About a GIRL (part 2): Flashback of Cabin 4011

We had a good thing going, me and that love of mine. We had been living at sea and working as art dealers, of all things, onboard a 5-star cruise ship touring the long jagged coast of Alaska and before that, the Mexican Riviera.

We had swung every way we could to get a job onboard together. What started with a simple over the phone interview, turned into an audition in Toronto, then another interview, and finally the golden ticket; a trip to Michigan for a week long tryout of what we came to believe was secretly a reality TV show along the same lines as Donald Trump's bullshit. It was the longest, most interesting job audition we had ever gone through. One week of mental boot camp in a beautiful art gallery on the south side of the state, complete with butlers, and a team of chefs that made our lunch every day. The food was obviously exquisite, while the training/tryout process was more like a debilitating camp for game show hosts. But we managed to stay on top of the pile of our fellow competitors from around the world, and things were looking promising.
It didn't really matter to us where we were gonna be located, or what calibre cruise line. We just wanted to get on one of those big fuckers and get out to sea. At that point in our lives it was the best plan we had come up with after returning home from Vancouver. The most easily conceived idea of getting at a new life in the farther reaches of the world, without paying for it, and hopefully even making some tender to come home with (hah!).

So we did it. We made the team. We got the job. We drank champagne and listened to cheap, glorious 80's tunes with our new employers. We attended a swanky art party with over-rated professionals, under-rated amateurs and a jazz band. Then we boarded a plane to Mexico and spent one free night in a hotel, with a sunset dinner on the beach. We drank to the surreal-ness of it all and passed out on each other. It's hard to say if we ever really woke up after that. The experience started in such a whirlwind that I hardly recall getting on the boat. We worked our asses off on the days at sea and journeyed off the ship at every port of call, into the quaint towns and cities of the last frontier (or something like that). After two months we had found much inspiration, ate a lot of free food, drank a lot of cheap drinks and sat at the shaky table of some long, hot card games, held discreetly in the bowels of the ship on select nights. This was a risky endeavor because we still hadn't received our first paycheck. But with a job like that, one can easily lose touch with how things operate on the mainland.

Fortunately enough, we were shacked up in a passenger cabin, unlike most other employees on the ship, who live below sea level. We were grateful, but it didn't take us long to kill the passive hotel room vibe of cabin 4011, and turn it into a bungalow with guts. Almost every night before going to sleep I'd look around and admire the nest we'd thrown together. At the entrance was a slim table with two glasses and an ice bucket on a silver platter, kept constant with fresh ice and covered with a lid. The Indonesian housekeeping fellas learned our preferences fast and well.  They provided the freshest of living quarters and even made our bed with the "no tuck" request, all for only two bucks a week.
There was a single chair beside the table. It was never sat in, only used for throwing clothes and bags on. Across from that was the way-to-comfortable bed that made life easy at night, but far too difficult in the morning. The bedside tables on either side were cluttered with notepads, books (2 by Kerouac, and Tom Wolfe's "Electric Kool-aid Acid Test"), as well as framed pictures of our Moms, both passed.  I also had an un-opened mesh bag of marbles, that my Aunt La had given to me long ago, because, she said I had already lost mine.
On the other side of the cabin was a small desk with little to no surface area, covered with work papers that I would never read, and our laptop computer that served the single, most important purpose of pumping out the music. There were pictures n' sketches taped on the walls, given to us by artists we had met onboard. My favorite was the treasure map that Charlie had found in the garbage room of the ship (if I could understand it, I'd still be out there hunting). On the mirror, we had taped photo strips of us from every little picture booth we came across during our time on land. There was a small TV that was good for recent movies and old cartoons- the classic stuff you can still appreciate, like Tom n' Jerry.
But best of all, there was the mini bar, which we had of course stocked to the brim with beer for getting drunk, water for getting sober and milk for eating cereal. And because we were in a guest cabin with the employee benefits of free food, amongst other things, we were the self proclaimed King n' Queen of room service, ordering multiples of everything, with plenty of fresh fruit- a tribute to Raoul Duke.

In terms of the job we had, selling high-end art for ____________________, it was the one and only dose I needed to confirm that I never wanted to work in sales again. It ain't me babe. No, no, no. When it comes to selling expensive shit you don't want to begin with, it ain't me you're lookin' for, babe. On my very first night, I sold a $6000 lithograph by an artist I can't remember now. After that, I couldn't close anything over 3 grand. Every so often Charlie would reel in a small whale for $10,000 or more. The biggest prize was a tag-team effort, in which we sold an $80,000 Miro original painting when we were on the Carnival cruise-liner. Other than that, it was one of the shittiest jobs I've ever had. Even despite the free food and the mints on the pillows, I couldn't stand the clean shaved, suited n' booted routine of trying to convince Gramma Jojo to spend her grandson's inheritance on a piece of art that she couldn't even see without her bifocals on tight. It weighed on my conscience and drove me to drink before every auction. When we finally had enough we told them we were through and hopped off the ship in the port of Vancouver, our beloved stomping ground from a year prior. We had lived and worked for a little over 4 months at sea, with little to show in the bank book, but a sense of accomplishment and yet another check of the bucket list.
Just so we're clear; yeah the job was wack, but the experience of living at sea was amazing. Let's get back to that....

The real cherry on top of it all was the infamous 'Crew Bar' that was located only two doors down from our room. If you ever land a job on a cruise ship this is the first place you need to seek out. This bar will always remain in my mind as one of the greatest hangouts I've come across. It was like that mythical tavern, hidden in the core of the earth. You would never believe it existed until you were sitting there having a beer with the Mole Man.
The Crew Bar was very small and unique, with only eight stools and a few couches, but it had an atmosphere that killed. Every time we walked in there life would cut to slow motion and the music from the juke box on the wall would become ominous. Of course, every good bar needs a character bartender and this was no exception. His real name was Jahroo and he looked, as Charlie put it, like an Indonesian Brad Pitt. Dude had style. He didn't speak much English at all, but damn it, he tried. He laughed at everyones' jokes regardless, and he remembered everyone's usual drinks, shots and limits.
The location of the bar was at the front (excuse me, the 'bow') of the boat, with small circular windows and that heavy, metal door with a wheel that you had to crank open like a bank vault. Upon stepping outside, the view of the infinite ocean was enough to make you believe in everything you'd ever doubted. And yes, at the tip of the bow, we looked down, saw the strength of the ship cutting through the waves and proceeded to re-enact the shit out of that cheesy scene from Titanic. You know the one.

The more I write about these untouchable moments shared with Charlie Lovebottumz, the more I realize that I'm sabotaging any chance to be with anyone else. But I can't help it. The more words that hit the page, the deeper I go into the memories. And maybe there's some unconscious madness to this. No girl with any interest in me would want to read this. But this is my history, and I cherish it like the air I breath.

16 stitches ( recorded on tape as a 'note to self', then written in classier form

Let the incriminating record show that I had a dodgy feeling about the island of Pha Nyang from the very beginning. It wasn't that I didn't trust it exactly, but rather, I didn't trust myself there, amongst it's many lenient temptations. Added to which I was, and still am going through some emotional shit, having with-drawl problems from not having a beautiful woman at my side anymore. I suspected that I would go a bit mental after Charlie left, but I was able to suppress a lot of that anguish with marijuana and Sam Cooke. Even in Bangkok, running around, drinking steadily with Jonny Lupa, I was able to keep my wits about me, and the writing flowed like healthy piss. But Bangkok has a flavor much like Toronto. One can only chew on it for so long, before severe restlessness takes hold. And after a week of taxi cabs across town/duckin' in and out of hotels and pools/ allergic rashes to shellfish/ some bad whiskey we were on our way to the island to celebrate the third Anniversary long weekend - dedicated to a fallen brother. We were in for it.

Now that “vacation” is over, I look back and feel a drastic change since I kissed Charlie goodbye for who-knows-how-long-if-ever-again. But it's so hard to balance good from bad at this point. I definitely got my yah-yah's out, in different ways. I knew that I wasn't going to chase tail, and I didn't. I told Charlie that too and she almost looked like she wanted to bet on it (I could use that money right now). Instead I went on a bit of a binge with Loop, got into some trouble, fell through a roof, paid some bribes and then shook some hands. There was also a trip to the hospital for stitches (6 for Jon, 10 for me), and a few hours spent in jail, with a mangy lookin' Thai dude who eventually fell asleep beside the toilet.

We got let out a little after 6AM and made it back to the beach for a fresh breakfast buffet. First dibs on everything. After that it was a straight sleep until noon. Then we rented motorbikes and cruised the day away. That night was the infamous Full Moon Party, from dusk 'till dawn and beyond. We made an off the cuff decision to hit it straight on with no booze or shrooms. It was tricky, but entertaining as a circus of international lunatics. Some good pictures were documented. Then it was back on the boat, and back to that slight resemblance of reality. Back to Chumphon, a day before school started, getting off the bus and walking down the street lookin' like Bebop and Rocksteady.

The experience has woken me up spiritually, and put me to sleep financially. If losing money was an addiction problem and saving money was sobriety than I just relapsed hard. Now I've gotta start workin' on the side to make up for it. And if I don't then I'm just lazy and don't deserve shit. The money is out there. And I know it. There's a goal ahead now. Things are gonna get legitimately busy. Workin' your ass off for yourself and nobody else busy. The kind of busy that doesn't make you tired and cranky at all. Because every hour is another step forward to where you wanna be.

I have no choice really. I gotta pull it all up. And I'm stoked about it.

Write it down, put it up and check it off.  

ABOUT A GIRL (part 1): Two Animals On The Road To Animal Heaven

(NOTE: You know what this is about).

It was on one of our many long bus rides through the vast Kingdom of Thailand that I glanced over at Charlie and had the closest thing to an out-of-body experience that I can shake a stick at. She was oblivious to what was going on as she was staring out the window, deep in thought, with headphones on, perhaps pondering something similar to me. I was locked into an incredible state of flashback and flash-forward, admiring the holy shit out of this girl that had journeyed with me halfway around the world now, for the second time. For a brief couple of minutes, I was able to let myself lose all memory of everything I’ve ever known and then proceeded to gawk like an idiot at this glowing stranger beside me, wondering what the hell she was doing on this bus and how fortunate I was to have landed a seat beside her. “How do I start a meaningful conversation with this girl?” I thought. How did I ever do it in the first place?

I didn't. I was in high-school. I was a different person. I was a puss. She approached me. She made all the moves. All I did was kiss her in the backseat of Braden McCallum's VW Rabbit. All things considered, I wouldn't be who and where I am today if she hadn't taken a chance on me, not once, but twice. The second time, I was hooked.

(NOTE: Prior to falling on my ass, absolutely drunk on love, in my many years of being a single dude I had created my personal version of a “dream girl” in my head. The perfect specimen, complete with the works of witty intelligence, deep personality and spiritual enough to believe in omens and above all - understand me, or at least try to. Physical appearance goes without saying).

Suddenly, I snapped out of my daze and realized where I was and who I was with. Somehow, in the blur of my early twenties, I had found this dream girl from the past and we had launched into orbit almost instantly. We never really slowed down too much to worry about anything else after that.

(NOTE: This next bit is purely therapeutic writing for yours truely. No apologies).

In the dynamic history of myself and this girl I came to refer to as Charlie there was only one brief, yet severe period of “rockiness”during our last summer in Ontario. Ironically, I believe it was a necessary interlude that pushed us forward to where we are now. But at the time, it was straight up brutality. It took place in 10 minutes of one day. I heard things I thought I’d never hear and said things I hoped I’d never say, but everything seemed to come out like it was already written to happen, the same way that people meet serendipitously. The same cool way we originally met. Except in this event it was the opposite of anything cool. It was devastating and disappointing for both of us. Somehow we seemed to run out of breath without raising our voices so we took it outside and walked it off together, with funny bullet points and short bursts of laughter, which normally signified that the battle was over, and the weapons were thrown down. But this time it was just a TV time out for food and a couple drinks before we suited up to butt heads again. This carried on for about two days. There was even a very clichéd moment of callousness that took place at a bus shelter in the rain. It was then that I realized that the true focus of an argument isn’t about who’s right or wrong. It’s about the struggle for both people to understand both points of view, to reach a resolution. It’s not about scoring points by bringing up past mistakes. It’s not about silencing the other person, and it’s not about saying hurtful shit. It’s about building a bridge and getting over it together. Why is that so easy to forget when things get heated?

Then....

“Sunday morning coming down and we still haven’t talked on reasonable grounds yet. I’m waiting for you to wake up completely. Never in my entire life did I ever think I was gonna be that guy sleeping on the fucking couch. I’m pretty sure that it’s impossible to make a smooth transition into moving out, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you believe that this is the best move for me to make right now and that if we keep reminding ourselves what we’re doing this for than everything that we're missing will come back. All of it….

I wanna miss you again, get stoked with you again, journey with you again, get crazy in public places again, yell out “ I love you” again. Do it all again n’ again and forever.”

- written on the back of one of her “to do lists”

Despite the gloomy overcast, it never rained on the crowd the night The Tragically Hip played Harris Park, but Charlie n’ I had the darkest of clouds over us and not even the music could help. What the fuck was happening? We got willingly separated until after the show, then found ourselves leaning on the sidewall of a bodega on Riverside, laying down all the bad cards we’d been holding, trying our hardest to figure out if we were coming to a conclusion or an ending. It was as though we were the last man and woman on earth, that night. The world was eerily silent.

Then the morning came and she was still there.

She said “I still love you.” I said the same.

Then I left for work.

Then she left for Chicago. Lollapalooza.

We both had a long 7 days to shake it off and get our shit together. I never wanted to get outta the relationship, I just wanted to get outta town for good, with her. I was ready to tell her this and she came back with the same idea, along with a beautiful tattoo in a beautiful spot and suddenly everything was fresh again and our minds were open wide. There was no explanation for what went wrong, what had nearly caused us to split and walk away from 5 years of beautiful unity. Something had sparked a fear in us, that threatened our confidence of sharing an ideal life together. We both felt it, but we couldn’t identify it, so we butted heads like dumb beasts. My theory is that we suddenly became bombarded with the big questions of how, when, where and why were we going to spend a life together? Neither of has had found a career, or even really set foot on a steady career path, so how could we even begin to contemplate any thoughts of a family, a house, and everything else that falls under my definition of “settling down.”

But the dust had cleared, and it became excruciatingly obvious that we were nowhere close to settling down for any reason. Thank the Sun, Moon & Stars! We were as restless as kids on a rainy day, but at least we had found an answer. We loved each other enough to roll with the punches. We got wild, like Van City all over again. Then everything else followed and we were back in the business of living out our dreams. Teaming up and conspiring, making lists, saving money, selling everything we didn’t need, staying up too late, getting up too early and feeling great about it because we shared one mutual goal: Get busy travelin’ again.

By October of 2009 we were on the other side, a million miles away from a typical North-American life. Still, a million miles away from a final destination –still many years away from getting it all figured out and settling down and I was glad. We braved a serious shit storm of un-necessary conformity and came out together and tanned in Thailand.

Now, a year has passed, and Charlie is on that bus again, traveling through Thailand, en route to the airport. The seat beside her is empty. I remain here, in the south of Thailand- teaching, writing, building up for something I still can't totally see, but I can feel. Charlie is on her way to Australia, to begin an interesting job at a Road House in the deep outback of the country. As she gets closer and closer to the new destination and the new chapter in her life, I get closer and closer to finishing this piece of writing. But I know that I will never completely close the book on the 6 years, 4 chapters, and the majority of my tenacious twenties, that I shared with Lindsey Ann Furlonger. On the contrary, if anything, I've only just begun writing the reflections of this muse that will continue to inspire me from afar.

(NOTE: Watch Forest Gump. Charlie is my Jenny).

The Everyday War

Everybody's workin'. Everybody's getting married. Everybody's "free"

It's getting hard to remain the same anymore

but it's so good to see that those dreams aren't so far away. 

One day I may wake up to find the right things are in reach 

I'll buy my self a new suit and revel in the rain. 

Well I'm sorry that I'm unsafe

and I'm sorry that I'm still blind.

Don't quarrel with the everyday war

because it's a fight we don't need to win

Never felt so individual before

Still I'm lost in my ways

without a time and place.

Well I'm sorry that I'm so unsafe

and I'm sorry that I feel I'm so right.

What about today?

What about me?

Don't let it fade. 

Though, you may doubt me

Don't let it fade.

Fast June Blues (part 2)

The weekend that the four-winged acapela bugs hit Chumphon was a long weekend. The 28^th day of May was a highly regarded buddhist holiday known as “Viseka Day” which happened to fall on a Friday. Good news for everyone, except for the fact that this was the one true day you were not supposed to drink alcohol in Thailand. As fate would have it, this exact Friday was the day that myself and my new-found friends happened to run out of ganja stash. Big deal. I took a stroll around the lot with the Ruca dog and picked about thirty leaves from the kratom tree; a sacred, mysterious Thai herb that either puts you up in the breeze or down on your knees. It hasn't failed me yet.

I boiled some water and steeped all of em' on low heat. That was the usual procedure. But then I followed a newly suggested recipe and cooled the brew off before adding a bottle of M150, the reddest of the bulls. I mixed it with ice, poured the potent batch into a bucket and started pulling off it from a straw. The recipe was recommended just the previous night by a fellow teacher named Kentucky Jay. Still haven't figured this cat out yet, but he's good. About as American as they come, but every word he says is funny 'cause of his Kentucky accent. Jay is the head teacher at another school here in Chumphon. He has killed many people, and talks about his days as a sniper without mentioning any gory details. “It was a job, like any other.” He says. Then he changes the subject and talks about some crazy shit he saw on YouTube. Fair enough.

There is now a solid collection of characters to bring into this ongoing saga of mine. Some of these people I'm certain I was destined to meet up with. Others I know are here strictly for the sake of entertainment and good writing. All are welcome.

My closest new friends are an Australian named Dan Z., who I met on a long ass bus trip to the country of Laos. We were both travelling alone at the time, and after a bit of basic chit-chat I learned that he was inevitably bound for Chumphon, to teach at the high-school about fifteen minutes away from where I live. We met up with another Aussie, a lady named Jo at the Thai Embassy, who turned out to be a real wild card. I would have guessed she was in her 40's but it turned out she was pushing on 60. The three of us found a great hotel off the main drag of Vientian and shared an honest couple of days doing nothing but eating and drinking, while pouring out our life stories for each other. It's funny how you can open up to a complete stranger easier than you could ever say anything to your own family. We let it all hang out, and it felt great. Turns out, Dan was once a married man, living in Babylon, as he puts it. Wearing the same clothes, and living the same life as everybody else. But something wasn't right. So he and the wife called it quits and Dan fled to India, specifically to a place called Goa, where he lived in a community of music, psychedelic drugs, hugs and freedom of everything. It drew all walks of life from all corners of the world, all with one intention; re-discovery of self. After nearly a year, the money ran out and it was time to move on. Dan, the man. One hell of a neighbour, he's turning out to be. From married life to pure freedom to shooting zombies at the local arcade with yours truly. 

Subsequently, after getting back from Laos, Dan and I hopped on a bus headed to an English Teachers seminar at a 5-star resort located on the River Quai (we never saw the bridge). It was there that we met a variable plethora of travelling teachers like ourselves from the farthest reaches of the globe. A lot of South Africans at this event. A lot goin' on. Just like high-school, everyone broke off into their temporary cliques. Dan n' I bounced around from group to group, taking it all in and checking it all out. The seminar would end everyday at 5:00pm, followed by an onslaught of foreigners walking off the resort to purchase cheaply priced alcohol at a store, conveniently located at the gates of the resort compound (some might call it a convenient store). It was during one of these after seminar parties that I walked into the room of Paul Zuckerman and Thomas Busk, perhaps two of the oldest dudes at the event. Originally I was drawn in by “a simple twist of fate” echoing off the acoustic guitar being played by Thomas. He had a musical background beyond anybody I had ever met in a hotel. After jamming with the Greatful Dead in the last few years of Jerry Garcia's life, Thomas went on to play with George Clinton and the P-Funk All-stars before moving to Malaysia to pursue a career in studying Taoism and eventually falling into a gig as an English teacher to stay a float. Thomas could cover damn near anything, but with his own slow spin on it that made it his. While he played, Paul n' I bonded on conversations about favorite writers, Dylan songs, movies and beliefs. It wasn't until a week later that I got back to the home base in Chumphon when I received a message from Paul saying that he was coming to town to teach at the same school as Dan. He needed a place to live. I happened to know of a vacant house on the good ol' lot that I call home. Now “the lot” is full on commune living style, with Dan Z and Paul Z, Charlie, Me and of course, a pant-load of meaningful characters that continue to come out of nowhere and make me believe that life is brilliant. We'll never be able to compete with it's divine comedy. So the best thing to do is laugh and make the best out of every card you get dealt. To find enjoyment in the 4 of spades, and all those other rags.

Anyway like I was saying, it was during this 3 day blessing of a weekend that Dan's good Finnish friend, Meeka came to town. He arrived on the Friday night and it became instantly clear that Meeka liked to party. A good crew of us put in some quality hours on the most inviting porch I've sat on in many years (maybe the greatest, but it's early still). It all started like rain....one, two, four, seven, twenty, eighty-nine, downpour! But it was bugs. The wrath. Swarming around the light above us in a building funnel cloud. Kinda gross at first, but somehow it became fucking amazing. I jumped up on the table and put my head in the vortex of acapela bugs and their accelerated wings. It was like wearing a 360 degree fan helmet. Ever seen one of those? I don't think they exist.  

There was no chance of knowing it then but Meeka was a goddamn tornado himself. We use the word “crazy” in many ways these days. Meeka represented it very well. He was bad crazy in the sense that he was very socio-pathic, with no filter or respect for thai culture, or any other culture for that matter. We all liked the guy a lot, but within a few short weeks he became hard to associate with. Aside from the little things, like riding a motorbike in his bare feet and wearing not much more than tattered underwear, he would approach us at the best of times, when the Thai family was around, and he would say shit like “ Ok, I'm gonna go and smoke 'dis joint with da whores in da whore house now.”

Aw yes, and the hand. That's his own crafty work, performed with a pair of scissors after he shot a cocktail of sedatives and bad junk into his arm. As Meeka tells it, he had to do it himself or he would have lost his whole arm. I'm not makin' this up and I'm pretty sure he isn't either. Life writes it's own stories. We play the part we're given as best as we can. 

The crazy part that I appreciated about Meeka was that he was one of those cats that was up for anything, and possessed a very intellectual mind hidden within his brutish exterior. He had seen his share of things and worked his share of jobs. Apparently a 7 year drug addict can land some pretty interesting gigs in Finland. The two most notables he mentioned were working for Sony and a division of the city morgue that performed full body autopsies. Meeka was the guy that opened up the body cavity and the skull. With no official experience, they supplied him with a shelf full of horrific looking tools and put him in front of a corpse. He described how exploring the inside of the human body was like being in outer space or the unknown depths of the sea. I didn't doubt that he had likely been to both. Eventually I was going to ask about all the circular scars that riddled his body, but he beat me to it. I find it hard to believe that this guy was ever what we'd call a “normal guy” but apparently there was a point in his life when he was normal enough. Engaged to be married, in love with life, writing poetry etc. Then one day, after an examination for some pain in his chest, he was told by the hospital that he had a rare and rapidly fatal form of cancer and had roughly a year to live.

Most people have some sort of half-ass answer for this scenario, and most of the time it involves travelling to somewhere they've always wanted to go. But for Meeka, the answer wasn't about going anywhere, it was about doing something he'd always wanted to try; heroin.

So with a 12 month countdown 'till the end, he did some research, made some calls to the wrong people, went out and purchased a heroin kit and got into the drug like it was a fuckin' stamp collection.

It didn't take long to wear the badge of a junky, and before he knew it, two things had happened. He had used heroin so much that he was running out of good veins to shoot into, and paradoxically, a year had come and gone since he had been diagnosed. Then another year went by. And another. The cancer was never there, it was a misdiagnosis in favour of the patient. How lucky and stupid can you be at the same time? This sets the bar pretty high. Now Meeka was going to die, but not from cancer.

It's been almost 10 years since the fluke, and having known this character for only a few weeks now, I would confidently (or unconfidently) wager that Meeka's time is almost up. There's a lot to support this theory including, riding around on the motorcycle, drunker than shit, no shirt, no shoes, of course no helmet, eventually crashing it and ripping apart half his foot, fooling around with married Thai woman, and somehow managing to break damn near everything he touched. Some people are accident prone, others make their own trouble, the rest of us just try to stay the hell out of the way. Meeka has now been missing for 2 days. Whatever happens to this cat will not surprise me at all.

It's almost July now, and if the world starts turning any faster I think I'm gonna chuck. Some questions have been answered, some decisions have been made, some money has been saved. As always, more questions have arisen, more motivation is needed, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

But to contradict all that shit I just wrote, I've also realized how different my life really is now, more than it's ever been. I never thought I'd be a serious English teacher, but it really is an amazing gig. I'm exerting energy in a way I never have before with any job I've had, and when it's done right, it comes back. I dig it for the challenge of doing something that I never pictured myself doing. At the same time, the living is easy, the food is amazing and the time for writing, reading, learning guitar and building on a future is all here, if I can just stay focused. It's hard to do all these things at once, but it's a hell of a lot better than being “busy” doing redundant shit that gets you nowhere but tired. As long as the all encompassing good stuff doesn't stop, I'll be more than fine.

3:21 AM

I'm still not what I'd call a "great writer" yet. I say this because I know this. I love writing and I feel very passionate that it can and will take me somewhere someday, but for now I'm just another reader, another observer. I observe the work of others and I stumble upon realizations that are brutally inspiring.
Back in 2008 I got into Spielberg's "Band of Brothers" and the thought of what it would be like to be a participant in the first world war blew my mind clean out of my skull. I couldn't properly explain the effect the real-as-life series had on me, but it gave me chills every time I tried to write about it and my respect for veterans was magnified ten fold. Now that Spielberg's new series about World War 2 entitled "The Pacific" is coming out, one episode a week, the same thing is happening all over again. It churns up so much in me about life, about the original values and morals of humanity, and how people's minds have changed so drastically over the years that it's hard for me to grasp how a guy like me would handle things if I had to live way back in the 1940's/1950's.
The thought that if you were to hop into a time machine and head back to the era of the original world wars, that were justifiably fought for the future of how we now live on earth. If you went back there with the mushy-ass mentality of life that you've received through passive evolution, you'd be a fuckin' pussy!
But if you actually grew up back then, and you were stomping around at the age you are now, you'd be one tough set o' balls!

It's the do-or-die aspect that really humbles me. And it's a factor of life that most of us are never forced to put to the test. I'm very thankful for that, but a part of me can't help but dwell on the "what if."
When a person has to do everything within their entire being to find a way to stay alive, they open up a part of themselves that is as natural as nature itself. I think that's called the will to live. And it's way beyond what we refer to as living or surviving today.

Sometimes I don't know how, why or where I come up with these thoughts, but they are strong and spontaneous and they must be relevant in some way to somebody. It's my inability to understand exactly what I'm digging at and what it means that makes me feel that I've got a long way to go with my writing. And also because I still use cliched scenarios like time machines.

freelance writer looking for work and riot gear

When I first moved to Thailand, I promised myself that I would devote the best of my free time to writing- more specifically, writing about events beyond my personal adventures, topics of a more serious nature that  would potentially lead me to a job as a freelance journalist. So, in the three and a half months that I was unemployed here, I scoured the daily headlines for something that would catch my interest, something I could research heavily and get involved in with my own words. All the while I was coming up with nothing, an angry cauldron of political craziness was bubbling right under my nose.
I'm sure by now, after over 20 countries have issued tourist advisories to stay the hell out of Bangkok, most of the world is somewhat aware of how unstable the Thai Government is. But do you know what's really going on, and what could potentially happen here? I wouldn't care too much either, but since I happen to be looking for trouble I'm going to treat this as an assignment and make the most of it. In order to do that I need to get you interested and bring you up to speed on this story with a stiff shot of intensity. The best way to do that is to start today.
Today is Friday, the 5th of March, 2010. In seven days a dominant anti-government group known as The UDD (United Front for Democracy against Dictatorship, or "the red shirts") will begin a million man march, growing in numbers from all provinces and meeting in the capitol city of Bangkok on March 14, where they will then attempt to bring down the administration that is the current Thai government, run by an appointed (not elected) Prime Minister. The decision in this Prime Minister's hands is a stressful one to say the least. When the time comes and red shirts gather in Bangkok with the promise of a million people and a hundred thousand pick-up trucks, the PM has the option of either stepping down from power and dissolving the government or suppressing the opposition with whatever military defense the government has. A lot of police and soldiers are in support of the red shirts and will likely not partake in any shit that goes down. Furthermore, red shirt leaders have said that if they are met with any defensive force than they cannot be certain what will happen, but there is a strong possibility of a civil war in Thailand.


“If the government suppresses us, then they will have declared civil war.  If this happens, you will not see elections of democracy in Thailand for five, maybe ten years."  


- Mr. Jaran, Senior red shirt leader


In other words, there will either be a brand new Thai Government instated this year or there will be civil unrest for an undetermined amount of time. Decisions, decisions. 


So, as we we wait for anarchy to ensue, there is time to go back and look into how this whole thing began. The plot to this is almost as good as StarWars, except it all happened here on planet Earth. It started with a dude named Thaksin, a business man who served as the Prime Minister of Thailand from 2001 to 2006.  Mr. Thaksin was the first PM to actually complete a full term in office, which is apparently hard to do here. Today, he is regarded as one of the most distinctive PM's because he introduced many policies that affected important issues such as an easily affordable healthcare plan and a rural poverty plan that cut the number of poor in half. For the most part he was quite a popular man of the people. However as time went on Thaksin's administration began to face allegations of corruption, like tax evasion and laundering money to international investors. 
Then, in 2006, while Thaksin was out of town on a business venture, a massive protest began by a different group, The PAD (Peoples Alliance for Democracy or "the yellow shirts"). This led to a military coup that overthrew the government, surprisingly without any bloodshed. One of the tactics of the group was seizing two of Thailand's biggest airports, essentially stopping people from coming in or out of the country. When Thaksin got word of this he did not return to Thailand and shortly after, a newly appointed military government was put in place and the yellow shirts disbanded claiming their goal had been accomplished. The only problem was that the new government was not an elected one of the people and therefore the people got pissed off, accusing the unelected officials of undermining democracy. And so the "red shirts" began to rally. Meanwhile Thaksin, now considered a fugitive in Thailand, the county he was once a revered Prime minister of, is rumored to be hiding somewhere in Dubai. Like a puppet master he leads the red shirts in support by addressing most big meetings by video link on the internet. Look for him on Skype.


Now, since the emergence of the red shirts, the opposing yellow shirts have reactivated and the two equally strong groups have been clashing loudly and often violently for about 4 years. People have been killed, bombs have been thrown, assassinations of leaders have been attempted and it looks like shit is about to officially hit the fan in a matter of days.  All I need is a video camera, a bus ticket to Bangkok and a huge pair of balls. 

gone.

I learned a long time ago that some of the best experiences in life come out of sheer spontaneity and randomness. All it takes is just saying "yes" to an un-expected invitation that could lead to anywhere and anything and nine times out of ten, you won't be disappointed because you have no idea what you're in for. Over the past 3 months in Thailand, I've learned to cradle this belief for all it's worth. Say "yes" whenever you can to any offer that sounds remotely genuine. That's how I found myself carrying 8 pounds of fresh bananas through a foggy jungle at 7AM, far away from my home in Chumphon, far away from anyone who could speak decent English, except for a man named Hank G. Tomahawk. I felt safe. I felt that I had gotten what I'd subconsciously asked for; a strange challenge. I had already gotten over the dreaded hill of uneasiness by asking to stop about an hour into our trip because of course, I had to shit in an extreme way. When I told Hank this, all I did was hold my belly and say "toilet" and he hit the gas like he was trying to kick through the floor. My head flew back and the shit in my bottom almost came up top. I don't get embarrassed about this problem anymore, because it's happened to me too many times now in the presence of strangers and I find it works out for the better because it instantly rips off the lid to a more personal level of conduct. There were other passengers in the truck during this race; Hank's wife and a dude my age named Glank, who treated me like a celebrity for providing such tense entertainment on the long ride to where ever the hell it was we were going. I was fucking clueless. All I knew is that we were going fishing.That's what I initially said "yes" to.

Two days before, on the Friday evening, Charlie and I were just pouring our first drinks with our visiting friend Ms. Crystal Rydall, when we received a last minute invite to an office party at Chumphon's Department of Electricity. We went for it, and turned out to be the only "Farang" (whities) there. It was a well catered event with free food, booze, towels and a huge stage set up for karaoke and a special performance by a famous Bangkok country star, yep, Hank G. Tomahawk. We noticed him as soon as we sat down- he was the only dude dressed up as a cowboy, which I generally don't respect. Fake cowboys are one of the stupidest breeds of people in the world. However, this old guy had a defining quality, which I couldn't figure out until he came over to chat with us. As soon as he shook my hand, slapped my back and laughed I knew what it was. He was the Thailand rendition of my Grampa, Gerald Wesley Wicks. The first question he asked me was if I listened to Johnny Cash, to which I told him that I was raised on the man in black. We talked about music for half an hour, before he went on stage and covered everything from Cash to Jonny Horton. By the time we were on our second 26 of whiskey, Charlie and I were on stage singin' "Band on the run" to an audience of at least a hundred. I thought we sounded alright, but instead of giving us the traditional flowers after our performance, we received a can of sardines in tomato paste.

The following evening, around 11:00PM, we were shuttin' things down at our house when a truck rolled up and out hopped Hank G. Tomahawk with his wife and a small entourage. I still have no idea how they found out where we lived. I tried to ask in many ways but it was a mute point. They were here now, our first Thai guests and we were very unready to be good hosts. We served water and a leftover tray of cookies from Charlie's school. I had finished the beers about 15 minutes before they unexpectedly showed up. Hank eventually sent his driver to pick up some snacks while we all sat outside on the greatest party porch I've seen, and attempted to chat in a mash-up of broken English and Thai. All conversations came back to one consistent topic; the sweet love of music. Finally Hank brought out the guitar from his truck and we all sang into the night. Somewhere in that time I agreed to go fishing without knowing when and where. I was high on the presence of good strangers and was almost positive they were joking when Hank said they'd be back at 5:00 in the morning to pick me up to go fishing.

It was already 1:30AM. I was waiting for them to pull out tents and set up in front of the house but instead Hank sent his driver out again for a coffee and when he returned Hank downed about half of it and said goodbye as the entourage piled back into the truck like it was a circus car. I chugged about a jerry-can of water and went to sleep. Normally I'd start a new paragraph right now to represent the next morning when I woke up, but it's more realistic this way, because it actually felt like there was no in between period of when they left and when the alarm went off at 4:30AM and I jumped up and looked out the window to see them all standing outside, waiting around the truck like a bunch of vampires. I was fuckin' flabbergasted. I threw on some random clothes, packed my survival knife in my pocket, kissed the girl and was out the door.

Aside from the shit scare, our long ride was filled with Jonny Horton tunes and learning each other's languages respectively. I also learned that we were heading to Arunothai Beach where we would head out into the gulf of Thailand on a small charter boat. Man was I let down when we got there and found out that no boats were going out because there was talk of a hurricane on the way. Hank was determined though. We drove to the outskirts of town and found a poor Thai family that lived by the water and slept on the ground in little huts made of bamboo and leaves. They had small boats of their own and Hank made a hell of an offer in attempt to get us out there fishing, but the family was aware of the hurricane too and declined. Living poor is better than not living at all.

We went back to a pristine looking shrine at Arunothai beach where Hank, Glank and some other dude said some prayers and then bought an arsenal of huge firecrackers to light off. This is a tradition that wakes up the gods (and everything else within 10 kilometers). The gods had already decided we weren't allowed to go fishing, so we drove to Glank's house in the jungle. I had always wanted to hang out at a place like this- over 6 acres of land full of trees producing bananas, lychee, papaya, and even coffee. I know there was ganja somewhere in there too because Glank's father was stoned out of his mind. We sat and drank fresh coffee while random kids came running out of the wilderness to get a more familiar glimpse at the white guy. More people showed up, brining food and we ate a spicy ass meal that I couldn't handle. I chased it all down with a mug of Glank's father's whiskey before walking up an inclining jungle to pick bananas. Glank had a machete. I had my camera. Hank was singing at the top of his lungs. There was still a dewy fog in the air and everything smelt sweet n' real. It was the perfect time of morning and all I kept thinking  was "What a beautiful day to disappear completely."

Reflections of Freeloaders

I knew when Charlie and I first moved to Thailand, that one day, eventually down the road, we’d meet up with an old friend who just happened to be travelin’ through on a trip, but other than that, we’d be pretty much on our own, especially since we took up residence in the small town of Chumphon. But then came 2010; the year of forward movement, the new decade of connection- heading out as far as possible and still meeting up with someone you know. It's an amazing time for living abroad. Perhaps as close as possible to that untouchable feeling of what Kerouac was talkin' about in "On The Road." It's difficult to tell, but it's easy to enjoy.

DEC. 31, 2009: Crystal Rydall gets off a bus at 5AM in Chumphon. That night the three of us rent a cabin in Thung Waluen and ring in the new year on the beach. She stays with us for two weeks and does more dishes than we own.

JAN. 13, 2010: Mr. B. Parr and his traveling roommate, Nova Scotia Nick arrive on a train from Bangkok sometime in the afternoon. Beers are ready and a BBQ of music gets underway on the front porch as the sun sets. The next day we rent motorbikes and I get us lost on the way to the beach. As always it pays off. We find a freshly paved road, winding its way up a mountain and it leads us to an inspiring look out point where we decide to indulge in the first session of “Being with B.” a 20 minute meditation course lead by B. Parr. Outstanding. Afterwards we discover a footpath leading even higher up the mountain so we take it and trip out on the altitude of natural beauty.

JAN. 15, 2010: The boys decide to go Island hopping for a while, with a plan to be on Koh Phangan for the infamous full moon party. Crystal leaves one day after in the same direction. Meanwhile, I’ve just landed a job, after a brief interview and a night in Bangkok.

JAN. 19, 2010: Jamie Ewing comes to town, taking a detour on route to Australia.  I pick him up at the train station on a motorbike and his backpack is so fuckin’ heavy it’s a challenge to get back to the house without tipping off. He relaxes at the house for 3 days while Charlie and I go to work. On Friday night there’s a pick up game of ball at the school I’m now working at. Jamie and I show up looking as “hood” as possible- Sydney Dean and Billy Hoyle. That night we hit up the one and only club in Chumphon, the PAPA 2000. It’s ridiculous on both good and bad levels of meaning. Saturday we cruise all over on bikes- see some monkeys, pick up some brown green and swim in the warm gulf of Thailand.  As luck would have it, Charlie and I get 3 days off work to do a visa run to Malaysia. Jamie’s all about it. We leave early Sunday morning and get to the island of Penang by late afternoon. We make our way to Batu Ferringhi, where we find a room at the Sudo guest house, just stumbling distance away from the beach and a small selection of bars. Casual drinking ensues and doesn’t really let up until Wednesday, when we head back to pick up our visa paperwork. Things kinda go haywire at this point and none of us are making very well thought out decisions. We miss the evening train back to Chumphon and spend the night in Had Yai, a fairly dangerous place that we all seem to enjoy thoroughly. The next morning we hop a train that ends up taking over 11 hours to get back to Chumphon. We drink, sleep, smoke, play cards, buy sketchy food from strangers and hang out in between the train-cars like modern day beatnik characters. The night we arrive back in town, we learn about a full moon party taking place Friday night, on the beach at Thung Waluen. Jamie sticks around for it and we throw down one last solid night. Ask anyone who knows him and they'll tell you Jamie Ewing is a tuff nut to crack, but I when said goodbye to him on the night of the 31st, I felt assured that he had a pretty good time here.

FEB. 1, 2010: Not even 24 hours after Jamie leaves, Mr. B. returns sometime after dark, looking like John Holmes. I can’t get over it. He entertains Charlie and I with stories of psychedelia from his time on Ko Phangan. His companion, Nova Scotia Nick, has fallen in love and remained on the island.

FEB. 2, 2010: We get home from work to find that Crystal has made her way back as well. She also has some interesting stories involving “happy shakes” and staying up in the hills with a couple named Mr.T and Bindy, and wondering off alone for 5 hours. Sounds like it was an enlightening few days.

FEB. 3, 2010: Nova Scotia Nick shows up and talks about his special lady friend. Love is a curse? He leaves the following day to “go see about a girl.” No conclusion to that story yet.

FEB. 5, 2010: I sneak outta work to bid farewell and safe travels to B. Parr, on his way back to Bangkok, and onto Australia. Crystal is the last remaining guest. She tells me that Karina and Joc-D are on their way.

FEB. 6, 2010: In classic Thailand (mis)communication, we arrange a truck ride twenty minutes out of town to await the arrival of the ladies, but the bus they’re on somehow drops them off about a five minute walking distance from our house. Charlie and I get a power nap in on the wooden bench at the bus stop before finally meeting up with them. Then it’s time for beers and coolers. We take the ladies out for a fancy dinner and they pay for it. Shoulda known. Shoulda had the steak.

Karina and Joc-D are up for anything, with only one request; they want to see monkeys. So we hook up a little trip with our neighbors, Ao and Bob. The next morning a rad lookin’ truck with bench seats in the flat bed shows up on our front yard. It’s 10:30 and Bob’s already half snapped. I want to join. We cruise outta town and spend the day exploring deep caves, and a Buddhist shrine where we see the preserved little body of a revered monk. We stop for beers and side of the road pastries before continuing on to the swinging grounds of the monkeys. But not just any monkeys... we’re talkin’ about Gibbons - a breed of monkey that looks like a cute ninja. We even get to see one of the babies, which is very lucky thing according to Thai people. The baby is a golden yellow and looks magical. I made a birthday wish on it, but hasn't come true yet. After we run out of bean plants we offer the gibbons bananas and they seem almost offended by our prejudice display. We end our day with a dip at the beach before heading back to the house for a BBQ on the porch. 

FEB. 8, 2010: Crystal joins Joc-D and Karina on their ride back to Bangkok and the house is silent for one whole week until a little black dog falls into our hands and now we've got a permanent resident.
Only a few more weeks until the school term is over and Charlie and I have a month and a half off to explore. Who's coming over in March and April?

Have you heard about the other side of the world?

Next time you get restless and thirsty for some good thinking, you should try this out;  Get on the internet and look up a country you hardly know exists. For example what's the Republic of Haiti all about? Do you have any idea where it is on a map? I know I didn't until recently. I never got any news coverage  when the earthquake struck there because I didn't have a T.V. and I couldn't find an english newspaper. So I looked for the disaster online, where you can find any disaster thinkable and unthinkable to man.

Apart from the fact that it's the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere, I also learned that Haiti is one of those places that had a military rebellion. What a surprise. Do we have any idea what the fuck a rebellion really is? No, we don't. We are on the cozy side of the world. We associate rebellion with light-weighted shit that we here in a pop-punk song. Where make-up and getting rowdy on live T.V. symbolizes a rebellious attack on morals. It's a good thing North America hasn't adopted words like coup de' tat. Oh wait that's a French word, it'll never fly.

I'm trying hard to stick to the point of how Haiti is a prime example of a whole other world ( I believe, it's called a 3rd world), that the majority of us will never whole-heartedly feel enough sympathy and compassion about to help out. And by help out,  I mean actually get motivated and ask some questions, do some research, make some phone calls, influence some people and still feel like maybe you could be doing more. There's no reason to feel guilty about not feeling anything. We're all the way over here. We got our "big" problems under control for the most part. They're over there. It's too far away to care what's wrong with them. Let them figure it out right? I wish we didn't think like this. I wish we could start all over again as a world and find a way to stay united in one big party instead of a giant spherical neighborhood of assholes. I wish I could really get out what's inside right now, but it's too much. I'll do it in doses.

I didn't think I was gonna write anything about Haiti, because I knew that people would see the title and think "fuck, another article about Haiti." And that's the problem right there. Something crazy happens and it's front page news. If it's close to home, we eat it up, we're all about it, waiting for more news to break. If it's on the other side of the ocean, it doesn't matter how tragic it is, it becomes old news. We forget about it, assuming the problem will fix itself, so long as it stays the hell away from our comfort zone.
Now that I'm living in a far away country I realize how ignorant I am as a North American. But I'm beginning to wake up. When serious shit goes down here in Thailand (and surely it will), I want to be here to experience it. I know my family would freak out and never talk to me the same way if I declined to come home, but I don't think I would hop on that plane to safety. I'm being honest here. I would want to witness just how barbarically crazy life can be in the world. And if I could make it so I would want most everyone to see it too. It would change things. The reason we don't  truly feel anything for smaller poorer countries with crazy shit constantly happening to them is 'cause we don't have an iota of understanding for what it's like. Indeed, we are the lucky ones.

 "These doors close and we're chasing the sky

 This chaos brews and keeps us alive

 Why trade the world when the world is mine?

 Why give up now when all we've got is time?

Looking through this broken glass, 

these dreams invade the ceiling they could fall so fast 

but now we're knee-deep in this shit

Oh make it last

 A lifetime of wanting and waiting and deadly persuading

 The volume's too quiet now

 These tires' tread mark a special occasion 

 And my ears haven't stopped ringing out 

 As these notes are bellowed they'll rip you apart

 So let these flat chords just break your heart

 And who the fuck said we were giving up?

 Cause it's just begun!"

-lyrics from "this respirator" by The Flatliners

note to self...

Everybody has got a purpose
and everybody has got a dream.
The theory that fell into my head today around 3:15 PM was that there are many ways for a person's life to play out, depending on if they realize their purpose and/or their dream, and how they go about achieving it.

There are a few combinations to break down here and fortunately I'm in a great state of mind to explain in detail before I get hungry and lose interest.
The first thing that should be known in this theory is Purpose.
No matter what becomes of a person's life, wether it be lived and viewed as a great success or a tragic failure, the person in question will inevitably serve their purpose. This purpose could be a number of small, seemingly insignificant things, or one big memorable thing. And furthermore, it can occur in one spectacular moment, or at many different junctures in a person's life.
The Purpose could be good, it could be bad, it may even have a domino effect that could echo through time, producing a moment, event or occurrence that will never be feasibly traced back to its' origin. But that last thought isn't really important right now. I don't wanna get into time travel here - I haven't smoked ganja in quite some time.
The point to remember is that Purpose is inevitable, however, a person's Dream, if properly introduced and nurtured in the equation of life, can lead to an even great conclusion of Purpose.
Some people never truly realize their dream, and sadly, even if they do, they often don't believe in them-self enough to pursue it, or they make too many compromises that block the path to their dream.
Should a person feel strong enough to pursue their dream with full determination and focus, then they are sure to achieve it, or come close enough to be happy and feel complete.
In an incalculable amount of lives lived, a person's purpose is in fact the same or very similar to their dream, leading them to exactly what they are destined to be. Most of us have no way of knowing if our dream and purpose are running on the same line, and so it should be. If one knows their dream, they're half way there- the easy half. What is crucial for the rest of this person's life is staying resolutely on the path of their dream and working toward the goal with one question in mind; HOW to get there.
In some cases that are hard to swallow, a person may be destined with a purpose of dying in an accident or from a disease. They may be on their way to achieving their dream or may have even reached their goal and got to momentarily bask in the glory of their dream before death took them. Regardless of how tragic it may seem, it is far better to leave this world on the path of your dream than it is to be a lost soul, wandering until either death or meaning presents itself. If a person hasn't realized their dream yet, they need not worry, but they must also not waste time.

JANUARY 1

A year ago today, I was walking the grubby streets of Toronto with two enormous Great Danes and a good man we call Skip. It was 8AM, and I was still wearing my three-piece suit from the night before. Charlie and I had partied with her crew for a change, at a lavish restaurant hidden somewhere in a district of the GTA I had never heard of, and can't remember now. But I do recall the washrooms at the establishment. They were so unique and inviting that we slipped away to make love not long after the ball dropped.

When I woke up the next morning I was in a rare and unbelievable mood to do just about anything, despite the wickedly cruel hangover I had brewing in the back of my skull. I knew it wouldn't be long before it would manifest into a beast of a headache that would pretty much render me useless, so when Skip announced he needed help walking two giant dogs, I volunteered and was out the door, with a good-morning and good-bye kiss for Charlie and an arrangement to meet up for breakfast once everyone was up n' hungry. Then Skip and I hopped on a bus heading to the centre of town to pick up the dogs and begin the fresh day. The bus rolled straight for two blocks, then turned left, heading the opposite direction we had expected. I remember thinking "Great, my first move of the new year turns out to be wrong. Good start Wicks."

If you look back on all the previous days that began the previous new years, it's interesting to see how they differ in terms of where you were, who you were with, and what you did on that January 1st.

Back on the first of 2003, I woke up in a motor home in Pasadena, California with Matty n' Flan. We had drank so much the night before that 2 out of 3 of us had pissed ourselves. The first thing that happened upon walking out onto the streets was a stealth bomber flying low and loud (not stealth) over our fragile heads. We spent the day in the midst of the historical Rose Bowl Parade and saw Bill Cosby and Mr. Rogers.

Jan. 1, 2006, was a bitter cold day in London, Ontario, so I stayed in bed with Charlie and watched movies while nursing a viscous gash on my hand that I'd somehow acquired the night before. Maybe it was the bottle of cheap champaign that had been broken over my head when Flan and Franky crashed through the buffet table in a typical drunken play fight over nothin' but love. The only reason I remember this is because I still have a twenty dollar bill, almost completely covered with my own blood, which the bartender would not except.

This most recent first day of the new year, 2010, was spent on a beach in Thailand with Charlie and our friend Crystal. After jumping in the rejuvenating gulf of water and washing off the wild night before, we cruised around with no shoes and an appetite that none of us could seem to suppress. We ate and drank at three different huts on the beach over the course of 5 hours, stopping briefly to feed an elephant and to wash my shorts, which I had pissed in yet again the night before. It had definitely been a different New Year's Eve this time. We spent the entire night drinking Whiskey and sitting front row, centre of a talented blues-reggae band, who invited me up on stage to sing "Hey Joe" and then played on until 2AM, ending with the greatest rendition of Marley's "No Woman, No Cry" I have ever heard. Afterwards we all burned one down, I fell off my bar-stool and scraped my arm horribly, and Charlie and I got lost walking home. It was a banner evening. It's too bad every day can't be January 1st, but on the other side of that coin, I'm glad every night isn't New Year's Eve.