Michael Jackson, Gandhi and changing the world

Just finished watching Michael Jackson's Man In The Mirror, a video that popped up in my Facebook news feed with the accompanying text:

"I dare you to watch this and NOT grow your soul, your humanity...."

I chose to try and grow my soul. I don't recall ever seeing the video before. Maybe bits and pieces of it as I looked up from assembling my baseball card collection or side glances at the TV as I kept watch for rogue attacks from my brother. I think affects me more now at age 37 then it would have at age 12 when it was released in 1988. Even if I just went back to the fridge to eat something else when my stomach is already full after watching it. Nineteen eighty eight! Holy shit.

Anyway, it's a pretty good video and you should watch it (again) too. You know you want to be one of the nearly 20 million people who've watched this particular Youtube upload. Aside from the starving faces, which I ashamedly watched while stuffing my own, the other most memorable parts of the five minute video came at 2:26 when a protester hits his target with a rock and at 2:32 when a one legged man with an AK-47 fires while hopping backwards. Wow. Pretty incredible collection of images.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PivWY9wn5ps&feature=share

"If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself then make a change."

I had just gotten home from Tous Les Jours, a crap chain bakery that is on the way home from the coffee shop. I went there out of convenience and generally find the prices to be passable, but the service way over the top, which tends to drive me out before I've even walked in. Anyway, they all screamed Welcome to Tous Les Jours or whatever it is they say, I cringed and walked around looking for a small baguette so I could make a sandwich when I got home. The guy at the door tries to throw a tray and tongs in my face, but I decline because - for one item - it is unnecessary.

He proceeds to follow me around and stand over my shoulder as I peruse my options, a plain baguette or one laced with walnuts. I glance around to see what else they have on offer and he's naturally in my way. Obscuring my view of the sign, I brush him aside and slowly start getting annoyed because he still seemingly thinks he is being helpful. I ask him if I can help him. He doesn't understand, which further clarifies to me why he shouldn't be there if he can't help me in the first place. I hate when people are humping your leg or invading your personal space. There is no personal space in this part of the world. You just have to accept it or as I tend to do, avoid the people that invade mine, which means hanging out alone often and barking at people when they get too close. 

I spotted another possible baguette alternative, a kind of half-moon shaped bread called white cream cheese something or other. I didn't necessarily want any cheese just something that was different. A change from the standard sandwich I had grown accustomed to making. Besides, their walnut baguette, as good as it is, was often laced with more peanuts than walnuts. I like peanuts, but not when I'm paying for walnuts. So I ask the guy, because naturally he's right there, if this thing has cream cheese inside. I don't want to get home, slice it open and find it's laden with that sickly shit. He eventually understands and says "no" so I grab it with my bare hands and place it on an empty tray at the counter.

The sign said 99 cents. And it looked like it had some fried cheese on the outside. I obey the sign. I have no idea if the fucking thing is a cream cheese whatchamacallit. She says that's one dollar twenty five. I'd only just barely perceived its value at a dollar and that was questionable so I hesitated. If that's the case I'd rather have the peanut bread. I tell her about the sign and she and three other staff proceed to tell me that they don't have that bread. Well, change the sign. I know how it goes, I just enjoy being a dick sometimes. So, in the end, I say I don't want it even after touching it with my bare hands. They oblige and hand me a walnut baguette (thankfully with a gloved hand because you never know where those fingers have been) and pleasantly usher me through the transaction and out the door. 

And so, I probably caused these poor folks a few minutes of distress as I come into their store in their country speaking a foreign language that they should know gaddamnit! I'm joking. I spoke pretty slow and I didn't get too agitated, only when the Mr I'll-suck-your-dick-for-a-dollar guy was stepping on my heels. I even learned why I should use a tray and tongs - in the event the sign is wrong. Well, I hope I didn't have dirty fingers cause the un-purchased bread probably made it back onto the shelf. As it does. Just remember as Michael Jackson said, if you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself then make a change. I'm mainly talking to myself here.

Clearly Michael had a conversation with Gandhi before he wrote those lyrics. But wait, Gandhi died in 1948. How is that possible? Well, I'm sure that bumper sticker existed back in 1988. Be the change you wish you see in the world. It's good advice, but apparently Gandhi didn't even say that. Not in those words. However, it seems appropriate to associate it with him even if it's not the case. Whatever. Be the change, embody the change. Don't just click 'like' on a picture or a status when you identify with a particular message. Take it a step further if you can. Signing an online petition is a good first step, but it's a baby step. It took five seconds, don't fool yourself. Time for me to stop preaching and start practicing.

The cafe I love to hate

I showed up at the cafe I've grown to hate at about ten minutes til nine this morning, bleary eyes and all. You see, they have this morning special - "the morning set" they call it. It used to be any tall sized drink and any "bread" for $3, which meant nearly anything under the display case except for the stale carrot cake and various inappropriately flavored cheesecakes. Those were more expensive. I had found in previous visits that most of the pastries were unfulfilling except for the cheapest one.

Named after the cafe, the Kiriya roll came in four flavors. Matcha green tea, strawberry, chocolate or plain. A round, soft yet springy roll with a hardened sweetened exterior sprinkled with sugar was just a dollar. It was simple, just sweet enough and amply sized. Goldilocks would have approved. And all four flavors were good, my choice varied from day to day.

In the beginning, they had a tall sized (medium) local coffee for a dollar. It was by far the best deal that I had come across. This was a very generous medium and could have passed for a large even in America. Well, maybe not. I only needed a third of the black stuff before my vision was amplified and I could see through skirts and leap to the top of buildings in a single bound. But usually I drank at least half and occasionally all of the liquid crack and it had deleterious effects. My vision waxed and waned and I could no longer see through skirts. I was fine sitting in one place, but once I moved around as we are often prone to do, I could no longer function normally in society. For this reason, I tried to limit my coffee consumption to once a week or thereabouts. Sometimes more because I liked the ritual and sometimes less because I was able to feel the tension in my shoulders and rise in irritability before I placed my order.

Fast forward a month or two and the one dollar local coffee had changed to $1.75. Now it was no longer worth buying because I now realized it wasn't that good in the first place. I just liked the price and accepted the taste. It was just a business ploy to get customers in the door and hopefully order some other overpriced foodstuffs. Just like some local bars offering draft beer for 50 cents. They certainly weren't losing any money since a bag of local coffee is pretty inexpensive as are local wages. I understood and respected the decision. Besides, it just meant I would consume less of the black stuff and more of the orange stuff - carrot juice - which was more comforting and less harsh on my nerves.

I had now been coming to this cafe for approximately two months and had slowly been acquiring punches on their point card. After ten, get a free drink. After twenty, get another free drink. And after thirty, get a free coffee mug. Yeah, after all that, get a free mug that probably cost them a dollar. But I didn't have a real mug at home, just a glass and it was something to look forward to, like Christmas on a much smaller scale. I did also like the familiarity of the place even if the interior was relatively tacky and there had been a decline in attractive females working there. That was one of the initial draws, but they slowly disappeared to go work as prostitutes and I didn't know where else to go despite the abundance of coffee shops in the surrounding area.

Fast forward another month. I enter the building to everyone obnoxiously yelling Good morning! I don't despise it, but I don't like it. Yeah, yeah, morning. As I prepare to order the "morning set" I am told that the morning set is now a small sized drink and any bread. Slowly, but surely and understandably the morning set was getting reduced in value. It wasn't worth getting up that early to save fifty cents. Yes, 9am is early. And there was no longer a local coffee on the menu. I understand this business practice, but I don't like it. As I am often lured by quantity (or price in this case) as opposed to quality, there was less and less incentive to frequent this particular coffee shop.

However, after nearly three months, I had obtained twenty six punches on my card and I'll be damned if I wasn't getting my free mug. Just out of principle. My visits were becoming more infrequent and my outbursts to the friendly manager were occurring more frequently. I was having a bad morning a few mornings ago when she told me about the change in the morning set. And like a bubbling volcano, I erupted. She didn't get burned because well, she didn't give a shit and because she didn't understand everything I said. I also wasn't ranting and raving because I like to pretend like I've still got my sanity. I think I said something about the place closing down because nobody would come here and how the boss was stupid. I always try to be as charming as possible.

And now, back to this morning. As I said, I arrived at ten til nine this morning in order to take advantage of their "special." Otherwise, I would have stayed at home for another couple hours ironing out the wrinkles. Today was my 29th punch - just one more until I receive the aforementioned mug of glory. I inquired about the mug out of curiosity to see if it was the standard mug with the words Have a nice day! emblazoned at the bottom of the cup. Indeed it was. But, she told me, I was not eligible for the mug because I had gotten free drinks after the 10th and 20th punches. What!? All this time collecting stamps for naught?

This was all becoming ridiculous. All for a ceramic piece of shit with the logo of a place I had growing discomfort with every visit and quite possibly would never frequent again. Again, it was principle. I want that fucking mug! It said on the card you get a free drink after ten, a free drink after twenty and a free mug after thirty. Nowhere did it say you had to forgo the free drinks in order to get the free mug. I didn't even want the fucking mug! But now it was like a prize I had to obtain. Like those machines where you insert a quarter hoping the contraption inside would push more quarters over the side. Here, I was dropping dollars for this silly mug that essentially became this dangling carrot that I somehow associated with fame and glory. And here she was taking it away from me.

Fuck that! The mug will be mine even if I have to steal a dirty one after consuming my next coffee. I told the morning manager it was ridiculous and that the mug probably cost the company a dollar to make. She said these mugs were made in Japan and therefore cost more. They apparently sold them for $15. I laughed at the absurdity. Even Starbucks wouldn't charge that much for a mug. I kept my cool, not really angry just simmering at the little things. I even apologized for my "outburst" the last time, of which she seemingly had no recollection. She even gave me the tall size coffee this morning.

Well, one more visit and I will know where I stand. I will get my free mug, gosh darn it. And then I will go elsewhere, thank you very much. And yes, I am ridiculous.

3 things at the bar last night...

As I approached the bar, I placed my order - one beer, please - and found an empty spot at the bar - an elevated zig zagging table with wicker-backed chairs on either side. I plopped myself down in the middle of some empty seats, but shortly thereafter was joined on the other side by a familiar face. The deaf girl. Sweet. Oh, she's alright, but I come to relax not to ask how are you via hand gestures, not to look at pictures of her in her bra and not to get a gentle foot to the nuts from under the table. I don't know sign language so some of the conversation is painful, but most of her sign language I understand since it mostly consists of pressing her tongue against her cheek or putting her finger through a hole, repeatedly. I get it, she likes the boom boom.

I tried to hail a passing waitress to get another beer. Oun. Oun! She didn't hear me. Oun oi! Som bia mooy teeit. In Khmer, that's one more beer, please. Again, she didn't hear me and kept walking as if in her own little world. I gave one last try, but not entirely in desperation as this bar is not exactly lacking in waitresses. Like finding a yellow cab in New York City, you don't have to wait long before you see another. Oun!! She kept going and I shook my head and laughed as I turned back around and said deaf! And of course, I found myself staring into the eyes of the deaf girl who looked at my like huh? Oops.

Later, I found myself staring off into the abyss, listening to random conversations. Not intentionally, but perhaps because this one guy was talking louder than others. His ladyboy girlfriend had left and motioned in the direction of the club. It was dancing time so he got up and prepared to leave as well. Not the oddest couple I've ever seen, but certainly a mismatch made in heaven. The only way he could get a girl who looked like that was if she was a ladyboy. More power to him. Some guys really dig the ladyboy and apparently he was one of them.

Her name is Kiki. Sounding a bit strange I let him continue. Not like I would have let on that I was eavesdropping from five seats away. Well, it's her nickname. They all have nicknames. Of course, they do. Most foreigners probably can't pronounce her real name. Her real name is probably Bill. Or the closest Khmer equivalent. Sometimes I wonder how a relationship with a ladyboy works. I can understand getting caught up in a situation once with the same woman. But when you are aware the clitoris is excessively long and you are putting yourself in that same situation repeatedly, well I just wonder what's the thrill in that? Not going to seek the answer to that question, this week anyway.

As I was paying my bill, one of the waitresses said another waitress wanted to try Jagermeister. Neither of them had ever tried it. Seeing how it was usually only a dollar for a shot and I was feeling generous, I offered to buy them some. If you work in a restaurant you ought to know what the food tastes like. Same goes for the bar, I thought. The bill came. It was $6. Considering my bill for three beers, a shot of tequila and a bottle of water was only $3.30, it seemed a bit outrageous.

I laughed a worried laugh and suggested that this wasn't happening tonight. The waitress went back to the bar, but returned saying she was unable to do anything. With that, I was up and out of my seat, walking towards the bar hoping that the Jager had yet to be poured and preparing for the possibility of walking out if they refused my refusal. The bartender explained that it wasn't on special tonight and that I needn't worry. I was happy to save some cash, but unhappy to know I probably came across as a cheapskate instead of a gentleman. Next time, I promised.

Beer gardens, girls and Mr Bean

I don't go out too often, but when I do I often head to this "beer garden" not far from my home. There are an array of options in Phnom Penh, aside from the hostess bars, including live music venues, trendy expat bars, clubs and local beer gardens. Lately, I have been choosing Sorya Beergarden 51, which hardly seems like a beer garden in the traditional sense, but rather one bar in the midst of several others.

Part of the Golden Sorya Mall on street 51, home to the infamous Heart of Darkness, the name lives up to its location, to say the least. The mall is basically a sex market, home to bars rather than shops with freelancing prostitutes and ladyboys in every direction, who are really the evening's entertainment whether they like it or not. I am merely window shopping, a spectator if you will, watching the action from one of the best seats in the house.

I approach the bar and one of the ladyboys says, with a lisp, excuse me sir, can I push in your stool? Not today, thanks as I quickly sit down and scoot in my own chair. I apologize, old jokes die hard. Kind of like Bruce Willis. He keeps coming back, just like the Terminator, whether we like it or not. I always liked that joke, even if it's a bit distasteful. I mean not to offend!

There actually aren't any ladyboys working at the bar, not that I'm aware of anyway. Even if there were, I would not be deterred because as I said, they are free entertainment and are usually quite stunning. Not to make them sound like a sideshow, but some are waaaay over the top. They make the women jealous and the men confused. Oh ladyboys, transsexuals of the Orient, you intrigue so many, unlike your counterparts in the West.

Back to the beer garden. I sit down. It is unusually crowded and I am forced to take a seat next to a couple of older gents. I order a Sprite and one of the men chuckles in my direction. I think really? I mean, I know it's a beer garden, but do I have to order a beer? It turns out he was laughing at one of the beer girls who was flashing her penis behind my back. Nah, she was pulling a face or something.

The older gents turned out to be Frenchmen living in Thailand who were escaping the Songkran festivities. I guess a week's worth of water fights takes its toll. Across the table was a deaf girl, who was chatting with her new boyfriend, who was wearing earplugs somewhat ironically. Her old boyfriend, Mr. Bean's doppelgänger, had returned to his country the week before. Unbeknownst to him, he was now being referred to as the old boyfriend.

Later in the evening I was writing Mr. Bean a text message, translated by one of the waitstaff who understood sign language and was embellishing to her heart's desire. I was telling him I missed him and that I was being a good girl visiting my family in the village. And that next time, I hoped to take him to my village and get married. And that I had recently been sick and had an IV and it was so expensive. Please send money. Sucker! I did feel bad for the guy.

And then there was the overly made up prostitute with the see through blouse and the huge padded bra. Lots of padded bras in these parts. A lot of tough girls in these parts. You'd have to be tough to be in this profession. There is a swagger to some of them that says don't fuck with me and thank you, I'll take your advice! Another girl, I knew from Siem Reap, comes by to punch me in the arm. Thanks. 

Meanwhile, the waitresses are doing their thing and asking if you want another beer while the glass is still half full. I can wait. They're all quite friendly and really make the place what it is. A virtual Cheers in Cambodia, a place where everyone knows your name, well at least recognizes your face. That's nice because usually we all look the same. I recognize a lot of faces myself including the older guy who does legal consulting, the guy with the beret and the sexed up girl who looks like she's missing her teeth.

A draft beer costs 60 cents. A pitcher costs $2, which drops the price per draft to 50 cents, but each successive beer is that much warmer and definitely not worth the reduced price. The beer is barely drinkable when it's cold. It's a local brew, either Angkor, Anchor or Cambodia and its only selling point is the price. The food, on the other hand, at least the pad thai, was quite good. They also have some shots for $1 and a rotating $2 cocktail. Easy on the wallet if you wish it to be.

One of the waitresses I have befriended comes over and starts complaining about her boyfriend. I just met him the previous week, but she says they are no longer together. He seemed alright to me, but no, he doesn't care about her, I am told. I've heard that before. He goes to the club and dances with other women. Oh the horror! She has no real proof that he's been unfaithful. She jokingly tells my neighbor that I am her boyfriend. She then takes out her mobile and inputs my telephone number. I'm that easy.

I see another girl I've seen on every single occasion I've been at this place. She's cute, but seems a bit too jazzed and it's not from drinking Red Bull. She told me she was going to Paris in a few days. That was a couple weeks ago. This time she has her niece in tow. Definitely not a place I'd want to bring my daughter. I feel sorry for the little girl and for a minute, I wished I was her father reading her a bedtime story instead of witnessing her current reality. Seeing all of this nonsense. Where were her parents?

At this point, I'm nearly at the end of my second drink of the evening, a bottle of water. After a few glances around to make sure I'm not missing anything, I decide to head home. It's only 10:30pm, but I've had my fill of entertainment for the evening. I say a quick goodbye to anyone in earshot and head over to the street, straddle my moto and quickly head home before my mind can convince me otherwise. As Arnold said, I'll be back. So will I.

From a turd to a rose in one day

Today, I feel good. Well actually, this morning I felt like an enormous pile of shit, but I'm better now. Revived. Like a dry sponge that has been left under a leaky faucet. It couldn't get any worse than I was a couple of days ago. That all started with a cup of coffee...

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I really need to eliminate coffee from my diet. It affects me like nothing else, brings me up momentarily and throws me back down. The tension in my shoulders from the coffee makes me incredibly irritable and causes me to reach out for an alcoholic beverage in the evening to level me out. Balance an upper with a downer.

Fortunately, I'm not an every day coffee drinker. No way. Can't do it. But occasionally I get the urge, the desire to get wacky and so I do. And then I regret it. Not always, but a significant portion of the time. Usually, I get a coffee because I like the smell. I enjoy the ritual. And because it's the cheapest thing on the menu. If they had a carrot juice on the menu for the same price, I'd get that, for sure.

Anyway, a couple of days ago, I was indecent. I wasn't exposing myself, but I was highly agitated, which began with the coffee and was elevated by various other factors. I told myself No more coffee! And then today, at the coffee shop, what did I order? Well, what are you supposed to order at a coffee shop? Just a buck, the cheapest thing on the menu by far. A dollar! I feel this obligation to order something to drink even if I'm not thirsty. I should probably order the coffee and just let it sit there. But I have issues with self control and I don't like to waste things so that is next to impossible.

I did only drink half the cup, which is a positive step in the right direction. And therefore, I never really got out of control today and needed that beer. That is another step I need to make. Eliminating alcohol. Perhaps not completely, but we'll see about that. For one, I doubt I can do it and two, it's such a social pastime that I don't want to ostracize myself from friends who do partake. And well, three, I do enjoy a cold one on occasion. So yeah, it's not like I feel peer pressured into drinking.

I remember back in high school or perhaps it was college (this is all blurry to me now) that I wished there were social activities that people regularly partook in that did not involve alcohol. Of course, there are, but as we get older there seem to be fewer and fewer. I can only drink so much 7up or water, but somehow beer slides easily down the gullet. I'm going to spend more nights in watching movies, "playing" Facebook, writing and learning how to play the guitar.

That last one is a maybe. I can't tune a guitar to save my life, but I just bought a tuner so maybe things will change. I've already broken three strings and counting. I've "tuned" it as best I can according to various Youtube videos, but it still sounds like shit. I blame the fact it was made in Cambodia. Probably a wee factor, but I know it's me. I can be honest. However, I'd still like to hear someone who is good, play this guitar. Just to ensure it's playability.

Anyway, I've gotten off track. This post was about feeling good. Yes, I was feeling insanely weak this morning, but I went to the gym anyway. Mistake. I bumbled through my routine quickly and left the building. And then I got pulled over by a cop who noticed my Vietnam plates, while I was stuck in traffic. C'mon! So, I reluctantly got off my bike and responded Huh? every time the cop said what was wrong. I was practically shaking with agitation because a) I don't really like confrontation and b) I had yet to eat this morning. After feigning ignorance and offering up plenty of irritation I just turned around, hopped on my bike and took off. They didn't follow. I'm lucky if I don't get a baton to the side of the head one of these days.

So, I was lucky. And then I went to Lucky supermarket to procure some foodstuffs I was most definitely lacking. Food was already starting to put me into a better mood even though I was edgy as fuck as I entered the market after "escaping" the police. I need to eat more regularly. Prevent those dips in blood sugar. It all got better from there from the basil permeating my refrigerator to listening to Foster the People and new old Ryan Adams. I need to buy basil more regularly. Even if I don't eat it, the smell is uplifting.

I have a kitchen now. I don't particularly like to cook anymore because that entails cleaning up. And that sucks. Fortunately, my kitchen is small, which limits any elaborate dinner plans I might have had. But I do have a blender and have plans to get a juicer. I need my carrot juice. That's a fact. That'll make life nearly complete. Then I'll work on finding a job and maybe a girlfriend. Get the essentials in order.

I also have my glucosamine + chondroitin, which is making my shoulders feel better and just purchased some B-complex, for whatever reason. I feel like popping pills I guess. And I also have some spirulina, which tastes like ass, but I take it nonetheless. It actually tastes like hay, which is what donkeys eat, so does that make me the ass?

Long story short, life is good...today. Day by day. It was nearly fantastic as the sky increasingly looked like it was going to rain. I got into my running gear and hoped the rain would fall as I went round the park near Independence Monument, but alas, it did not. Instead, I just kept hoping in vain and got some exercise. And then went home to make dinner, something I will not do tomorrow. I might be able to make some oatmeal, but cooking takes time. Time away from actually eating and watching movies, writing and reading status updates.

My eyes are closing. My bed is beckoning. My teeth are eager to be brushed and I'm ready to get off my haunches. To stand up, brush, pee and wash my face. The evening routine. I bet you're glad I'm sharing these pertinent details. Close the laptop and stare at something else besides a monitor before bed. The wall is perfect. There is nothing else. Time to stop, time to stare. Time to dream.

Fake people...I can see through you eventually...

There is so much bullshit in the world today, so many people trying to fake us out, trying to pull the wool over our eyes, trying to make us feel special when we're not. This is all fine and dandy if the lies do the trick and we feel better about ourselves and pay it forward, but most of the time you are not smooth and people can see through you. You become, essentially, invisible.

I am reminded of my first venture through the main tourist market in Ho Chi Minh City. You walk in, wandering through all the various clothing stalls. A beckoning voice calls, Hello handsome. Handsome man!  Your ego swells for a minute and think who me? Then you engage the girls in a little idle chit chat until you hear Hello handsome. Handsome man! You watch as an ugly troll passes by and then you get it. Yo comprendo. But some people don't and remain in that distorted world for the rest of their expat lives.

Recently, I've been reminded of this overly fake demeanor and although I was tricked initially, I soon saw through the Louis Vuitton bag and realized the stitching wasn't authentic and the zipper wasn't original. A fake, just like you. If you're prone to fakeness, you need to work on it, to hone those skills so people don't think you're just a fraud. I'll be honest, in each case of recent deception, I was slightly under the influence. I blame myself for being so gullible.

Case #1

I was talking to a friendly female at an expat watering hole. A friend of a friend. She was nice and we got along quite well. I wasn't interested sexually, but conversationally it was good. We are going to be good friends. Ok, whatever. More was said, such as I can feel it or other similar nonsense. We exchanged numbers. Later at another bar, I overheard her speaking to a guy I had recently met and she said the exact same thing. I laughed a little and gave her a stare as if to say did you really just say that?

Case #2

I was at a bar, again. And this time it involves a girl, again. This time, she was working and not a patron of the bar, which makes her actions more understandable. She was selling the bar and I was buying it, so to speak. She came jogging over to say hi with a bright smile on her face, which I was lapping up along with my 60 cent beer. She touched my arm and I sprang to attention. I'm joking, but in that moment, I won't lie, I felt she was truly happy to see me. What did we used to say in fourth grade? Psych!

As we chatted and the vibes went from friendly to flirtatious, she recognized another familiar customer and was off to the races. Hey handsome! Hey, what the fuck. She ran around the other side of the bar to talk to some mediocre looking chap who was also nursing his 60 cent beverage. If I hadn't been so aware of the situation, I would have thought they were a couple. Reminded me of the time my brother's ex-girlfriend said Hey Tyler, how are you? and before I could answer the door to his room was closed.

Case #3

Ok, this example is a bit more obvious. Allow me to elaborate. I was sitting outside a club with my friend imbibing a 32 cent draft beer with accompanying free bowl of peanuts. It was our final drink of the evening before getting some needed slumber. A girl wearing a skirt barely longer than her underwear, fuck me heels and a stare that said I want you for breakfast walked by. It seemed she was definitely working, but I didn't care as long as she was off-duty. I motioned for her to sit down and she did. At this point, my friend laughed and went home to sleep.

She was actually a nice girl, or so I thought initially. Her English was limited, but still conversable. I spoke some Khmer and some English. I offered to buy her a beer. I could handle 32 cents. She wanted a coke. Ok, ok, I relented. A dollar, fuck. Eventually she said something about going inside to get her friend. I could wait and so I did and figured that'd be another coke. No problem.

I was sort of facing the entrance to the club already and started to anticipate her return. I then noticed someone bearing her resemblance sitting with another guy just a stone's throw away. I wish I had a stone. I squinted my eyes to get a clearer picture because to be honest, I wasn't really looking at her face before. It was her! I got up, having momentarily lost my pride, to deliver her coke and have a few words with the fat fucker who was now by her side. Jealous I was. I threw out some angry words in his direction and retreated to my seat, defeated. My blood was boiling and my ego was humiliated.

I guess I just wish people were more up front, that's all, but that's asking too much and in reality, quite difficult for most people. No need to call me handsome if I'm not. No need to falsely compliment if nothing is naturally forthcoming. I don't want to be deceived. If it's the truth, then by all means, speak the truth. Don't fan the flames of my ego because it burns when it gets out of control. When the truth is revealed. That being said, we should all be a little more aware when being fed bullshit. Too much and I've got shit on my face and I don't like that. But live and learn, wash it off and move on.

Dogs, bananas and blessed water

Chilling, quite literally, at Kiriya Cafe on Street 278. Just had the girl turn off the air conditioning. Every inch of my body was starting to stiffen up, well except the flaccid bit between my legs, which was shrinking to near microscopic proportions. But seriously, my neck hurts and my back is only now beginning to thaw out. I could almost use a massage to bring those areas back to life.

My iced coffee and chocolate roll only cost a couple bucks. I feel like I got more than that in air conditioning. Definitely got more than I asked for today. Well, I could ask for more lighting. I feel like I need glasses in this under-lit back room with pseudo-brick walls. My eyes are slightly blurry trying to compensate. I could also use a higher table on which to rest my laptop, but in coffee shops you tend to get coffee tables. My low back aches as I lean over trying to see the words until I rest my laptop on the arm rest, which is both more ergonomic and back friendly, but slightly awkward.

What is it with iced coffee and the need to add sugar? I can enjoy a cup of piping hot black coffee sans adulteration and it seems to stream through the veins and into the bladder fairly quickly. As it streams into the toilet, it's like you're having a second cup with that aroma permeating the air again. Weird. But with iced coffee, that doesn't happen. It's as if the ice kills off the smell and slows down the coffee as it attempts to race through your body. And the taste is less enjoyable unless you add sugar. For me anyway. Drinking a cup of unsweetened iced coffee is like drinking iced lemon water. Surely you can do it, but it's not nearly as enjoyable.

Ok, let's talk about dogs. Those little rascals. Man's best friend. Fuck dogs. If I were more carnivorous in nature, I'd probably try one. Grilled dog on a stick. They're not my best friend. I don't like my hands licked or my crotch sniffed. Nor do I like my ankles bitten. I was out buying bananas the other day and as I hung the bunch on my handlebars and clicked into first gear, the mangy little fucker was nipping at my flip flopped feet. I laughed as to not appear alarmed as the fruit man hopped up to yell at his mongrel for potentially chasing away a repeat customer. I won't go back there. Fucking dog.

Now, Let's talk about bananas while we're on the topic. I do not like bananas. Why was I buying them? I thought maybe I was deficient in potassium or something. They're supposedly nutritious and easy to throw on my muesli and put in smoothies so I thought I'd give them a second chance after many years spent avoiding them. It's like trying to eat a wriggling fish. Hard to swallow. The texture, the smell, the resemblance...I have to stop now before I throw up my breakfast.

Wow, it's been two hours and this is all I could come up with. Of course, I'm not just staring at my computer screen saying What now, what now? I'm back and forth between Facebook and other sites that distract me significantly from doing what I intended on doing, which was what again? Oh yeah, I think I was going to look at some job websites. And see what was going on in Phnom Penh over the next few days. Still haven't done any of that...

So, with that I best get to work. Or at least pretend to be productive. As I head out, like a fetus, let me offer you the following piece of advice. Be kind to your water. Say complimentary things. Kiss it. Bless it and whisper sweet nothings in its ear. We are mostly water, you see, and as we are what we eat, we will transform ourselves accordingly. I don't know, but it's worth a try, right? Check out this picture of water crystals that have been either loved or despised. Ponder that for a minute.