime change seems to be in the air. Even with my self-imposed news blackout, I cannot help but hear the rumblings and the grumblings. Where were these propensities for ousting world leaders when Dick and Double-U were besmirching the White House with their Haliburton footprints? But hark! I digress.
My little news nose is twitching like a tweaker in front of the Broadway 7-11, but so far I have been able to resist. What a time to give up on the news. Still, I love it when we venture into the realm of "Regime Change" even if I only get to view the venture as an voyeur.
Regime change is a lot like watching other people choose ice cream. Whether or not you can believe your eyes, right there at the frosty counter there stands an autonomous customer picking out Bubble Gum or Spumoni of their own free will!! Never mind that those are two of the grossest offerings in the whole case, or that no one is forcing them to choose; they are paying good money for the chance to make those ill-considered choices. Even stranger is that when you lean over and quietly point out the error of their selection, giving them the chance to refuse the nastiness of Spumoni with its inherently evil candied fruit bits for something at least no crazier than Rocky Road, you are likely to be met with a reception chillier than the ice cream case itself.
The truth of the matter is that we are provided with choices whose only purpose is to show the extreme edges of what is possible and, by clearly illuminating the danger of that extreme, then steer us back to the comfort of chocolate or vanilla or perhaps a nice sorbet if we are feeling daring. No one is supposed to actually order and then consume the Swiss Chocolate Raspberry Swirl. That is just wrong! Usually the "containers" of these extreme choices are just props. Look at the face of the cone-dipper when such an order is placed. They are just as confused as the rest of the observers.
Given these clear truths, one would think that when a good citizen veered unknowingly into the realm of Banana Marshmallow Cream or some other horrid choice, they would be grateful when one of their fellows gently steered them back to safety. Unfortunately, one would be wrong, so horribly, horribly wrong. In fact, rather than embrace the wisdom of counsel, the poor deluded soul may actually turn on the person offering guidance and not only refuse the altruistically offered aid, but begin to deride one's own choices as somehow misguided. Unpleasantness can ensue in the democratic environs of the world of frozen delights.
There in lies the danger of choice itself. There are just too many options.
Regime change seems to be in the air. Even with my self-imposed news blackout, I cannot help but hear the rumblings and the grumblings. Where were these propensities for ousting world leaders when Dick and Double-U were besmirching the White House with their Haliburton footprints? But hark! I digress.
My little news nose is twitching like a tweaker in front of the Broadway 7-11, but so far I have been able to resist. What a time to give up on the news. Still, I love it when we venture into the realm of "Regime Change" even if I only get to view the venture as an voyeur.
Regime change is a lot like watching other people choose ice cream. Whether or not you can believe your eyes, right there at the frosty counter there stands an autonomous customer picking out Bubble Gum or Spumoni of their own free will!! Never mind that those are two of the grossest offerings in the whole case, or that no one is forcing them to choose; they are paying good money for the chance to make those ill-considered choices. Even stranger is that when you lean over and quietly point out the error of their selection, giving them the chance to refuse the nastiness of Spumoni with its inherently evil candied fruit bits for something at least no crazier than Rocky Road, you are likely to be met with a reception chillier than the ice cream case itself.
The truth of the matter is that we are provided with choices whose only purpose is to show the extreme edges of what is possible and, by clearly illuminating the danger of that extreme, then steer us back to the comfort of chocolate or vanilla or perhaps a nice sorbet if we are feeling daring. No one is supposed to actually order and then consume the Swiss Chocolate Raspberry Swirl. That is just wrong! Usually the "containers" of these extreme choices are just props. Look at the face of the cone-dipper when such an order is placed. They are just as confused as the rest of the observers.
Given these clear truths, one would think that when a good citizen veered unknowingly into the realm of Banana Marshmallow Cream or some other horrid choice, they would be grateful when one of their fellows gently steered them back to safety. Unfortunately, one would be wrong, so horribly, horribly wrong. In fact, rather than embrace the wisdom of counsel, the poor deluded soul may actually turn on the person offering guidance and not only refuse the altruistically offered aid, but begin to deride one's own choices as somehow misguided. Unpleasantness can ensue in the democratic environs of the world of frozen delights.
There in lies the danger of choice itself. There are just too many options.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Day # 130 Invention
The twin assaults on my sensibilities of the movie "The Social Network" and the continued slide towards complete political polarization in American politics may have coalesced into a silver lining of the "Next Big Thing". If this is true, it could not come a moment too soon as my beleaguered work ethic meets my desire to relocate abroad.
"The Social Network" chronicles Mark Zuckerberg's rise to become a gazillionaire as he creates (or steals the idea for, your call) Facebook. It was, indeed, the next big thing and he did become as rich as Croesus. Despite the film-makers best efforts, however, I did not identify or care about a single character in the story. But that is not germane to this entry unless I start a new blog about films and Dog knows our society needs yet another film blog.
The second tangent in this apparently meaningless entry is the ever increasing polarity in politics. I know, how could these two things possibly be related to each other. Wait for it......
Each day the good citizens of this country are confronted by emails, ads and exhortations to believe a certain way about this issue or that issue be it abortion, gun control or the third rail of politics in America, social security reform. Good people, one and all, are barraged and badgered into having a pat position, a safe fall back from which one does not waver. Discussion and compromise, much less independent thought have vanished like so many floppy discs or VHS tapes.
Everyone is busy these days and in these confusing and volatile political times, its good to know how to clearly state where one stands. It it not convenient, for example to state your political position as "Left of Marx" only to have someone questions which one (Harpo, if you must know). Regardless of whether you clearly identify yourself as a Trotsky-ite, some polite and well informed person will view that as possibly left-of-center and call you a "Liberal". OK, counter-revolutionary, maybe, but Liberal? And since when was that a bad word? Wait, I am starting to both rant and digress at the same time.
To continue: I need to get my hands on some money at the same time that my good old Capitalistic values are on the ropes and getting Tyson-ized. (Hide your ears!) What to do? The answer is simple; create the next internet craze, hope it gets to the tipping point then cash that sucker out, taking the money and running like Rush Limbaugh to an Oxycodone sale.
The problem, of course, is the idea. That is where the polarity and pop culture meet and gel.
I am going to create the "Dogma Keyboard". Using simple software to categorize subscribers, complete dogmatic positions could be generated in answer to almost any question. A new user would simply fill out a short section of personal information and based on that information a user profile would emerge which would be matched to seamless arguments, previously created, to deal with all of the most important issues of our times. The software could easily be adapted by region or state to generate voting lists, eliminating the need to research issues, listen to candidates positions or wade through the validity of endorsements. If this thing takes off, everyone is going to want a piece of it. The people who control the voting machines, Diebold (a Haliburton subsidiary, yea!!!) are not going to want to be left out in the cold. Controlling the votes after they are cast is one thing, but controlling them before people even get to the machines, now that's magic!
The Dogma Keyboard would provide additional leisure time for the masses and, more importantly, wealth for me, enough wealth to scram out of here for someplace where I never have to cross paths with CNN or Faux News again.
Now to find a few unscrupulous out of work code writers..........
"The Social Network" chronicles Mark Zuckerberg's rise to become a gazillionaire as he creates (or steals the idea for, your call) Facebook. It was, indeed, the next big thing and he did become as rich as Croesus. Despite the film-makers best efforts, however, I did not identify or care about a single character in the story. But that is not germane to this entry unless I start a new blog about films and Dog knows our society needs yet another film blog.
The second tangent in this apparently meaningless entry is the ever increasing polarity in politics. I know, how could these two things possibly be related to each other. Wait for it......
Each day the good citizens of this country are confronted by emails, ads and exhortations to believe a certain way about this issue or that issue be it abortion, gun control or the third rail of politics in America, social security reform. Good people, one and all, are barraged and badgered into having a pat position, a safe fall back from which one does not waver. Discussion and compromise, much less independent thought have vanished like so many floppy discs or VHS tapes.
Everyone is busy these days and in these confusing and volatile political times, its good to know how to clearly state where one stands. It it not convenient, for example to state your political position as "Left of Marx" only to have someone questions which one (Harpo, if you must know). Regardless of whether you clearly identify yourself as a Trotsky-ite, some polite and well informed person will view that as possibly left-of-center and call you a "Liberal". OK, counter-revolutionary, maybe, but Liberal? And since when was that a bad word? Wait, I am starting to both rant and digress at the same time.
To continue: I need to get my hands on some money at the same time that my good old Capitalistic values are on the ropes and getting Tyson-ized. (Hide your ears!) What to do? The answer is simple; create the next internet craze, hope it gets to the tipping point then cash that sucker out, taking the money and running like Rush Limbaugh to an Oxycodone sale.
The problem, of course, is the idea. That is where the polarity and pop culture meet and gel.
I am going to create the "Dogma Keyboard". Using simple software to categorize subscribers, complete dogmatic positions could be generated in answer to almost any question. A new user would simply fill out a short section of personal information and based on that information a user profile would emerge which would be matched to seamless arguments, previously created, to deal with all of the most important issues of our times. The software could easily be adapted by region or state to generate voting lists, eliminating the need to research issues, listen to candidates positions or wade through the validity of endorsements. If this thing takes off, everyone is going to want a piece of it. The people who control the voting machines, Diebold (a Haliburton subsidiary, yea!!!) are not going to want to be left out in the cold. Controlling the votes after they are cast is one thing, but controlling them before people even get to the machines, now that's magic!
The Dogma Keyboard would provide additional leisure time for the masses and, more importantly, wealth for me, enough wealth to scram out of here for someplace where I never have to cross paths with CNN or Faux News again.
Now to find a few unscrupulous out of work code writers..........
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Day # 127 Radical Rapture
If you had asked me, 127 days ago, if I thought the absence in my life of daily doses of news would have the effect of making my world outlook calmer or more mellow, I would have answered in the affirmative. As is very frequently the case, I would have been wrong. Increasingly, I have found that I have less and less tolerance for the machinations and short-sightedness of those who are purportedly running the show. In addition to my lessened tolerance I am experiencing a marked decline in the polarization of my views, in particular towards politics. My belief that the left in America would one day rise to the challenge of reform has been so eroded as to not exist. I have no side to be on anymore. Why would I become more radical the less I read and hear about the shenanigans of the megalomaniacs that pass themselves off as "leaders"? More time to think about it I guess.
Until fairly recently, my view of American politics would have condemned the conservative right to the shame they justly deserve while reserving a tempered purgatory for the ever-wavering left. I would have gritted my teeth and swallowed the argument of the greater good which always turns into a justification of the lesser evil. That was then. Today, if you asked me what those people entrusted with power in America were up to, I would tell you that it looks to me like a parade of fools carrying hand baskets full of heads on a dead run for hell. The only difference in the dash to disaster is that the fools parade of the right is in the lead but the left is hard on their heels. Don't get me wrong, I still reserve a deep vitriol for Bush and Cheney and their ilk, liars, thieves and plunderers each and every one, but they are just leading the dash. It seems I am experiencing a full-fledged return to the politics of my youth and a strong desire to man the barricades.
My recent return to radicalization has shown me the possibility of myself as an ex-patriot, a view that up until recently I would have looked at askance. I have met my share of ex-pats in my travels, mostly Americans and Brits, and they usually strike me as a bitter bunch, cynical and sad. I never thought it was my lot to end up owning some dumpy little bar in a small town in some far-flung country, holding forth on the evils of the place I hailed from. I still don't see that fate for myself, not being much for a good old alcoholic debauch anymore. But sober and away from the sad circus that is an excuse for the American body politic? That may be a future I can visualize without cringing.
As for the fanatics of any ilk, moral hall monitors included, my tolerance is at an end. But there is hope! Despite my news blockade, I have heard the rumbling that the official word is out and that the end date for the Christians is May 21st, 2011. They even have the billboards and bus-stop signs proclaiming that it is so. I have not personally seen the signs (oh punster, thou stoop so low) but some of my Atheistic leaning cohorts on Facebook have leaked tidbits of information about the coming rapture. Rapture it will indeed be and not soon enough can it arrive. The only possible event that could make the instant departure of the western-brand of religious fanatics from earth better or more worthy of celebration is if there is a cross-cultural corresponding force that sucks all of the other intolerant religious fanatics along with them. Oh happy day! I will shine my shoes to a fare-the-well and put on my best tie just to look sharp while I join the choir of Secular Humanists singing "Happy Trails" as each and every one of those bastards sails off of the face of the earth and good riddance.
I am sure that I will work up more than a few good rants about as this process continues. I think this is about enough for tonight. But for now suffice it to say that where I once hoped against hope for at least some semblance of progress from the people invested with power in my country, I now hope only for our "leaders" to do me and those I care about the least possible harm as they blunder about, reacting to the direction of the latest passing political wind. And for those who would tell me or others all the many ways we should or cannot live our lives, may gravity quickly loose it surly bonds and free you of this vale of tears.
Until fairly recently, my view of American politics would have condemned the conservative right to the shame they justly deserve while reserving a tempered purgatory for the ever-wavering left. I would have gritted my teeth and swallowed the argument of the greater good which always turns into a justification of the lesser evil. That was then. Today, if you asked me what those people entrusted with power in America were up to, I would tell you that it looks to me like a parade of fools carrying hand baskets full of heads on a dead run for hell. The only difference in the dash to disaster is that the fools parade of the right is in the lead but the left is hard on their heels. Don't get me wrong, I still reserve a deep vitriol for Bush and Cheney and their ilk, liars, thieves and plunderers each and every one, but they are just leading the dash. It seems I am experiencing a full-fledged return to the politics of my youth and a strong desire to man the barricades.
My recent return to radicalization has shown me the possibility of myself as an ex-patriot, a view that up until recently I would have looked at askance. I have met my share of ex-pats in my travels, mostly Americans and Brits, and they usually strike me as a bitter bunch, cynical and sad. I never thought it was my lot to end up owning some dumpy little bar in a small town in some far-flung country, holding forth on the evils of the place I hailed from. I still don't see that fate for myself, not being much for a good old alcoholic debauch anymore. But sober and away from the sad circus that is an excuse for the American body politic? That may be a future I can visualize without cringing.
As for the fanatics of any ilk, moral hall monitors included, my tolerance is at an end. But there is hope! Despite my news blockade, I have heard the rumbling that the official word is out and that the end date for the Christians is May 21st, 2011. They even have the billboards and bus-stop signs proclaiming that it is so. I have not personally seen the signs (oh punster, thou stoop so low) but some of my Atheistic leaning cohorts on Facebook have leaked tidbits of information about the coming rapture. Rapture it will indeed be and not soon enough can it arrive. The only possible event that could make the instant departure of the western-brand of religious fanatics from earth better or more worthy of celebration is if there is a cross-cultural corresponding force that sucks all of the other intolerant religious fanatics along with them. Oh happy day! I will shine my shoes to a fare-the-well and put on my best tie just to look sharp while I join the choir of Secular Humanists singing "Happy Trails" as each and every one of those bastards sails off of the face of the earth and good riddance.
I am sure that I will work up more than a few good rants about as this process continues. I think this is about enough for tonight. But for now suffice it to say that where I once hoped against hope for at least some semblance of progress from the people invested with power in my country, I now hope only for our "leaders" to do me and those I care about the least possible harm as they blunder about, reacting to the direction of the latest passing political wind. And for those who would tell me or others all the many ways we should or cannot live our lives, may gravity quickly loose it surly bonds and free you of this vale of tears.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Day # 126 A Real Test
Even a self-imposed news boycott does not insulate one from the rest of the world, nor was that the point of my experiment to go a year without the benefit of the news media. The suffering of the world is always there and if there is one constant, it does seem to be suffering.
Over the course of two short days I was directly questioned about how my chosen blackout of the news in my daily life related to the recent tragic events in Japan. I hear alarm bells in my head even as I write this. What could I possibly say that would have any significance when compared to the victims of this or any other tragedy? I feel a deep compassion for the people who have suffered and continue to suffer from the earthquake and the tsunami and the continuing aftershocks. Whether or not I see the graphic images of devastation and sorrow, I know that this is a horrible thing for people to experience and, as the poet so clearly wrote, " any man's death diminishes me..." We are all linked, as jewels in Indra's Net, and we all suffer together. I believe this with all of my heart.
The two people who questioned me about my no-news experiment were not scoffers or mere acquaintances, but , on the contrary, important people in my life. One person asked me how I could maintain my boycott of the news services while the horrific events in Japan were unfolding. It was a valid question and not meant simply to trip me up. My answer was that over the course of a single year there are so many possibilities for tragedy across the globe that it is inevitable that something like this would occur and dominate the headlines, as well it should. As I explained this, I also tried to make clear then, as I do now, that my following or not following the course of events in no way lessens the importance of what is happening to the lives of the people effected by this calamity. I am not questioning the validity of news reports on the events of the world. I am only choosing to limit the extent to which I allow those reports to effect my daily life.
The second person in as many days asked me if I was still not "doing the news" as he glanced at the soundless CNN broadcast going on behind my back while we were having lunch. The news story was, of course, an update on the events in Japan. Again, I did not feel that my motives were being questioned but rather how and if I was able to maintain the boycott in the face of such an obviously important event.
These questions gave me pause to ponder once again what the point is to going a year without news. The original premise of this boycott was that the pursuit of current events was taking up far to large a chunk of my daily life and the constant flow of news into my personal world was not making me a happier person. For me, the premise remains true. The suffering in the world goes on whether I am up to date on it or not. The stupidity of modern politics continues whether or not I study it on a daily basis. So the second part of the question is whether or not I think that this news boycott is making me a happier person. I would have to say that it is not. While I know that weighing my own personal happiness while others suffer is dancing dangerously close to the brink of insensitivity or narcissism or both, I have to remind myself (or anyone reading this) that there is always suffering in the world. Always. Without opening a paper or turning on a television or radio I can tell you that there is a natural disaster in Japan, unnatural environmental disasters across the world and civil war in numerous countries besides the constant human tragedies of hunger and disease and poverty.
If I am choosing not to hear about the sadness of the world why then am I not happier? Since I am not spending three or more hours acquiring news, I have more time to do other things. I have time to play more music, be more involved and more time to think. I had an entire month to myself while travelling, more than enough time for contemplation. With that gift of time, the need for changes in my life became more and more evident. So I have to honestly say that I am not happier now than I was as a practicing news-junkie. What I am, however, is more focused, more resolved and more radicalized. The more radicalized comment I will leave for a future post as I am still mulling that over.
Happiness is, as everything else, a transitory phenomenon. While life itself is transitory, implementing change in one's life is more rewarding than sitting passively and letting it drift by. My hope is that my resolve is such that I can make the changes I need to make to be a more whole human being. Not thinner, or a second language speaker, or a better runner, or any of the other goals that love to have attention paid to them, worthy or not. The courage to embrace what makes me more open to the experience of living and the same courage to discard that which holds me back, this is the resolve that I am hoping for.
So I will continue to eschew the daily dose of news from the world. I will try to be more involved in the life around me, as I have been doing. And I will do my best to use the additional time afforded to me to make more lasting and rewarding changes for myself and hopefully, by doing that, for the rest of the jewels in the net.
Over the course of two short days I was directly questioned about how my chosen blackout of the news in my daily life related to the recent tragic events in Japan. I hear alarm bells in my head even as I write this. What could I possibly say that would have any significance when compared to the victims of this or any other tragedy? I feel a deep compassion for the people who have suffered and continue to suffer from the earthquake and the tsunami and the continuing aftershocks. Whether or not I see the graphic images of devastation and sorrow, I know that this is a horrible thing for people to experience and, as the poet so clearly wrote, " any man's death diminishes me..." We are all linked, as jewels in Indra's Net, and we all suffer together. I believe this with all of my heart.
The two people who questioned me about my no-news experiment were not scoffers or mere acquaintances, but , on the contrary, important people in my life. One person asked me how I could maintain my boycott of the news services while the horrific events in Japan were unfolding. It was a valid question and not meant simply to trip me up. My answer was that over the course of a single year there are so many possibilities for tragedy across the globe that it is inevitable that something like this would occur and dominate the headlines, as well it should. As I explained this, I also tried to make clear then, as I do now, that my following or not following the course of events in no way lessens the importance of what is happening to the lives of the people effected by this calamity. I am not questioning the validity of news reports on the events of the world. I am only choosing to limit the extent to which I allow those reports to effect my daily life.
The second person in as many days asked me if I was still not "doing the news" as he glanced at the soundless CNN broadcast going on behind my back while we were having lunch. The news story was, of course, an update on the events in Japan. Again, I did not feel that my motives were being questioned but rather how and if I was able to maintain the boycott in the face of such an obviously important event.
These questions gave me pause to ponder once again what the point is to going a year without news. The original premise of this boycott was that the pursuit of current events was taking up far to large a chunk of my daily life and the constant flow of news into my personal world was not making me a happier person. For me, the premise remains true. The suffering in the world goes on whether I am up to date on it or not. The stupidity of modern politics continues whether or not I study it on a daily basis. So the second part of the question is whether or not I think that this news boycott is making me a happier person. I would have to say that it is not. While I know that weighing my own personal happiness while others suffer is dancing dangerously close to the brink of insensitivity or narcissism or both, I have to remind myself (or anyone reading this) that there is always suffering in the world. Always. Without opening a paper or turning on a television or radio I can tell you that there is a natural disaster in Japan, unnatural environmental disasters across the world and civil war in numerous countries besides the constant human tragedies of hunger and disease and poverty.
If I am choosing not to hear about the sadness of the world why then am I not happier? Since I am not spending three or more hours acquiring news, I have more time to do other things. I have time to play more music, be more involved and more time to think. I had an entire month to myself while travelling, more than enough time for contemplation. With that gift of time, the need for changes in my life became more and more evident. So I have to honestly say that I am not happier now than I was as a practicing news-junkie. What I am, however, is more focused, more resolved and more radicalized. The more radicalized comment I will leave for a future post as I am still mulling that over.
Happiness is, as everything else, a transitory phenomenon. While life itself is transitory, implementing change in one's life is more rewarding than sitting passively and letting it drift by. My hope is that my resolve is such that I can make the changes I need to make to be a more whole human being. Not thinner, or a second language speaker, or a better runner, or any of the other goals that love to have attention paid to them, worthy or not. The courage to embrace what makes me more open to the experience of living and the same courage to discard that which holds me back, this is the resolve that I am hoping for.
So I will continue to eschew the daily dose of news from the world. I will try to be more involved in the life around me, as I have been doing. And I will do my best to use the additional time afforded to me to make more lasting and rewarding changes for myself and hopefully, by doing that, for the rest of the jewels in the net.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Day # 121 -- Wallowing
Well, if there was ever a day that I would begin my "whining in a public forum" phase, today might just be it. I have some obvious causes for my nascent whininess: days of cold rain pelting down on my tropically acclimated head, the return of the routine, the lack of noodles stalls. Any or all of these things might cause one to snivel a bit, but the combination may be too much for me.
I also know that there are big problems in the world, earthquakes and tsunamis and suffering. While it may seem crass or at the very least completely self-absorbed for me to be whining while the world suffers, I can only say that this is true. The same, of course, is true anytime anyone whines. There is always someone whining and at the same time there is intense suffering in the world. Today: mea culpa.
The real cause of my protruding lower lip lies not in my stars, precious, but in myself. Cleverly anticipating this post journey funk and knowing that some serious 'splaining needed to happen, I made notes in my travel journal. I in fact committed the cardinal sin of well-intentioned fools, I wrote down the things that needed to be changed. They are still there, smirking smugly from my little black shoulder bag that I bargained for in Vientiane. No one appreciates smugness and least of all smugness that is self-created and has now risen in revolt against its maker. I mean, who do they think gave them life anyway? Ingrates.
So today I am whiny, sort of like Cheops might have been way back in Egypt (except he was undoubtedly looking out of a window at the sun instead of a mushy quagmire). One morning Cheops is having a cuppa, thinking about his legacy and he jots down some hieroglyphics on a scrap of papyrus: "How about a pyramid? That would be nice". The next day while he is having his tea he sees this scribbled down on paper and, slapping the royal forehead, realizes that no matter how good an idea it is, now he has to round up the slaves and the overseers, start cutting big rocks and dragging them to Giza for the stacking up. All because he jotted down some idea. Yuppers, he wrote it down.
During the course of my time in SE Asia I faithfully kept a travel journal, as is my wont. Along with recording what wonders I had seen or smelt or tasted that day, I kept track of thoughts and ideas engendered by travel. Distance almost always changes perspective and this trip was no different. There are issues in my life that have now been made obvious by the relative position of the observer. I could just bitch about the things that are bugging me, but I went and enumerated the issues in my journal along with ideas and thought on making changes.
Now, back in the sogginess of the GreyNorWet, I do believe my grace period has expired. I have slunk about, complaining about the cold and the rain, turning my nose up at the available food and dreading the weekday trek to my office. I have been generally sour company for myself and those around me with the exception of when I relate tales about my time in Thailand or Laos. I have been told that at those times I "light up".
So, out comes the journal from its little bag and from its smug pages I will have to review all of the traps I laid for myself. I remember writing little gems like "This can be changed if only the courage to change is applied to it.." and things of that ilk. Dangerous things. For moral reasons alone, much less logistical ones, I cannot call on an army of slave to build my pyramid. I suppose I am going to have to carry the stone myself. Damn.
I also know that there are big problems in the world, earthquakes and tsunamis and suffering. While it may seem crass or at the very least completely self-absorbed for me to be whining while the world suffers, I can only say that this is true. The same, of course, is true anytime anyone whines. There is always someone whining and at the same time there is intense suffering in the world. Today: mea culpa.
The real cause of my protruding lower lip lies not in my stars, precious, but in myself. Cleverly anticipating this post journey funk and knowing that some serious 'splaining needed to happen, I made notes in my travel journal. I in fact committed the cardinal sin of well-intentioned fools, I wrote down the things that needed to be changed. They are still there, smirking smugly from my little black shoulder bag that I bargained for in Vientiane. No one appreciates smugness and least of all smugness that is self-created and has now risen in revolt against its maker. I mean, who do they think gave them life anyway? Ingrates.
So today I am whiny, sort of like Cheops might have been way back in Egypt (except he was undoubtedly looking out of a window at the sun instead of a mushy quagmire). One morning Cheops is having a cuppa, thinking about his legacy and he jots down some hieroglyphics on a scrap of papyrus: "How about a pyramid? That would be nice". The next day while he is having his tea he sees this scribbled down on paper and, slapping the royal forehead, realizes that no matter how good an idea it is, now he has to round up the slaves and the overseers, start cutting big rocks and dragging them to Giza for the stacking up. All because he jotted down some idea. Yuppers, he wrote it down.
During the course of my time in SE Asia I faithfully kept a travel journal, as is my wont. Along with recording what wonders I had seen or smelt or tasted that day, I kept track of thoughts and ideas engendered by travel. Distance almost always changes perspective and this trip was no different. There are issues in my life that have now been made obvious by the relative position of the observer. I could just bitch about the things that are bugging me, but I went and enumerated the issues in my journal along with ideas and thought on making changes.
Now, back in the sogginess of the GreyNorWet, I do believe my grace period has expired. I have slunk about, complaining about the cold and the rain, turning my nose up at the available food and dreading the weekday trek to my office. I have been generally sour company for myself and those around me with the exception of when I relate tales about my time in Thailand or Laos. I have been told that at those times I "light up".
So, out comes the journal from its little bag and from its smug pages I will have to review all of the traps I laid for myself. I remember writing little gems like "This can be changed if only the courage to change is applied to it.." and things of that ilk. Dangerous things. For moral reasons alone, much less logistical ones, I cannot call on an army of slave to build my pyramid. I suppose I am going to have to carry the stone myself. Damn.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Day # 117 Counting Again
I have finally finished posting and editing pictures into the appropriate places for the Thailand and Laos journey. This gave me a chance to go back over the trip and realize what a wonder it was. It has also given me the opportunity to question my sanity when I look outside and see the drizzle and 40 degree weather. I live here why?
So, yes, it is day # 117 without watching the news. While I would love to live strictly in the little world of memory, filled with warm days and noodles in SE Asia, I have to force myself to live in the slightly more real and certainly wetter regions of the present and my news-less existence in the GreyNorWet.
I guess I could post some pictures of the cold puddles outside my window, just to contrast the sunny colour of my photos from Asia, but that would be depressing even for me. So no.
There are guitars to be played, race bikes to be built, and squishy runs to be ran. Life continues on and while I plot whether I am going to flee as an English Teacher, an NGO volunteer or an ex-pat, I am still drawing breathe, albeit clammy. The here-and-now Baby!, the here-and-now. Sigh. OK, if I have to.
So, yes, it is day # 117 without watching the news. While I would love to live strictly in the little world of memory, filled with warm days and noodles in SE Asia, I have to force myself to live in the slightly more real and certainly wetter regions of the present and my news-less existence in the GreyNorWet.
I guess I could post some pictures of the cold puddles outside my window, just to contrast the sunny colour of my photos from Asia, but that would be depressing even for me. So no.
There are guitars to be played, race bikes to be built, and squishy runs to be ran. Life continues on and while I plot whether I am going to flee as an English Teacher, an NGO volunteer or an ex-pat, I am still drawing breathe, albeit clammy. The here-and-now Baby!, the here-and-now. Sigh. OK, if I have to.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Checking In
To answer the unasked question:
Yes, I am aware that some parts of the world went nuts whilst I was roaming SE Asia.
No, I have not perused the news to find out anymore about it.
I am busy scheming on how to get back to SE Asia.
Yes, I was tempted to find out all about whatever was going on, but I fought the power.
Yes, I am aware that some parts of the world went nuts whilst I was roaming SE Asia.
No, I have not perused the news to find out anymore about it.
I am busy scheming on how to get back to SE Asia.
Yes, I was tempted to find out all about whatever was going on, but I fought the power.
Bangkok's Parting Gift
First, I want to thank Bangkok for the gracious parting gift and I also want to acknowledge the Lonely Planet Thailand guide which started me out on the Chinatown Eats tour. I did not follow it exactly, not even close, but the idea certainly started there.
What do you do when its your last night in Bangkok and you have to be on a plane to Korea at 2:20 AM the next morning? If you have any sense, you forget about sleep (you can sleep when you're dead, right?) and you head to Bangkok's Chinatown for dinner, a movable feast if ever there was one. So it was to be.
Chinatown just starts waking up at about seven PM. The retail shops have rolled down there doors and the sidewalk and street stalls have taken over any available space. The neon is starting to glow and the hungry are heading for their favorite haunts. I had a destination to find, a starting point for my dinner. The location was Burapa Bird's Nest Soup. Remember, finding anything in Chinatown is an accomplishment, even with a map, a name and an exact address. Being a returning Chinatown veteran, I was able to navigate directly to the tiny, brightly lit restaurant and bulk bird's nest shop on the first try. Huzzah! as The Kid would say.
Before entrance is allowed, the guy in the picture has to show you that the small bowl of soup is 200 Baht. That's about $ 6.66, a damn expensive bowl of soup in Bangkok. After assurances that I was good for the cost and still wanted a bowl, I was allowed inside.
I was served a bowl of pale soup with the even paler bird's nest material floating in the broth. The main ingredient is the dissolved nest of cave swifts which make their home in seaside cliffs. The nests are composed mostly of their saliva and small bits of other stuff. The nest is one of the most expensive animal products used in human food.
The soup is served with a crazy little platter on which is ensconced some honey, some lychee fruit and a soft boiled egg. I was given the beginners course in proper soup technique which involves taking all of the ingredients and mixing them in the bowl while the other Chinese patrons watch. Then you eat the soup and find out its pretty damn good, although very subtle. I had out my journal and was making notes as I ate, probably looking for all the world like some crazed Western food writer.
When I finished my soup, the folks at the other table were buying some of the very expensive nests to take home to China. One of the gentlemen spoke English, after a fashion and asked me if I liked the soup. The conversation is best quoted:
"You like this food?"
"Yes, yes I do.."
"But you are Western peoples..."
"Yes, I am a Western person, but I don't like American food"
"Do you eat hamburgers?"
"No, (add universal Bleah-face).."
"Do you like Chinese food?"
"Oh yes, very much"
Notice the great cultural opportunity? The folks were from Shanghai and we had some more discussion about food and Seattle and China and then parted with a feeling that we had advanced Sino-American relations.
The next stop, and course, on the walking dinner was Khrua Phurnia Mai, conveniently enough located directly across the street from Burapa. And let me tell you friends and neighbors, the joint was jumping. Once again my Buddhist amulet was bringing my good luck as my host, the Thai lad in the striped shirt, above, saw the amulet, looked at me, nodded his approval and wedged me into a single plastic seat at a table packed with Thais. I ordered Pad Kee Mao with seafood, one of my favorite dishes in the world and a specialty of this particular street stand. I did not know that my perception of what Pad Kee Mao could be would soon be shattered forever.
Pad Kee Mao, often called Drunken Noodles, is a Thai dish of Chinese origin. It consists of wide noodles stir fried in a chili, soy and fish sauce based sauce with a variety of possible meats and usually with green beans, garlic and bean sprouts. As I sat, looking and smelling other people's dinners sliding by on the hands and arms of the waiters, I was drop kicked through the goal posts of culinary heaven. Despite the Tuk-tuks motoring by just feet away, the screaming neon, the street noise and the immensity of other sensory input that is Chinatown, I was riveted by the dishes. Oh please, oh please, let one of those sizzling cast iron platters nestled in a greasy wooden carrying plate be mine.
When my turn came, a smoking platter that radiated heat into the already sweltering night was laid in front of me. On the cast iron smoked a couple of large leaves of edible greens to keep the Kee Mao from forever binding itself to the hot iron. On top of the greens were the wonderful noodles which were topped with all manner of seafood including bits of fish, prawns, some shellfish and other wonders. This is one of the best meals of my life! The chili and spices are perfect, the fire of the dish a thing to be reckoned with but still complimenting the rest of the ingredients, the vegetables still crisp but hot through and the noodles sublime. Truly an amazing gastronomical experience for which I would pay a great deal if I could even get close to this in America. The actual price, with a tip, was 60 Baht including a drink. Thats $ 2 US.
Whew! The next course required a walk of a few blocks which brought me to the tiny hole in the wall of Mai Mong Hoi Thod and a table out front. I sat at the empty table in the photo above.
This joint features Hoy Tort, which is a sort of rice pancake crossed with an egg omelet topped with plump little oysters. I sat down and waited for a chance to order while eyeing the plates of my fellow diners. Oh yeah, this is not like anything I have ever had. When the young waitress comes out (standing, above, in the red apron) I greeted her in Thai and she took one look at me, started laughing and ran back inside. I guess not a lot of fa-rang make it to this spot. In a minute she came back out and tried again but when I said I wanted Hoy Tort, she shrieked and fled, laughing, back inside. My fellow diners thought this was pretty amusing and so did I, keeping my sense of humour. In a minute the owner came out, was very kind and a little apologetic, and took my order for one Hoy Tort. He also assured me that I was pronouncing it correctly. I guess I just had a strong effect on the young woman (ha!).
My dish came and it was a wonderful little omelet looking thing with about a dozen nice little plump oysters on top and nestled in the pancake-like omelet. The dish is served with a great sweet chili sauce and green onions as a topper. This was a fine finishing course, flavourful and filling, not to mention the entertaining wait staff.
I strolled through the night, too full to eat anymore and wishing that I could have just a bite of this or a bite of that. Chinatown was in full swing now, with people and traffic everywhere, sidewalks full of stalls, forcing pedestrians into the streets.
All I could manage was a chilled serving of pomegranate juice from my hipster Thai friends and then a stroll back towards the guest house. I could not make any room for durian fruit, but the opportunity was there. But be warned, if you take this smelliest of all fruits back to your guesthouse or hotel, you will suffer the wrath of innkeeper.
Bangkok had rewarded me with an evening and a dinner I will never forget. As I passed out of Chinatown, it was with gratitude for an amazing evening, and amazing trip, and a heavy heart knowing that in a few short hours, before the sun rose, I would be flying away from this land that I have already come to love.
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