Winding Down

Something happened today. Perhaps it was tainted water; perhaps it was the heat. Perhaps something sinsister sprung from the dull molten boredom that can only be afforded on a screaming hot day in the Thailand tourist off-season. And it takes a lot to shock me these days. What I saw when I came around my guesthouse and 6-month residence this afternoon, was that everyone had gone completely insane and were throwing some kind of disco-party to celebrate the fact. It could have been the rainbow that spread itself over the mountains to the south -- effecting some kind of rueful lerprachaunal vibe on the crowd, all I know is shit was whack.

This was, by the way, 5 o'clock in the evening and it had been started, accidentally, when 3 big bottles of Sangsom Whiskey combined with 12 or so glasses of ice and coke and a few hundred decibels of Thai pop music.

A quick tour of the scene:

On a bench by the spirit house, which is provided bowls of water, incense and prayer every morning, also by the alley my 35 year old Thai neighbor from down the hall was sobbing over a fresh pile of vomit and gripping a soggy roll of toilet paper while my gun-crazed landlord videotaped her sorrow with a newly purchased camcorder chuckling in the poor grivers face.

A man who had previously borrowed my ear and my patience to tell me about all the problems his Thai wife had caused him by seeing other men and demanding money and every other cliche of a bad thai-western relationship borrowed my ear once again to tell me how great things were and how happy he was to once again be giving money to her -- that is, as soon as she returned from a mysterious bangkok vacation. He later revealed to me his LSD and ecstasy polluted past, and I circled and crossed a little note in my notebook.

The gay boys from room 101 were stroking and caressing a notoriously homophobic and xenophobic (a terrible combination at my guesthouse) Canadian man. There have been a lot of complaints about this fellow, namely that he is a complete maniac. My first encounter with him came the day while I was explaining to my friend Anh what the Fleetwood Mack lyrics "a player only loves you when he's playing" meant. The Canadian man overheard me and approached. He pointed a stubby finger at me and with a vicious and unsettling look in his eye said: "you're a smart man. A very smart man."

Today he was blasting Def Leopard from a stereo he had bought and decided to place in our communal lobby, sitting there among empty Chang beer cans, his own bottle of Sangsom, with a frantic nervous look as if the derranged rats of his mind were busy nibbling at their insane cheese -- perhaps a suffering meditation on the wisdom of Wilson Phillips.

Later on I proceeded to my favorite bar to watch a little soccer which I don't understand or like. But I do enjoy rooting for Ecuador over England -- who wouldn't. In fact, in every game I like to choose the biggest underdog, or, if possible, the colonized country over the colonizer. For me there is also a kind of magic to watching Mexico play Angola that is hard to define.

Unfortunately, I was unable to peacefully enjoy the game because one of the regulars -- the only guy not Thai at this bar tonight, insisted on yammering at me. He told me about all the atrocities the Scottish have suffered from the English, about weather patterns in the South Pacific, about early Russian literature and everything that's wrong with America while I'm just trying to show my Ecuador pride. I'm not sure what makes me such a good target -- probably complacency -- but everyone with a chip on his shoulder, a story to unload, some gripe or grievance finds my ear and unloads. He sips at his whiskeys and his beer, he pulls on his cigarettes, he slurs and he repeats, he talks through my eye rolls, he depresses the hell out of me and he simply wears me out with his chattering. And right as I think that the molecules of my brain are going to diasporate in protest he says:

"you know, you remind me a lot of myself when I was your age"

Every day I find another good reason to leave.

But I'll miss it, and I'll be back -- with more sunblock, business cards, a place in the mountains and more occasions for a tailor-made Thai silk gray pinstriped suit.

feels good to unload. sheesh.

It's Good to be the King

Hot Damn! It's celebration time again in Thailand. Seems you can't go a week and a half without some reason for fireworks, candles and a ban on alcohol sales. This time around it was for the 60th Anniversary of the King's ascension to the throne, which makes him the longest reigning monarch. The day was marked with some gigantic celebrations in bangkok, and a makeshift jerry-rigged event in Chiang Mai highlighted by an golden egg offering ceremony and a middle school marching band with an all-female tuba section playing 'eye of the tiger.'

I would try to describe the King but the English language is apparently unequipped to do him reverence. When I told someone I thought he was 'cool' I was told that I could be arrested. So I pretty much just stopped talking about him altogether.

This week they've been showing clips of his Majesty playing clarinet with Benny Goodman. Then Benny Goodman fined him for playing over his assigned 36 bars and upstaging him. I've still not seen any explanation of the royal audience with Elvis.



Right now they're showing footage of the royal convention -- some 25 of 28 royal families from around the world have turned up to boogie in Thailand and they are currently parading around in a greeting room in their various costumes of medals, swords, turbans and tiaras. It's good to see that trained and groomed royalty are no less awkward in their formal-wear than 13 year old children -- I swear the Duke of Norway checked his fly before entering the greeting line.

I'm trying to figure out just what the king of Luxembourg and the king of Lesotho could possibly have to talk about and the answer is probably the World Cup. I certainly haven't heard of any upcoming Free Trade Negotiations between the two.

OK, the pie-eating contest is about to start, Japan has to make up some ground after losing the sack race; though if I were to put money on it, I'd say that Swaziland is going to take the gold in the cool-whip Twister round.

Spots Macintosh

I woke up yesterday morning feeling that it was much like any other morning -- hot and boring. Lifting myself from the corpse shaped crater in my mattress, I pulled my shirt off and stumbled out onto my little balcony, which is my little crow's nest from which I can survey the mood of the city crawling up towards the mountain in the distance. It was a calm day -- until a mosquito flew directly into my ear, at which point it became a bad day.

I stumbled into the shower and caught a glimpse in the bathroom mirror to discover that my body was digitized -- and poorly. I was pixilated, completely (as in completely) covered in red spots. My first response was to blame the mosquito, whose fault, upon medical consultation, it proved not to be. So for a few minutes I gazed wonderingly at my being and wondered why I must be both star-crossed and studded at the same time. Under my left nipple is something like the constellation capricorn, while above my right hip sits something that looks like the Arc d'Triomphe. Across my back, an archipelago resembling the Marshall Islands. Which makes me think that maybe this is a treasure map embedded in my genes -- it does, incidentally, already point toward my booty.

So like an albino cheetah I went through the rest of the day using the skin condition to my best advantage. Someone wanted to drag me to his suit tailor shop but when I turned my forearm over and showed him Spotsylvania he quickly backed off -- his forefingers crucifix crossed. An ex-female acquaintance of mine with whom I'd like to distance myself was equally thwarted with my warning that it was indeed very very contagious.

Anyhow, I bought an antihistamine thinking that this had something to do with any number of things in my environment that could have set me off like this, but the Zyrtec (which you can buy over the counter here along with anti-biotics and amoxicillin) didn't work.

I waited a day and woke up this morning equally spotted after having a couple of dreams about pepperoni pizza and killer 7-Up logos. I went to a clinic. There I sat in the waiting room looking around at the other covertly sick people. There they were sitting with their little secrets bubbling under their skin and on their genitals, while I was exposed. I could play guess-why-THAT-guy-is-here all I wanted, but he already knew my problem. It was as plain as the rash on my neck. But then again, he could be reasonably sure that this miscoloration was all that I had -- whereas I could take consolation in the fact that he probably had gonorhea, you can tell by the sunglasses.

I will say this for Thailand: it didn't take very long before I saw a real doctor. He poked and rubbed me, asked how I was peeing, and took my blood. It's not dengue fever, which is good. In fact, it's probably just a virus -- he prescribed water and sleep. Fair enough.

Meanwhile: $12. I'm looking forward to sending that bill in to Blue Cross. 12 goddamn dollars is all that visit cost me. And if I were a Thai citizen, the visit would have only cost me 80 cents.

That is by far the most interesting thing that has happened to me in a while, which is why I have to leave this place. So, July 2nd my flight leaves.. though I might straggle somewhere out west before I come in to DC.

"I'm so ugly, I went to the proctologist and he stuck his finger in my mouth!"