#1 Blood Simple. Dead In The Heart Of Texas

This being my first, fully fleshed movie review (besides the one for Watchmen that I video-taped for the Rotten Tomatoes Show that was almost aired on national television, and almost won me $100, but that they ultimately couldn't use because I taped and uploaded it in Thailand...and that I'm still bitter about), I wanted to run with the theme of 'firsts' and go with the first film from two of my, and now everyone's favorite filmmakers, the brothers Coen.

Blood Simple is old-school film noir spread unevenly over Texas toast with more than a few dollops of grisly, unflinching, comedic murder. It's a pathetic podunk love triangle gone rotten that only the Coens could make you care about. Fresh out of film school, the brothers brought every technique and trick they had learned to the table, and executed them with the taut precision of a Hollywood vet.

The title does not lend itself to the lack of a complex story, but is instead based on a phrase from the 'Dashiel Hammet' (The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man) novel Red Harvest, in which "blood simple" is a term coined to describe the addled, fearful mindset people are in after a prolonged immersion in violent situations, and buddy, there is plenty of violent situation immersion in this here flick. The film stars John Getz (best known as Christina Applegate's scumbag co-worker in Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead) as Ray, a bartender who falls in love with Abby (Frances McDormand, in her feature film debut), who happens to be married to his boss, Marty (played by Dan Hedaya, better known as the dad in Clueless). Abby reciprocates Ray's affections when he helps her dip town and Marty's clutches, which leads Marty to hire P.I. Loren Visser (played by a diabolically sleazy M. Emmet Walsh , who would've stolen the show had it not been for Fran McDormand's adorable Texas twang), to kill the back-stabbing lovebirds.

In addition to the tangled narrative that is anything but simple, the film is filled with distinct, visual originality, and money-shots a film-school art-house maven might write a thesis about, but that the Coens use with the ease of a close-up: a tense conversation between Ray and Abbey halfway through the film is broken up with succinct and slow-motion suspense of a mere newspaper tossed at the screen door they're standing behind; a scene involving a dark stretch of highway, a stubborn corpse and a shovel, that no doubt inspired a much similar incident in Fargo; Visser, first shooting, then punching through a wall with his left hand, to pry loose the knife stuck in his right hand; the erratic manual track-and-zoom shot that Joel Coen picked up from his buddy Sam Raimi, after working as an editor on Evil Dead; and the funniest use of a cul-de-sac before The Burbs, all make for the most entertaining "art" film I've ever seen. If you've never seen it, or haven't in a long while like me, you have to queue this shit up. 5 out of 5.

Koh Tao, Part VI: Bloody Pancakes

After my encounter with the canine crew, I had a pretty embarrassing spill on the scooter. I had just finished having a beer at a bar that provided an amazing view of a small cove. The place was literally at the end of the only road on the island, so there were very few travellers hanging about, mostly huts and their residents, which I was happy about, for I have no qualms about embarrassing myself in front of Thais, that's what I'm here for. Anyhow, I had just mounted my scooter and pulled out my camera to show you, Merica, a pleasant ride through the Koh Tao countryside, and as I began to accelerate, I noticed a couple of Thai kids on a scooter of their own about to pull in front of an oncoming truck. What ensued was nothing short of hilarious for the handful of Thai's that got to witness a tall goofy farang eat dirt road after valiantly, however unnecessarily, trying to save two kids who it turned out were actually driving up to meet the truck that I thought hastened their doom. I have footage of this crash, but it's stuck on my laptop which has been out of commission since December, so hopefully I can rescue it once I return Stateside.



When I got back to Ban's, I hooked up Yair, Laura and Amy and we took a stroll down the tree-shaded avenue that skirted the beach for miles, taking in the sights and smells. We passed several seafood joints with everything on that day's menu lavishly displayed on tables outside each restaurant; squid and octopus, snapper and shark and the like. After eating some savory shrimp and snapper kabobs and catching some of the World Series, we headed back to Ban's but agreed to say hello to a friend of ours and grab some dessert. Our friend was a little Burmese dude named Get, and he served some of the most delicious pancakes, of all different flavors, from his little cart, one of dozens that dotted the avenue.

As we chatted with Get and watched him cook and flip his little fruity delights, a truck full of very serious Thai dudes looking very much like the canine killers I saw earlier, rolled past behind us. Get immediately stopped talking and started looking extremely nervous. I asked him what was wrong and he uttered one word, "Police." He kept craning his neck in the direction the police had driven, and became very distracted from his pancake making. I began to assume that Get was not operating his pancake stand within the confines of the law. A few more minutes went by, when all of a sudden Get dropped his spatula and disappeared behind the house we were standing in front of, Laura's pancake still bubbling on the grill. Then from behind us a fist of surly "cops" punched their way through the small group of Get's customers in pursuit of Get. We soon heard shouting and scuffling coming from behind the house, and the cacophony soon turned very unsettling and down-right stomach-turning. I looked at my companions and their faces shared the same look of disbelief that I was feeling. In the middle of this Burmese beat down, one of the cops casually strolled out from the grisly scene and headed for the pancake cart. Without so much as a glance at the onlookers, the cop grabbed all of the cash in Get's money jar, pocketed it, scraped the now burning pancake off the griddle, set it on a plate, and walked off with a smile on his face and pancake in his mouth. I could not believe what had just transpired, but fearing the Thai police more than any force of curiosity or gallantry, I wisely decided not to get involved. I mean, seriously, what could I or any of my friends do anyway? For all we knew, Get was drug-dealing rapist without a green card, but the guy seemed pretty friendly and carefree the several times we bought pancakes from him, often chatting about how much he missed his family back home. We stood there for another minute or so, still in shock, the only words spoken were along the lines of, "What the fuck?", and then, with reluctant American indifference, I walked away and finished my pancake.

Koh Tao, Part V: The Island's Canine Problem

Wow, been a long time. Seems like all of Surat Thani has the swine flu paranoia bug, so I got a six day weekend...time to catch up on this here sclog, if you're still reading that is...



On the Tuesday, another 6:ish wake up call from roosters, buffalo coitus, and Three Billy Goats Gruff: The Musical. I got out of bed and hit my head on the bathroom doorway a few times (I'm way too tall for this country), enhancing the already maddening array of hangover stars and colors cascading from my brain. After washing up, I headed down to the beach for breakfast and more scuba fun. It was pouring down rain, so we took a vote and dove in the rain. We had an uneventful dive (if you call a teeming coral feast for the eyes uneventful), but the dive-squadron was a little more tight-knit this time round, what after being responsible for each others lives on two occasions already, and there was of course the seven birthday fuck-buckets we all enjoyed together. So we all had a little more fun going through our bullshit little scuba maneuvers. (Fuck-buckets are Thai whiskey (which is actually rum, but everyone calls it whiskey), coke and redbull tossed into a bucket. The drink of choice for deuchebaggery)


We got back to the beach and decided to do our last two dives the next day, giving us the rest of the afternoon to relax, finally giving me a chance to rent my first scooter (ever!) and explore the island. Koh Tao's a small island, and I covered its expanse in less than an hour. It was a roly-poly little sea-mountain covered with goat farms and coconut groves, and dirt roads to nowhere in particular. It was on this little day-trip that I had the privilege of witnessing Koh Tao's finest and their methods of canine control in action. Just like every other part of Thailand, Koh Tao is crawling with dogs. But this being a resort island, mangy dogs are an unwelcome part of the scenery.


I was riding my motor-bike along a hilly stretch of road, when all of a sudden a pick-up full of Thai rough-necks and covered in mud pulled up along side of me. There were about six or seven of them piled in the bed, and a couple were brandishing pistols. These bruisers looked like they had just left a tea-party with some Malaysian guerrillas. They gave me some not-so-charming smiles, then suddenly their truck veered off the road at a clip and headed for some bungalows scattered over a field. I slowed down curiously, and noticed a pack of dogs about a hundred yards away, fighting and snarling around the small huts. The truck headed right for them. When they saw the truck careening its way towards them, the dogs immediately scattered, as if they knew what was about to ensue. I actually thought the men would whip out their pistols and start firing, but what they did was even worse/better/more bizarre? I don't know the right word for what I saw. One of the men hoisted a long length of pvc pipe up to his mouth and aimed it at a handful of dogs headed for the trees. One of the dogs let out a yelp, stumbled and continued into the trees. At this point I was stopped on the side of the road. The man with the pvc pipe leaped out of the truck and ran into the bush where the dogs had disappeared. He came back out a minute later carrying the limp body of the dog he had just shot with his plastic blowgun. I shit you not. One of the dudes in the cab of the truck yelled something at the man carrying the dog, who then turned around and threw the body back into the scrub. Something else was yelled at him, after which he fetched the body a second time and took it deeper into the woods, presumably so that the decomposition stench wouldn't reach the nearby bungalows. I had just witnessed Koh Tao's canine control unit in full force.

Hot Mushroomy Mess

As you know, I was in quite a state last night, and due to the influx of respectable types who think it's funny to start a facebook profile, I'll have to tell you about it hear in ScaughtyThoughts. This state I speak of saw me at incredible highs, where every thought was one of awesomeness, and many times I picked up the phone to call each and every one of you to share that awesomeness, if only I could have figured out which one of the 13 fingers I sprouted was real enough to use the phone. Last night also had its lows, getting caught dancing naked to Fela Kuti in a gazebo being one of them. Yes, it was magic mushroom time again in Koh Phangnan.

Now I sit in the hazy after-birth of that psychedelic jaunt, gazing out at the Gulf of Thailand. It's rainy season and the sky is patched with grey and bedraggled, like the hair of an aging musician, but my surroundings are no less a paradise. I'm sitting on the porch of Big Blue resort, blogging and checking the stats of my fantasy baseball team on a stranger's computer, and eating quite simply one of the most delicious dishes to ever grace my palate: crunchy, spicy somtum with a gang of panang curry to help sweat out all the mushroomy miscreants flowing through my life-stream. How was your weekend?

Koh Tao, Part IV: Birthday

That first night's sleep was pretty fitful. On top of the first day jitters, and still trying to get over the fact that I was about to scuba dive in fucking Thailand, it seemed also that I was not the only one inhabiting my room. The walls and ceilings came alive at night with shadowy movement; dark forms that could have been centipedes, scorpions, or whatever unseemly creepy crawly creature my mind could conjure. Having been in Thailand for quite some time now, I'm convinced they were most certainly geckos, but dammit if it wasn't unnerving. My room was also conveniently located next to the hotel generator, which made noises at night like water buffalo hate-sex. And just beyond that mechanical nightmare was a rooster/goat farm; the loudest, smelliest combination of livestock the agricultural gods could come up with. And when I was able to shut my eyes for half an anxious second, there were the skeet hordes waiting to sup on my tenderness. So sleep was fitful. In spite of my slumber-less night, I was raring to go come morning.

I'm not going to bore you with the minute details of every inch of reef or the color of stripes on every fish we saw, and certainly not with the humdrum of that first day of training in the pool, because I believe that a majority of you are certified divers and have been scuba-diving before; at the least snorkeling. For those of you who haven't, let it suffice to say that it's just as goddamn exciting as I'm sure you've imagined. Scuba-diving is an exhilarating balance between adapting, reacting and adjusting the life-supporting equipment strapped to your back, and taking in the amazing alien world around you that takes advantage of every opportunity to make your dive a permanent slumber-party with Davey Jones.

That second day on the island, a Sunday, I think we spent something like four hours in the pool, just getting used to the process of strapping, buckling, checking, wearing, swimming, and breathing all the gear. After that, it was our first lecture in the class-room; another two or three hours, I think. Lecture was boring, but broken up with several verbal jabs about my new Gestapo hair-cut. That night we all had dinner at Ban's restaurant, and got to know each other a little better. Our dive instructor, Alex, joined us, and I guess I should talk about him a little, being our instructor and all. Alex was from Germany; Bavaria, I think. He's in his mid-thirties, and has been living and diving in Koh Tao for several years. He looked like an amalgamation of David Hasselhoff and Chunk. Kinda of a douche, but he seemed to know what he was talking about scuba-wise.

We had some good conversation, the seven of us, some food and drink, then headed down the beach for one of those nightly fire-twirlings to the cadence of Kanye and Flo-rida. We played some pool, got a tad schwilly, and headed home early. Everyone seemed to get along and enjoy each other's company.

Monday was my birthday, and the first day we went to open water, so perfectly timed on my part. Pineapple smoothies for breakfast, then we picked up the gear a little before eight in the morning. A long-tail boat took us out to the two-story dive-boat which took us about five klicks around the NE coast. We were only a quarter-mile off shore when we got in the water. We descended the 12 meters (these numbers need to be checked in my dive book) to bottom, formed a circle in the sand, and took it all in. The visibility wasn't the greatest, I'd say about 15-20 meters (maybe because it was still rainy season), but that 20 meters wasn't short on things to look at. Everyone made it through the skills tests with no problems, we swam a figure-eight and surfaced. About 50 minutes underwater give or take. No incidents or accidents, hints or allegations. After a short debriefing on the boat, we headed back to Ban's for a few hours before our afternoon dive. The later dive was more of the same. A few skills tests, a short swim-about, then back to Ban's.

There had been little mention all day of it being my birthday except for a couple of well-wishes that morning from Amy and Laura and Yair, but that was fine with me. I had just met these people, and we were all scuba-diving which overshadows a lame 29th birthday. Which made it all the more awesome when I headed off to bed only to make it five steps before everyone started singing "Happy Birthday" at the bar as they brought in a candle-lit brownie from 7-11, the entirety of which you can see in my mouth in some picture floating around the cyberspace. Pretty damn pleasant ending to a damn awesome day.

Koh Tao, Part III: Dive Buddies and a Ladyboy Chop-Shop

There were four others in my dive-class, and we were all from different parts of the world. Yair was from Israel, there was Sasha from Germany, Amy from England, and Laura from Switzerland.

Yair, a tall, gangly Jew was about 28, still at university and still serving the army. He didn't know it at the time, but his country was about to go to war, not that they haven't been at war since their birth as a nation. He was soon to be a busy man once he returned in November. He was certainly the most covivial of the dive squadron, not including myself, of course. Yair's a very intelligent guy, though quite self-concious when it came to his accent, which was funny because there were more Israelis on Koh Tao than there were English speakers, or Thais for that matter. That tiny island was a haven for Hebrews, for some strange reason. I spent most of my time, when not alone, with Yair over those six days on the island. Great conversationalist, if a little boisterous of his sexual escapades in Bangkok, and he was always up for some late-night billiards.

Sasha was in Thailand with his girlfriend, who was already certified and diving with another group. I can't remember her name at the moment, but she would join us on later dives and debauchery. Sasha was my usual dive-partner; we helped each other suit up, and were usually side-by-side underwater. Sasha and his lady were both very nice people, but I didn't spend too much time with them. Sasha was the first to see the whaleshark.

Amy from England. Amy was a blonde Mary Poppins, a sorority girl and a fuck-bucket rolled into one British burrito, and no I'm not being vulgar in my analogy of Amy. The fuck bucket is the drink of choice to all hedonists in Thailand, which is an overwhelming majority of the foreign population. It's Sangsom Thai rum, Caribou which is Thai redbull, and Coke, all tossed into a bucket. Fuck buckets play an integral part in my Koh Tao adventure. And Amy liked to drink them. But anyhow, Amy was a ray of British sunshine, which has got to be pretty rare. She always put a smile on our faces whether we were in the middle of a boring-ass lecture, or at the bottom of the sea.

And then there was Laura Heutschi. The Miss of the Swiss. Laura was an lovely little lady from Switzerland who had regulators busting valves all over the ocean floor. She made checking tank-straps and the pressure gauge an enjoyable experience. And she gets adorably nervous when she takes tests.

I met these four lovely people in the classroom on the second floor of Ban's Dive Shop while we were giving our divemaster all of our vital information, and signing a bunch of papers saying it was not Thailand's fault if one of us fucked up and got the bends out there in the deep, after which we watched a worthless video on how not to scuba-dive, the whole while sizing each other up.

After our two-hour introduction course, I took a nice long walk along the rocky forested shore-line in the balmy evening. I passed a lady-boy who had a little hair-cut hut set up on the beach, and decided to get my first Thai hair-cut, which was a normal Scott haircut but with about an inch and a half of bare scalp over both ears. I walked back to Ban's, embarrassed and ashamed of my new KMFDM look (ashamed because I think I unwittingly agreed to it, and didn't put a stop to it fast enough, but that ladyboy was fucking intimidating), looking like a German industrial-techno fan, choking down the bitter pill of absolutley no chance of getting what I ought to get on my birthday in the land of thighs.

Surat Sunday

I love my scooter. And now that I've got my picnic backpack full of sammies and herb and massaman and ice cold beer and my little boombox and some good readin and a crossword, I'm gonna hop on that scooter and cross the river and just head north to the hills through the rubber tree groves til I run out of gas. Hope your Sunday is happy like mine.

Success!

I am no longer in visa limbo! After three visits to the US Embassy, two of which were today (they're open from 7 till 11 in the morning, and again from 1 to 2 p.m.; I of course showed up at 11:15), and two visits to Immigration, all within 24 hours, and over 10,000 Baht give or take, I am once again an official non-immigrant class B, or in sane speak, I can legally teach again. Another frustrating visit to the Big Tiger, though not fruitless. On top of my visa luck, I also found a delicious new Mexican restaurant, the best used book store in town, and the Suk 11 guesthouse staff is now treating me like one of their own, so much so that I mustered some steel-ones to ask one of the girls on a date (her name of course is Jeab, what is it with me and Jeabs, or the letter J for that matter?; this is the third Jeab I've fancied), which was a trip upstairs to the guesthouse TV room where I introduced her to the glory of The Goonies. Sloth speaking Thai is a real treat. All in all, not a bad trip.

I have a nice little Tuesday planned, actually...

gonna start off with a 6:45 morning call from my boss. Then a little of last night's papaya salad before 30 more minutes of Bangkok-infested slumber. Then it's off to the US embassy to kiss some ass for a possibly mythological stamp on my passport. After that, it's on back to Immigration to get the visa I had just months ago, but now need even more proof that I deserve it. Then I'm thinking maybe the Mo Shit market at Mo Chit at the end of the SkyTrain. Then two used bookstores I've been on the hunt for the past two days; I think I'm finally onto them. Then a new restaurant just opening in Siam Discovery called Outback Steakhouse (it's been since my birthday since I've had a decent steak). Then off to the train station to catch the 7:30 night train that will deliver me to Surat at the not-annoying-at-all hour of 6:30 in the a.m. Then it's off to Thida at 8 to teach some Thai buggers some English. Smiling all the way.

Bangkoked!

I've now visited the Big Tiger (that's actually the name of the Bangkok Hilton, Thailand's main prison, located in Bangkok, because it devours its inhabitants, and I think the name is fitting for Thailand's capital as well) more times than any city outside the U.S., and more than most inside. I've visited Bangkok more times than I've visited the states of Maine, North Dakota, Idaho, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Delaware, Wisconsin, Rhode Island and Hawaii combined. When I walked back into the classroom for the first time in over two months, I said, "Good morning, class!", to which they replied, "You smell like Bangkok!" in unison. My dreams are filled with Bangkok. I exude Bangkok. When I clean my ears: Bangkok. When I brush my teeth: Bangkok. When I pick my nose: Bangkok. When I wipe my rash: Bangkok.

I've been to Bangkok three out of the last four weekends. All this Bangkok is exhausting. I'm up here because I fucked up and didn't get another reentry pass when Dave and I returned to Bangkok from Cambodia way back when for his root canal and then left the country again. That's the root of the problem; my absent-mindedness. But, I've been up here twice since then to take care of the problem, and both times left with my tail between my legs and my dick in my hands. I'm not blaming anyone. I realize that's the nature of the beast that is bureaucracy in Thailand. But Christ on a rubber cross.

So far, this time has not been all for naught. I discovered a new Tex Mex "Cantina" next to my home in the 'ol 'Kok, Suk 11 (best guesthouse ever!), that had some damn good food! Now I know how Thais feel when I stare at them stuffing their faces with squid or dried pork and beetle innards, after I slurped down eight quesadillas and licked the guacamole off my fingers next to a table of natives. And I paid almost six dollars for a Corona. But I deserved it. I then aroused the ire of the owner after unwittingly flirting with his girlfriend, but soon calmed him down by praising his food, and swapping Seattle stories, that being where he was from.

I don't really mind spending time in Bangkok, but every time I come here I leave a little piece of me behind. That little piece is almost always made out of Baht, but sometimes I leave a little of my sheltered American life, some of whatever innocence I have left, some common sense, naivete, respect for life, and certainly any thoughts I may have had that I'd seen almost everything (I swear I saw the elephant man at the post office yesterday. He looked just like Joseph Merrick, but much tanner, and in need of postage). So no, I don't mind coming to Bangkok, but three times in four weeks?! I'm over it.

Koh Tao, Part II : Ban's and Big Fish Murmurings

We arrived at Koh Tao's dock and were immediately swarmed by tuk-tuk drivers asking us where we were staying and telling us that place was shit and that they knew of a much better place to stay. I waved them off, just like I was doing to the dockflies, and kept muttering, "Mei, mei, mei..." Luckily, Ban's Dive Shop came through this time and had a pick-up waiting for us for free. Another eight farang piled in and we headed for what would be home for the next week.



I got to Ban's place around two in the p.m. on Saturday the 11th. Dive lessons started at four. At checkin, I was a little apprehensive when it seemed that Amelie wanted to share a room. I quickly put the kibosh on that and headed to my room. It was a small deal with a single bed, small balcony, and a shower I couldn't stand up straight in, but it had HBO so I popped on Back to the Future 2 and collapsed on the bed. Two hours to look around, grab a bite, and take a nap, the latter of which I decided upon, but as I lay in my room and tried to stop sweating, sleep wouldn't come. So, I got up and decided to take a walk around the grounds. The resort was pretty impressive, considering the price (I paid 9,000 Baht but that included the PADI certification; six nights and scuba-diving for about $300, not including the cash that would eventually disappear by way of other means peripheral to the accomodation); covering 20 acres and settled on a lushly vegetated hillside that sloped directly into the sea, it was made up of two long dormitories on each side of a training pool/garden that ambled down to a boardwalk bar/restaurant/classroom. The bar/rest./class was the sturdiest structure I've ever seen made entirely of bamboo, and quite a comfortable little hang-out as well, situated right on the water with an intoxicating view of the bay and nearby Shark Island. I ordered a cold one and parked my ass on a pillow to watch a dozen or so Israelis just back from a dive washing their gear and boasting of the sights they saw, as I waited on my intro. class to start. There were a surprisingly large amount of Israelis on Koh Tao for a holiday. Many of the restaurants had Israeli food and Hebrew menus. I never did figure out this cultural phenomenon. Anyhow, the group of divers couldn't stop talking about what would prove to be a ubiquitous conversation all over the island. Seemed a boat they were diving in close proximity to just a few hours earlier was all aflutter with excitement after supposedly seeing a couple of whale sharks. Sitting there listening to the buzz, not once did I consider the possibility of such a privilege presenting itself to me over the next week.

After an hour or so of lounging around, it was finally time to head upstairs to the classroom above the bar, to meet my future dive buddies and to learn how to breathe oxygen at ambient pressure.

Koh Tao, Part I : Koh Tao

I've been to the Samui islands at least a half-dozen times since my first trip down from Chiang Mai on my birthday seven months ago, but the awe in that initial jaw-dropping peek outside my plane porthole as I descended to paradise still hasn't and will never diminish. A 100-ft. tall, Indian-legged albino Buddha welcomes all travelers from the apex of a tall, slender limestone mountain overlooking the piers and airport. Just past his hospitable gaze and precipitous perch lies Samui, a jungle-covered nexus to white-sand beaches, swaying coconut trees, and coral reefs covered by liquid turquoise; an eye-friendly onslaught of blues and greens. I couldn't wait to get off the plane and frolic, but I still had the landing to get through.

I don't doubt the aptitude of Thai pilots up in the air, but when that landing gear comes down, all bets are off. It's like the landing strip becomes just another Thai highway, and the plane just another tuk-tuk. In other words, balls to the pedal, and very little brake until the very abrupt end. I don't think they even bother using those little flaps that come up on the wings to slow the descent. Anyhow, my bitching aside, we landed unsafely and sound.

I think I mentioned earlier that I was meeting a Spanish woman, named Amelie, who I met in Santitham. She's a thirty-something physical therapist from outside of Madrid, who was in Chiang Mai to get a leg up in the massage industry. She was a nice enough woman, though because of her all day classes at the massage school we didn't spend a whole lot of time together past chance encounters at the breakfast table and whenever she needed someone for homework. We took separate flights down to the islands, and as I saw her waiting at the taxi stand for me, I already regretted agreeing to accompany her. A few mornings before we flew south, we were eating breakfast together in Santitham's main house, watching the Presidential debates, and discussing our foreign thoughts on the state and future of the human plight. And as we talked at length, our conversation inevitably turned into a comparison of the American people with those of the rest of the world (namely Europeans), and her particular views seemed particularly callous towards Americans, despite the fact that there was a very polite and quite humble (if I do say so myself) American sitting right in front of her, who contradicted most, if not all, the negative things she had to say about America (disrespectful, self-righteous, pretentious). And as I came upon her at the airport, here she was spewing vehement Spanish and English with short, frustrated bursts of attempted Thai at the attendant, over something that seemed completely out of the attendant's control or concern. At this point, I don't remember thinking, "Let me go be of assistance," but instead that maybe I should've just kept walking by, uninterested in throwing in with a traveler who lost her cool so readily. But she caught sight of me and beckoned me over; I asked her what was up. Turns out the dive resort we had checked out online failed to send us the transportation it had promised on its website. I'm sure she thought my rolling eyes were intended for the missing cab, or maybe the attendant she just spit out of her mouth. "Well," I told her,"I'm sure they just haven't shown up yet. We can either wait or just grab one of these songtaews like everyone else." Then I asked the attendant how much they were to the pier.
"100 Baht."
"You're kidding? Well, I don't know about you, Amelie, but I can afford a ride for $3 right this second," I said, sweat already dripping down my butt-crack, just from standing out on that curb.

I started walking in the direction of the nearest truck, and she reluctantly followed. I slung my pack up to the driver on the roof and scrambled into the back with six other people. After a bumpy ride along a dirt-road that criss-crossed goat farms and coconut groves, we made it to the pier just in time to catch the boat to Koh Tao, about forty miles away from the main Samui island. An hour and a half later, as I stood at the bow of the belching ferry that took us that last stretch, cold can of Leo grasped firmly, and the much smaller island of Koh Tao came into view, I saw dozens and dozens of teak wood bungalows scattered slip shod over every jungle-covered hillside, overlooking tiny villages at every half-mile of beach, home to fire-twirlers who were starting to practice their ludicrous dance for bbq later that night, the huge fires from which they borrowed, at that moment grilling copious amounts of shrimp, tuna, serpent-fish, snapper, shark and New Zealand steak, multi-colored lanterns coming alight overhead and women frolicking in the lackadaisical surf below. But nothing from that sense-orgy could keep from looking straight down, at the wraith-like reefs and blue-green depths I would soon be plunging.

Sorry Sarah

Out of respect to D-Mo's special lady friend down in Oz, I'm gonna go ahead and clarify which of the events in my last post did not happen. The story about our cave adventure was a complete fabrication. Just kidding. No, we did not participate in the ping pong exhibition at the world famous SuperPussy in Bangkok, even though Frodini did swear on a certain matriarch's anal virginity that he would. So, glad we got that cleared up. We were good boys, for the most part.

So Long Carlos *sniff whimper*

Today I bid a fond farewell to my travelling companion of the past couple months, D-Mo, amidst a fitting torrential downpour in Bangkok. Hard to believe he was here for two months! Seems like just yesterday we were sharing a bedsheet back at my home in Surat Thani. In that time, we grueled it out together in a parched Surat; scaled the ancient steps of Angkor Wat; shared equally painful dental experiences (well, his was probably much worse, though mine is a work in progress); made equally embarrassing mistakes at several bars, harems, brothels, and other establishments of ill-fame; lolled in psychadelic-bliss on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world (maybe only one of us was induced); played ping-pong at SuperPussy in Bangkok; faced our inner and outer most demons in a subterranean nightmarish spelunk; serenaded the streets of Chiang Mai with a little water and a whole lotta handsome beard in the belly of a Burmese Army Jeep; and generally had an internationally awesome good time. Ok, a couple of those things were a little embellished, but I'll let y'all use your imaginations as to which. Needless to say, I'm a little misty-eyed to see my Colombian and newly-Castro-bearded friend leave, but I happen to think I'll see him again a lot sooner than expected. But I'll let him break that news to you on his own time. Take care, Carlos. We did good.

The Brevity Thing

In the vein of the Twitter boom, I think I'm going to start leaving much shorter posts with more frequency. I still have a few big stories to tell, but there's a lot of little happenings that are falling through the cracks. For instance, right now I'm really worried about my bottom left wisdom tooth. It's rearing its unwelcome head in such a manner that the gum surrounding it has been mangled to the point where there's a flap of flesh dangling in a very annoying and inconvenient fashion, interfering with all kinds of chewing. And my jaw is kinda sore from all the tooth movement. I just arrived in Bangkok this morning, so I might take a visit to the dentist to check it out, but knowing me, probably not (don't tell mom, sis). I only have about 3 1/2 more months left, so I'm hoping I can just ride it out.

So yeah, a couple of days in BKK, meeting back up with D-Mo, and then back to Surat for the home stretch. A month of sight-seeing and debauchery is enough and starting to wear on the soul. I can't wait to get back to work!

Songkran! or How To Get Water Into Every Orifice

Even if you've never been apart of New Years Eve in a big city, or a huge festive citywide celebration like, say, Mardi Gras, you've probably seen pictures or heard friends' stories of debaucherized revelry that would make Dionysus himself proud. So, imagine a scene like that, people swarming the streets, traffic backed up for miles down every street, music blasting, booze flowing, laughter and smiles abound. Now, imagine that scene taking place in a country whose national countenance, for the most part, could be called reserved or diffident at best. Now, imagine experiencing this festive scene from the cockpit of a 1969 Burmese Army Jeep, right-side steering wheel, left-side gear-stick, customized stereo system, no windshield, and all kinds of personality. Now, imagine this 3 DAY!! holiday scene with buckets upon buckets upon water-guns upon bottles upon hoses upon buckets of water coming at you non-stop from every which way, with every man, woman, child, monk, police-officer a fair target (no one is safe!), and you've just imagined my new favorite holiday: Songkran, the Thai New Year. If there's one thing I bring home from this trip, it will be the water-throwing ways of this crazy-ass holiday. America was made for this shit, what with our love of giant water-parks and slip-and-slides, and July 4th seems like the perfect holiday to add aquatic silliness into the mix. So, next 4th of July, if you get a bucket of ice-cold water down your previously dry backside, it's all out of love!

Scott and Dave in a Cave!

Although the Ginny Springs-like Vang Vieng is known for it's river tubing and happy mushroom shakes, it's the panoramic view of huge, dollopy limestone mountains, like giant green, jungle-covered gumdrops, overlooking a wide open Mekong river valley that you'll remember of this place. The town is full of falang (Laos' version of farang) -catering bars showing endless episodes of Friends, Family Guy, and the Simpsons. But once you get past these annoying reminders of home, the country-side offers a breath-stealing landscape riddled with caves and cool mountain springs. It was one such cave that Modini and I almost didn't make it out of. We came upon this obscure cavern by chance, biking up a pebbly country-road on ill-equipped beach cruisers, following a jankity old sign that advertised the cave, a large Buddha statue and "a great adventure, and pointed to China. After an hour of bone-jarring bike-pedaling, we found the cave situated in a tangle of forest just off the rocky road. There was a small lean-to hut tucked into the thicket surrounding the cave’s entrance, where a woman and her two children were whiling away the day. It didn’t seem likely that they would be out here in the middle of the jungle, several kilometers away from town waiting for visitors to happen by, but sure enough there was a hand-painted sign perched on a pole that read, “Cave Crossing 10,000 Kip.” The cave must’ve had an average of two visitors a week, and we had just filled their quota. We assumed the 10,000 kip just an entrance fee and happily gave the woman our money, but we soon found out that entrance to the cave was free and we had just purchased the company of her teenage son as our minimal English-speaking tour guide. He gave me his name, which I had difficulty making out, but it sounded similar to Haha, so that's what I'll call him. His initially unwelcome accompaniment turned out quite necessary, as we had neglected to bring flashlights.

The cave entrance was deceptively modest, appearing at first glance as just a shallow pocket in the side of a hill. I expected to wander a few meters into a cool shelter of stone, take a few snapshots of a weathered Buddha statue, and then move on down the road. However, much to the chagrin of my flip-flops, we soon found ourselves descending a very steep and slippery slope through a hole to Hades. Very early on in our spelunk, we realized that both of our flashlights were absolute crap, and would provide just enough light to show us the sides of a bottomless pit on our way down, or the low-hanging stalactite only after the damage was done; shit, the stars in my eyes after hitting my head on just such a stalactite provided more light. Our best bet was to stick as close to our pint-sized tour-guide as possible, who seemed to need no light at all. After only a few minutes of pitch-black stumbling, our fearless leader told me to stop, turned my torso towards what I imagined was a wall, and told me to take a picture. I eagerly did as I was told, suddenly remembering the flash on my camera and the spatial enlightenment it would bring. As the first flickering of my camera commenced, I became immediately aware of large phantasmic toes not a few feet in front of me, and the ghostly statue of Buddha, carved right out of the cave wall, was revealed. I have to admit that it startled the shit out of me, as you’ll notice in my pictures that in the first one I took I dropped the camera. Just imagine seeing absolute pitch blackness, then all of a sudden, “Whoop, there’s God!”

Now that we had seen the Statue, and had been without light for several minutes now, I presumed that our journey was close to an end. We would soon find out that there was much more cave to not-see. On and on the cave went, twisting and turning, or for all I knew we were walking around the same stalagmite over and over; it was that dark. Not until we reached the darkest recesses of this hole-way to Hell did Haha reveal to us his sense of humor. We were led to one side of the “path”, as Dave and I lifted the weak beams of our flashlights to a rocky shelf where dwelt some cave spiders. Amazed that Haha knew exactly where to look for these arachnids, I was about to ask him if they were poisonous when his true intention in showing us the little beasts came to deafening realization. Our backs to him, distracted by the spiders, Haha came up behind us and began pounding on a nearby stalactite with a large loose rock. The reverberating clang sounded as if he'd struck a cast-iron pot with fire-place poker. I felt like we’d just stepped under the Liberty Bell and my brain had cracked open. Then Haha haha’d and continued on his way, with us biting the dust. I couldn’t blame him for taking advantage of a couple falang, but neither could I blame myself for wanting to wring his little neck.


After a few more minutes of sightless groping, we came upon a narrow passageway that required us to shuffle along side-step at a forty-five degree angle. It was at this point that Dave turned to me and said, “I don’t know about you man, but I’m starting to reach my limit.” Despite Haha's hijinx, I was doing fine, having visited caves in New Mexico, Arizona, and the Appalachian States that required much more of me. I was just a little perturbed at the sorry state of our torches, and that the only signs of human passage were an ancient statue that we'd passed eons ago and one or two hand-painted arrows on the wall that seemed to be leading us to America. However, I could soon hear the cave-gods laughing up at us from their subterranean realm as if to say, “Fuck your limits, Dave.” After our forty-five degree dance, Haha was suddenly nowhere to be found. After a few seconds of blind panic, his voice returned to us from somewhere around our ankles, beckoning to us to get on our bellies and follow him through a hole that was just wide enough to admit our beer-buoyed bellies. In fact, if we weren’t lubed up in nerve-induced sweat, we might not have been able to squeeze through. But down we went, sliding inch by inch on a combination of perspiration, cave-mud, and a healthy fear of dark, enclosed places. Judging from D-Mo’s heavy breathing, he was having a rough time, and I was proud and shocked at every second he soldiered on, with just a few encouraging words from me. I can’t possibly convey how claustrophobic this tunnel would make even the most diehard agoraphobe feel, but let’s just say we were reenacting that movie The Descent, minus the pigment-lacking, flesh-eating mutants, of course. At one point, he would tell me later after the whole ordeal had ended, Dave just wanted to stop crawling and take a nap, exhausted with fear, hoping that in his slumber Haha and I would just drag him out to freedom. After what seemed like an hour, Haha’s now angelic voice told us we had to endure only one-minute more of this hellish scrape through the bowels of the Earth. I started to count the seconds, Dave picked up his pace, and sure enough, 57 seconds later, we were able to stand on our knees. Having felt like we’d just crawled through the entrails of Beelzebub himself, we collapsed on a couple of rocks, wiped the sweat and grime from our faces and clothes, and took a well-deserved breather. After a few seconds, I looked over at D-Mo and offered him a hearty guffaw which he still wasn’t in the mood to return. So, I gave him a minute’s peace and clambered back down to the hole to take a few snapshots of our would-be tomb. Can’t wait to show them to you, though they won’t do a bit of justice to what we actually went through.

Lovely Laos

Just a quick update on my whereabouts. If you were to tell me a year ago that I’d be visiting a Communist country, and that it would hold some of the most beautiful sights I would ever lay peepers on (and I ain’t just talking the landscape), and that that country wouldn’t be China or Vietnam, but a lesser known third world called Laos, I’d say, “Get the fuck outta here. What the fuck is a la-ow?” Alright, I’d heard of Laos, but only so much that its capital had a French sounding name, and that our government carpet-bombed the shit out of it in the late 60’s, and that it was wedged somewhere between Vietnam and the rest of Asia. But I tell ya, ever since I crossed that Friendship Bridge, from Nong Khai to Vientiane, and strolled down those tree-lined streets, and breathed that somewhat sweeter-smelling Laotian air, and wasn’t manhandled by the more laid-back Laotian lady-boys, I’ve got a new favorite special place.

Come to Laos! The old capital of Luong Prabang is the only place I’ve visited since I arrived in Bangkok over six months ago where I’ve seriously considered scrapping my current contract and starting over in a new location, but that’s just stupid-talk. Part of the tri-fecta of must-see cities along with Vientiane (for the history) and Vang Vieng (for the tubing and spelunking), Luong Prabang is a charming little town nestled at the bottom of the Nam Khan and Mekong river valley. The banks of the rivers and streets are peppered with frangipanis and scarlet-flowered trees, and the fragrance of coffee and spice permeates the air as you wander the handicraft and produce markets. Its outskirts are laced with caves and waterfalls, which I plan on checking out tomorrow, so can't wait to get back to y'all on those. It lacks the touristy turnoff of Vang Vieng, and the hustle and bustle of Vientiane. So far, possibly the most relaxing place I've ever had the privilege to visit.


As some of y’all have heard, I’ve run into a little hiccup involving my visa. Any time one of us English teachers plans on leaving Thailand, we’re required to pickup a reentry permit, so that our work permit isn’t dissolved and we have to apply for another one once we return. Well, I picked up the reentry permit once D-Mo and I left Thailand the first time; however we were forced to backtrack to Bangkok from Siem Reap for a small emergency, and upon returning I completely forgot to pick up a second reentry permit once we departed for Laos. Maybe I thought my first permit would still work, or maybe I just had a brain-fart and didn’t even think about it. Either way, I have much drama to look forward to once I fly into Chiang Mai and go through immigration this Friday. I expect my charming skills to be put to the ultimate test; I might even have to shave this bird’s nest of a beard I’ve acquired since school got out, and I was even thinking of showing the immigration official pictures of me and my kids, to show them that I’m really here for an admirable cause and not just to drink their beer and steal their women. So, everyone keep your fingers and toes crossed for ol’ Scooty Boot; otherwise, I might see you sooner then planned.

Thai Nuggets !!!

Thai people use straws for everything: bottled water, coffee, booze. Any conveniance store you convene in will give you at least four straws for any one beverage you purchase; they insist.


One American snack they have plenty of in T-land is Lay's Potato Chips and Pringles, both of which are dominating the SE Asian chip market. They love them shits over here. But the flavors are just a tad different. The only three we have in common are Original, Sour Cream & Onion, and BBQ, although BBQ is actually Mexican BBQ over here. From there the flavors just get freaky: Nori Seaweed, Spicy Seafood, Squid Chili Paste, Garlic and Soft-Shell Crab, and my personal fave Double Cheese Pork Burger. Doritos are almost considered a luxury; you can only find them in big cities or at the movie theatre.


Swimming is a funny business in Thailand. Thais aren't big on exposure for two reasons. They hate being tan, and they also believe it's disrespectul to show skin. So, when most Thais go swimming, they're usually covered head to foot, even at the beach. All women, Thai and farang alike, must wear a swim cap. It's kind of adorable.


Fashion is an equally funny business. While there are certainly some fashionably savvy people in Thailand, the two most popular clothing styles are Playboy and a line of garments with a marijuana motif. I've seen 5 and 6-year olds running around with huge pot-leafs gregariously gracing their t-shirts and the Playboy Bunny prominently displayed on their baseball caps. Also, the length of clothing Thais generally wear is fever-inducing. In the middle of debilitating heat, just a cartographical inch from the equator, these people walk around in jeans, long-sleeve flannels, and head-wraps to keep out the sun, and hardly a bead of sweat to be found.

They don't really use chop-sticks in Thailand, as you might expect, or maybe you don't. The only time I ever see Thais use chop-sticks is when they're eating noodle soup. Thais use a fork and a spoon for almost every meal; no knives. However, the fork is not used to spear your food; it replaces the knife, and is then used to scoop your food onto the spoon. Weird.

Now a little Laos nugget. Laotians lack a certain spatial awareness. It's pretty common to see a Laotian catching a nap on some stranger's shoulder during a long bus-ride, slumber-slobber and all.

sorry for the history lesson

Just a final thought on that last post, and the reason why I wanted to tell you about it in the first place. I remember sitting in a restaurant in Surat Thani watching the horrible events of Mumbai unfold on a television screen, when I struck up a conversation with a Thai woman sitting at the bar who looked particularly somber about the attack. I came to find out that she had some relatives living and working in Mumbai, and they were trying to get back home to Thailand but were unable to do so because of the PAD shutdowns of both BKK airports. India didn't have any other flights to Thai cities, though the Thai and Indian governments were trying to orchestrate something to fix this.

I then asked this woman, who I'll call Pui, what she thought about what was going on in her nation's capital, aside from the obvious effects it was having on her family.
"At first, I like what the PAD is trying to do. That they have the Royal Family's best interest in mind. But now that this business in India has been happening for three day's now, and they won't open up the airports to help their fellow Thais, it makes me feel as though they have only their best interests in mind." (This isn't verbatim, of course. I polished up the broken English for you)

Those were the same sentiments I was beginning to have. It was hard at first not to pull for a group that called themselves the People's Alliance for Democracy. But the more I found out about these people, the more I realized they were just a group with a large middle- and upper- class following that didn't have the power, and wanted to do so for mostly financial reasons.
"The thing that worries me the most is that they don't have a plan for government in case their mission succeeds," Pui told me.
This was clearly evident to most people, Thai and farang alike. The PAD knew who they wanted in the Prime Minister's office, but they had not told their countrymen how Thailand would be better off if their plans came to fruition.

After witnessing so much friction between the PPP and the PAD, what interests me most is how this country is going to survive once, Buddha forbid, the King is no longer with us (I mean, he's like 83 years old and has had some very recent health problems). I hope to all that is holy that such a thing does not come to pass during my stay in this country. I remember one week at school when every single normal routine came to a halt to honor the passing of the King's sister, and my school, Thidamaeprat, convened SOP a lot sooner than most schools and businesses, and this was only in honoring the sister's cremation (she had passed away a few months before my arrival). I truly believe this nation will be lost without their patriarchal figurehead. His son is widely regarded as an adulterating nimbus, and I'm not confident that the heads of state will allow his Queen or daughters to hold much sway in his absence, respected though they may be.

Sorry, I didn't mean to give anyone an international relations lecture, nor did I presume that anyone would really be interested. But I just wanted to let y'all know, because I hear about this shit every day, and it's so hard to relate to people who not only refuse to talk to me about it, but also refuse to try and better their country's future in the face of such imminent chaos.

Like I said, happier stories to follow, including scuba in Koh Tao and schooling in Surat.