Because Bruce likes it...

...and because I've nothing else left to say.

I’ve only been in one real fight, my freshman year of high school, and I wasn’t the instigator. I’ve read Catcher in the Rye seven times, The Bell Jar, five, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler, four and The Stranger three. Sometimes I try to hard too not act like “a girl.” I grossly overuse commas. I don’t argue. I hate mayonnaise. I once downed five shots of Apple Pucker prior to a Spanish presentation, just because I was nervous. I love going to the dentist. My color quiz results claim that I “demand that ideas and emotions merge and blend perfectly. Refuse to make any concessions or to accept any compromises.” I don’t necessarily agree with that. My hair grows really fast. I use teaspoons for everything. I was terrified of Santa as a child. I can’t stand to watch more than thirty minutes of television at a time. I dated a guy that went by the name of ’Snoop.’ He took me to Chuck E Cheese far too often. Is it wrong to find Eddie Izzard attractive? I used to be jealous of my brother. I want people to envy me as much as I envy them, just to add some sort of balance. I like to think that should I ever meet Donald Trump I’d give him a good, hard slap across his pretentious face. I still think Jimmy Fallen is hot. I tried to memorize every country and it’s capital alphabetically, but gave up somewhere around the Dominican Republic. As bored as I may be, I will never resort to watching Murder She Wrote. I tried to sell Girl Scout cookies to a lady in my neighborhood, hella long time ago…she refused, something about Jenny Craig. A week later she was arrested for crystal meth production. Don’t come near me and Trivial Pursuit. I still recite the alphabet for the order of letters. I have a terrible dating record. Right now I’d kill for a window seat and a rainy day. I say I wasn’t influenced by the Blair Witch Project, and I honestly don’t find it that daunting, but I’m wary to go camping. I can tell the difference between Pepsi and Coke. One sucks. I recite the ‘Hail Mary’ when ambulances pass, even though I’m no longer Catholic. I can give you a tour of the US Capitol Building, but even I can no longer distinguish between which facts are truly factual and which were created, largely by myself and Bellin, for the sole purpose of entertainment. People don’t care about the truth, they just want to laugh. I want to win at Risk, just once, that’s all I ask. I have a long list of people I’d like to tell to fuck off. I pick apart sandwiches. I own three pairs of red tennis shoes…something oddly offbeat and alluring about them. I once walked in on my aunt naked, though I think I was only about seven…I’ve never told anyone that. (Holy fuck, when do I stop?) I can’t top that. I can’t outdo myself.

Okay, now somebody follow my lead and do the same. Write a post, leave a comment, if you're not ready to sink to new all-time lows on the public humiliation scale, shoot me an email: spy_inthe_houseoflove@yahoo.com Don't laugh, it's a Doors song. And we all know how cool The Doors are. Not to mention, Jim Morrison is "sex on a stick" according to VH1, which is perhaps why VH1 sucks. Besides, that's just the email I use for porn anyway. JK...or am I? Ciao dudes.

Why are they called supervisors? Nothing super about them.

I have had far too much coffee to be posting right now. Therefore, inevitably, I shall. I started thinking about all the things I’d like to say to my supervisor. Things, that is, I’d only say were I inebriated beyond all discernible sanity or ten minutes from hopping onto an international flight clad with four hundred pounds of luggage and the knowledge that I shall never, ever return…oh, and drunk on top of that. So…for the sake of this post, pretend I’m drunk. (Not too hard really. Evidently I just rave about Ken Kesey’s style of writing and talk about contemporary art…or I punch you in the stomach.)

Croatia is its own country. Get a map. Look it up. Capital Zagreb. Dr. Kovach is a native. I bet you’ve never heard of Yugoslavia either. That’s okay, most of them were made refugees and slaughtered anyway.

Don’t ask me if I know Mike Brown. He’s a fictitious character in the textbook, for educational purposes. He doesn’t really live in New York. He doesn’t really have two sisters and play baseball every day after school. He doesn’t even really exist. Hence, no, I don’t know him. Not my loss, I feel.

Don’t refer to your husband as, “The Fat Man.” The phrase ’spousal abuse’ comes to mind.

The phrase isn’t, “pick you down.” It’s “drop you off.” Hey, here’s an idea, learn some English. You know, for simple entertainment, extracurricular fun time, a much needed hobby…I mean, it’s not like it’s your job or anything.

Don’t take me to the hospital for a headache. I’m confident I’ll survive.

Learn to discipline students in the classroom before you take them outside for the WWF smack down of a lifetime.

Don’t correct my pronunciation of “a.” I’ll take you outside for a smack down.

Don’t cough on me when you’re sick. Despite what you may think, it’s not funny. Really. There’s this thing called germs, they spread, they turn your son’s conjunctivitis into my conjunctivitis. It’s not cool. I blame you for the crack fiend façade I now maintain.

You haven’t been to America if you were in LAX for an hour, nor were you in Taiwan. Don’t lie.

Political science doesn’t involve microscopes, no.

The EU is not the same as Europe. It's only what, 25/47th of the continent!

Do not procreate. I repeat, DO NOT PROCREATE…again at least.

Today's school lunch menu:

Raw Whale.

Maybe that wasn't as in-your-face as I'd hoped. Try again.

RAW FUCKING WHALE!!!!

WTF people. wtf? Who eats raw whale? I have visions of chomping down on a blubbery No Longer Free Willy, emitting a squeaky sound similar to that after you just brush your teeth and rub your finger over them to prove to yourself that you are the Mac daddy of dental hygiene. It's not pretty. Wrong. Just wrong.

What it's all about

Did you know, that the American Hokey Pokey is not the same as the British Hokey Pokey? Furthermore, the Australian Hokey Pokey is not congruous to the British Hokey Pokey. So, if A does not equal B, C does not equal B and Zagreb is somewhere in the general vicinity of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, despite the fact that my supervisor still refuses to believe that Croatia is anything other than a figment of my imagination and most obviously, Russia, instead of it's own independent nation...then the Hokey Pokey clearly is what it's all about...unless you're my supervisor, and then you rot in hell, or you're from Croatia, because then you're forced to return to the USSR a la work camps and Alexander Solzhenitsyn. (Holy fuck, did I just spell that right?) Accept it. Embrace it. Put your left foot in it...oh yeah, and then shake it all about.

No, wait. How did something as irretrievably f-ed up as the Hokey Pokey a) become a cultural phenomenon? b) isolate itself to simply Australia, Great Britain and America? (if we have to put up with it so should everyone) c) not just die already!?!?! Dude, it wasn't even cool at the roller skating rink when you were seven, clad in leg warmers, oversized tees and splatter-painted sunglasses (indoors, mind you) indoors, skating backwards to Kris-Kross (sp?)with your crush whose name was Wesley Whitey, no joke, taking breaks to do the alligator. Even then, in the hay day of all that was gaudy, it sucked. Let's not give Mr. Hokey more credit than he deserves. And let's not make me sing it in the classroom. Please.

Me extrano...

The gang from DC. Pouring ice water in Laura's shower. Carl dressed up as a Chippendale dancer...no, wait, that I don't think I miss...or do I? Politics and prose. Camp RGL. Snow. I miss fucking snow.


My dog, Boo. (FYI: the name, not my choice)


Mi querida Espana. Italy. Flying internationally without a passport. Being attacked by monkeys. That huge fucking rock known as Gibraltar. Carnaval in Cadiz (at least what I remember.) I miss being able to say, "fuckin' grandma," without getting that awkward, 'did she just say what I tink she said?' glance that in attempts to be inadvertant is really rather prominent.



My house...it's not yellow, it's chicken.

And most importantly:

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Dr. Pepper makes the world taste better.

And the well runs dry...

The result of school on a Saturday is an eerily isolated, chilled, stark landscape. A barren reminder of what a playground is meant to be, through its desperation and solitude.

I'm willing to bet even Thoreau's years spent living at Walden pond, basking in self-sufficiency, privacy and a return to nature, weren't as isolated as this poor scene.

My [little] brother has just topped my relationship record. ::Hanging my head in shame::

There is a local man running about town stark naked, grabbing girls off the streets. Should I have cause to worry?

I was just handed a schedule dictating my class visits for the next three months. Someone has penciled my life into perfectly parallel little boxes on paper. My position for the next few months is dictated by one person's pencil. It's a pencilk with a tracking device. They're playing with my future. I don't like it. I don't even plan my weekends two days in advance, let alone three months. Scary thoughts are flooding me.

I need coffee.

Moi

The first cd I ever purchased was Green Day’s ‘Dookie.’ I have sloppy handwriting. Sometimes I dream in Spanish. Every Christmas I watch White Christmas with my mom, just because I know she likes it. Cocoa Puffs is my cereal of choice. I’ve never watched The Wizard of Oz with Dark Side of the Moon. I don’t sing in public, even at church. When my brother was born my parents thought I’d try to kill him, though I can’t remember if I ever did or not and I haven’t asked. I’m afraid people think I’m melodramatic. I usually close my eyes in haunted houses. Most nights I read myself to sleep. Once my brother’s friend asked me out. I fired a co-worker for sexual harassment. Before increased security measures I used to go to the airport by my house just to watch the people and wonder what exotic cultures they’d returned from. Despite popular belief my middle name is not derived from Rex Chapman, as great a player as he may have been. I started Moby Dick in the third grade…I have yet to finish. I like ice in my orange juice. I order Bloody Marys because they remind me of my grandmother. I volunteered at a local hospital for four years until my best friend was accidentally pricked by a used needle…my mother got me out of there real quick after that. I still have scars from the chicken pox when I was seven. I still get lost driving around downtown at home. I like retro kitchens. I spent a summer living with relatives in Germany and took trips on the weekend with the army base - it was the most intimidating travel of my life. I love to buy colored pencils even though I have no use for them. My second boyfriend was arrested for drug trafficking, it was then that I broke it off. My dad and I play ‘name that tune’ to classic rock channels on the radio…occasionally he lets me win. I have no grandparents. I want my own darkroom. I haven’t a clue when it comes to math. I was born on a Monday around 7:30 am. I’ve worked at every city pool in my hometown. When forced to make speeches I occasionally black out. I'm afraid my personality is too sarcastic.

...random...

The first novel I ever read, and this is at age seven mind you, was about the random adventures of some talking pig named Melvin, or Mervin, or any other number of exceedingly unfortunate M--vin names. He had a small group of young, human friends he conversed with, he was frequently seen eating cookies, he swam away from captors, scaled fences…a real Steve McQueen of a fucking pig. To this day I still confuse that freakishly juvenile novel with Animal Farm. Orwell hates me, I just know it. It’s just that we so infrequently happen upon barnyard animals graced with the gift of speech in modern literature (and for good reason I should say.) How many talking pigs are there?…I mean really.

I made my singing debut at age ten, piano age eleven, acting age seven and dancing age three. What the fuck have I done recently? I sold out by the age of twelve. This is beyond pathetic.

I went to kindergarten with three other girls named Lauren. To tell us apart the teacher used our last initials tagged onto our names, hence, I became Lauren H. Whenever assignments asked for my name, I wrote out Lauren H. When strangers in the supermarket came up to my mother and I, made some sappy comment in regard to how cute I was and asked my name, I replied “Lauren H.” When I scribbled my name in the margins of papers, it was always Lauren H. It took me two years to catch on that my name didn’t actually include an H. I think this is what my mom means when she claims I have no common sense.

I'm not a Buddha pusher...I swear

People with pink eye should not try to explain to their broken-English speaking supervisors what it means to look perpetually stoned, for the school will simply assume you are an avid drug user...selling your cache to your five year old students...on the A street corner in town...after curfew...using a nickname like "Pinky."

Don't drag me down

I feel as if there is someone watching over me, in a very cynical, non twenties love song sort of way. Someone who broods over the possibilities of my day, waiting for it to turn in delightful ways, before hurling down the one thing that could shatter all positive antecedents. This person knows me, all too well I fear. This person knows that I’ll only cry at the worst moments, usually involving mass amounts of people, especially my coworkers and my elementary students. They know that when I become completely frustrated or pissed off I’m liable to throw whatever is in my possession. Yet they also know that I am glued to a contract, for the next six months, which prohibits me from leaving this country, and even worse, as a temporary resident of this country, I am under certain societal restraints, of politeness, of monetary dependence, social dependence even. They know that when the PE teachers slaps thirteen year old Masao across the face repeatedly, drawing out the sound, yelling in full sight of thirty other teachers, allowing others to berate the student as well, that I am capable of horrendous acts. Somehow, they know that were I to live up to my potential and possibly whap this man upside his goddamn face with my laptop, that I’d, in retrospect, feel guilty. They know that were I a callous being, incapable of drawing emotional reproach from the abuse of students, that I’d feel, at some point or another, a certain remorseful emptiness. But the kicker, they know that being restrained to my desk, laptop in hand, ready to hurl, mouth agape, awaiting some novel words, on the verge of action but unable to fulfill such, brings me to the lowest point in my life, a reverse apex, a concave bell curve. The ultimate moment of redemption was at hand. The one moment when you finally have the desire, feel the need to say or do something, anything, to make people see, to show them the gross violations of human sanctity they are allowing in their presence, the moment to take a stand against that rat-faced bastard, the moment where I’m, quite possibly, as upset as I’ve ever been, or will ever be, where I’m most moved to take action…inevitably, the one moment when I am held back by a barrage of logical reasoning. But some actions defy reason. I hate that man. I can honestly say that. When all I’ve ever wanted for human existence is the equality of social beings, on every scale possible, here exists this man in direct opposition to my self-imposed purpose for existing, and he’s trumped me. Just one more person telling me, indirectly, to sit down, to shut up, that I’ll never make a difference. There will always be some responsibility, some contract, some inane, banal reason, to subdue, to override, to belittle my outrage, to reduce what I want done, to what must be done, into what will be done, sadly, into what should have been done.

If the reason you feel you’re here, existing, is constantly thrown in your face as inconsequential, impossible, does the necessity for that purpose become that much greater, or must the purpose go through revision?

"Ignorance like a gun in hand,
Reach out to the promised land
Your history books are full of lies,
Media-blitz gonna dry your eyes
Have you ever been afraid,
and felt society try to keep you down?
....Don't drag me down." - SD

Open Letter to Yahoo instant messenger users

Dear Users of Yahoo,

I pride myself on being cordial to each and every person who bothers to take the time to read my inane yahoo profile page. I welcome you all with a mindless biographical sketch of formalities and geographies, history and the occasional feigned interest in your ex-girlfriend disasters. I’m flattered you’ve taken an interest in what I have to say, if, in fact, you have. But I fear most of you take one glance at the picture, the rather crap picture, and decide to strike up a conversation. You know what, you’re not the first. I’m used to it, it’s fine…go ahead. But if you proceed to ask me questions previously answered in my profile, I will not respond. If you tell me you love me, before you ask my name, I’ll ignore you. If you’re opening line involves any combination of the words, sex, kitten, leather, porn, slave, bondage or John Tesh, I’d like to say I’ll ignore you, but I’m usually too nice. But be forewarned…I’ll pretend I’m enjoying your online flirtations, which for you are late night, drunken fumblings with a keyboard, but are, oddly and disgustingly enough, my morning coffee sessions, spent passing the hours at work…with children…and fifty other coworkers surrounding me…so watch your language. Your every move will receive a lame response along the lines of, okay, fine, alright. I do not flirt online. Especially if you’re a married, bi-curious female with a name like Bambi to make up for your severe lack of mental acuity and disturbingly obscene halitosis. Furthermore, “slave to the man” is an expression. Have you not heard it? Weird. But yes, an expression. It does not mean that I am literally a slave, or that I am willing to be your slave, or that I prefer to be submissive. In fact, if you dare utter the word submissive in my presence, or type, in this case, I will have no qualms about posting your MasterCard number all over the internet for Bunny McIntosh and Ebay fanatics alike to devour. What makes you think a nearing twenty-three year old would ever be remotely interested in flying to Australia, on her own dime, to visit a perverse, fifty-three year old whack-job with an obsession for making “home” videos? Some final words of advice: Don’t ask for my number if I’ve likened you to Kim Jong-il. Don’t offer to send me a vibrator in the mail…that’s just a recipe for disaster, and presumptuous I might add. Don’t bother with spell check. When every other sentence is grammatically incorrect, you replace the word ‘you’ with ‘u’ and ‘your’ with ’ur’, there is no need for academic formalities. Don’t tell me you taught yourself Spanish using tape cassettes seven years ago in your gram's dingy basement and then correct my Spanish structure, learned from ten years of rigorous study and intensive language immersion programs in both Spain and Mexico. Don’t belittle my university education as superfluous, you're a plumber for fuck's sake. Don’t send me naked pictures of yourself, or your mother, or even your dog for that matter...I just don't care. Don’t feign knowledge of that which you don’t know. I understand the practices of bullshit, I excel, so don’t try to pawn it off as serious discussion or some moral truth. And finally, don’t fucking BUZZ me. There is a reason I’m not responding to your query as to whether or not I feel reciprocally amorous towards you Kim Jong-il, and it’s because I could never love a dictator named Kim who can't even succeed at RISK, let alone world domination.

Cheers!
Lauren

Three questions...try and find them

Were I to follow the examples set forth by Poe’s short stories and Sting’s lyrics and send out an S.O.S. in a bottle, what are the odds it would end up in the hands of an English speaker? Considering currents of two converging oceans and my nearest neighbors, where exactly would it be likely to wash ashore…or is that less likely than ending up with an English speaker? Hmmm…I need a life.

Moving on. I’ve suffered enough traumatic nightmares to look up a thing or two about the study of dreams. What I’ve found is of no use. Dreams in which the sleeper falls victim to attack, either by human or animal means, suffers the loss of control of certain aspects of his life. That is to say, when I’m dreaming that my own best friend is strangling me to death, after doping me up on coke, I’m subconsciously admitting to myself that some area of my life has been taken out of my hands and is under the control of outside forces, which potentially pose a threat, of some sort. I’m more than willing to consciously lay claim to the fact that more than half of my life is no longer under my control. Outside forces possess more authority over my past, present and future than I care to admit, but I know it’s a reality. So now that I’ve come to grips with this debilitating factor, why do the dreams continue? The most irritating bit of it all, I’d be willing to bet most people are aware of what little control they hold over their own essence, but most people, I believe, don’t suffer night after night of strangulation, stabbing, rapes, drowning at the hands of foreigners, shark attacks and alley muggings. That’s not to say I am the only one, but when I tell you I dreamt of my closest friends surreptitiously, and brutally, stabbing me, I watched the blood transcend from a trickle to a pool, I lay down and begged for death, I don’t want to hear your version of a “fucked up” dream involving your uncle’s car theft and a police chase where all the officers were replaced by monkeys wielding grapefruit, your most abhorred fruit. I fail to see a comparison. I fail to feel sympathy, or empathy, for your dreams of running through halls naked, while I dream of being stoned to death for the alleged murder of unknown children and my own dog. No…no comparison. I think I’ve, reasonably, tried every trick of the trade to halt all dreams. I’m willing to forgo dreams of Candy Land and Rivers Cuomo, my own rock super stardom and eternal sunshine, even dreams of a happy ever after, just to disengage the neurotic, psychotic, morbid visions which plague my nights. Um, so, my question is…how do I do that?

Finally. The most dreaded question my students ask, on a weekly basis, goes something like, “ You have boyfriend?” Technically, a statement and not a question, I realize. But their vocal intonation denotes a question. My response, day after day, “No.” Their follow-up, “Why?” My answer is usually somewhere along the lines of, “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t help that I’m living in rural Japan, some 20,000 miles from all discernible civilization and intellectual existence, I have a snotty attitude apparently when I meet new people, I tend to only attract sexual deviants and the occasional bi-curious, married female, and, evidently, you presume I’m pregnant, which places me real high on the Japanese morality scale.” But, when translated into Engrish: “I don’t know.” I need a new answer. What’s a better response to, “Why?” (I hate that fucking question.)

Change is...nowhere to be found

I want to do a Cindy Sherman photography series, but I look the same in all of my pictures.


This is five years ago people. Note the level of change...zero.

And now, in no particular order:
I'm convinced Japanese hair does not grow...ever. I shake involuntarily. It's starting to creep out my supervisor. The teacher next to me is checking out porn. Are there no lines? I'm going to be twenty-three in forty-one days. Scary. Another year older, another year spent lost. I had a dream I was being drowned the other night. I thought they were gone, the scary visions of my own demise by other's hands. It's going to be a while before I go swimming again. A student asked me yesterday if I was pregnant...in Japanese. This is why it's important to learn the phrase, "eigo de, kudasai" = in English please. I usually just say yes to whatever randomness they throw my way, so glad I didn't listen to myself and reply affirmatively on instinct. I don't know why she would think I am. I began to get paranoid, but there's no reason for paranoia. I wondered if I've gained weight, but in fact...no, I've lost weight, again. It's like asking me if my hair is blue, when clearly, it's back to a semi-normal state of some varied shade of brown, thanks to the expertise of Thair hair salons. Er, scratch that. But, it's back. And not blue. And I'm not pregnant. What?!?!

Inverted streams of light

Existentialism is hard to come by in the land of the rising sun. A full length mirror is no where to be found, Windex has yet to be imported-allowing for no distinctive reflections in passing windows. Only the wavering self-image, cut off at the waist, swirling in ripples of moonlight and streams of waves can be seen in the river. We exist in a myriad of manners, yet mine remains one only visible by nightfall, an existence in darkness, if that, can be deemed an existence at all. Japan seems persistent on maintaining my existence as one of merely shadows, visual effects played out on stark, whitewashed walls, twirling in passing headlights, multiplying, tripling, sprinting ahead, lagging behind, diagonally, vertically, dancing with each other for a moment before retreating into oblivion once again, like some complex Escherian fantasy of light and dark. I exist in exhaled puffs. I exist in anti-agoraphobic tales. I exist in a darkened room, invisible to all but the nocturnal, silently crouching behind a dividing barrier of language, intellectually lost in translation. I do not exist in Japan. Some version of me lives here, works here, carries out a seemingly normal life…but it’s not me. It’s not Lauren. I don’t quite know who she is. We may bare a striking resemblance in certain regards, but she confuses me, and in keeping with Japanese form, that which confuses does not exist.

P.S. There’s bound to be an antonym for agoraphobia, but I’ve yet to find it. Where is my OED when I need him. I’ll look it up and get back to you…I know you’re mentally in knots.

P.P.S. Just fyi, don’t try to light a cigarette while wearing mittens, especially if you’re fire prone. Really, my stupidity only reigns supreme to keep you from harming yourselves. You should thank me. Go on.

Email from the Papa:

"Lauren. Too bad you missed the full moon party on the 26th in koh phangan. Web page said the only thing to do is watch coconuts grow. And that some beaches allow nude sunbathing. What a dubious distinction. Thanks for emailing. Have a good time and safe travels back to chilly Japan.

Love
Dad"

Did he just say what I think he said? Just when you think they've lost all vitality, they throw the most random emails your way. Subtle, but he's still kickin'.

When all else fails...

...resort to the embarrassing/perverse/comical moments of vacationing.


So, this is the point in the trip, just hours before arriving in Bangkok, confronted with a layover in Taipei, when I start to get that 'holy fuck, what am I doing' feeling. And this sign, hanging right over my head for a grand total of three hours, certainly qualmed my fears. Not only was the ROC watching me in a very Big Brother manner, but they were conspiring to hide kilos of cocaine and drug paraphernalia in the folds of my neatly rolled, and sufficiently-bordering-overly, stuffed backpack, in order to cuff me and line me up for the firing squad.


When all of your photos start to look the same, and you crave some originality, you begin to look around for creative alternatives to Dre posed as Buddha in every other shot. You begin to think, 'wouldn't it be interesting to see a human head, especially that of itty bitty Andrea, on top of a decapitated Buddha statue, like some cardboard circus cutout.' And then you realize, you're clearly not the first, and it's obviously not going to bode well for the authorities, who have clearly posted this sign in opposition to your ingenuity and aren't afraid to use their whistle, as they've already yelled at you twice. In truth, I had to try very hard this trip to not get arrested/impaled/solicited for sex.


I ask you, when the only person you know in a country is asleep, what else can you do but take surreptitious shots of yourself, bored outta your skull, doing the lame, overplayed, motto-for-the-trip-Japanese Chizu face?


The peace de resistance. Some le sketch Russian on our flight decided to make lude comments, in regards to Dre and I, before passing notes a la middle school, via means of an airline barf bag. But oh wait, it's a baby, my bad! This guy was a creep and a half, but the best part...he sent his note on the back of a receipt, giving all the digits of his MasterCard. We could have entirely too much fun with this. He also sent his private email address, which, when recovered from mounds of luggage, will be posted, so that all can enjoy in the aftermath of one man's stupidity.

Trip Counter:
*Buddhas: about four million
*Wats: four million and 1
*women who kissed Lauren, though Lauren was too drunk to remember: thankfully, just 1...I think
*modes of transportation used: taxi, tuk tuk, minivan, rickshaw, train, airplane, ferry, longtail boat, sawng-ta, some random man's mother's car who claimed he was a taxi driver-though who clearly had no visibly displayed license, bus, techno bus, so that's what...like 52
*times confused for a prostitute: just 1
*attacks by rabid dogs: 1 while scaling the fence of a Buddhist temple, several while on the beach
*deflowering of monks: 1
*gags reflexes sent whirling into action in the face of street vendors: 9,633,201 I don't eat fried rat.
*hangovers: too many to count on just my hands...I thinkI'm still hungover, can it be perpetual?
*times offended by Andy: they don't make numbers that high. I don't care what he says, you can't be drunk enough to confuse my chest with your own beer bottle
*hours spent laughing about chicken sex, 'where you go? bom boom, ping pong show', Lindsay falling through our porch, fisherman pants three hundred sizes too large, Ian's classy stories of puberty videos, and scary men on planes soliciting you for a sexploit to Australia: well, let's see. 24 hours in a day, averaging four for sleep, at two weeks and 3 days, that'd be somewhere in the market of 340


Just for Dre: But I don't wanna go to the airport.

My land is [still] Thailand.

A paragraph to regale two and a half weeks of sun, sand, alcohol, wat upon wat upon wat, falling through porches, sexual harassment, prostitutes, elephants, tigers and orphans, would soon turn into so much more. So I'm posting a few score photos to do the talking for me. They're worth, roughly, a thousand words to my one, right? Quick recap though. Dre and I spent the first eight days on a tour through Western Thailand, including Karen villages, Kanchanaburi, Sangklaburi, Thong Pha Phum and Bangkok. Then we met up with more JETs to take on the south, namely, the resort island of Koh Samui and the isolated-by-all-but-prostitutes-and-aging-western-men-island of Koh Phangnan. Here we go:

Bangkok by night, and tuk tuk, quite possibly the "safest" and "most reliable" method of transportation.

Elephant ride through Thai jungle. One of the most memorable experiences, hopefully, of my life. Our mahout was thirteen years old, which speaks highly of the educational system, but was one of the most friendly mahouts I've ever met, of which there is only the one.

Khao San Rd. A shoppers nightmare, or blessing. "Anything and everything a chap can unload, is found right here..." Hookers, the illustrious "boom boom", traveling VW bars (a rather novel ideal I feel) and name brand knock offs.

Muay Thai boxing. I wasn't too psyched about going, especially given a running period of six hours, but I enjoyed it, ear-piercing music and all. I'm not quite sure my re-enactments do it justice, but it doesn't look too terribly violent. The most offensive characteristic, the hot pants and rubdowns. ::shutters in disgust::

Tiger Temple. Lonely Planet says don't go. I say, if you're feeling adventurous and willing to sign a few waivers in regards to impalement and loss of life, go for it! Nowhere in the world can you walk a tiger with nothing more than a pacifist monk at your side. Largely, because it's incredibly life-threatening, and naturally one should be apprehensive, but there's something intriguing and death defying about walking alongside a fatality on four legs.

Ayutthaya, the former capital of Bangkok, known for wats, and some more wats, and maybe a 7-11, I don't remember.

Sadly, the heads of Buddha statues are revered more on the black market than in shrines, so it's rare to find a stuate entirely intact. It's nothing recent, and shouldn't be too shocking, but still disparaging to walk for hours around a temple and never discover a complete statue of Buddha.

Hey, even monks can be tourists. "Chizu!"

Jackpot! Buddha after Buddha, after Dre posing as Buddha. There is a different Buddha for every day of the week and two for Wednesday, one morning and one evening. I came to discover "my" Buddha is dubbed 'Stop Fighting' Buddha, with a hand out in a very Supreme-esque way. I find it fitting. In fact, I'm proud to represent such a Buddha. So, if you were born on a Monday, this is your Buddha too. Know him, love him, just don't stick your head above his.

Koh Phangnan island. Nice enough for a few days, and blessed to have not been ravaged by tsunamis.

New Year's Eve on the island. Not quite a Full Moon Party, but close enough. There were enough pyrotechnics to supply Metallica for a year, and enough alcohol to make said pyrotechnics probaby not the safest of ideas.

Lindsay, some random dude hopping into our pictures, and Dre. All a little drunk. Good times.

Sunset from Thong Sala Pier.

Or-Rawarn "Resort". Not sure I'd call it a resort given someone trying to break into our bungalow, cockroaches more plentiful than hot water, and porches set on destroying the lot of us. Thankfully, Lindsay fell through at just the right angle to only draw blood and NOT cause tetanus.

The island, yet again.