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New host and look. I’ve updated the RSS feed, I think, so those of you who were subscribed will probably keep receiving - if there’s anybody out there who had any faith whatsoever that this would ever be revived.

I have deleted most of the gayish posts about travel, or the ones that when I read them made me wonder why I had nothing better to do than write that rubbish. So what you’re left with here is the top 50% or so, mostly without photos. They were troublesome to transfer, and superfluous.

If you’re new and short on time, my personal favorites are this, this, and this.

Maybe something is alive here. But no promises. When there are posts they will often be short and offensive and mightn’t always make sense. There won’t be many photos or info about what’s new with me.

But it’s something.

Props, bro.

Walking down the aisle I see seat J is a middle seat, which is not good news for a 13+ hour flight, but it turns out I’m at the very rear of the plane where the fuselage tapers and there are only two seats, so J becomes a window seat and I decide it stands for Jackpot.

Across the aisle, a guy asks me if can “temporarily” put his blanket and pillow into the empty seat next to me, and of course he can, and then he puts on mini-pantyhose and starts reading Revelations from a Gideon’s Bible. When it’s time for something to drink he gets an apple juice and asks the attendant to fill up the bottle he carries with him. I order a Bacardi and cran and pull out The God Delusion. I have GTA on my iPod if he wants to deal some drugs or kill some cops later.

I rarely use the blankets, but I do this time because I’m slightly afraid the Ambien I’m about to take, coupled with two miniatures of rum and an empty stomach, might make me hallucinate or lose control and I’ll end up pissing my pants. Also, it’s a little cold.

There are two tiny Asian girls that have to keep getting up for a largish American in a window seat and I know they they’re thinking. Or probably should be.

Did you know a cran apple cocktail has 60g of carbs, 20% of the RDA? Me neither.

I start having random thoughts. I should get a job at an airport. Next time I’ll order a vegetarian meal so I can eat first. Then again, it takes away some seat mobility because that meal is tied to your seat. And maybe it’s the equivalent of sending back a steak. “Here, I’m about to take granola boy in 45C his carrot mash. Need to spit?”

Ever notice how there’s a huge rush to get to the bathroom as soon as an airplane meal is finished? This doesn’t happen on land. You don’t rush through a meal with five of your closest and have an unspoken race to the loo. Maybe in the air it’s a matter of economics. The pax to WC ratio is out of control, except in first class. That’s the control group. What’s going on up there? About 3000 more FF miles and I’ll let you know.

Looking around and there’s a SARS mask at about my 7:30. Okay, probably an H1N1 mask now, but whatever. You gotta love it. 
When I went through security in the USA, the TSA lady must have thought my accent was out of place, because she looked at my ticket to Chicago and asked me if I was ready to go home. And I almost corrected her, but then I just said, “Yeah, for sure.”

And I wasn’t answering for Chicago, but goddamn you bet I am.

[Originally posted 07 February 2010.]

Today I spent several hours walking around Kowloon ignoring people.

“My friend, you need watch?”

“No, thanks.”

That’s all he needs. A complete lack of eye contact doesn’t phase him.

“Rolex, Breitling, Tag, Armani,”

He changes gears when I look at my vomit-orange, sub-retail eBay Timex.

“Montblanc, Louis Vuitton, Brooks Brothers…”

He’s still talking, but I’m walking and I know the opposite sidewalk isn’t his turf anymore and I’m already pointing at some mini-dumplings on a stick, which cost me 50 cents, and a coconut milk sago (?) that runs nearly a dollar. Later I’ll eat 35 cents’ worth of Indian food.

And that’s street food lunch and I love it. Just walk for a while and eat whatever happens to be around you. It’s cheap and delicious and mobile and one reason I love traveling.

In my mind I imagine having an Indian food kiosk in the deep south village where I grew up, which would be more than a disaster for everyone involved.

 “What y’all got there?”

“Curry.”

“What’s’at?”

“It’s Indian. Hard to explain. Just try it. It’s good. That pointy thing over there is a samosa and it’s shaped like that so that you can’t eat it in one bite. When they were first invented, hundreds of people died from inhaling them.”

“…”

“They’re pretty sure it’s what Jesus served at the last supper.”

“…”


“It’s high in anti-oxidants?”
Somehow - and work this part out for yourself - this reminds me of a friend. I told him I wasn’t big on the must-see parts, that I like to walk around, get a feel for people and the way they live, and he assured me it’s impossible for me to become a local in Hong Kong.

In more ways than one, this is akin to saying you enjoy driving and then hearing, “You know you’re never going to be a successful fighter pilot.”

“Okay.”
[Originally posted on 09 February 2010.]

When it’s all over, I hear the click at my six and wonder why I never did this when I had law school aspirations. Then I remember it was mostly about the chase, something I’m glad I figured out in time to avoid the loans. I check the courthouse door to make sure it caught, feel for my car keys.

Few facts needed arguing today. The defendant admits to the shooting, so, in principle, it’s simple. Self-defense means an acquittal. If heat of the moment is more like it, give him manslaughter. Fancy him cold and calculating, and it’s murder.

Of course it’s a little more complicated than that - it always is, with the law. The case hinges on semantics. I watch the lawyers try to characterize years-old actions as resting comfortably within categories of nit-picky legal definitions that no one on the jury, judging by their faces, can grasp all at once. 

Intent.
Self-defense.
Prospection.
Murder.
Manslaughter.
Included lesser charge.

I find breaking things down into dapper little categories isn’t always helpful. Stuff just doesn’t fit - important stuff, mostly.

The closing arguments are my favorite. My position shifts just a little, swings back, and finally settles about where it was before they began. I try to imagine what this is like for the jurors.

Before this, half an hour is spent deciding exactly what’s to be said in the jury instructions, which follow the speeches. Yet after three or four minutes of them, most jurors have stopped paying attention. This is the only time they’ll be given the definitions under which to evaluate, then neatly sort, what’s been pre-digested by lawyers and fed to them as truth.

Twenty later, the judge stops reading and the twelve go off to deliberate. I grab a coffee and am back in fifteen to wait it out. Surprisingly, my friend the defense attorney joins me on the second row, his client left solo to listen to bailiff banter. Highlights: childhood beer arrests in dry counties, the legality of registering a sawed-off shotgun as a pistol, and how the old jail had no air conditioning. They might be cowboys, to me.

I start to feel sorry for the defendant. “Do you need to go sit with him? I mean, you don’t have to babysit me.”

“No, I don’t like to when they’re waiting. His life is shit right now.”

On cue, he turns around. “Is this gonna be in the paper tomorrow?”

“Ah… If you’re found guilty, yeah. But they usually ask me to fact-check the press release before it’s published.”

And while I ponder what the hell that has to do with anything, we talk about his date last night and Lane Kiffin going to USC. A guy inside an “Investigator” polo joins us. At some point, the opposing counsel cracks a joke. “Twelve women on the jury? Fuckin’-a. Might be four months.” I look down and realize my friend has removed his shoes.

The thing I can’t get over is how dry it feels. Three years ago, this thing spilled over with testosterone and blood, a knife and a gun, lovers, hatred, and fear. Now it’s toner, margins, and binder clips. It’s fodder for jokes between lawyers, business as usual. The defendant, still during others’ testimony and nearly emotionless during his own, has been complicit in this, too. Jurors’ faces threatened naps throughout, and a guy read a library book two pews behind me the entire afternoon session.

Spectators might not realize how big the stakes are until there’s $8M in cold, hard piled on the next table. Until then, it’s just like any other poker game. Just so, this has felt like traffic court most of the time.

But there are moments when I realize there are stacks of bills. The phrase “execution-style” echoes as a mother’s hard sniffle. Three times, walking out of the courtroom, I pass hurting faces that wonder who I am and why I sit mostly alone on the defendant’s side, just behind the bar.

This is day two of two, or was supposed to be before the jury surprises everyone and takes more than an hour to return a verdict. “Seriously? You were expecting a two-day murder trial?”

“Yeah, but they’ll go home and talk to their husbands tonight. Changes everything. Vegas wouldn’t touch it now.”

My friend turns to face the policeman who guarded the entrance downstairs until 5pm. “Can he still go out the front?”

“Yeah, that’s alright.” He looks at me. “Just be sure it locks behind you.”

[Originally posted 14 January 2010.]

, which is strange, after a 4 1/2-hour redeye from somewhere I paid way too much cab fare to see an old friend and there’s wasn’t even anything, uh, untoward about the visit.

As soon as the plane lands and people stand up, I’m looking for locals. Haircuts with unorthodox areas of buzzed hair are a start. Duffle bags? A dead giveaway. There’s also the Philly businessman, who wears a blue button-up and a scowl that says he hates having to wear a blue button-up.

27 Degrees, the pilot tells us. I am the only one wearing shorts. I thought he was talking about the temperature outside. My senses tell me they use air conditioning inside the airport in December.

Walking out of a gate in terminal B, I can tell I’m in Philadelphia. It looks and smells exactly like you think it would. Smoky colors. A little bit of dinge. Someone has trampled a cheesesteak in the vicinity in the last 24 hours or so.

I pass a worker with a pencil-thin “beard” surfing his jawline.

Then I am strolling through the food court, and there’s a Chick-Fil-A - completely out of place this far north. And a chicken biscuit costs $2.09. Something’s wrong. Then I see a sign that there’s a “street pricing” policy at PHL, complete with a number to call if you think you’ve been had. Apparently this doesn’t apply to internet, which is still $7.99 for 24 hours. 

This is the established street rate for Philly hookers - an easy mistake to make. I decide against calling.

The next abnormality I happen upon: two ketchup packets in my Chick-Fil-A bag. Clearly these people have not been trained too well. I toss them aside and flatten on two mustard sachets.

I continue toward my gate, C25, and pass at least three Asian restaurants, all of them staffed with real Asians. There are some working in non-Asian restaurants, too, so perhaps this is some kind of marketing ploy. They’ve also planted a couple of passengers. 

The mayor’s name is Michael Nutter and he is welcoming me to Philadelphia. Gloria Estefan assails me with holiday. The concourse concessions have their own Twitter feed and I am invited to follow.

I pass a sushi joint open before 7am, either two or three more cheesesteak stands, and am met a few steps later by one of my least-favorite things: the frequent flyer credit card sales guy. It’s clear exactly what his job is, but he nevertheless looks me in the eye and with a Yankee accent says, “What airline, sir?” like he’s a ticket inspector.

The only airline flying out of this terminal is US Airways. He’s selling US Air credit cards, according to the 20 or so logos on his kiosk. Nice try. I just smile and keep walking. He’s not done.

“Free round-trip flight,” is the next statement. He’s holding out a brochure. This isn’t asked in the form of a question. It’s not put forth like, “There’s a possibility of earning a round-trip flight if you sign up and follow the rules.” It’s also not, “Hey man, this is a good deal: between you and me, you can earn a free ticket here.”

The way he says it and hold out the tri-fold, you’d think there’s a round-trip ticket neatly folded inside it. Like it’s a free sample of a sausage. Whether it’s made out already or you just have to scribble in the destination with a pen, I have no idea.

More duffle bags, thin beards, thick moustaches, sweatshirts with large logos. From where I’m sitting, two chunky women of different races are wearing slightly different thick gray and white horizontal stripe versions. Sweatpants and a leather jacket on a middle-aged man.

This takes me back to college, where there was a guy who wore pajama pants to the caf with his leather jacket. None of my friends knew his name, but we called him the “24/7 Badass”. There was a whole group of these abnormalities there. We probably just had some students from Philadelphia.

Hoodies, unshaven necks. Firefighter logo hoody. Even the guy wearing sweatpants and a leather jacket has a hood on his leather jacket. Most people have a healthy layer of skin and no tan. Maybe this is why I find people looking at me, rather thin at the moment, wearing shorts and flip-flops in 27F weather, and with quite a tan, carrying a small version of a mountain pack with a Spanish-language Men’s Health crammed into a slot in the back.


Hillary Clinton uses the term “dealbeaker” on CNN. I am impressed and possibly dated.

An Eastern European man proffers “Rudulf the ryed nyosed ryendeer” to our cheery crowd.

A ribbed sweatshirt paired with a scarf.

[Originally posted 22 December 2009.]

When I look at a map, I see a whole bunch of places that I could go. It’s exciting. They’re all different. They’re even different types of different. And I can get to these places relatively easily. It’s not like looking at a map of the galaxy or something and thinking, “Man, I should go to Saturn.” It’s not like looking at the McDonald’s menu and saying, “Yeah, I really should try everything they’ve got.” It’s somewhere between.

But it’s more rewarding to me. Traveling light like I do doesn’t offer all the benefits that intergalactic space travel might, but surely more than McD’s. It’s interesting. There are people. There are foods, sounds, smells. Life. Everything. If you can, why wouldn’t you?

Then I look at a world map - or hell, just a map of India or China - and realize I could travel my entire life and not come close to seeing everything, not at the level I want to. And sometimes I look at my life and think maybe I should take a break and see what settling down is like. But once you start to settle down, it’s hard to stop.

It’s not impossible. But it’s like being 4 beers into a 6-pack. I’m already getting buzzed, and I only have 2 left. What the hell am I going to do tomorrow with just two beers? Why wouldn’t I just go all the way? Sure, I’ll finish the last two. Sure, Princess, you can have a puppy.

Of course, when that happens, you’re more affected than before. Keep going and you might wake up in the morning with a headache and the distinct impression that the puppy took a shit in your mouth.

Or maybe you wake up and you’ve got 3 kids, 2 mortgages, a wife. Dogs. Cats. Houses. Taxes. That’s a hangover to me - one I can’t get rid of. The good kind goes away the next day. Well, most of the time.

Generally, I’m much more bothered by the potentially rewarding stuff that I can’t get rid of than by the clearly detrimental stuff that’s only in passing. It’s my style. That’s why I’m a freelance editor living in Mexico. It’s why I trudge through 4 or 5 hours of absolutely boring work every day so I can live the rest as unencumbered as possible. Surfing. Learning Spanish. Taking photos. Playing tennis. Eating the sister-loving hell out of some tacos.

Which reminds me: I still have a four-taco credit at the taco stand because they couldn’t make change. You’ve no idea how happy this makes me.
Anyway, there’s life out there, folks. We only get one shot. Live it the best way you know how. If you don’t know what that is, think for a few minutes, then go do something. Repeat. That’s about as specific as I can get, but it’s the only way to start. Think while you’re acting. Act while you’re doing. Find your preferred hangover and loathe away. Bitch to your heart’s content.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, you’ll probably find yourself just being. Enjoy it.

[Originally posted 10 November 2009.]

I read somewhere last week that Steve Jobbs asks, “Why are you here?” (1)

That’s pretty damn good. The scope is as important as the answer. He can work backwards to see what exactly they interpreted “here” to mean.

Why I am here in Cupertino?
In California?
Eating at this Ethiopian restaurant?
Why am I still, like, alive?
What mode of transport did I take?
Wait - am I not supposed/allowed to be here?

Or, the interviewee can ask. “Do you mean why I am here today, or in California, or what? What do you mean by that?”
  Especially in interviews, there’s an expectation that you’ll answer quickly enough to avoid awkward silences. By asking a question that’s open to interpretation, the interviewer forces the interviewee not only to hear and understand the question, but also to choose a light in which to interpret it. And then, of course, to generate an answer. Less time, since it’s the first Q and it’s a seemingly light one, but more to do before it’s answered.

You might get more time for complicated questions, but you don’t get more time for simple questions that are wide the hell open, especially if they’re asked offhandedly, like you should know how to answer it.

If he continues to use the question, it must have some value. Some of it probably lies in the framing of the answer. If someone backs way up and starts talking about the Big Bang, that’s one thing. The secretary that just let her into the conference room is another. Most folks would be somewhere between, of course, but you get the idea.

If the story is true, then Jobbs also finds out who’s done her homework. It’s not exactly a secret that he might ask it.

I could go on for a while. The point is that I would love to have an interpretable, open-ended question of my own like this.

For a while, I tried. I went Australian with it. There, they ask, “How ya goin’?” In the USA, we do and it goes. We don’t go. I did this to a couple of people while I was making friends in the line-up, waiting on waves. Before, you know, my ribs attacked me.

Think about how you’d answer this. The first time it happened to me, I went generic. “Oh, it’s alright” or “Goin’ alright” or something to that effect. I played it safe. (And back then I hated the question, but that’s another story.) This is mostly what I got from people.

The response I got from one guy, though, was this: “I’m doing just fine.” He actually put the emphasis on the doing. He knew I was wrong. But, really, I wasn’t. That’s the first thing I’d said, so it’s not like he’d heard enough to know where I’m from. I could be Australian. Still, he felt the need to correct me and let me know about it. Interesting, huh?

The reason he answered as he did is hard to get to, though. It could stem from something 50 years or 5 minutes ago, 5000 miles or next door. So what’s more interesting is the amount of time between the asking and the answering, and the body language during that time. Funny faces are best.

The key to doing this, I think, is a question that seems innocent, but really isn’t. It’s open-ended or slightly incorrect for the context, but it’s asked in a quick, natural way with an inquisitive glance, such that an earnest response is expected, and quickly. But if you’re not in an interview, especially if you’re just screwing with people (like I was) then that might just make you an asshole.

I still want a question, and I’m still thinking, and I believe this could be fun.

For the record, I also like how Spanish puts a question mark at the beginning of their interrogative sentences, too, just to warn you that there’s a question coming. 
(1) I don’t know where I read this or whether it’s true. Work with me.
[Originally posted 04 November 2009.]

I wonder, sometimes, about whether I have reduced ability to think or memorize because of some of the crap that was permanently drilled into my head when I was younger.

I was having a coffee yesterday with the kids from the New Mexico Suite when a young adult gringo woman sat down with her very half-Mexican child and, I don’t know, had a coffee or something.

I wasn’t paying much attention at the time. There was too much going on. There were three ants on the wall beside me. My sarong needed adjusting. I noticed a small area of my arm needed scratching. I psychically anticipated a breeze.

I was quickly snapped back to reality when she started yelling, “Obsidian! Come here, Obsidian!” Context clues told me she wasn’t summoning a rock, or even a dog for that matter. Clearly she had another daughter in the vicinity.

From around the corner walked a young boy, whom the mother then introduced to her friend. About three minutes later, they left and whatever conversation we were feigning evaporated.

“Dude, what the HELL? Did you hear that?”

“I know, unbelievable.”

“You can’t, you can’t DO that!”

“Oh, but she did.”

Listen, I’m all for getting creative with a kid’s name. I don’t much buy into the whole thing about children getting ostracized for having a different name. It’s good to be unique. I think it’s very American. Maybe we could all use a little time as an outcast in 5-K.

I’m even for letting them pick their own middle name. Just wait until they’re of a reasonable age so that they don’t pick something like Big Bird or some incoherent baby chatter.

I will admit to often liking last names used as first names. It’s a decent way to pass along a family name that might otherwise die out. Plus a lot of them work well.

As a traveler, I think there are some kickin’ place-names for kids and dogs. Dakota. Kharthoum. Jambi. Whatever.

Or pick an ethnic name for your kid that doesn’t match up with your own background. If nobody checks, maybe (s)he can get a scholarship in a few years. Fake the report cards if you have to.

But you can’t go naming your son something like Obsidian. You just can’t.

Naming a boy after a rock isn’t always the same as naming him Rocky. Here, in fact, it’s more like calling him Crystal. Or YourFatherIsAPussy. I mean, seriously, what kind of excuse do you have, Dad? Did Mom wrestle the birth certificate out of your spindly manicured hands and scribble the name before you had a chance to christen him Hercules?

Enough about the parents, though. They’ve passed down genes and this ghastly name, which now young Obsidian gets to deal with. Clearly it’s still going to get called out during the first day of class, and when Mom’s upset it will be used in full (in conjunction with the middle name, which, I shudder to think…), but I think you’ve got some options here, Son. Let’s get practical.

Looking at the word itself gives us some hope. You can go with Sid. There’s even an Ian at the back there. You could get creative with Obsi or Sidi, too, I guess. But if you really want to turn the tables on Mom and Dad, I there’s only one way to turn Obsidian into something hardcore.

And that is this: You name yourself after a deranged, genocidal African dictator. You go by Idi. “Hi M&D, I know you initially named me after a candy-ass rock, but now I’m the Last King of Scotland. Deal with it.”

Your other choice is just to wait until you’re old enough to change your name, then pick something with some hard consonant sounds and transfer to a different school. Start a new existence there and beat up, as George Carlin would have it, Guys Named Todd.

[Originally posted 18 October 2009.]

For about the last five days, I’ve felt like I’m surfing in the Special Olympics.

It’s not the waves, it’s not the boards (though we’ve sort of broken two), it’s not the other surfistas in the lineup. It’s a crippling rib pain that appeared out of nowhere.

I got on a board on Friday and was immediately affected. On the waves, my neighbor suggested it was the 13-hour drinking session, complete with hitchhiking and memory loss, that I put myself through on Wednesday. “You could’ve gotten punched and forgotten it.” Which is true, especially since I’m pretty sure I was obnoxious around strangers.

This was a possibility for nearly 24 hours, when he came down with the same debilitating symptoms. “This really hurts. What the hell?” So I’ve written off Wednesday as the cause.

As for the “What the hell?” part, I gave a ring to my brother, who is a first year med student and should, clearly, already be an expert on exactly this sort of thing. After describing the pain and what movements cause it, the conversation went something like this:

Him: Interesting.

Me: I mean, do we even have like rib muscles?

Him: Yes, there are 7.5 sets of muscles that surround the ribs. Above them are the interiopedagogal syphilis majoris, below are the craniofacialintertibial bronchialis and tropicalis viagarointercambialis, to the transverse medial distal side lies paleothrombiod osteofilibustersnufalufagus, on the lateral…

Me: …Uh-huh. So what do you think about this? What’s your official medical opinion?

Him: It’s interesting.

Me: That’s your official deal? It’s interesting?

Him: Mmmm.

I surfed through the pain yesterday, and when I woke this morning, it felt a little better. So off again we go, same as always, except that today we got the hard boards instead of the foamy ones. The hard ones are waxed, which means that I can’t slide up and down without picking my body off the board, doing a sort of push-up, and moving forward or backward. If you’ve never surfed, or if you’ve never had this kind of rib thing, that might not be a big deal. But here’s how it goes:

(Background info: I’m riding a longboard, so you have to be forward on the board to paddle and back on the board to ride.)

1. Carry board into the waves. Dip underwater for a sec, then propel body onto board [pain]. Push-up and move forward on board [pain]. Being paddling out to sea.

2. Foamy wave approaches. Push-up on board [pain] to let the water pass between body and board. Continue paddling toward Russia. Repeat 3 times.

3. Unbroken wave approaches. Stop paddling, lie on board and ride it over the crest. [not so bad]. Repeat about 4 more times.

4. Reach the line-up. There are no suitable waves at the moment, so perform sit-up [pain] and wait on some to approach.

5. Realize that the pansy, unsurfable waves have pushed you into a tranquil zone. Lie forward on the board [pain], move yourself forward onto board [more painful], paddle back into the surfable zone.

6. Wave comes. Move yourself back on board [extreme pain], then paddle to catch it, feel the pull, perform the surfing push-up [excruciating], and miss the wave. Curse in Spanish [slightly better].

(After each attempt at getting up, each painful movement gets worse.)

7. Move yourself forward on board [ouch], paddle back out to wave area. Move yourself back on board [pain] into the wave catching position.

8. After 10 minutes of no suitable waves, realize that you have drifted and now have to put yourself into the paddling position [pain] to move back into the wave zone.

9. After 5 iterations of step #8, realize you no longer have the strength to move yourself into paddling position, so decide to look like an idiot and paddle from the back of the board. Unbroken wave approaches, which you crest without problem, but which suddenly deposits you on the other side. Since you’re still lying on the extreme back of the board, your ribs impact the board [pain, cursing] and the following vibrations extend the experience [smaller pain, quieter cursing].

10. Repeat, seemingly randomly, steps 4-10 several times until realization hits that catching a wave is no longer possible in any manly significance of the word. Paddle in and call it a day, surfing-wise.

[Originally posted 16 October 2009]